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Top news from The Times, Daily Telegraph, The Indepedent and The Guardian newspapers

The Second Coming – David Beckham, Victoria Beckham & Jesus

the-second-coming-david-beckham-victoria-beckham-jesus.jpgDAVID Beckham. And much debate. Is Beckham losing his hair?

How long will it be before the trimmings from David’s sack, crack and back are woven into his scalp? How long before the back pages feature not news of David’s latest match but his face on an advert for hair renewal? Beckham: football’s Shane Warne.

A “top image consultant” was telling the Star: “If David is losing his hair, it would be a complete and utter disaster for him.”

And for Her Poshness, who has been known to coordinate her own hair style with her husband’s. what price Posh turning into an ambulatory Kojak orange lolly?

Was this why David was in Madrid, away from the lights and the laughter of the Oscars, where Vicky was sashaying down the red carpet and wondering what could have been had she only added a more regal touch to her Spice Girls movie.

But they should not worry. The Beckhams are going to live in Los Angeles, a place where hair is zipped-on. We remain confident that the right small woodland creatures can be found to live atop each of Dave and Vicky’s heads.

In Hollywood anything is possible. And – quick look busy – Jesus is coming.

James Cameron, film director, the man behind Titanic, The Terminator and Piranha Part Two: The Spawning, said he had found is Jesus’ coffin.

And, as with so much of Cameron’s work, when you find one hit you get a few sequels. So along with Jesus’ coffin, Cameron introduced the world to the coffins of Marianne (thought to be the real name of Mary Magdalene) and Judah “son of Jesus”.

Cameron called this “one of the greatest archaeological finds of all time”.

Cameron said this was all compelling evidence that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene and had a child called Judah.

Said he: “I never doubted that there was a historical Jesus, but the simple fact is there has never been a shred of archaeological evidence until now.”

So here was Jesus, Mary and Judah. And here was Amos Kloner, an archaeologist, to tell the Mirror that it was all “nonsense” – “The names on the caskets are the most common names found among Jews at the time.”

If only Mary and Joseph had named their son something a little more unusual, a little more in keeping with his celebrity. If only Jesus had been called Brooklyn, Romeo or Cruz.

David Beckham knows how make legends and heroes. Even when Posh and Becks are doing nothing they are doing something.

And we read with interest in the Star that David and Victoria have been living apart. Day-vid has been in Madrid. And Vicky has, as we’ve seen and seen again, been in the City of Angels.

And the Mirror caught up with Vicky and heard just what she’d been getting up to.

Said Vicky: “I was at a party the other day when Tom Hanks came bonding over.” No way! Tom Hanks bounds? Who would’ve thought it? Go on…

“He said: ‘I’m so thrilled you and David are coming over. I’m going to get a season ticket to watch LA Galaxy now.”

That was great news. Just another 100,000 tickets to sell and Vicky will have more than justified Dave’s £1million a week wages.

Said Vicky: “All the time he was talking I was just thinking, ‘It’s Forrest Gump! And he knows who I am.’”

Steady on, Posh. Hanks might bound and look a little mentally negligible in The Da Vinci Code, but he’s not some inbred Southern hick. Hanks is an Oscar winner and, though new to LA, Posh would do well to remember to treat the local elite with respect and deference.

But already Her Poshness had moved on. Tom Hanks one day. New hair the next.

Victoria Beckham had gone blonde. It’s “GOLDEN CURLS,” said the Sun’s front page, words hanging above a shot of Vicky’s dead-straight, short hair-do.

“I love my new hair colour,” said Posh. “I’ve certainly got a spring in my step. And I’m keen to see if blondes really do have more fun.”

Let’s hope so. Too often have we looked at Posh and seen a brunette woman with a pained brunette expression, a woman whose brunette mood seems as dark as her hair. Now blonde, can we expect Posh to have blonde moments?

“I thought it was very suitable for when we move to LA as well,” said she. “It’s a bit of a sunkissed Californian look, I hope.”

This was Her Poshness in California Girl mode. When in Rome and all that.

And if Posh can just lose some weight and cut down on those carbs, she should be indistinguishable from the locals. And from her husband, who sported the same short blonde look in 1999. Is Posh’s new hair, David’s old hair, we wondered. Are they sharing body parts?

And will Posh ‘n’ Becks merge into one, a vision of pert breasts, smooth genitals and blonde hair-do? Or will Beckham remain his own man?

The answer was soon forthcoming. “If people think my England career is over I want to show them it isn’t”, said Day-vid in the Sun.

It’s an aim shared by members of the England team Beckham left behind. Stripped of their captain, England lack not only a focus hairstyle and a brand totem but also tactics, aggression, ball control and ability.

“I’ll still be available for England when I’m playing in America,” said Beckham. “I will never retire from England.”

But Beckham is rarely about football – Beckham is about style and taking his brand to new markets.

So he’s off to Los Angeles. And, no, it was not his wife Victoria’s decision. “Going to Los Angeles is absolutely my decision,” said Beckham.

“People have said we’re going because we’re attracted by the Hollywood glitz. But I’m not sure that, as a family, we actually enjoy that side of it.”

You begin to wonder how well Beckham knows his wife. David is the real star, but before his arrival Victoria has turned even buying a house into a media event.

And when it comes to choosing a school for her children… See Vicky tottering up to the science lab at one prestigious LA school, a TV crew and snappers in tow. There’s a pot bellied pig wandering free. “Get it AWAY!” screams Posh, dressed in skin-tight designer clothes and towering heels. Posh runs as quickly as her outfit allows. Posh: Exit, pursued by pig.

Where’s Rebecca Loos when you need her..?

Posted: 4th, March 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment (1)


Home From Home – Abu Qatada’s Jail Time

home-from-home-abu-qatadas-jail-time.jpgNO, it’s not Omar Bakri or Abu Hamza. It’s Abu Qatada.

As the Express’s front page says, this is “one of the world’s most dangerous suspects”.

Qatada is billed as “Osama Bin Laden’s right hand man”. And he could be in Britain for the next two years because he can appeal against being deported back to Jordan.

“WHY CAN’T WE KICK OUT THIS MAN?” asks the papers front page.

Well, there is something called the rule of law. And once the law has been established it is not good form to make exceptions.

So Qatada – also known as Omar Mohammed Othman – and his long wiry pet beard can remain in the UK. Sure, he has been convicted in Jordan in his absence of “involvement in a series of terror attacks”. But he is here and thus subject to British law.

But still the Express thinks this is unfair. It wants its readers to decide what happens to Qatada. “Should we deport this evil cleric NOW?” it asks. Readers can vote “YES”. And those who love death and embrace evil and scratchy beards can vote “NO”. You pay your 25p, you make your choice.

But Qatada need not panic just yet. He need not go on the run, fearing the wrath of millions and more Express readers. In any case, he can’t go far – he is currently living in Long Lartin prison, Worcestershire. What is more, he weighs 20stone.

But he will go home. In answer to the Express’ front-page question, we say we can kick out this man.

The Special Immigration Appeals Commission says Qatada must go home. His appeal against deportation has been rejected.

But Qatada can appeal some more. He can appeal to the House of Lords. He can appeal to the European Court of Human Rights. If he can get to phone and dial “No” enough times he may even appeal to Express readers.

And he can remain in choky in the UK until all venues of appeal open to him are exhausted.

“We should kick him out, period, and let him appeal from there,” says Ann Widdecombe MP. But over there, in Jordan, he faces life imprisonment for plotting to kill American tourists.

Qatada is either in prison here or in prison there. It’s a home from home…

Posted: 27th, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Look Out For The Transvestite Terrorists

RUN! Don’t walk!

If you thought Omar Bakri was mad and Abu Hamza a hook handed one-eyed purple people eater, then prepare to be terrorised out of your mind.

Here comes the new face of, alleged, Muslim extremism in the UK. Bearded loons have had their day. We’ve seen their type too many times. This is a new look.

Here come the suspect now, a 6ft 2in high Somalian. He has shaved his arms. He has shaved his hands – palms or backs, we are not told.

“I didn’t want to be noticed,” he tells the authorities. “If I’m like a man I would be noticed. I wanted to look like a woman.”

His name is Yassin Omar. And he is one of six defendants charged with conspiring to murder and cause explosions on July 21 2005. Omar is accused of trying to detonate a bomb in a bag at Warren Street Tube station.

Of the failed explosion, Omar tells the court: “I heard this pop. I was scared. I ran with the crowd. I panicked. I didn’t know what was in the bag.”

And having run off, one day on and Omar is dressed as a Muslim woman. He is strolling around Golders Green bus station, north London, waiting for a bus to Birmingham. And, according to the Sun, he “drew no attention in the head-to-to black Muslim garment with a white bag on his shoulder”.

Oh, come, come. Of course he drew attention to himself. Just look at the pictures of Omar at Birmingham station, pay particular attention to the man to his right not noticing him. See no-one looking at Omar as he waits. See no-one looking at Omar as he “mingles with commuters”.

You can feel the other passengers straining not to look. “Don’t look,” they tell themselves. “Don’t look at him and he will not look at you.”

Listen in: “Why’s that big man dressed up a woman, mummy?” asks the child. Mummy tugs his arm. Mummy pulls him away.

And Omar walks about unwatched and unmolested…

Posted: 21st, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


The Virtual War On Terror

SEE the motorway driver parking his car. His shoulders slump. His neck winds back in. He craves relaxation. Such are the strains of life on the road.

So he walks into the service station, orders a pot of hot caffeine and taking up a fistful of change feeds it into the driving machine.

See his rage released as she smashes his high-powered virtual racing machine into other drivers, coppers and trees.

And now look on as the stressed-out British squaddie lays down his non-firing gun and removes his melting boots. Like our careworn driver, he needs to take it easy. So he picks up a virtual gun – this one works – and starts blowing the bejeesus out of virtual insurgents in a virtual Iraq.

As the Sun reports, British soldiers returning from stints in Iraq could be offered the chance to relive their experiences in a virtual world.

This is not a chance to desensitise the tired soldier, to make him into an unfeeling robotic killing machine in readiness for a return to the battlefield. This is the chance for the soldier to lay his ghosts to rest.

This is therapy for soldiers with post traumatic stress disorder. As the report says, soldiers are allowed to confront their fears and mental blocks in a controlled environment.

Soldiers are invited to strap on a helmet which projects computer-like images of war to their eyes. The fighter tells his story to a therapist who supplies sounds, sights and smells.

It’s not unlike those Smell-O-Vision movies of the 1960s. And who can forget American film director John Waters’ “Odorama” version of his film Polyester in 1982 (“Smelling is believing”). Waters included scratch and sniff cards that the audience could use while watching the show. Odours included flowers, pizza, glue, grass, and faeces.

What smells are featured in this virtual war are not revealed. But the smell of fear takes on many forms…

Posted: 20th, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Nut Bags! – Royal Lessons With Dame Helen Mirren, Robbie Williams & Sharon Osbourne

brand1.jpgTHE week brought a question: What odds Her Majesty the Queen abdicating in favour of Dame Helen Mirren?

Make that two questions: And what odds that any of the serfs would notice or mind?

Indeed, the twin pluses of watching Prince Charles trying to keep busy as he is made to wait even longer for the throne and Mirren’s flashes of bosom on State occasions would endear this idea to the public.

Mirren was holding aloft the Best Actress Bafta she’d won for her portrayal of the Queen in film.

Staying with our theme of Queen Helen Windsor, we wondered how much more magnificent Her Majesty would look if she could borrow more from Mirren’s body of work. What if she could enliven her speeches with some earthy language.

As the Mirror’s front page announced: “Helen, Queen of the *@!#!* Baftas – She wins after a 4-letter boob on live TV.”

The air turned “royal blue” as Mirren was interviewed on the red carpet. Matt Smith, a presenter on Sky News, warned Mirren that his channel was a swear-free zone.

Mirren: Where people don’t swear? Fucking nutbag!
Smith: You’ve done it again.
Mirren: Is it live? I’m sorry – I do apologise. That was an appalling thing to do. It was a joke and I take it back.”

But some things cannot be taken back. And “nutbag” was added to the national swear words database.

So can The Queen become more like Dame Helen? You see, change is good. Take Jennifer Aniston’s nose. Not, literally. OK, literally – Jennifer is on her third nose and may like to give her old nose to a good cause.

If Jen can change, then why not the Queen. And if Her Majesty needs a master class in swearing, and Nut Bag is not enough, she could summon Amy Winehouse to train her in the ways of the foul mouth.

But, then, Winehouse is changing, too. “But there’s another side to me people don’t see,” said she. “I also like to get up early, cook my fella breakfast then go to the gym.”

The gym? Such talks could ruin a young rebel’s career, we noted. But rock ‘n’ roll was ever so. Iggy Pop didn’t get those sinewy muscles from just lifting the microphone. The Red Hot Chilli Peppers are buffed to a deep mahogany sheen. And Cliff Richard is a demon with the tennis racket.

Change is the theme. Change is good. And we looked on as Robbie Williams was wheeled into rehab.

The Sun’s front page lists Robbie’s intake: “Happy pills, sleeping pills, 36 espressos, 60 Silk Cut, 20 Red Bulls EVERY DAY.”

Poor Robbie. Or, as the Mirror’s Dr Miriam Stoppard put it, “Robbie Williams needs a good shaking, if not a good slapping, to bring him to his senses.”

Minds turned to that scene in Airplane when in a bid to control a panic-stricken woman, the other passengers, armed with clubs, boxing gloves and iron bars, queued up to knock some sense into her.

The queue to slap Robbie Williams may well be a long and winding one. And at its head could be Robbie’s mum. Jan Williams is a drugs councillor. She said that “from a mother’s point of view, going into rehab is the best birthday gift he could have given himself”.

“Let’s send actual love to Robbie. It’s for you Robbie. Get well England’s Rose,” said Russell Brand to the Brits audience.

Change is good. But you need help. Every one needs helps, even Her Majesty.

And finally Queen Liz was with a tutor par excellence, or par fucking excellence, as is her wont. The Queen was with Sharon ‘Fucking’ Osbourne.

Not that the Telegraph was telling us what words passed between the mother to a dysfunctional family of drug-taking, hard-drinking and womanising spoilt brats and Sharon. We only got a photo.

Nut bags!

Posted: 18th, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment (1)


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Posted: 13th, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Smiley Kylie – Minogue’s Hotpants, Russell Brand’s Big Brother Sex & Prince Harry’s Fight

small_171267_1_1171105888.jpgWHY do we like Kylie Minogue? Is it because after years of grooming and shaping she still manages to look and sound like a pre-pubescent girl wearing her mum’s make-up and singing into her hairbrush?

Whatever the reasons, Kylie remains big news. And on Monday, there was heartbreak. Kylie’s romance to French actor Olivier Martinez was at an end.

Kylie was alone. But Martinez was with another woman. “KYLIE CAD CRUZ SCHMOOZE,” announced the Mirror’s front page.

There was a picture of Olivier Martinez. He was embracing a woman. And this, said the Mirror, “just 12 hours” after his romance to Kylie Minogue ended. For shame!

There were more “SENSATIONAL” pictures inside the paper. And once again we saw the cover shot of Martinez embracing a dark haired person. The caption read “HUG”.

It was preceded by “DELIGHT”, in which Martinez moved into for the clinch and flashed a “broad smile”. And before that there was “MEETING” in which Martinez was seen meeting this significant other.

And do not doubt her significance. Martinez was with Penelope Cruz. It is her head we see. Her hands. Her hair.

These, said the Mirror, were the pictures that would break Kylie’s heart. “Does he really have to rub Kylie’s nose in it?” asked an “insider”. “This will devastate her.”

Poor Kylie. Where will she find love? Perhaps with Jason Donovan. Or the ubiquitous Russell Brand?

The Tuesday we heard that Brand, the man with the mouth of an aroused King Charles spaniel, was trying to ban a seedy book about his celebrity life.

In what the Sun was calling “Big BRUV AFTERMATH”, books were being written. And one of these works detailed the life and times of Big Brother host Russell Brand.

This unofficial biography talked of Brand’s “sordid sessions” with women, including prostitutes, said the Star.

The claim was that the Big Brother presenter lost his virginity at aged 16 to a Hong Kong-based Filipino prostitute paid for by Brand’s dad Ron.

The book told us: “Sweating and shaking, young Russell climbed into bed with the Filipino vice girl. The 16-year-old Essex lad, destined to be one of Britain’s notorious womanisers and outrageous comics, was about to be initiated in the ways of the flesh.”

This was the stuff: “Afterwards, he ran his quivering hands over the prostitute’s perfect olive curves, she sighed with passion: ‘I must leave before I fall in love with you.”

What Filipino hooker could help but fall for an inexperienced, priapic Essex boy?

But Russell did not fall in love and marry. Brand – whose tales of sordid sex, an eating disorder and his £100-a-day heroin addiction are the mainstay of the celebrity life (chuck in some bullying for the full set) – remains single. Could he be the one for Kylie Minogue?

And Kylie is not without her charms. On Wednesday, we saw Kylie dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana purple gown and a £1million necklace. Kylie was off to the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Is this what a lonely, single girl does, head to the museum to be alone? Was Kylie alright? “I’m good, I’m fine,” said Kylie.

“Rat’s better,” said the Star’s headline as Kylie smiled. The strains of Stevie Wonders “Isn’t She Lovely” struck up. The Star heard cheers.

A microphone was pushed into Kylie’s hand. She was up on a stage. “I can see a lot for friends here in the crowd, a lot of friends,” she said. She then wished partygoers an “amazing evening”.

And how can it not be. As the Express noted, for the first time in the museum’s 155 year history, a show had been dedicated to a musician.

And what a show it was, featuring outfits from Kylie’s career. The Star spotted the overalls Kylie wore as Charlene in Neighbours.

There’s the white jumpsuit from the Can’t Get You Out Of My Head video. The leopard-print catsuit. A micro-mini. And that pair of gold hotpants, a snip at £10 from Oxfam.

You wanted revenge? Here was revenge. Get a load of that, Olivier Martinez. You couldn’t miss it, Kylie’s talented derriere on a five-metre-wide screen.

Relieved to see Kylie happy once more, we moved on. We went out on Thursday. And while out an about we saw Prince Harry. Prince Harry Baseball Cap’s preparations for the front line were progressing well.

Young Harry had bigger fights to fight than the brawl at London’s Mahiki Club.

As Dirk Tourette, he of the Towers of London tribute band, clashed with a clubber, Harry left by the back door.

Good training and a sound judgement enabled Harry to know which exits to use in a time of high tension and no little danger.

While Harry awaits his chance to drink and smoke the Taliban under the table and out of commission, Friday brought news to chill. Three parts of the Spice Girls – Baby (pregnant), Ginger (ginger) and Posh (very thin) – were dining together.

Were they plotting a reunion? Can there be any going back for the band that wanted to be?

Can they sing their old songs and do their old dances? And – more vitally – can the Spice Girls fit into their old costumes? Or would Posh’s be too big and baggy?

Posted: 9th, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


War On Terror – Paying The Price

“HAMZA’S lawyer is paid £506,466 and it’s all from legal aid in just 7 months.”

If ever there was a tale to inspire and show that the UK is a land of equality and opportunity it is this story that Muddassar Arani, a Ugandan-born lawyer, presides over such a successful enterprise.

Right it is that the Express should salute this woman on its front page, a woman given the unlovely job of defending the likes of Abu Hamza, the hook-handed loon whose face also appears on the Express’s cover.

Like the Express, we can only marvel at how her company Arani & Co earned, on average, £16,900 per week for the 30 weeks between April 1 2006 and October 31 2006.

Anyone willing to defend what Ms Arani’s company website calls “abuses taking place as a result of the so-called alleged war on terror” should be featured so prominently.

As Patrick Mercer, Tory Homeland Security spokesman, tells the paper: “Clearly every suspect needs proper legal aid. But I do wonder at the amount of money that Arani and Co are getting out of the public purse and the very public pride they have in defending terror suspects.”

Wonder, indeed. And marvel.

The answer to the Express’ phone vote – “Should Hamza’s lawyer get £500,000?” – demands the response “Yes”.

As ever the paper’s question is more loaded than Lindsay Lohan in a nightclub. And, as ever, is demands one response…

Posted: 6th, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Shhhh! – Shilpa Shetty Jade Goody & Victoria Beckham’s Big Fat Zero

SHHHH!

ON Monday we listened as millions and more Britishers tried to pronounce the name Shilpa Shetty, the Big Brother Bollywood babe.

And it is important that you try to say it right. How you say Shilpa may reveal your inner Jade Goody. Say it right and save the country; say it wrong and be sent to India.

“Shilpa’s changed the UK,” said the Sun’s front page. “Shilpa Shetty’s performance on Celebrity Big Brother has been hailed as a turning point in defeating racism,” it went on.

“The stunning Bollywood star beat her tormentors Jade Goody and Jo O’Meara to a place in the final.” The Mail saw “a vote for tolerance”.

But it wasn’t. It was a vote for Shilpa. And – we would be the first to apologise if wrong – you do not pronounce Shilpa “Tolerance”. What is more, you do not pronounce Shilpa “Princess”, “Poppadom” or “F**kawallah”.

In time, we may come to call her “Shil”, “Shilly” or, should she walk in the footsteps of Danielle Lloyd and move into footballers, “The Shilster”.

But, for now she is Shilpa. And it will be Shilpa for a while yet. So famous is the Celebrity Big Brother winner that she now operates under one name. This is a privilege afforded to only the few, and we think of Jade (Goody), Tony (Blair) and Kermit (The Frog).

And on Tuesday, Shilpa was in conversation with the Mirror. This was “SHILPA: MY STORY”. Shilpa was shocked as she saw the footage of her time in the Big Brother house. Said she: “I’d no idea it was so bad.”

And: “I didn’t know all that had gone on. They are so mean. Why didn’t someone stop them? It hurts me deeply. Look at me…I’m shaking.”

We looked at six pictures of Shilpa looking shocked and disgusted at what she called the “incessant” attack.

Shilpa bit down hard on her lip. Perhaps Jade was jealous, offers Shilpa by way of an analysis. “Jo is perhaps driven by jealousy because she has self-esteem issue,” offers Shilpa. “Danielle, well, she is just more stupid than racist.”

Shilpa had seen enough. “I kept my dignity,” says she. But please, I don’t want to see those tapes ever again.”

But it will not go away. It might never go away. We looked abroad for other news, anything to give Shilpa a background story, to place it all in some kind of context.

On Wednesday, we saw Victoria Beckham. And we read the Sun’s headline: “POSH bans size zero models.”

The good news is that the Americans do get irony. There is every chance that in the land over there, where Victoria Beckham is to make her base, eyebrows are raised and smirks smirked.

And why has Her Poshness banned “ultra-thin” models from promoting her fashion label? Is there a fear that she will be upstaged, made to look bigger?

Victoria is the woman nicknamed “Skeleton Spice”, as the Sun reminded us. This is Vicky who required a pair of 23-inch David Bitton jeans – “which is the same size Gap use for a seven year old.” And, no, not a typically obese British seven year old. A thin one.

So why the bigger models, Posh? A source explained: “Victoria wants to give out a positive image that you don’t have to be ultra skinny to look good.”

Indeed, you do not. You don’t have to be but in the world Vicky inhabits it helps.

But Shilpa is not too skinny. Shilpa has grace. Shilpa does not conform. And on Thursday, we returned to Shilpa and saw the Sun’s front-page headline: “SHILPA ‘called a Paki’ on Big Brother.”

News was that an informant within the greater Big Brother alliance had claimed one use of the word featured in a song. The lyrics run: “This house used to be happy, until that f**king –.”
As the Sun said on its front page, the “dashes are believed to mean the word Paki”.

But who sang such a thing? Looking over the Big Brother agonists, we see musicians aplenty.

Was it Leo Sayer (Thunder In My Heart: “A man where it comes from I just don’t know/ oh no, oh no”)?

Was it Jermaine Jackson (“Some things Are Private: “I’m gonna let you see/ All of my faces/ All the soft places”)?

What about Preparation H from Steps (5-6-7-8: “Foot kickin’ – finger clickin’, leather slapping – hand clappin’/ hip bumpin’ – music thumpin’ – knee hitchin’ – heel and toe/ floor scuffin’ – leg shufflin’ – big grinnin’ – body spinnin’/ rompin’ stompin’ – pumpin’ jumpin’ – slidin’ glidin’ – here we go”)?

Or what about Jo O’Meara from SS Club 7 (The Colour Of Blue: “The colour of blue/ Reminds me of you/ I never see grey, green, black/ You’re true”)?

It continues to be a puzzler. And the search for the singer is made no less difficult when you realise that many who enter reality TV shows do so with an eye to scoring recording contracts and zooming up the hit parade.

And the story does not end here. The Sun sees a note on which a Big Brother executive has penned: “Some dodgy clips DO exist. We are f***ed.”

To go with the aforesaid song, which the Sun mentioned one more time with feeling, the paper heard tell of a contestant calling Shilpa a “f***ing Paki”.

So who dunnit? The police want to know. And on Friday the questioning began. Big Brother bully Danielle Lloyd went first.

Danielle was said to have received death threats. Big Brother, the colossus that bestrode the world, has not been good for Danielle.

But what was this? Danielle had something to say. “I agreed to go on the show, but I didn’t agree to be the victim of hatred because of the editing.”

This is the twist. 2+2 = 5. The persecutor becomes the victim. And she was not alone. Jo O’Meara, formerly of the rebranded groups SS club 7, issued a 900-word statement.

“I am genuinely sorry,” said Jo. She feels “like a rabbit caught in the headlights”. “I am totally shattered and scare to go home,” she tells us.

And Jade Goody. What of her? She plans to go to India, to apologise to the people. She will save her career. She will be made whole again.

And Shilpa? Well, Shilpa’s a wiser woman. She’s on the cover of the Star dressed in a black bra and tight jeans. Shilpa may not be all that foreign and exotic after all…

Posted: 2nd, February 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


To Sheikh Or Not To Sheikh?

to-sheikh-or-not-to-sheikh.jpg“SHOULD Muslim police officers get special treatment?”

The Express cannot decide without the help of its readers. It shows and does not tell. The readers must always decide.

And to the story. A story illustrated by a picture of – yes, he’s back – Omar Bakri. The “Mad Mullah, the “Tottenham Taliban”, the “Green Ford Galaxy Driver”.

The news is that “outrage” has resulted from a Muslim woman police officer “refusing” to shake the hand of Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Ian Blair.

Until we learn otherwise, we believe that this is not a crime. There is no legal recourse for Sir Ian. He is not at liberty to cuff this non-handshaker, whether she be Muslim or not. Nor can he order her to be shot.

The paper talks of “uproar within the Metropolitan Police Service”. The female PC declines to shake her bosses hand at a passing–out ceremony.

A police source tells us: “This has never happened before and he was bloody furious.”

It’s understandable. No-one, least of all a figure of authority, likes to be embarrassed in public. But it happens to the best of us. You go to extend your hand and the other party lifts theirs and passes it through their hair or thumbs their nose.

And then Omar Bakri picks up a loud hailer and all the way from Lebanon tells us: “Islam forbids shaking hands between members of the opposite sex. She was right to have done what she did.”

Express reader Bakri may care to pick up his phone and register his “YES” vote in the approved manner. Only votes cast by phone are applicable in the paper’s daily question. One rule fits all. No debate. No phone vote. No right of appeal.

And Bakri has more to say. “Muslims should not join the police force and the establishment but should live in the community and should apply political pressure.”

Bakri has stepped into a grey area. If not a full officer of the law, can a Muslim be a community police officer? Aren’t police officers just people from the community upholding law and order in the community?

Is this the local community, a community of Express readers, or the greater Muslim community, stretching from the police’s Imber Court sports centre at Thames Ditton to Beirut?

Yes. Or No? Or agree to shake hands and call it a draw?

Posted: 22nd, January 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


David Beckham Saves Us All

small_171127_1_1168686702.jpgEVERY new musical age pushes the boundaries back a little further.

And for punk rockers gobbing at their fans, we introduce the popstar vomit.

The Mirror raised an umbrella and looked on as Amy Winehouse took to the stage at London’s G.A.Y club.

Winehouse was due to sing some of her songs. And having been out with human mushroom Kelly Osbourne for some pre-match liveners, Amy was in top form.

This would be the night Amy made her mark on stage. And she did. After stumbling through her opening number, Amy threw up.

The Winehouse signature move is a work in progress and rather than give full throat to her audience, Amy chucked up at the side of the stage.

Very soon everyone will be doing it. Promoters at the venue positioned two buckets on stage for Jason Donovan’s imminent performance.

And as impressionable music fans practiced their projectile vomiting in their bedroom mirrors, we journeyed to the Alpine resort of Chamonix-Mt-Blanc, France.

The Sun looked on as Charlotte Church got in training to overreach Winehouse’s mark by necking ten sambucas and six vodka redbulls on a night out.

But booze may not be enough. Music’s new technicolour wave needs substance. And, luckily, Charlotte happened upon a Pepperoni Delight pizza. “The pizza’s lush,” shouted Charlotte to her orangey-skinned lover Gavin Henson, the Welsh rugby player. She wanted Gavin to try it. “Gavin, eat the f******* pizza or I’ll rub it all over your face. Eat it or f*** off. I mean that.”

Charlotte was then off for an impromptu performance at Le Privelege bar. She grabbed the microphone and began to belt out a rendition of Sting’s Fields of Gold.

Would she now do a Winehouse? But as Charlotte prepared for her big sambuca and pepperoni fuelled finale, we moved on.

Britain’s musical gift to Europe will not only be the gutsy, soul-filled chunder. It will be the sound of Morrissey. Manchester’s favourite musical miserabilist was making ready to write and possibly sing the country’s entry in this year’s Eurovision Song Contest.

And Morrissey is certainly capable of creating a song for Europe. Was it not he who sang “Now I know how Joan of Arc felt/ As the flames rose to her roman nose/ And her Walkman started to melt”? Joan of Arc was French, her nose Italian. Such tributes to foreign nations and their notables will surely impress judges and score easy points.

The only wonder is that it has taken this long for Morrissey to be called upon to serve his country. Recalling last year’s dire UK entry, Morrissey said: “I was horrified but not surprised to see the UK fail again. There’s a question I keep asking myself – why didn’t they ask me? It keeps going round in my head.”

Even Morrissey’s questions are catchy.

And if Morrissey was looking for inspiration he surely got it from the Independent. “EUROPE: the future,” came the headline. “This was how global warming will ravage the continent, reveal the EU.”

The Independent led with a map. It was a picture of the European Union surrounded by a wagon train of stars.

But these stars will not keep the enemy out. Nothing will. Global warming is in the very air we breathe. And it is coming to get us.

Portugal burns. Spain starves. Hungary is washed away. And in Blighty life is good. The Indy said that Northern Europe will benefit initially from this surge in temperature, “with a longer growing season, more tourism and fewer deaths.”

Sounds good. Bring it on. Start your engines and leave them running. Buy another fridge. Plant melon seeds. Make hay and wine while the sun shines.

Little wonder Tony Blair had been jetting off to foreign climes for his holidays, on his way burning all that warmth-inducing fossil fuel. What a patriot. Tony knows what’s best for the county he serves.

Tony’s carbon footprint is huge. Tony and the Blarios stomp about the planet wearing size 42 DM boots, like those worn by Elton John in the film Tommy. Rock on, Tony.

Britain will be mighty again. And if it is not, you can always move to America.

The plan to enable Brits to live the American dream is progressing well. David Beckham has secured a deal to rescue us all.

News was that David has signed a £128million deal that will see him end his playing days in the United States. David has signed for the Los Angeles Galaxy, an ambitious team whose name alone dwarfs the plans of some of Europe’s clubs to merely dominate planet Earth.

It’s a lot of money. Not that Dave is doing it for the money. Said Day-vid in all papers: “Soccer in America is the biggest played sport up to a certain age, and that’s where I want to take it to another level.”

As British football fans winced at the mention of “soccer” – the public schoolboy version of the game’s name that Americans insist on calling it – we knew better.

With this money Beckham can pay for thousands of Britishers to make the long haul move to America. Dressed in the kit of the Los Angeles Galaxy soccer team, the new British should blend in unnoticed.

Thank you, David. Thank you for giving us hope. Thank you for saving us from a doomed and sweaty Europe, Eurovision and ourselves…

Posted: 13th, January 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Who Heeded Cook Robin?

“ROBIN COOK”

And so it begins.

Politicians love to have the last word.

On Cook’s headstone at Grange Cemetery in Edinburgh, the legend reads: “Parliamentarian and Statesman. Born 28th February 1946. Died 6th August 2005. Beloved husband of GAYNOR and much missed father of CHRIS and PETE.”

Interesting it is that Cook’s job should come before any mention of his family, and that his family – although not his first wife – should be mentioned in a shout.

The “Statesman” was married to GAYNOR! He was dad to CHRIS! and PETER!

Historians and parties of school children visiting the grave as part of their GCSEs in War On Terror will left be in no doubt as to what Cook did for a living and the names of his nearest and dearest.

And there is more. Here it is: “I may not have succeeded in halting the war, but I did secure the right of Parliament to decide on war.”

It’s all very important. Quotes on graves often are, what with them being the final word. The words are carefully chosen to reflect the person whose remains are entombed beneath the slap.

This inscription was selected not by Cook but by GAYNOR. It is a quote found in the former Foreign Secretary’s memoirs, Point of Departure.

It harks back to Cook’s criticism of Tony Blair’s decision to go to war in Iraq. You will remember that MPs voted against a motion that stated the case for war “had not yet been established”.

It says something about the man that the inscription begins with the word “I”. And that the ensemble of headstone and plinth stands at 5ft 4in high. That is a mere two inches shorter than the gnome-like Cook once stood.

Perhaps that says most of all…

Posted: 10th, January 2007 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Barrow Boys & Girls

IT’S official – Britain is bonkers for ‘the barrow’.

Almost half of us say the Wheelbarrow, which involves the man holding the woman’s legs as if they were the handles of a barrow [see diagram], is our favourite sex position, according to the authoritative UK Sex Survey.

The popularity of the position has soared since Prince Edward and Sophie were seen using it in their now infamous honeymoon tape – and more than 47% of the 12,000 British adults interviewed in the annual poll ranked it as their No.1 bedroom choice.

The Missionary position, for many years the nation’s favourite, has now slipped to fifth with only 12% of the vote, behind the 69, Doggie and The Bucking Bronco.

Paul Pruhit, of the UK Sex Survey Group, said the results showed Brits were becoming more and more adventurous in bed. “With sex as with so many other things, where Prince Edward leads, the country follows,” he added.

The poll also found that the image most men call to mind to stop them climaxing prematurely is that of a naked Vanessa Feltz. A massive 79% say the heavy-boned former TV presenter is a more effective passion-killer than their grandmother (8%), Ann Widdecombe (3%) and Jono Coleman (3%).

Other survey results in summary:

• Only 17% of men can spell clitoris
• 36% of women prefer a visit to the dentist to having sex with their partner
• 31% of women are having an affair with their dentist
• Porsche drivers really do have smaller penises than drivers of any other car; Volvo drivers are the most well-endowed
• 24% of women and 7% of men have fantasised about having sex with Richard Madeley

Posted: 26th, December 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Smells Like Christmas

Following Britney Spears’ star… 

MONDAY and Victoria Beckham “opens with the pure fresh notes of bergamot and rose petals”.

In the face of much evidence to the contrary, Her Poshness can hit top notes, middle notes and low notes of “sensual orange blossom" leading to "a seductive base of voluptuous vanilla, rich sandalwood and an elegant layer of musk”. Can the same be said of Emma Bunton or Pavarotti?

If only Victoria sang as she smelled, she would be a cornucopia of musical nourishment, her range extending beyond the shelves of chemists and department stores – where her perfume Intimately Her is on sale – and wafting on a gossamer web of sensual delights to the Royal Opera House.

But she does not. And her star is one the wane. Victoria’s scent had slipped to Number 2 in the high street perfume charts, being pipped to the top spot by Kylie Minogue’s Darling fragrance.

Kylie’s is the smell of Christmas cheer.

All we need now are musical notes. With Mr Blobby dieting, Slade missing presumed old and Cliff Richard stranded atop a tree, the tunes belong to Jordan. And she does not want to sing alone. Forget pop acorn Peter Andre, her usual sidekick, and think even bigger.

On Tuesday, the Sun said that Jordan wanted to sing a song with Barry Manilow.

For all we know, Jordan may also like to look like Barry Manilow, have breasts the size and texture of Barry Manilow, to be Barry Manilow. In her many passionate embraces with her husband, Jordan may even dream of being in a clinch with Barry Manilow, of having Barry Manilow’s children, of creating Barry Manilow magic.

For now though, Jordan wants to sing with Manilow. “He’s not agreed yet but I’m hopeful,” said she. “Everyone gives into Pricey eventually.”

Submit. Resistance is futile. We are as helpless before the relentlessly thrusting presence of Jordan as a bishop at a Christmas drinks soiree. To go with the smell and the music, we introduce the Christmas spirits.

Wednesday, and the Bishop of Southwark was in conversation with BBC Radio 4 presenter John Humphreys.

As reported on Anorak, the Bishop, the Right Reverend Tom Butler, left a drinks do at the Irish embassy, London, and staggered into the back of a Mercedes car. He began chucking toys from it. It is then “claimed” he left the car – a vehicle belonging to persons unknown to him – and fell to the pavement.

So was he drunk? And did that nasty bruise on his head result from a fall related to the spirits moving within him? Was he bished? Or was he, as he suggested, mugged?

Bishop: “Look, I’ve been going to receptions for 20 years as a Bishop. It would be entirely out of character if I was drunk. The police tracked my movements home using my Oyster card records. I got the Tube to London Bridge and then with head wounds I caught the Northern Line to Tooting Bec. I got on a bus and got off at home in Streatham. I defy anyone who has had too much to drink to make that journey.”

That is a challenge many will surely grasp this season of good cheer. Some may fall by the wayside, some will fall asleep, but perhaps one may make it. And that is the important thing.

The other important thing at Christmas is to look not back but ahead. Look to a better you and pastures fresh. So on Thursday, we saw Britney Spears heading into a tattoo parlour.

With husband Kevin Federline gone the way of her schoolgirl complexion, Britney wanted to mark the new chapter in her life. So he was having a tattoo inked onto her person.

And this was not the first time Britney had been drawn on. As the Mirror noted, Britney has a “sexy” six-inch fairy tattoo on her bottom and a set of dice. All very tastefully done, of course.

Other artworks include a daisy tattoo on her right toe, a butterfly on her left foot and a Chinese symbol on her belly.

And this new tattoo? A set of angel wings on her back? A likeness of Colonel Sanders, purveyor of fried chicken, on her lips? The legend “I used to be Britney Spears” writ in day-glo pink on her forehead?

No. This tattoo is a star the size of a money spider on the joint betwixt right thump and index finger.

It is a star of wonder. It is star to light the way ahead. It is a star almost holy in its bearing. And may it guide not just Britney but each of to new, rosy fingered tomorrow.

Amen.

Merry Christmas, Chanukamas, Chanukah, Xmas, Holidays, December, etc…

Posted: 23rd, December 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Diana – ‘No’ News

CHERIE BLAIR stood with her dress unbuttoned. She was not wearing underwear. It was Monday. It was cold and it was raining.

But this was no revolution. Cherie had not been stripped and thrown into the street. She and Tony remained very much within No. 10.

This was a portrait of Cherie created 25 years go by artist Euan Uglow. It took him two years. And, as the Mail noted, it was unfinished.

Entitled Striding Nude, Blue Dress, there was something oddly familiar about the work created in 1981, the year Margaret Thatcher, that most strident woman in shades of blue, took command. Three years before Euan Blair, Cherie’s eldest child, was born.

As Cherie Blair dispatched her private Christmas cards, each wrapped in a plain brown envelope and then secreted between the covers of a copy of Barristers’ Husbands, the Mail saw some other seasonal missives sent from on high.

It reproduced a picture of Home Secretary John Reid’s card. (Mr Reid is believed to be delivering each card personally and you are reminded not to be alarmed should the stalwart of law and order find cause to peer though your letter box as he makes his rounds.)

Recipients of Reid’s good cheer see a Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. A smattering of people mill around the landmark. Their faces are unclear. Do you know them? Look again. Study the image. If you recognise any of the people call John. He’d like to know their names, passport numbers and religious persuasion.

And while we study the cards, and swab the envelope for Reid’s DNA – no-one is above suspicion – there was talk of murder.

A manhunt had begun.

Police are loathe to use terms like serial killer, but evidence points to one man being responsible for the murders of five women in Suffolk, all of them prostitutes.

The Express led on Wednesday with news of this “serial killer”, a “RIPPER” at large. And its sister paper, the Star, agreed, adding that the “River Ripper” was being actively pursued.

“Pervert, psycho, sicko,” announced the Star descriptively. The “River Ripper” must be stopped. The “River Ripper’s trail of horror spreads”.

And it was spreading fast. The Star’s River Ripper moved like the Colorado rapids. The Star had seen five bodies found in ten days. It consulted the record books. It very possibly called up Guinness. And it announced: “FASTEST SERIAL KILLER IN HISTORY.”

So the hunt was on for the Rapid River Ripper. Of course, you may not know him by this name. And the Mail introduced its readers to “the Suffolk Strangler”. Less fearsome sounding than the Ripper, at first mention the Suffolk Strangler appeared like a wrestler taking on Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks on Saturday afternoon television.

But before we got to read the potted life stories of the victims, “All someone’s daughter”, the Sun warned us to look out for the “SUFFOLK RIPPER”.

The press were trawling the English language for the right word, the correct term that would mete out justice to this maniac.

And language is important. The Mail had seen the work of linguists at Lancaster University. And it noted that while the over-25s use 21,391 words in daily conversation, the teenagers use just 12,682.

This seemed impressive, until you realised that no less than 11,216 of those teen words are for chips. The teenage vocabulary is pared down to 20 key words.

In order of use, these words are: “You, I, the, and, it, a, to, yeah, that, what, no, in, know, he, of, it’s, oh, but, like, on.” Add on “Stunna” “Ripper” and “prostitute” and every Bianca, Armani and Borat can understand media English.

Which is useful for the likes of villagers living in Moroieni, Romania, reading about themselves in the Sun.

The paper had visited the municipality which embraces Glod (a village whose name the paper told us translates into English as “mud”). Glod is the place featured in the Sacha Baron Cohen movie Borat.

Glod may be no more typically Romanian than the lunatic killing women in Ipswich is a typical British gent, but it serves as an emblem for greater ills.

The Sun introduced its readers to the impoverished inhabitants. Local Dan Nelu wanted to leave. “It’s my dream to work in Britain,” said he. “I want to go for one reason only – the money.”

Villager Stan Nino said he had four Romanian friends already working in London. He said the two working in restaurants earned £1,200 a month.

But what about us going over there, to Romania, that land of basic services, where we remain in constant touch with earth, reconnecting with the mud?

Chances are that our basic grasp of English will enable us to fit right in over there. Away from the rat race we have time to reflect on our lives and, more vitally, the life of Princess Diana.

On Friday, we read “THE VERDICT”. The Scotland Yard investigation into the death of Princess Diana was in.

As the Times’s Mick Hume noted, this 832-page report compiled by Lord Stevens of Kirkwhelpington, that cost £3.69million to produce, would succeed where the 6,000-page French police report had failed.

And the facts were shocking. The Sun told us that with NO evidence to the contrary it has been proven that Diana was “NOT murdered, NOT pregnant, NOT engaged” and did NOT have her hair tied in a bun.

This was it. This was the last world. And the last word was “No”.

The accidental death of Diana ten years ago was making headlines. It was bigger than Tony’s Blair’s achievement of becoming the first serving British Prime Minister to be questioned by police conducting a criminal investigation?

Diana. Tony. A conspiracy. No. A cover up? No. At least not for Cherie…

Paul Sorene

Anorak UK Ltd

www.anorak.co.uk

Posted: 16th, December 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


The Sky High Club

THERE we were in the toilet onboard a plane from Heathrow to New York.

Forget the mile high club, this was the sky high club – terrorists were going to nip to the loo and produce bombs from baby milk, small cartons of orange juice and other liquid explosives.

"You could carry an inert liquid that if you mix with another one could become explosive," said David Hill, a former counter-terrorism expert at the National Crime Squad.

Planes were grounded. Mothers were forced to drink milk revolting formula, more victims in the war on terror. Queues formed. Fear stalked. Passengers wandered about clutching little plastic bags with bits of paper in.

And then nothing. Until now. The Mail reports on Rashid Rauf, the 25-year-old from Birmingham, the man whose arrest in Pakistan was said to have triggered raids by Scotland Yard’s anti-terror squad across Britain (24 arrested here; seven more arrested in Pakistan, including two Britons).

Terrorism chares have been dropped against him. No explanation has been given. The man the Mail says fled Britain four years ago after his uncle was murdered remains in jail.

Though not a terror suspect he is facing other charges for forging documents, possessing explosives and “impersonation”.

It’s a decent enough charge sheet. But Rauf has yet to be found charge let alone found guilty. He remains innocent until proven otherwise. And, as the Mirror reports, the explosive material allegedly found in his possession was hydrogen peroxide. Yes, that stuff teens put on their fringes to look cool. The paper says that it can be mixed with other chemical to make explosives. Or it can be put on cuts and grazes to keep germs at bay.

Let us not say that Rauf is a nice cheap, a champion of peace, a multi-culturalist partial to a bacon bagel, who celebrates Chanukahmass, Diwali and Eid with a rare gusto.

But we are not here to judge. That is for other. The Mirror tells us Rauf is married to a woman related to the leader of a banned Islamic militant group. The Mail says Rauf has established links with al-Qaeda figures. He also has a full and wiry beard.

But we are not here to judge. We only note that with 17 people awaiting trial in the UK over for the alleged plot to blow up so many airliners, Rauf is no longer seen as the ring leader.

And remember that, as the Mail says, it was his arrest that was the catalyst for their raids.

Meanwhile, the restrictions on liquids at airports at the height of the panic in August were only relaxed on 6 November.

Passengers boarding planes in the UK and other EU countries are allowed to carry liquids in containers no more than 100ml in capacity. These containers must be in a single, transparent, re-sealable plastic bag a litre in capacity.

Oh, and John Reid, the Home Secretary, says the chances of an attempted terror attack over Christmas are "highly likely".
Says he: “We know the number of conspiracies of a major type are in the tens – 30 or round about that."

We only wonder if any or all of them involve Rashid Rauf..?

Posted: 15th, December 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Careless Dogging Costs Lives

EVER wonder what’s going through the mind of the copper standing outside No.10 Downing Street?

Until now we’d laboured under the belief that the doorman’s mind was in a Zen-like state of empty calm.

Here was a sentry in tune with the rhythms of the door behind him, the watchful copper at one with his surrounds, his heels rising and falling with the steady swing of the hinges.

But we were wrong. The copper told us: “I love to drive up to a secluded spot and get very rude.” And that in these times of heightened security,

For purposes of identification, the Mirror called this custodian of law and order PC Matt Balmforth. As his biography on an adult website said, the married PC was into threesomes, exhibitionism, voyeurism and dogging.

What horrors would have ensued had Margaret Beckett’s driver flashed his lights at PC Balmforth in the approved dogging manner? What evils would have scarred the political landscape as John Prescott flicked on the interior light of his latest Jaguar to read a vital message from his personal secretary?

This was no good. Our police force needs to be on the look out for villains not a good place for an al fresco shag. You cannot take your eyes off the scene for a moment. Look at what happened to former KGB operative Alexander Litvinenko.

The Russian was killed by thallium. Well, that was the rumour the week before. Thallium was the talk of London town. Thallim was dangerous stuff, especially when imbibed in a tincture of green tea or smeared on a rice cracker in a Japanese eatery.

We knew all about thallium. We knew that in June 2004, 25 Russian soldiers became ill from thallium exposure when they found a can of mysterious white powder in a rubbish dump added it to tobacco and used it as a substitute for talcum powder on their feet. Thallium. Russian military intelligence. Thallium. Look out!

Only it wasn’t thallium that did for Litvinenko. The Sun introduced its readers to Polonium-210. Sun readers learnt that Polonium-210 is “harmful when ingested into the body by breathing or swallowing it or through a wound”.

The Mail said three people thought to have “had contact” with the sushi bar or London hotel Litvinenko visited on the day of his poisoning were being checked.

But we must not panic. Home Secretary John Reid told us: “If anyone fears on rational grounds for their own safety then I would ask them to get in touch with the authorities.”

The Mail told us that symptoms of possible poisoning include: chest pains, headaches, anemia, vomiting, diarrhea and shortness of breath. Of course, such afflictions are pretty typical to any Londoner still in command of their pulse.

Londoners like 22-year-old Ela Malek. “I feel like I’m caught in the middle of some mad spy movie,” said would-be Bond girl Ela, who had been at work in the Itsu restaurant Litvinenko had dined at one the day of his poisoning. “Friends who know I worked at this restaurant are too scared to touch me in case I contaminate them. It’s horrible.”

Along with 19 of her co-workers, Ela was waiting on the results of tests to see if she had been damaged by Polonium-210.

The number of possible victims was rising. And very soon that number had taken off to anything up to 33,000.

“Spy nuke poison found on two BA jets,” said the Star’s front page. The Express said that up to 33,000 people may have been exposed to the radiation toxin that killed Litvinenko.

Forensic tests of planes flying the London to Moscow route revealed traces of a radioactive substance on two Boeing 747s. Each plane can carry up to 252 passengers, two pilots and seven cabin crew. Since October 25 (why this date was selected we are not told), the jets had made 220 flights between Heathrow airport and 10 European destinations.

And there was more. The Mail spotted a “radioactive trail”, reporting that traces of radioactive contamination had been found at 12 London sites.

Security sources were examining this trail by day and brightly lit night. But, as the Mail said, they had yet to find a “smoking gun”. This might be because Litvinenko was murdered by poison and not shot.

Although knowing what to believe in these dangerous times is difficult…

Posted: 2nd, December 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Al-Qaeda’s DIY Kit

AL-QAEDA “terrorist chiefs” have produced a “DIY missile-making guide” for anyone with access to the Internet.

You can see the Al-Qaeda plotter wandering around his B&Q saver centre on a Sunday morning; a little bit of sticky-backed plastic, some sturdy cardboard and half a tonne of Hexamethylene triperoxide diamine and job done. The grouting in the en-suite wet room can wait.

But a word of warning from Neil Doyle, a “terrorism expert”, says the Sun. A look at Mr Doyle’s website reveals him to be the author of the book Terror Base UK. His website has an “Alerts” section. This is useful. Sadly, at the time of our looking it was “Down for maintenance.” The war will not be emailed.

But Mr Doyle does tell us that the warheads attached to these homemade missiles could be chemical rather than conventional explosives. The would-be amateur mass murderer may care to go to Boots or Super Drug to give his weapon added potency.

And then take care. While the alert service for potential victims is down, Mr Doyle does issue a warning to the home jihadi. Says he: “But a major challenge for any group planning to use these is testing them without being noticed.”

Indeed. You can see the assorted flyers of homemade radio controlled aircraft looking on with a mixture of awe and fear as the new arrival strides up to the recreation ground with a Scud missile tucked under his arm.

We are no experts in such thing, but surely the health and safety executive frown on such behaviour. We stand well back when lighting a Roman Candle; let off a chemical warhead and run the risk of falling foul of local bylaws.

Of course, you can always secrete the warhead about your person. The Sun says that a British tourist, one Mohammed Azizul Islam, has been arrested in Surfers Paradise, Queensland, Australia, with £40,,000 in cash on his person.

A court heard how Mr Azizul tried to pay a bus driver to take him to Sydney. Suspicions were aroused. The court heard Mr Azizul had in his possession a mobile phone “covered in a substance which led police to believe he had hidden it inside his body”.

Mr Azizul has no link to terrorism, although he has a rich criminal history in the UK. We use him for illustrative purposes only.

There are ways and there are means. But the danger is ever present. As Omar Nasi, a man the Sun calls a “spook” recruited in the UK to track Osama bin Laden, says, Abu Hamza is a victim of bad preparation.

Nasri says Hamza did not lose his hands defusing a landmine in Afghanistan, as he claims. Nasri says Hamza was in Assad Allah’s bomb making class when things went wrong.

In learning how to make nitroglycerine, the material became too hot. The trainee, allegedly one Abu Hamza, rather than putting the dangerous brew in iced water foolishly dashed to the door with it. The concoction blew up. Hamza lost his hands and an eye.

The warning is clear. Missiles and bombs are dangerous. The advice is to leave well alone – or else ask the British Government if you can buy a readymade explosive…

Posted: 21st, November 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Omar Bakri, To Be Sure?

LEBANON calling, Lebanon calling. Come in Britain. Do you read me Tottenham?

It’s Omar Bakri, the nation’s favourite mad mullah, they man in the wiry beard, oversized NHS bins and green Ford Galaxy.

Bakri has been banned from performing in Britain but he can still reach our ears via the wonder of the Internet.

As the Mail reports, Bakri has, apparently, been praising the July 7 bombers in an internet chatroom. Reports suggest that he has also been advocating an attack on Dublin Airport.

Bakri is said to have opined: “How can you condemn these great men – it’s not something so bad, something so good, something so good to be involved in.”

Should we be scared? On the face of it, maybe. But look at the cadence of Bakri’s language. The repetition lacks the epizeuxis of Tony Blair’s pledge to education. It has traces of anaphora about it. It’s the kind of thing Mel Brooks puts to music.

And here is more. The Star reports that Bakri may be using a variety of pseudonyms to broadcast his message to the masses (ie tabloid journalists surfing the web for traces of the man and a few assorted nutters).

Listen up as what might be Bakri says that Dublin Airport should be hit “very hard” because US troops pass through the airport on their way to Iraq.

“Hit the target and hit it very hard,” says Bakri, the Star reports, “that issue should be understood.”

It is hard not to understand. The comments appear to be coming through very clear. But the man who may be Bakri was making his thoughts known to an undercover cop working for a group called Vigil, which aims to disrupt extremist activity.

Thankfully, no randy, mentally negligible raving loon heard him.

Unless, of course, they happen upon a copy of the Star…

Posted: 15th, November 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Bakri’s Dirty Dozen

“GOT anything for me, son?” asks Omar Bakri, his sun-bleached beard bristling in the warm breeze, his lavender-tinted glasses catching the ray’s of the early morning sun as it rises over the ancient Levant coastline.

Abdul Raham Fostok laughs. “Well, pop, you know that £13,000 I had in cash, the money in an envelope marked ‘Daddy’?”

Bakri nods. “Well, I got to Heathrow and yadda yadda yadda I don’t have it any more.”

Bakri laughs a little harder. “No matter,” he says. “Money is the root of all evil. Who needs it? My only hope is that you spent it on hard drugs and loose women. Let’s get some cake.”

Of course, the reality of the situation may be far removed from this scene.

But until the Sun catches up with the mad mullah, we can only make an educated guess at what passed between him and his son, who has made the journey from London to Beirut to be with his dear old dad.

What we do know is that on passing through Heathrow Airport, Fostok was questioned by the authorities.

The police found the money. They saw the label marked “Daddy”. They took notes. They may have exchanged knowing glances and deep meaningful looks. They put two and two together. They came up with some kind of answer, which they will now check with their superiors.

And the Home Office will, as the Sun says, ask for a formal High Court Seizure order.

As a police source says: “We’re sure this money was intended for Bakri. We will be looking at where it came from.”

And while the police turn over the envelope and take careful note of the word “Manila”, Bakri and his boy sip on cocktails and watch the girls go by…

Posted: 25th, October 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


A Dickens Of A Week

THE week’s news focused on the Dickensian story of the Jew, the orphan and the flight to London Town.

On Monday, Davie Twist’s future was far from certain. Charities and institutions protested at Davie Twist’s removal from Africa. Protests were made.

And in London, Madonna seemed to have hatched a classic plot.

As the Sun reported, Madonna had spent £5,000 on a rocking horse for her would-be new boy. A worker at Harrods, the Knightsbridge store where the horse was sired, told the paper: “The rocking horses are hand made and top spec. They are beautiful, traditional toys.”

The paper produced a picture of what a rocking horse might look like. There was a tail, a mane and four legs placed on rockers. And a hatch in the belly through which 13-month-old David can enter, hide and thereby escape Africa for a new life in Marble Arch.

In the end, subterfuge was not necessary. And on the Tuesday, Davie was on his way to London.

But not everyone was as “ecstatic” as the boy’s father, Yohane.

“Fury as Madonna brings her baby David to London,” said the Mirror on its front page. “Madonna’s adopted baby is whisked out of Malawi on private jet.”

It was all so very cloak and dagger. The language suggested that we were not watching a woman choosing to give a motherless boy from an impoverished country a new life of splendour and rare opportunity but a kidnap.

“Madonna’s baby is bundled on plane before court fights,” the paper continued. There was another photo, a suitably grainy image of a “Madonna aide”, a kind of Nancy to Madge’s Fagin, carrying David through Johannesburg airport as they headed for London.

“Madge Grabs Baby,” said the Star’s headline. And the Mail was appalled. “Cash for babies fury as Madonna flies little David back to Britain in defiance of legal challenge,” squawked the paper’s front page.

Poor “little” David. He’d been plucked from his homeland like a silk hanky from a rich man’s pocket.

But he soon arrived. And on Wednesday, Madonna was telling the Sun that she would do anything, for Davie, dear, anything, yes she’d do anything (anything?) anything for him.

In an Open Letter from Madonna, we learnt: “It was my wish to open up our home and help one child escape an extreme life of hardship, poverty and, in many cases, death, as well as expand our family.”

And that’s a family that may yet expand. Madonna wants more. As the Mirror’s front page said: “NOW I WANT A GIRL.”

The singer was keen to adopt a three-year-old girl from the same village as young David. “I saw this girl with the saddest smile,” said Madge. “I told Guy ‘We must give this child a home too.”

And so it must be. Very soon Madonna’s place will be packed to the rafters with little loves, each with a clean silk hanky on their pillow and glass of gin and warm water in their hands.

David was in the very bosom of goodness. Consider yourself at home, young rapscallion, Davie, consider yourself one of the family.

And while we sang in the streets, Madonna bestowed gifts upon her newest.

It’s not just silk hankies picked from a pocket or two for little Davie. As the Mail reported, it’s a child-sized electric BMW, to help Davie connect with his inner estate agent, cuddly toys, designer clothes and, of course, that rocking horse.

And lest young Davie Twist feel isolated and confused in his new urban home there was a jungle mural on one wall of his huge new bedroom. A source spoke of “lions, tigers, those kind of animals”.

The thinking is surely that young Davie will look at the bucolic African landscape and remain in touch with his roots.

And on Friday we too saw a picture of Africa. Beneath a tree in deepest Malawi, crouched above the parched ground, and in the Sun, Madonna cradled Davie Twist in her arms.

Liz Rosenberg, Madge’s spokeswoman, explained. “It was love at first sight,” said she.

And a witness to the scene told People magazine: “The look of pure joy on her face was beyond words – not unlike when her own kids Lourdes and Rocco were born.”

But surely it is better. Unlike with the arrival of those other children, Davie has had little or no impact on Madonna’s figure.

And for that we should rejoice for a woman weak and erring…

Posted: 21st, October 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Hamza The Estate Agent

“STUMP DUTY,” says the Mirror’s headline. It’s one-eyed, hook-handed purple people eater Abu Hamza. He’s back. And he’s in the property game.

The report says that Hamza has paid £220,000 in cash for a house in Greenford, West London.

Currently residing in a compact and bijou cell in Belmarsh, South London, Hamza knows a good deal when he sees it and has purchased the four-bed semi.

He might be a “maniac”, as the Star calls him, but Hamza realises that with house prices rising every day property is an investment opportunity he cannot afford to miss out on.

Coincidentally, Hamza bought the house in October 2004 while he was amassing a legal aid bill that, as the Times reports, will cost taxpayers more than £250,000.

Patrick Mercer, the Tory homeland security spokesman, says: “This is outrageous and makes an utter mockery of how the Chancellor has slipped up in dealing with terrorist financing.”

And rent-a quote Labour MP Stephen Pound tells the Mirror: “Paying £220,000 for a house rings every bell in the orchestra and someone needs to go through the deal with a fine toothcomb.”

Pound has a less-than-unique way with words. And over in the Express, the MP for Ealing North wonders how right it is that Hamza’s wife, Najat Chafe, lives in a £60,000 house on £680 benefits a week. Pound wonders if she is “milking the system”. “Hamza is not only taking us for a ride, he is taking us to the cleaners,” he says.

Meanwhile, over in Greenford, Mrs Alila Ahmed, 39, who lives close to Hamza’s new home, says: “There have been lots of people in and out, women, children and four men. They’ve been there for about a year. I can’t understand how so many people can live in a house that size.”

Perhaps Hamza, speaking from his 9m² cell, can enlighten her. Or perhaps it’s all legit and in accordance with the terms of the tenancy agreement – Hamza rents the house out.

That’s right. Just when you thought the bearded menace couldn’t get any more unlovely, he turns his hooks to estate agency.

Posted: 16th, October 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Seeing The Light

BARELY a week into his world tour, and George Michael had made it about a mile from his Highgate home.

“GEORGE IN 999 DOPE DASH,” announced the front page of Monday’s Sun. “Singer slumped at wheel again.”

We joined George at the junction of Cricklewood Lane and Hendon Way, North London, a busy thoroughfare.

At his current rate of progress, George is thought to be on schedule to arrive in Wembley, North London, in time for his November show. Good luck with that, George.

But on Monday he wasn’t going anywhere. George was sat at the traffic lights. Look at them. There’s a green one. Then an orange one. Now a red one. Then orange. Green. Red. Orange. Green. And so on. It was just so awesome.

Even more so when the blue flashing lights arrived and George was hauled off to the local police station.

But on Tuesday, George told us that it had all bean a colossal misunderstanding.

“There was spliff in car but I don’t have drug problem,” said George Michael on the Sun’s cover.

And we hang our heads low. Poor George. Has it come to this? Once he was a top lyricist, rhyming “Wham!” with “Bam!” – George is now too tired and emotional to use anything but the bare minimum to communicate.

The very real fear is that George is but a toke on a Thai stick away from speaking in a series of grunts, his work reduced to one long Gregorian Chant.

While we and the police asked questions, Wednesday brought stunning news: Prince William had gone to Mecca.

No, silly. He might be his Koran-reading father’s son, but William is not one to make a pilgrimage to Islam’s holiest city.

The news was that William had gone to the Mecca entertainment complex in Reading, Berkshire to play bingo.

“If he had won we were wondering if he would have shouted ‘palace’ instead of ‘house’,” said a “regular” in the Sun. Indeed. And perhaps William sees the numbers in terms of succession to the throne – Charles after his mum, No. 1; Princess Anne on a racing line, No. 9; and so on.

It was all jolly good fun. But Wills seemed unsure. Know that he joined the club using the moniker “William Harry”.

This fraud was topped off by Wills sporting a baseball cap, in the manner of young Prince Harry Baseball Cap, well known gadabout and goodtime guy.

Perhaps this was just the tip of Wills’ cunning plan? Were he to have scooped the £20 jackpot, the prince may have squandered the booty on cigarettes, women and hooch. First the Mecca then the Rattlebone Inn.

But just say William had gone to Mecca, that he had converted to Islam, would the Royal Protection Squad want to protect him? Or would some of the elite group take issue and say that on moral grounds they didn’t fancy it?

On Thursday we learnt that policing is a subjective thing. PC Alexander Omar Basha felt disinclined to protect the Israeli embassy in London. He told his superiors. And he was duly excused such duties.

PC Basha, part of the Met’s Diplomatic Protection Squad, does not care to look after the Israeli embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens. He doesn’t like what the Israelis did in Lebanon.

PC Basha is a copper with principles, who values the sanctity of life. And we look forward to his now boycotting duties at the Pakistani embassy, the Iraqi embassy, the Iranian embassy, the Jordanian embassy, the Algerian embassy, the Kuwaiti embassy, the Turkish embassy, the Afghani embassy, the Syrian embassy, the Saudi embassy, the Lebanese embassy and every other embassy of a country that has killed or persecuted a fellow Muslims.

And those are Muslims both in and out of a veil. While British actress Anna Friel was making us wonder if she had given partygoers a view of her unveiled vagina, Home Secretary Jack Straw was eyeing his constituents.

On Friday, his message was that he felt “uncomfortable” when talking to someone whose face he cannot see. “In our society, we are able to relate to strangers by being able to read their faces,” said Straw. “If you can’t read their faces that does provide some separation.”

The papers talked of uproar and fury in the Muslim community. But rather than cause a row, might it be argued that Mr Straw has opened a dialogue with British Muslims?

It is not only some non-Muslims who feel the veil is a barrier to communication and understanding but some of them too. We are not so different after all.

And perhaps one day Muslim women will remove their veils and be just as expressive as Western women. So Anne Robinson, what do you think of Jack Straw’s stance on Iraq? What about you, Cher? Or you, Joan Rivers…

Posted: 6th, October 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


Adopt A Wasp

TODAY the RSPW announces a "citizen science" programme to investigate the apparent decline in the number of British wasps. ‘The Buzz’ will encourage picnicers to put a postcard piece of honey-coated film on the front of their hampers – a so-called splatometer – to measure the number of wasps that fly against it during a meal.

The fall in the number of domestic wasps can be directly linked to the increased popularity of foreign destination holidays. Less day-trippers on the beaches mean less dripping lollies and small children to hover around and sting. Alistair Harvey-Beam, head of the project, says that wasps form an important and vital constituent for the great British summer.

“These stinging insects are as part of the great British summer time as wet days, collecting bits of glass on the beach and Canon and Ball.” He says the public’s response to the campaign has been favourable and encouraging, although some elements have been critical. “People think this a joke, but they are very much mistaken. They won’t be laughing when all the wasps have gone,” adds Harvey-Beam.

Modern life means that not everyone has the time to go on picnics or to the seaside, so the RSBW has also introduced the Adopt A Wasp scheme, whereby members of the public can sponsor a wasp that has been captured and tamed. “We’ve been overwhelmed with requests for wasps,” says Henry-Jones’s assistant, Wendy Day. “It’s a campaign that’s been gathering momentum by the day. We’re thinking of extending it to include bluebottles, although not hover flies, which are the scum of the Earth.”

Posted: 30th, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment


The Come Back Kids

IT was a week of returns.

On Monday, George Michael was back in the headlines. George was giving a public performance before a crowd of 18,000 fans in Barcelona. It was George’s 25th anniversary gig, and, as the Sun said, it was his first “proper” live show for 15 years.

This was perhaps a slight on George’s recent improper shows, notably the George Michael Unplugged concert on Hampstead Heath, his private performance in a balaclava at a London hotel and the conzzzzzert in his Range Rover.

“I’ve forgotten what that feels like and I’m really excited,” said George Michael, ominously. “As much as I’m going to disappoint those people who want to see more of my bottom,” said he, “I’m going to be less of a showman and more of a singer.”

He then wandered over the stage, and in the manner of a more agile Pavarotti pulled down the flies on a 50ft inflatable effigy of George Bush. True to his word, no bum was forthcoming, but we did get to see a bulldog pleasuring the leader of the free world.

This was George being a serious musician. And while he revisited old ground and went dogging with Dubya, we spotted Pete Doherty.

Pete was back with Kate Moss again. “So what are they up to?” asked the Mirror on its front page, the question hanging beside a picture of the couple in a clinch.

Inside the paper, we got to find out. And, as that lead picture suggested, Pete and Kate were clinching. Or frisking, as it is known in rehab circles.

We also noted that Pete was sporting a black eye. It was his new look. But on Wednesday the suspicion was that Kate had returned to an old look of her own.

Kate is of course free of drugs, a triumph of rehab. But the Sun still found the inside of her nose interesting.

To aid readers not trained in the finer points of nostril identification, the Sun showed a picture of Kate and used a black arrow to lead the uncertain to her nose and then up it.

And looking on, the Sun told us that while watching Pete perform in Ireland – it is reported that he sings in a band – Kate sported a smattering of “mystery white blobs up her nose”.

And the questions began. What was it? The Sun heard “fans” suggest that it could be “talc”, “zitcream” or “toothpaste”.

Whatever it was, it was not cocaine. Of that we can be certain.

Just as we can be sure that Pete is also clean. So when on Thursday we read that he had walked into Health Express chemist in Millennium Ways, Dublin, and purchased two syringes, we thought nothing of it.

Chemists, or pharmacists as they are known to Mail readers, have long sold drugs and the paraphernalia for their taking. We’d have been more shocked had Pete emerged from the drug shop clutching a pound of fresh scallions, a small pink lizard and a pint of Ben Johnson’s urine.

Or carrying Richard Hammond. On Friday came the news that the TV presenter was back in the land of the living. (Cancel the minute’s silence – he’s OK!)

Hammond, who crashed while trying to drive a car from Yorkshire to Australia the hard way, was very much alive.

He was fine. The injuries only hurt when Hammond laughed. He gave a “cheeky wave”. The Star said he had the paramedics “in stitches with his quips”. The paper heard helicopter pilot Steve Cobb tell Hammond: “Last time I saw you I thought you were dead!”

The humour was as infectious as MRSA.

Picture: bbdo

Posted: 29th, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment