Celebrity news & gossip from the world’s showbiz and glamour magazines (OK!, Hello, National Enquirer and more). We read them so you don’t have to, picking the best bits from the showbiz world’s maw and spitting it back at them. Expect lots of sarcasm.
Today’s mash-up has been created by Palette-Swap Ninja. They’ve combined Star Wars and the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. Each song corresponds with a scene from the film:
Princess Leia’s Stolen Death Star Plans (Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band)
Luke Is In The Desert (Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds)
Being From The Spaceport Of Mos Eisley (Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite!)
In a “showbiz exclusive” the Sun leads with news that Cheryl Cole has named her baby…Sophie. No, only joking. It’s Bear Payne, the surname born of the baby’s dad Liam Payne, formerly of One Direction, and the first name inspired by an animal famed for shitting in the woods and time spent “getting to know their baby”.
Happily, Cher and Liam have loads of money to equip each of their bathrooms with a copse, so making Bear feel very much at home and preventing the bairn suffering any undue embarrassment.
is everything a famous name does worth preserving or owning? When the owners of John Lennon’s former home found one of the singer’s old sketchbook they noticed it contained a small sketch of the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover. It’s for sale at auction, where the 4 1/4 by 4 1/4 inches doodle is expected to fetch up to $60k.
Julien’s Live auctions trails the find:
An ink on paper sketch by John Lennon of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover with Lennon’s handwriting of the album’s title on the central bass drum in the image. The drawing was found in a sketchbook left in Lennon’s former home, Kenwood in Surrey, England, and recovered by the new owners. The design of the album cover is known to have been executed by artist Peter Blake based on drawings provided by Paul McCartney. All of The Beatles contributed to the design of the cover in some way. It is unknown how this undated drawing figures into the history of the album cover and Lennon’s involvement.
At the same auction you can buy a Paul McCartney signed copy of The Beatles Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band for $1,000.
Where there’s ink there’s brass.
And The Bella Vista Social Pub, looking to promote its own summer jazz concerts in Siena, Tuscany, came up with a smart idea. Why not pay tribute to Blue Note (and promote the Italian concert series) by animating the cool cover designs that graced Blue Note albums during its heyday.
The Sun invites its readers to experience the full width of Kim Kardashian’s backside. “How do you measure up to reality beauty’s booty?” asks the paper. You might need to undress and sit on the Sun to gage things fully.
The Sun is not printed on soft, absorbent, three-ply paper and the good people of Liverpool should shower before use (surely a good hose down after – ed).
The Specials’ Too Much Too Young for the Nursing Home! As John Lydon says: “The Best Ska Punk Bands Ever.”
“It’s Kim Kardashian as you’ve never seen her before.” throbs the Daily Star on its front page. “Wait until you see the rear view,” ploughs the Sun on its cover. Both tabloids lead with the same picture of Kim Kardashian in:
a) a burqa
b) an orgy
c) a Job Centre
d) a bikini
It’s ‘d’, which is a disappointment for all of you who’ve seen Kim K. in a bikini more than you’ve seen your own feet.
As for the story, well, on Page 7 the Star dubs the reality TV star Kim “Lard-Ashian”, on account of her figure. The Sun calls it a “rear treat”.
One oddity about the Sun’s ogling is that on April 10 the paper was aghast at the BBC’s perceived sexism. In “SKIRTY OLD MAN”, the BBC’s golf commentator Peter Alliss is admonished for making “disgraceful” comments about the length of Masters winner Sergio Garcia’s fiancee’s skirt.
Paul Revoir writes:
Peter Alliss caused a sexism row by referring to the short skirt worn by golf hero Sergio Garcia’s fiancee… As images were shown of Angela Akins, 31, reacting to Sergio’s win, Alliss’s muffled voice was heard saying: “She’s got the shortest skirt on the campus”…
This is the latest in a string of sexism rows to engulf the long-serving commenter.
The Sun’s outrage was supported by no fewer than 6 photos of Angela Akins in her short skirt. Indeed, you can read about the BBC’s sexism alongside two stories based on photos of Kim in her bikini:
Such are the facts.
Take it away, Dolly Parton. Her she is belting out a death metal version of her timeless hit, Jolene. It was created by Andy Rehfeldt – check out his Mary Poppins singing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Spotter: Laughing Squid
They are, says the Daily Star, the topless pictures Scarlett Moffatt does not want you to see. They are the “sizzling pictures” topless Scarlett Moffat hoped had been “lost for ever”.
We are invited to see Scarlett go “completely topless in unearthed pics”. But how far into the earth did the Star have to dig to retrieve photos of topless Scarlett? One day after the papers were full of news that Scarlett, winner of last season’s I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, is to front a spin-off show, we learn that in 2013 she went “completely topless” on MTV’s Beauty School Cop Outs.
In case you missed it, in July 2016 the Mirror showed photos of topless Scarlett Moffatt getting a televised spray tan on the show. “Gogglebox star Scarlett Moffatt snogs Jeremy McConnell before stripping naked in jaw-dropping footage,” declared the paper.
That same month the Sun thundered: “The incredible moment Scarlett Moffatt snogs Jeremy McConnell and strips NAKED.”
But what about Scarlett being embarrassed by her “raunchy” past? Well, in June 2014, the Star told readers: “Gogglebox babe Scarlett Moffatt will flash her boobs for every England World Cup goal.” Said demure Scarlett: “I will flash my boobs for each goal.”
One month later, Scarlett told Star readers: “I’ve seen threesomes on the bar’ Gogglebox Scarlett exposes ‘soft porn’ of Magaluf mayhem.” Said Scarlett: “I’ve been working in Magaluf over the last two months now and have seen first-hand the crazy shenanigans that happen most nights. Yet to the tourists downing alcohol like water and spreading their legs more often than you lose coppers, it’s not that big a deal.”
The pictures are less the hidden photos Scarlett didn’t want to see than they are the topless photos that get an airing whenever the reality TV star scores a new job.
Of course, if your really want to celebrate the UK leaving the European Union, you don’t need Nigel Farage’s underwear. You don’t need any underwear. You just need the Sun to reinvigorate Page 3 and invite Rhian Sugden to show everyone the “BUST IN BRITAIN”.
Those Europeans can take back their Finnish bestiality videos, Danish XXX-rated filth and weird German stuff that you regret ever seeing. Britain will make do with a saucy topless stunna, cheeky postcards, nostalgia-proof sex comedies and other more traditional and essentially British aides to masturbation, like the Argos catalogue, Katie Price and her Jordans, Helen Mirren’s washing-up gloves and Emmerdale.
It’s time to roll back the years to those halcyon days when Britain’s censorship laws meant that continental style porn couldn’t be shown.
(Unless, of course, you’ve got a Sky box and get your smut on pay-per-view.)
The battle between the Daily Mail and its sister organ the Mail on Sunday continues. Sebastian Shakespeare uses his Mail social diary to tell readers about “former air hostess” Carole Middleton and her daughter Pippa Middleton. Carole has written a “banal” story for a children’s magazine about ways to celebrate Easter. This is not in the spirt of giving, rather in the hope it will “boost sales at her mail order paraphernalia business”.
Carole’s “fatuous” tips (tip 1: “Chocolate bunnies and eggs are favourites”) are evert bit as “anodyne” as Pippa’s entertaining tips, which “were published in a widely panned book”.
Indeed they were. They were also published in a newspaper. No prizes for guessing which one? Yep: the Mail on Sunday.
No sooner is Chuck Berry dead than the Mirror pulls on the boots and gives his bones a good kick. The rock’n’roller who gave full throat to all the taboo-busting stuff the olds hated is the subject of the front-page yeller about his ‘Dark secrets’.
For readers to be shocked by anything, Berry would have to have been extraordinarily depraved. Having seen knights of the real and papacy exposed as predatory paedophiles – You never can tell, right? – and knowing your internet-based readership is reared on Rule 34 – ‘If it exists, there is a porn of it’ – you wonder how dark Berry’s darkness got to warrant front-page news.
A clue to things being not all that dark comes on pages 8 and 9, where the Berry abyss becomes more ‘murky’ than inky black. And those ‘secrets’ become anything but. Berry’s ‘three spells behind bars’ are well documented (robbery, tax dodging and transporting a 14-year-old prostitute across State lines to work at one of his clubs – when he sacked her she grassed him up to the law; he says he never slept with her), as is his conviction for sticking a hidden camera inside the ladies’ toilets at one of his restaurants.
One of the most influential musicians of all time, the man who brought joy and light to millions with his swagger, wit and infectious songs will not be airbrushed from history. So great was Berry that even the Mail, a paper not given to shying away from moral panics, overlooks the ‘shadows’ and ‘secrets’ to hail the ‘Godfather of Rock’, the ‘musical genius’ who inspired Britain’s biggest stars’ and led an ‘outrageous life’. Chuck Berry’s the man who grew up on the wrong side of racially segregated America and got white and blacks dancing in the aisles.
And so without further ado, here’s Chuck Berry. Hail, hail, Rock And Roll:
Start saving up. Reach down the back of the sofa. Consider getting along on one lung. James Brown’s cape is for sale. You’ll needed around £25,000 to get it.
The silver sequinned cape was gifted to the soul singer by Michael Jackson.
Anyone investing in this cape will, of course, be empowered with restorative a force that defies medical experts and the brightest minds. Picture the scene: exhausted and stumbling you reach for the warmth and security the cape gives. No sooner is it about your drooping shoulders than you feel its godly force. You are restored to full vigour.
As such we can expect to see lots of Olympic athletes, Russian tennis players and British cyclists bidding for the item. Look, ma! No needles! (Although any pills you find in the hem you use at your own risk.)
Take ’em away, James Brown:
Spotter: Swann Galleries.
The movement towards creating explicit codes of behaviour for every aspect of life – especially the messy bits about sex – welcomes the Internet Movie Database (IMDb), which is now using the ‘F-rating’ to signal films of a feminist type. This is “so [viewers can choose films that fairly represent women on screen and behind the camera.” It is “applied to all films which are directed by women and/or written by women and/or have significant women on screen.”
That part about ‘significant women’ opens up a few issues, not least of all when it comes to grot movies, especially the girl-on-girl sort. The F-rating might not be the best guide to family entertainment or indeed anything approaching entertainment of any strain. But, then, the F-rating is not about films; it’s about educating the masses and turning people – wonderfully complex humans – into quotas. The official F-rated website explains the vision:
‘The stories we see on screen need to be told by a broad spectrum of people to represent our diverse culture. Without change, we will train the next generation to only recognise white males as the protagonists and the ones in control of the cameras, scripts and budgets. As well as equality on screen and behind the camera, more female film critics from diverse backgrounds and ethnicities need to be welcomed into the industry so that opinion and feedback is balanced.’
It’s certainly not about viewers, many of whom are women. It’s about gender. The thinking is that female film fans go to the cinema not to seek escapism but to reaffirm their identity. You’re not watching them; you’re looking at yourself. But you’ve already got free use of Instagram, Snapchat and Facebook to gawp at idealised filmic versions of yourself, so why spend good money on watching a narcissistic film?
Note 1: If equality is the mantra, then the IMDb could look at itself. According to Wikipedia, the IMDb ‘originated with a Usenet posting by British film fan and computer programmer Col Needham entitled “Those Eyes”, about actresses with beautiful eyes.’ Col is a white male – and since he flogged the site to Amazon, a very rich one.
Note 2: Amazon is owned by Jeff Bezos, a rich white male. Amazon Inc. has 7 ‘Officers’. All are white. One is a woman. Amazon has 11 directors – 9 of whom are male. Should businesses get an F-rating, too – and if so would the IMDb warrant one?
Big news in the Telegraph, wherein TV cook Mary Berry is causing viewers of her show to gasp and gag. The paper tells us:
Mary Berry’s bolognese recipe leaves viewers ‘shocked and appalled’ because of its unusual ingredients
What did she put in the sauce? Her face? Terry Waite’s urine? The Queen Mum’s ashes? What was so vile that it upset Fleet Street’s last broadsheet organ?
The truth soon arrives in the shape of wine and cream.
It’s shocking and appalling stuff to all those Telegraph reader who didn’t read the paper’s 2016 story that the Italian Academy of Cooking’s official recipe for bolognese contains white wine and milk. Also in 2016, the Telegraph’s Zanthe Clay told us that adding dairy to your bolognese is ‘considered de rigeur in dairy rich Emilia Romagn’.
So that’s three articles in the past six months on cooking bolognese with white wine and ream. For those readers still shocked and appalled by Mary Berry’s pasta, the paper adds yet another story by way of a follow up: ‘White wine and cream in spag bol? 10 other classic dishes you’ve been cooking all wrong.’
Chances are you’ve been cooking them wrong because you don’t read the Daily Telegraph, which like an over-cooked dinner is repeating long after its use-by date.
Remember Stavros Flatley, the chubby fella from Britain’s Got Talent, whose dance with his chubby son scored them a job on Sugar Free Farm with Ann Widdecombe, Alison Hammond and Gemma Collins, a show which proved that shovelling shit was not just for TV’s executives? Well, the boy, who the Sun bills as ‘the chubby young lad’ (CYL), is the subject of the paper’s front-page headline: ‘Stavros Flatley Drugs Bust.’
Police ‘have said’ marijuana plants have been found at a North London flat allegedly ‘owned’ by CYL. The Sun calls it a ‘cannabis factory’ and values the plants at £56,000. Yeah, that’s what we thought, too. Forget the lo-cal farm. Legalise weed and put celebs to some profitable use.
How bad is the Daily Telegraph’s subbing? In its report on the monumental Oscars ‘fiasco’ (its word) that saw the Oscar for Best Picture awarded to the wrong movie – the paper calls it ‘the worst blunder in Hollywood history’ – Moonlight got the statuette mistakenly awarded to La La Land – The Telegraph makes an error.
After branding the unscripted entertainment ‘excruciating’, ‘confusing’ and ’embarrassing’, the paper shows ‘La La Land director Jordan Horowitz’ holding up the note that says Moonlight won.
In which case Horowitz may care to have a word with Damien Chazelle, who actually took home the Oscar for best director. It was Chazelle who directed La La Land.
If you’re writing about another outfit’s errors, it’s a good idea to check your own report for accuracy.
When actor Danny Dyer toured the world’s ‘Football Factories’, he hung about with “hard men”. There were hard men all around him. Whether Dyer was a hard man was never made clear, but today the Sun says he might have been when he allegedly ‘sent a picture of his manhood to a starstruck fan’. So routine is the story of famous man sends knob photo to fan we’re surprised signed publicity photos aren’t issued.
The Sun says Danny Dyer ‘sent late-night texts to the young mum’. How young becomes clear in the third paragraph, wherein we learn that the whippersnapper is in her 30s and the alleged todger snapper sent her dirty photos when he was single.
The story continues over two more pages. On page 4 we see Dyer offering us his texting finger, seemingly to pull or sniff. (A kiss ‘n’ smell?) The headline is great: ‘Danny asked for butcher’s at me boat and bottle… then whipped out his Brighton’. It’s fun to play along. A butcher’s is a ‘butcher’s hook’, which is rhyming slang for ‘look’. Her ‘boat’ is her ‘face’ (boat race) and her ‘bottle’ is her ‘arse’ (bottle and glass). News that Dyer has a ‘Brighton sea front’ is worthy of a front-page screamer of its own.
Former Playboy model and swimsuit-clad floatation aide Pamela Anderson is, reportedly, staying in with WikiLeaks founder, Julian Assange. You wonder if being indoors at the Ecuadorean embassy in London since 2012 has dulled Assange’s taste buds and ambitions. The story goes that Assange knew Anderson was the girl for him when she delivered a vegan cheeseburger and Pret a Manger nibbles.
So are they dating? It’s hard to tell. No-one’s leaked any emails between them – Julian, one rule for you, eh… – so Pammy has been forced to speak to the Press. She told Grazia: “It’s very difficult to talk about when you’re under surveillance” – otherwise know as talking to a magazine. “He’s a great guy,” added Pam, speaking clearly into the hidden microphone. “I don’t want to say anything about whether there’s a romance. So, let’s say we’re just good friends.”
Julian’s been talking, too, telling Australian radio: “I mean, I like her, she’s great… I’m not going to go into the private details… She’s an attractive person with an attractive personality… She’s no idiot at all – she’s psychologically very savvy.”
What we want, of course, is for the love to bloom and marriage to erupt; for the couple to tie the knot and step out on to the balcony and toss something fragrant into the crowd, like a sex tape or one of Pammy’s half-eaten vegetarian baps.
When Piers Morgan was told to ‘Fuck off’ on the telly by Australian comedian Jim Jeffries, right-thinkers on twitter loved it. Morgan, who identifies himself without invitation as Donald Trump’s mate, pointed out that there is no ban on Muslims entering the USA and that Trump is not Hitler.
Morgan’s correct. To say so does not mean you like him or Trump, it’s just to acknowledge the facts. Trump is not Hitler. Piers Morgan is not Trump’s Joseph Goebbels, the Reich’s Minister of Propaganda.
This anti-reason shrill denial of basic facts normalises the Second World War and diminishes the Holocaust into a routine event. If Hitler is the now and the everyday, the actual Hitler, the man who wanted to make Germany greater again and triggered the murder of 6 million Jews is not all that extraordinary. Isn’t this what anti-Semites say in their effort to denigrate the great crime, that the Holocaust was not that big a deal? In pointing at Trump and yelling ‘Hitler’, history is subverted. The innocent dead are demeaned and their guilty murderers exonerated.
For the infantile Hitler shriekers, engaging with Trump and, in turn, listening to the 62 million who voted for him means ushering in the embodiment of human evil’s reincarnation. People who protest the illiberal, kak-handed and cruel attempt to ban people from seven Muslim majority countries as something Hitler would do think they are making a principled suppression of Trump’s prejudice. They’re wrong.
Trump, the authoritarian and illiberal enemy of free-speech, is not rounding up Muslims, transporting them to ghettos and concentration camps in a plot to kill every last one them, as Hitler did with the Jews. To use that monumental crime in order to give any campaign against Trump some weight is hideous.
Encouragingly for Trump and any other modern-day Hitlers, things can turn around pretty fast. The New Statesman, which in 2013 branded Angela Merkel ‘the most dangerous German leader since Hitler’, now in the post-Brexit world – it wanted the UK to Remain – calls her ‘the defender of liberal values in the post-truth age’, while the Independent, Raw Story, the Daily Beast and The Australian call Frau Hitler the ‘leader of the free world’.
The ‘free world’ being the undemocratic EU, purveyors of the Germany-biased euro currency, whose technocrats colonised the mismanaged Irish and Greek economies, belittled and harried the Irish for rejecting the Nice Treaty and made second-class Europeans of Romanians and Bulgarians who having joined the EU in 2007 had rights to work and claim benefits limited for their first seven years of membership. Merkel the evil or Merkel the great hope? Everyone gets to decide but her.
As for Jeffries, well, he was playing to the crowd and hitting a soft target. Disliking Morgan’s to-deadline pomposity is easy. When I worked as a reporter one way to get people to talk was to ask them not what they liked but what they disliked. People are far more comfortable listing and detailing their pet hates than their loves. They will tell you don’t like the phrase ‘Oh My God’, when someone with whom they disagree says they’ve been ‘owned’ and the sound of a stranger’s sniffing. Ask them what people they dislike and the flood gates really open. Right now it’s safe to say in public that you dislike Trump. Disliking him – and, boy, is that an easy task – is the quick and easiest way to define yourself and be ‘on the right side of history’. It’s much the same with Morgan. Say you don’t like him and you’re playing to a sympathetic crowd.
And that’s what struck me about Jeffries’s negating of reason and debate in taking a verbal pop at Morgan. It was safe. No-one on the TV show was going to hound him for calling out Morgan, much less Trump. In his rules of modern comedy, Jeffries told us: “You can’t do jokes about black people or Asian people, but you can do a rape joke onstage now and there’s not a problem.”
And you know who was really good at playing to the crowd and hitting soft targets who couldn’t hit back?
Let’s not make the world a safe space, where dissent is censored, disruption mobbed and naysayers shackled. Let’s debate, consider the details, listen and hold things up to the light.
Sad news that Tara Palmer-Tomkinson has died at just 45 years of age. Anyone able to make a living form having fun must have something about her. Today the tabloids are full of kind words about the ‘tragic’ (Sun) socialite and Prince Charles’s goddaughter. News is that T P-T had been suffering from a brain tumour. Since January 2016, T P-T had been receiving treatment for a non-malignant growth in her pituitary gland.
So how did the Press focus on the seriously ill woman? Well, aside from the BBC featuring her in a list of ‘Who is the most pointless celebrity?’, the Press saw her as fair game – ever when she was ill. In March 2016, she told the Telegraph: “I’ve been destroyed by the things people have said.”
DISHEVELLED Tara Palmer-Tomkinson stepped out in London wearing torn clothes and clutching a wad of cash. The socialite looked like she was wearing torn clothes as she struggled to carry her shopping bag.
‘Spotted’ is tabloidese for being photographed by a paparazzo. She was seen lifting a large, heavy bag. In her hand was a small ‘wad’ of notes, as many as two or three. Her torn clothes were nothing of the sort (see below). She looked both clean and smartly attired.
The former IT girl’s top appeared to be ripped and it’s unknown why she was holding so much money in her hand. She was snapped trying to carry a heavy bag of what looked like magazines.
Again. Her clothes were not ripped. And taking photos of an ill woman trying to lift a heavy bag when you could be helping her is not what one might call gallant.
Over in the Mail, which dedicates 3 pages including its front page to the ‘fun-loving IT Girl’, the coverage was no less harsh.
Could Tara, who wore a pink Chanel playsuit that drew attention to her toothpick legs, be taking her fitness regime too far?
Reclusive Tara Palmer Tomkinson looks gaunt in a hoodie and low-slung joggers as she steps out with sister
Becky Freeth used insight to tell readers T P-T was wearing ‘a designer hoodie to keep her warm’.
The Mail also got hold of the same photos as the Sun. Unlike the Sun, which featured 6 photos of T P-T minding her own business in a London street, the Mail went with eight:
PICTURE EXCLUSIVE: Dishevelled Tara Palmer-Tomkinson struggles with a heavy shopping bag as she steps out clutching a wad of cash
Is it a crime to be famous? This week, two stories about blackmail have occupied the Sun’s front page.
The first is the matter of messages hacked from a server that handles David Beckham’s emails. The hackers wanted money to make the ‘leaks’ go away. The company being targeted complained and the emails were delivered to a site that specialises in ‘leaked’ material.
In a few emails, David Beckham allegedly uses industrial language to complain about his lack of a knighthood. He comes out of it badly. But he’s the victim, right? We love the chatter and the details, but surely we can agree that he’s a victim of an apparent crime?
We love to learn that Beckham obtained a high court injunction in December 2016 blocking the emails’ publication in the Sunday Times – a waste of money and effort given that overseas organs published the stuff online. One Romanian outlet detailed Beckham’s ‘angry pursuit of a knighthood’, which included, as the Guardian notes, the former footballer allegedly calling the gong-givers “a bunch of cunts” after he was overlooked for the honour.
It’s all a good read. We can an insight into Beckham’s non-choreographed activities. But he’s the victim.
The second story is on Danny Cipriani, a rugby player. He was blackmailed by a stripper he impregnated. The story goes that he agreed to give her some money for a termination but then failed to cough up. Lisa Murphy, for it is she, had the abortion. When she was forced to miss work, due to health complications, she asked him for money, which again he did not pay. Murphy and her colleague, Violet Smith, 29, then threatened to go to the papers with the story, namely to The Sun on Sunday. Cipriani called the police.
And how does the Sun cover the story?
Is the law different if you’re famous?
A small word of thanks to Alicia Douvall, the pneumatic ‘cosmetic surgery addict’ giving full throat to the Daily Star’s front-page screamer, yeller and ‘oh-my-god-yes’ about ‘MY ELEVEN TIMES A NIGHT WITH SIMON COWELL’. Eleven times a night doing what? you ask. Botox injections? Colonic irrigation? No. Sex.
On page 5, Douvall says Simon Cowell is ‘sensitive and domineering’ in the sack. He ‘ would analyse my performance like a judge on a TV show’. He is also unforgettable because Douvall claims she shagged the old eyeball licker in 2001. Like a try-hard X-Factor contestant , Douvall can’t move on.
Says Douvall, Simon Cowell “knows how to get inside a woman’s head”. Penis first? Or is there some other method?
Whatever the technique, we should thank Douvall for restoring the once tabloid mainstay of celebrity shags to the front pages. We’ve missed it.
In what the Sun calls ‘leaked emails’ David Beckham allegedly wrote about his disappointment at receiving an OBE and not a knighthood in the kind of language you’d expect from a footballer. He allegedly called the Honours Committee “unappreciative c***s”. The stars are the Sun’s work and without a ‘t’ or ‘ck’ we cannot be certain as to the degree of Becks’ upset. He also allegedly wrote, “Unless it’s a knighthood f*** off.” That’s an easier puzzler.
Beckham also allegedly queried the value of an OBE, given that one was awarded to Katherine Jenkins, the photogenic singer. ‘Katherine Jenkins OBE for what?’ mused Beckham allegedly. ‘Singing at the rugby and going to see the troops plus taking coke. F***ing joke.’ Her manager says Katherine OBE does lots of charity work and is deserving of her gong. Her manager is ‘Professor Jonathan Shalit’. According to Wikipedia, Shalit was awarded an Honorary Professorship in 2012 by Henley Business School and Reading University in recognition of his contribution to the arts, music and broadcasting.’
Gongs and titles, eh?
The Mail says Beckham was all set to get his knighthood from those “c***s” in 2014. He didn’t because of ‘warnings from HM Revenue and Customs’ to ‘sort out his finances’. No, not warned to relocate to France or Luxembourg and keep away from the taxman’s reach. The Mail says it was down to Beckham’s ‘involvement in an alleged tax avoidance scheme’. The Mail also notes that the emails were not ‘leaked’ from the servers of Doyen Global, a company run by Beckham’s PR chief Simon Oliviera, but ‘hacked’.
So Beckham’s the victim,then.
The Mirror says he is. It leads with news that Becks is the victim of a ‘Blackmail plot’. The emails were made public only after Doyen Global ‘ignored demands for cash’. The Mirror pits itself as Beckham’s champion – and thus against its rival the Sun – highlighting his ‘Good work’, role as his daughter’s’ HERO’ and dedicates a column to the subject ‘Lunacy he’s not already Sir David’.
He’s no victim, says Jan Moir. The Mail writer dips her quill in vinegar and says, ‘Now we know the reality behind the facade’. Isn’t it a tad harsh to judge a man’s life on the value of a few emails? No, says Moir. “We know now the real Beckham is foul-mouth, determined egotist who uses his work for charities as part of an increasingly desperate campaign to win a knighthood.’
He’d make a good editor.
And so what if grandstanding over charity work is based on self-promotion? If people get help, do we care that he gets a knighthood, a gong so precious they gave one to avid charity worker Jimmy Savile?