Get Em Hoff!
WHEN Richard Hammond attempted to drive from Elvington airfield, near York, to Australia the hard way, the papers looked on with furrowed brows.
Would Richard make it? Would Top Gear, the TV show he presents, be cancelled? Would he add his name to the list of celebrities to have died on camera – Tommy Copper, Steve Irwin, Anthea Turner?
Well, now the questions get answered. And while the Sun talked of Hammond’s new £2million contract with the BBC, his short-term memory loss and how he said the show must go on, the Mirror led its news coverage with “The day I died.”
Hammond’s was a slow near-death experience. It went on for pages. The presenter who had put his life on the line for the noble cause of good telly was in danger of rambling.
Hours past. Then days. Monday turned into Tuesday. And Tuesday brought front-page news of “THE WIFE’S STORY”. Mindy Hammond was filing in the blanks.
Together the Hammonds were taking up a large chunk of the Mirror’s news coverage.
The story of the phantom “poo pest” was easy to miss. A man was wanted in connection with £60,000 worth of damage to trains.
“His modus operandi is to wait until he is alone before defecating in the carriage and smearing seats and walls,” said the paper.
Who was he? The new enfant terrible of the British art scene, taking over from where Chris Ofili’s elephant poo pictures and Tracey Emin’s dirty sheets left off?
A disgruntled commuter out to show the greater world what the inside of the toilets aboard a train look like? A cleaner looking for work?
If you see this man, do not approach him. Instead bury your head in your newspaper, and so learn more of Richard Hammond’s fight for life.
And on Wednesday “daredevil” Richard was “desperate” to start driving again. “The only lesson that’s come out of this is to be careful,” said Richard. “And we were. I am, anyway.”
Indeed, what could be more careful for a married father of two than to strap himself into a jet-propelled car for a TV show? “If we didn’t take safety seriously I would not longer be here,” he adds.
So Richard lives to drive again. “We’ll be back as soon as we can,” he said. “We’ve got to – it’s a matter of falling off a horse and getting back on.”
Well, not really. But we should not judge Richard. This is “RICHARD HAMMOND: BACK FROM THE DEAD”, as the Mirror’s headline screamed every day. If he thinks a horse is a car, then so be it.
In any case, likeable Richard’s just one of the lads. He’s Top Gear’s top bloke. Said Hammond: “I was so out of it I’d no idea of the amazing public reaction to my crash. They identify with me because I’m a normal bloke..like a mate that’s been hurt rather than some big celebrity.”
Yes Richard. Of course Richard. You rest up Richard. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.
But we didn’t. Instead, on Thursday we read more about Madonna. Was she turning into the new Carol Jackson, the former EastEnders character, mother to a brood of which no two have the same father.
The Express listened in as Madonna the soap opera told Oprah Winfrey and the people of America why she had adopted Davie.
“I became transfixed by him,” said the singer. “But I didn’t yet know I was going to adopt him. I was drawn to him.”
There then followed what can best be described as a miracle adoption. Just as no birth in showbiz circles is anything less than a drama full of soaring highs, unbearable lows and cliffhangers, the celebrity adoption is a time to stress and crisis.
And there was the boy at the centre of the “ADOPTION ROW” in the Sun. He was being held aloft by Madonna’s husband, Guy Ritchie. He was smiling. Davie was dancing with Rocco. He was smiling. Davie was in Madonna’s arms. He was smiling. Davie never stops smiling. It’s a miracle.
But we cannot all be as happy as Madonna and her family. We cannot smile all of the time – eventually the drugs wear off.
Not that David Hasselhoff is on drugs. It’s just that The Hoff’s estranged wife, Pamela Bach, says he has taken them.
The case against The Hoff was summed up by the Sun’s teaser: “Star ‘beat wife, gave her herpes and peed his pants.”
She claimed Hoff had “abused alcohol and drugs for over 16 years”. And: “He frequently loses control of his bladder and bowels, urinating and defecating himself.”
(We cannot comment on the validity of this claim, only say that it is on record. And note that as a life saver of no little repute, The Hoff is likely to be au fait with the need to help rescue boats and helicopters locate a lifesaver. With no buoy to hand a floating turd is an approved Californian lifesaving technique.)
Meanwhile, the Star summed up The Hoff’s view of Bach in the headline: “Hoff: My wife is a coked up, boozed up, bunny boiler!”
Forget Macca v Mucca, this is the nastiest divorce on show. It’s as dirty as it gets. So much for Paul McCartney not getting Heather Mill’s an antique bedpan.
Just get a load of The Hoff’s pants…
Posted: 27th, October 2006 | In: Tabloids Comment | TrackBack | Permalink
