Gertsamtkunstwerk

Layers of Beckham

Again the newspapers are full of them. On any scale and in any context, it does not matter and, of course, I don't give a shit.

Still, it's fascinating, innit?

Is it true? Who knows? Only two people. However, would the NotW print a whole nine pages without them being carefully scrutinised by libel lawyers?

Is it any of our business? Of course not. It's an unwarranted intrusion into the private lives of people. But, there again, there is the Princess Diana defence - Live by the sword, Die by the sword. Or, if you frequently use the media to project a positive - or superior - image of yourself, don't moan when they turn the tables.

Water cooler conversation - certainly in my world; conversations overheard in shops and on public transport, as well as around the office. Test of genuine- as opposed to manufactured by manipulative telly - celebrity.

It's so terribly, and ghastlily English, isn't it, to find a little extramarital activity fascinating. David's now living in Spain, perhaps he has adopted Latin mores (although, a conversation on these lines some months ago provoked a friend to comment 'Just because French Presidents are permitted to have mistresses doesn't mean there are hordes of French women saying, with a Gallic shrug, *Ah, je suis Francaise, I don't care that my husband has de meestress*'

Still, it's natural, innit. It goes back to Neanderthal times. Colleague says "Are you saying that men find it impossible to be monogamous?" No-o-o-o, but... Woman in queue in Sainburys says, primly, "He's breaking his marriage vows. That's all I'm saying on the subject." Somneone wondered whether it threatens his status as England captain. I jolly well hope not. We have a trophy to win in Portugal in the summer.

Is it an affair, anyway (let's assume for the purpose of argument, the story is true. I don't know)? Three nights. That's a fling, surely. Barely one up from a one-night stand. Intellectually, to me, that doesn't count. (Emotionally is another matter). Maybe it's better to assume that such mistakes will happen, as arguments will happen, as the loo seat will be left up.

And today of course, we have the denouncement of the 'lying cow'. Bisexual (shock! horror!). Promiscuous. Charlie-sniffer. And the artifical contrived photos of the Beckhams (TM) frolicking in the snow.

Me, cynical

So, I'm reading in the News Of the Screws all about David Beckham's affair with his personal assistant. Somehow, it just doesn't seem quite logical.

Right, so two people are alone together in a hotel room - so how does the NotW get to know, verbatim, what was said.

When we confronted Rebecca�who speaks perfect English�about her relationship, she said: "I am afraid I have no comment for you. Please leave me alone."

Yet,

The family friend said: "Rebecca is heartbroken this story has come out but she knew it would eventually. Too many people have seen her texts and they've got into the wrong hands.

Right, okay, if I was having an affair with a celebrity, I would be exceptionally choosy whom I shared that info with, if anyone.

As for letting 'too many' people see my text messages, well, there are ways of preventing. Sure, at last week's Manch blogmeet, Lyle took my phone, and my exciting text messages could have been accessed by bloggers. But they amount to 'r u ok' from brother-in-law (wondering whether whether his daughter was coming home from the ballet), 'release the bear' from sister (I had found her teddy bear and she thought I was going to seek revenge and 'do u want to txt me when abt hlf hr away and ill set off' from b-in-l, who was picking me up at Wigan North Western on the Friday.

If I had received any intimate txts, I don't think I would leave them on my phone...

Name dropping...

Oy, oy , pssst, pssst. You have noticed who has commented on my blog, haven't you?

Slash fiction

Nick is third in google for Blair/Brown slash, but Michael Kelly's Page of Misery: Slash Fiction Archive lists slash fiction about Newsnight, Trumpton, Historians, Philosophers Psycoanalysts and Zoologists.

My fantasies are so tame.

Update: Seeing as though I have another week off work, why don't you suggest some celebs - singly, or as a possibly unlikely couple - and some scenarios and let's see if we can't write some slash fiction...?

Bizarre

OK, I admit it - Jordan is remarkable. She has the talent to be a total slapper and yet needing to get out more, at the same time. Her 'affair' with David Beckham was a 30-second brush-past in a nightclub.

You know, if I included in my list of 'conquests' every man (and, for that matter, woman) with whom I felt a 30-second frisson I would have an extremely long list, including people whose names I never got, a wide range of celebrities, and, even, some bloggers.

What is even more baffling is the dispassionate way in which the Mirror is reporting this. I'm not sure what we the reader is supposed to think. Are we supposed to go all gooey and envious and set out to emulate Jordan.

I am amazed at the utter banality of what classes as news in our 'top' tabloids.

Perhaps the newspapers are just laughing at the poor deluded fools who lap it all up in lieu of anything worthwhile in their own lives.

But big-up to Samantha Morton. She's come a long way, and it will be so cool if she wins the Oscar.

What a Boob

I'm assuming from the story Janet Jackson left exposed on TV that her boobs were left uncovered. And people complained.

Shock! horror! Children set to learnt that women have mammary glands.

Get back to bashing your Bibles, retards!

Georgie Best, Superstar

For some reason, I can't post a comment to Chunnering, so I am going to post here about George Best

What is even more depressing is the knowledge that he was blessed with so many gifts - supreme skill, ravishing good looks, charm, intelligence (except for the obvious) and a succession of beautiful wives, and he's pissed it all away.

After they were famous

Having dredged The Flying Pickets from the deep recesses of my phenomenal memory - actually, I think it was stimulated by a fascinating documentary on the Miners' Strike the other night (I have a post forming in my head that marks the return of Political Gert...).

I got to thinking about how The Flying Pickets as a musical phenomenon became so. I first came across them as guests on various light entertainment TV programmes that seemed to be the staple of television in the early 80s, when on Saturday nights I had the choice between watching whatever my parents wanted on the TV, playing records very quietly in the dining room or sitting in the freezing cold bedroom listening to a battery operated transistor radio - in the earlier years fighting negotiating with my sister for the dubious right to do the last two.

You know the way the mind works - it's like surfing the internet and clicking on seemingly irrelevant links that take you somewhere unexpected.

I started thinking about Val Doonican. Those of you above a certain age must remember Val Doonican. Safe, comfy entertainment for an early Saturday night. But have you noticed how he has become a complete non-person in the world of telly-reminiscing. Thankfully, there is a website dedicated to Val Doonican. Which is a comfort.

More celebrity worship

I've had a couple of more thoughts on the article below, about Celebrity Worship.

I take exception to the assumption that celebrity worship is driven by looks. If you take David Beckham, whom I admire, but don't worship; or Plácido Domingo or Jonny Wilkinson, my most enduring and most recent celebrity crushes, what they all have in common is that they are exceptionally good at what they do. And I enjoy what they do.

What reallyturns me on about Plácido is his voice. With Jonny and David, I would far rather watch them play a match (and win...) than stare at any photo of them or watch them being interviewed or whatever. Okay, they all happen to be good looking, too, but I doubt I would particularly notice that if it wasn't for their supreme talent.

I jest about my celebrity crushes, and having 'fessed up, I think it's bloggable subject, but I don't take them too seriously.

What is worrying is when you hear of people whose lives revolve around their idol. Those sad people holding a vigil outside Michael Jacksn's courthouse. Or people whose houses are a shrine to Elvis Presley. Or what's going on in people's heads? You hear stories of fans who accuse their favourite singer or player of not smiling at them this evening "What have I done to upset you?", not realising that the venue is filled with thousands of other people.

Then you get the stalkers. I simply honestly cannot imagine a situation where I would actually stalk a celebrity. I will freely admit that I fantasise a great deal. I have always lived an imaginary life in my head. When I was very young (pre-school) I had imaginary friends. As I grew older, my imaginary friends took on the personas of real living people. All those fantasies about my imaginary-real friends have to be based on the assumption that some event occurred to make them become my friend. I suppose if I was the mad stalker, or simply delusionist, I would engineer a situation whereby I actually met the object of my desire. But because I can separate reality from fantasy I can't see any point in doing that. Can you imagine how it would go?

(Assuming you've been wise enough to choose a situation where they're "on duty" - after a match or concert, say - rather than hassling them in a restaurant or whatever).

Me: I'm a fan of yours
Celebrity: Oh, right
Me: Can I have your autograph, please (NB I haven't collected autographs since 1985...)
Celebrity: sure, who shall I make it out to?
Me: Gert, please. Oh, and can I have a kiss?
Celebrity: (depending on who it is). Yes. (Or No)
Gert: Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh. I'm never going to wash my face again. Can I take you home and shag you. You know you've been waiting all your life for me. I'm the one for you. We're soulmates. Ditch the bitch you're with and shack up with me.
Celebrity: Er, looks like another mad stalker woman. Next, please.

I just wonder whether it has ever crossed the minds of the delusionally stalking-type fans that a) they're just one of many; b) most celebrities are at least a little bit irritated at the obsessive fan; c) if you are of the delusionally stalking personality type what on earth makes you think that your chosen celebrity is going to be attracted to you specifically when there are thousands of sane women who wouldn't say no if asked; and d) if the celebrity of your choice is married or in a longterm relationship, maybe it's because they want to be.

And have you ever noticed on the telly, the people they show who are madly obsessive about their chosen celebrity are almost always mingeing?

Celebrity worship

According to Ananova, Beckham tops celebrity worship study. Out of curiosity, and only for the sake of blogging, I wandered over to the survey and answered the questions.

Some of them were distinctly scary.

Are you and your favourite celebrity soulmates? Doubt it; we've never met, for a start...

Would your favourite celebrity be pleased if they found you sitting in their car? Er, probably not...

Would your favourite celebrity be well chuffed if you broke into their house and ransacked their possessions for a momento and then waited naked for them to come home and demanded that they accompanied you to the Red Planet? Can I go fifty-fifty on that one?

Are you in fact a psychotically deranged threat to society who urgently needs a restraining order, or, as an alternative, a reality check and a sense of proportion? I'll phone a friend - oh, I don't have any friends...except for my favourite celebrity, of course, who's just so in awe of me that he just doesn't answer my phone calls

And here's me thinking that I'm obsessive, but all I can strongly agree with is that the work of what my favourite celebrity does brings me pleasure, that I enjoy reading about them, and that I think about them when I shouldn't.

It would be pretty cool if we bloggers could organise a campaign to skew the results. I suggest that we all answer it as if we are dangerously obsessed by a celebrity blogger - Wil Wheaton or Tom Watson or someone like that.

This looks like seriously unscientific research to me...

Just not cricket

Desr Sir

I am writing in disgust at the news that the Daily Telegraph 'may back Blair'. Although I am a card carrying Lefty with some damn fine credentials, I do believe that this may signify the end of civilisation as we know it. The very fabric of our society is dependent on the certainty of the Telegraph being Tory, Victoria Beckham making a spectacle of herself, and there being delays on the District Line. I strongly disapprove.

Disgusted, of Brixton.

Is it worrying that I wrote this whilst simultaneously stomping round to the gloriously percussive Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 by Elgar. Oh heck, more memories of my weird childhood - my father thought it would be jolly good to learn the words to this. About the same time that I learnt the words to Adeste Fideles, in Latin. Aged 6. Thank heavens for a weird childhood!

Meanwhile, Johnny Rotten signs up for I'm A Nonentity Get Me Out Of Here. Didn't Tom Lehrer have something to say about satire being dead?

(Oh, and note to Alex Best, being the soon-to-be-ex-wife of the greatest ever footballer does not make you a celebrity. Now, IMO, Johnny Rotten is proper celeb. Am I showing my age there?)

Possibly the first blogpost to manage to combine Victoria Beckham, Jonny Rotten and Tom Lehrer, and the the dodgy wives of two legendary Manchester United footballers...

Paranoia revisited

Just going through the email associated with this site and eliminiating 64 spams attempting to sell me body enhancements, sometimes for parts I don't even have, and having the usual laugh at the supposed names of the senders, I had a sudden thought: suppose someone writes a spider that can pick up names used on one's blog and spam you with messages purporting to come from those people. It would be a nightmare.

Or spidering your site for content. Then the very bottom spam was titled Gorgeous .. male celebrities in their 50s, 60s and 70s.

Somewhat pertinent to previous content on this site. The potential consequences of such a spider are really quite frightening.

Just thought I would cheer you up on this rainy Thursday morning. At least, where I live. I keep forgetting it's the world-wide web

Sex gods

Report from the Erotic Review on Britain's Top Sex Gods

I'd go along with Gordon Brown, Jeremy Paxman, probably Jude Law, possibly George Clooney. The rest, no.

(I know, I know - bit controversial, bit controversial...)

Calling Palin fans

Michael Palin is on Parkinson tonight. So is Pavarotti, or Fat Pav, as Huw referred to him in the comments below. How dare the BBC describe Pavorotti as the most popular and distinctive operatic tenor in the world. The word is he can't actually sing these days...

Oh Emma Thompson and Rod Stewart are on as well. I tell you what, that Parky doesn't go for nonentities...

Thinking woman's crumpet

It's one of those things that bugs me. Women, who are judged far more on looks than men are, are generally thought to have a 'best before' date. Rare is the woman who is thought sexually attractive, or indeed attractive, beyond un age certain. If they're actresses, they become 'past-it' or become character actresses. Female news readers tend to get the sack when they have passed the stage of pulchritude . Men are allowed to remain as their eye bags droop, and their pates become shinier. It is absolutely symptomatic of the double-standards inherent in a society where a woman's worth is measured by her ability to adorn.

Various conversations with women of maturity (ie over 35...!) and my own tastes have made it quite clear to me that very many women are attracted to the older man. Off the top of my head I can only think of one man under forty who sends me weak at the knees.

There are some men who I barely looked twice at when they graced the TV twenty five years ago, but today I go quite swoony when I see them. Admittedly, twenty or so years ago there were men maybe already in their forties who sent me quivery then and still do now. A quick list of men that I think are somewhat gorgeous is:

• Plácido Domingo - 62
• Paul McCartney - 61
• Michael Palin - 60
• Martin Shaw - 58
• Trevor Eve - 52

I'm sure I have forgotten some really obvious ones and will kick myself later...

One of the facts is true

I accidentally hit a link to the Daily Mail and found a fascinating article about Posh Beckham. Fascinating, because it purports to give us intimate insight into the private life of Okay's first couple, how she bullies and controls David, and all that. The writing style is just a little bit too 'oh gosh! guess what tidbit of gossip I'm privileging you to share' although not quite 'Sensational look at Bossy Posh!' you might expect of, say, The Sun. I am sure that half of it is based on hearsay, and three eighths on conjecture.

Still, we can all agree that Posh is utterly without talent.

Cult of celebrity

Eloon makes a good point in my comment box below

The coverage we give to celebrities in this country is obscene.

I am very much in agreement.

I will accept that it is the way of the world that people take an interest in celebrity. It may not be logical, or understandable, but it happens. Somehow, the Press creation and fulfilment of the public’s need to know more about the actor pop star whatever, has turned into a vile mutation of itself.

So sue me

I was disgusted last night to find the way that the Ten O'Clock News covered the John Leslie case. If you were only half listening, you would be forgiven for thinking that he had personally broken the rail speed record and parachuted across the Channel.

He really is a minor celebrity. When the story broke, Jimmy and I were en route to meet up with my sister and family. The newspaper billboards screamed "Ulrika 'rapist' named". Pauline had bought a Standard, out of curiosity, and informed us who it was. "Who?" we both said. Subsequent conversation revealed we were not alone in not knowing who he was. I suppose Pauline, being retired, has more of an awareness of daytime TV 'celebrities'.

Of course I know that there is a presumption of innocence until proven guilty. I also know that there is a problem of women falsely claiming to be raped. But sod it, the statistic prove over and over again that a very small proportion of rape suspects are ever charged, and, frankly, when I hear how his life has been ruined, my heart doesn't bleed for him. This lionisation actually turns my stomach.

The news that he may sue for libel amuses me. Truth is a defence for libel; civil suits are decided on the balance of probability, not beyond reasonable doubt.

If you dismiss my views just as those of a militant feminist, when I heard of the accusations against the Hamiltons, whom I absolutely detest (remember in my formative years Neil was right wing Tory MP for the constituency neighbouring where I lived, and where many of my classmates lived), my instinct immediately told me it was complete baloney.

Celebrity spotting

Vaughan spotted a David Dickinson looky-likey this morning. This lunchtime, I could have sworn that Paul Merton was buying fruit from the stand outside the station. I had to look ten times before I could be sure that it wasn't Paul Merton. Only the small M&S bag of sandwiches finally convinced me that it wasn't.

For a while, I pondered the unfortunate nature of looking so like a well-known TV personality that people have to look ten times before desisting from autograph hunting.

Then I thought - if you bear a major resemblance to Paul Merton, why on earth would you get a hairstyle identical to his?

Meanwhile, Jon has spotted a whole random host of celebrities with street cred.

Furthermore, I don't think you spotted it in my entry yesterday, but I saw the Queen drive past me. What was truly remarkable was that a) this was only a few yards from where anti-capitalist protestors had gathered for a picnic, and b) that although she was clearly noticeable in a large Rolls Royce, with large side windows, and the Royal Standard perched on the bonnet, she was accompanied only by one marked and one unmarked car, and two police outriders. Although I am as Republican as the next person, arguably, more, it gave me a sense akin to comfort or even pride that on the day of predicted mayhem amongst Mayday protests the Head of State and one of the most famous people in the world was able to move about with relatively little fuss.

A sharp contrast with a day some two years ago when a HeWad of StaWte and GovernWment of an un-naWmed OverWseas AlWly was visiting and postioned his Secret Service agents all over Whitehall and St James's in an attempt to intercept legitimate Civil Servants en route to attending legitimate business meetings in Treasury.

Update: I quite forgot about Scary Duck bumping into Dale Winton and carrying Vanessa Feltz across Waterloo Bridge.