Is it too cynical to suggest that Jason Manford using this sex text 'scandal' to engineer a move away from The One Show?
In the latest of what is becoming a bizarre procession of mid-ranking celebrities using technology to achieve orgasm, Manford has owned up to sending risque and/or downright rude messages to women through Twitter and Skype and what have you. I say 'owned up', but last month the first bird with whom he'd shared some e-shenanigans shopped him to the popular press and he was left without a leg to stand on. His defence was that he was lonely in a hotel room, but I'm not buying that. I've been on my own in hotel rooms loads of times, and not once have I thought "I know, I'll go online and flirt outrageously with birds. My heavily-pregnant wife won't mind".
His behaviour isn't exactly deplorable, but it's not on is it? If he'd said the same things to a woman in the flesh, it would be deemed inappropriate, so it's no different just because it's virtual. He rises slightly above the usual 'celeb-gets-caught-with-kecks-down' mire simply because he came clean (grow up), rather than carrying it on for months, getting caught then saying "Woe is me - I was in a dark place" or other such dreck which ends up in the sleeve notes on their next album.
He says there were '10 or 12' women in total, so clearly the first woman was just the tip of the iceberg. Apparently he's told his wife and they're working through it, but he's also quit The Beeb just to be on the safe side. Personally I think that's the shot in the arm his career needed. His stand-up was doing fine until he jumped on the gravy train, asking The Fonz what he thought of knife crime and listening to Gyles Brandreth's camp droning. He can get his head down while he sorts out his martial status, then get back on the road, further his comedy career and get some street cred back. Might be an idea to leave the laptop at home though.
On a wider note, this is a further example of fame going to blokes' heads. I can categorically state that in a position of fame, I wouldn't stray from the wife, simply because I've got what I want at home, but it does surprise me about the choices some of these chaps make. Vernon Kaye, for example. Yes, he's got an enormous face, but the birds seem to like him. He too was embroiled in a childish sex text scandal, but he's got the lovely Tess Daly at home, so something's amiss there. Likewise Tony Parker, who plays basketball for some reason. He's gone as far as having an affair, but all the while he's got Eva Longoria washing his underpants. As I mused to a friend, she might be a pain in the arse and we're doing him a disservice, but if there's a better put-together Latino woman out there, I don't want to know about it. I'm not saying that just cos they're fit then the husband shouldn't stray (let's face it, they shouldn't be dabbling under any circumstances) but if they're that unhappy, they should man up, own up and split up. At least then us normal folk get to have a crack at their other halves (providing the Mrs doesn't find out).
Friday, 19 November 2010
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Royalty: 100% gggrrrrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaat
Right, let's get a few things straight:
- I ain't no royalist, fool
- At best I'm ambivalent to their plight
- At no point could I be considered to share the views of the populace
With the joyous news that Prince Harry and Kate Middleton are going to tie the knot, some media outlets have gone into meltdown. The Daily Mail website, for example- usually a bastion of images depicting a myriad soap and music stars in their bikinis - has got its knickers in a right old twist, dedicating nearly all of its stories to the delectable Miss Middleton, lifting the lid on such fascinating stories such as which school she went to, what her parents do for a living and what her friends nicknamed her at school ('Kate Middlebum' incidentally - a new high for fans of creative wordplay).
As usual, such over-the-top hyperbole doesn't particularly bother me, as I couldn't give a shiny shite whether they got married, split up or performed complicated brain surgery on a maimed baboon (actually that's not true, the last one would be awesome). As always, there will be some people who are beside themselves with glee about it, others who will launch a series of well-aimed yet hopelessly vitriolic tirades against them and those (like me) in the middle ground, who pen overly wordy analyses of such events in the vain hope of become an Internet sensation.
The thing is though, it seems that all media coverage is implying that we were all gagging for this to happen; that we were counting down the days until he realised his hair has gone see-through and he looks like Uncle Eddie, so he'd better snare this dusky maiden before she does one to less plummy climes. More than one media outlet has written about how delighted the nation is, and how we're all bound to have spontaneous street parties to celebrate a soldier and an unemployed posh bird getting hitched. Call me a cynic if you will, but I'd be very surprised if all corners of this great nation are as fussed about it as the Home Counties and old ladies with plates depicting Charles and Di looking awkward in a garden.
What next? "Racist assault in London, the nation to put up white-only bunting"?
"Jordan tops "Best top bollocks on a broad' poll"?
"People watch 'I'm a celebrity' without vomiting in anger"?
You can't assume every part of the population feels the same way as you, you know.
At the end of the day, good luck to them. I'm sure all hell's going to break loose as people predict when and where they'll get hitched, and the media shit-storm on the day will do my head in, but I'd appreciate it, media types, if you specified exactly who will be wetting themselves about the news and who instead will be wearing a bowler hat and storming the stage at comedy gigs shouting 'Fuck the pound'*. You owe us that much.
* Visual gag borrowed from a politically switched-on friend.
- I ain't no royalist, fool
- At best I'm ambivalent to their plight
- At no point could I be considered to share the views of the populace
With the joyous news that Prince Harry and Kate Middleton are going to tie the knot, some media outlets have gone into meltdown. The Daily Mail website, for example- usually a bastion of images depicting a myriad soap and music stars in their bikinis - has got its knickers in a right old twist, dedicating nearly all of its stories to the delectable Miss Middleton, lifting the lid on such fascinating stories such as which school she went to, what her parents do for a living and what her friends nicknamed her at school ('Kate Middlebum' incidentally - a new high for fans of creative wordplay).
As usual, such over-the-top hyperbole doesn't particularly bother me, as I couldn't give a shiny shite whether they got married, split up or performed complicated brain surgery on a maimed baboon (actually that's not true, the last one would be awesome). As always, there will be some people who are beside themselves with glee about it, others who will launch a series of well-aimed yet hopelessly vitriolic tirades against them and those (like me) in the middle ground, who pen overly wordy analyses of such events in the vain hope of become an Internet sensation.
The thing is though, it seems that all media coverage is implying that we were all gagging for this to happen; that we were counting down the days until he realised his hair has gone see-through and he looks like Uncle Eddie, so he'd better snare this dusky maiden before she does one to less plummy climes. More than one media outlet has written about how delighted the nation is, and how we're all bound to have spontaneous street parties to celebrate a soldier and an unemployed posh bird getting hitched. Call me a cynic if you will, but I'd be very surprised if all corners of this great nation are as fussed about it as the Home Counties and old ladies with plates depicting Charles and Di looking awkward in a garden.
What next? "Racist assault in London, the nation to put up white-only bunting"?
"Jordan tops "Best top bollocks on a broad' poll"?
"People watch 'I'm a celebrity' without vomiting in anger"?
You can't assume every part of the population feels the same way as you, you know.
At the end of the day, good luck to them. I'm sure all hell's going to break loose as people predict when and where they'll get hitched, and the media shit-storm on the day will do my head in, but I'd appreciate it, media types, if you specified exactly who will be wetting themselves about the news and who instead will be wearing a bowler hat and storming the stage at comedy gigs shouting 'Fuck the pound'*. You owe us that much.
* Visual gag borrowed from a politically switched-on friend.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Only fools and Jordan
It's that time of year again already. I know, it only seems like five minutes since the last one and now the next one is around the corner.
No, not Christmas, or the final of that fixed, mime-riddled freakshow X-Factor; I mean it's time for Jordan to get divorced again.
Jordan (real name Kenny Price) is a former glamour model and philanthropist whose relationships are routinely splashed across the pages of this great nation's red-top publications. Recall how she got hitched to New Zealand's greatest export Peter Andrew, after the pair met in the jungle (not a euphemism). Within 36 minutes, the pair were married, had a series of aesthetically-unfortunate children and were divorced again.
Not one to rest on her laurels, Jordan set her sights on Alex Reid, who specialises in being reasonably skilled at a number of martial arts, although not enough at any one discipline to pursue it professionally. They too got married, and reluctantly signed a TV deal to show us the very inner workings of their stable and well-considered marriage.
Fast forward a few short months and apparently he's had enough, and has demanded time apart. Now, I'm not privy to the internal machinations of their latest marital debacle (it's not been on telly yet) but can we really be surprised that they weren't meant to be together and will soon be on the scrap heap? Let's face it, Price is an epic pain in the arse, mixing a thick-as-pigshit demeanour with a face so mangled you wouldn't let your cat lick it. He on the other hand looks to have been carved from a piece of damaged soap and will appear on television for as little as £32. In previous blogs I've commented on her entrepreneurial promise, as she created the Jordan persona to trade off her looks and further her career, but that horse shot it's bolt many moons ago, so she's now only left with her pitiful home life, which she trawls across the airwaves to keep the brass coming in.
I'm not playing the 'marriage is sacred' card in light of my own recent nuptial shenanigans, but was it really necessary for them to immediately tie the knot? Couldn't they have dated for a bit, maybe got to second base, even mixed their CD's, before charging down the aisle? I doubt the public's respect for them would have improved (apart from those orange folk who have a haircut for every possible weather phenomenon) but surely people would have realised that she wasn't just looking to feather her nest with more TV money and maybe even had genuine feelings for The Reidinator.
Don't get me wrong; I couldn't give two fucks either way, but you have to wonder who has any sympathy for her these days as she lurches from one impotent disaster to the next.
Jordan - if you're listening love, just because he liked it he didn't have to put a ring on it. It's not a fucking competition.
No, not Christmas, or the final of that fixed, mime-riddled freakshow X-Factor; I mean it's time for Jordan to get divorced again.
Jordan (real name Kenny Price) is a former glamour model and philanthropist whose relationships are routinely splashed across the pages of this great nation's red-top publications. Recall how she got hitched to New Zealand's greatest export Peter Andrew, after the pair met in the jungle (not a euphemism). Within 36 minutes, the pair were married, had a series of aesthetically-unfortunate children and were divorced again.
Not one to rest on her laurels, Jordan set her sights on Alex Reid, who specialises in being reasonably skilled at a number of martial arts, although not enough at any one discipline to pursue it professionally. They too got married, and reluctantly signed a TV deal to show us the very inner workings of their stable and well-considered marriage.
Fast forward a few short months and apparently he's had enough, and has demanded time apart. Now, I'm not privy to the internal machinations of their latest marital debacle (it's not been on telly yet) but can we really be surprised that they weren't meant to be together and will soon be on the scrap heap? Let's face it, Price is an epic pain in the arse, mixing a thick-as-pigshit demeanour with a face so mangled you wouldn't let your cat lick it. He on the other hand looks to have been carved from a piece of damaged soap and will appear on television for as little as £32. In previous blogs I've commented on her entrepreneurial promise, as she created the Jordan persona to trade off her looks and further her career, but that horse shot it's bolt many moons ago, so she's now only left with her pitiful home life, which she trawls across the airwaves to keep the brass coming in.
I'm not playing the 'marriage is sacred' card in light of my own recent nuptial shenanigans, but was it really necessary for them to immediately tie the knot? Couldn't they have dated for a bit, maybe got to second base, even mixed their CD's, before charging down the aisle? I doubt the public's respect for them would have improved (apart from those orange folk who have a haircut for every possible weather phenomenon) but surely people would have realised that she wasn't just looking to feather her nest with more TV money and maybe even had genuine feelings for The Reidinator.
Don't get me wrong; I couldn't give two fucks either way, but you have to wonder who has any sympathy for her these days as she lurches from one impotent disaster to the next.
Jordan - if you're listening love, just because he liked it he didn't have to put a ring on it. It's not a fucking competition.
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