When I am not writing about love, need and tendresse in the Venice lagoon or the ecstasy of passion with oysters, wine and hot baguette, I am a right little drab Domestos.
A vixen fix’n her gaze
Beyond my little world of kids, buses and ASDA is the drama of landscape and nature. Regular readers will recall my delight at the recent visit of Mrs Fox. You know those stories where some kind of magical animal appears and changes lives. Well, that is how I felt when Mrs Fox somehow chose to share my mortadella sandwich. I figured we might never meet again, but today she came back. All those times when I wasn’t selected for the sports team or voted girl most likely (only because I already had), were swept away. I know this beast loves me. Maybe she has one of my works in her burrow. I am not religious in any way but to connect with this animal is a joy that seems beyond this world. Can’t say why. Does anyone know…..? Now let’s get a bit serious. Half of today’s News is all about the serial sex offending of the deceased Sir Jimmy Savile (for non UK readers, he was a famous TV entertainer and charity fund raiser). The other half of the News is Lance Armstrong who has been labelled a drug cheat. The connection between the two matters is that both were protected by an insidious culture of celebrity worship. The great and the good are now wringing hands and thrashing around with enquiries and public inquests as if no one understands why these things happened and no one spoke out. The issue is not quite as simple as I suggest but the celebrity as god is a major feature. Great wedges of righteous hypocrisy will be heaped upon these sinners. All the pus of “totally unacceptable” clichés will crowd around the wound. Speeches will be made. But remember this – at present some 200 hundred detectives are working on the phone hacking case against the News Of The World. Most of the hacking “victims” were celebrities. Hundreds of thousands of pounds have been paid to them as “compensation”. Millions upon millions of pounds are being spent to persecute the hounded vixen editor Rebekah Brooks. They have even scooped her driver to put frighteners on her. The case has been adjourned for perhaps a year. Lawyers will receive fees for one hour that a bus driver earns in a month. I will not bore you with explaining who will be paying for a lot of this, but you know don’t you.
Rebekah with her child. Hundreds of detectives are on her case.
The allegation is that The News Of The World broke rules. Many journalists and private detectives are not selfless kind people. We do not need a show trial to tell us. Celebrities who want the fame and cash were terrified of the “Gutter Press”. I know (and believe me, I do know), that the newspapers knew all about Savile. All the glitzy full gloss sports writers knew all about Lance Armstrong. I just say you may have to accept a few celebrity squeals of intrusion or tolerate the alternative. Because that is what we’ve got. The inner cliques knew it all. We did not and that is the way they wanted it. Emma thinx: In a sewer a soiled hand will hold the lamp.
Many moons ago while I was working in my kitchen, my daughter came to me sobbing and asked if she could raise a very serious issue. Oh no – this must be the pregnancy/drug addiction/solvent abuse/pedophile situation that we watch as entertainment on the soaps, but do not wish to confront with the suds. I dried my hands and took her to the lounge, selected some calming baroque music and told her that whatever it was, we were there for her, that I knew several state registered professional counsellors and that we would not be cross. I decided not to raise the possibility of groundings, thrashings or bread and water diets. At last she spoke. “Mother – um – I think it’s about time I had some Adidas trainers. I’m being blanked and excluded because I haven’t got brand names on my clothes.” It was true. “But you’re not being held up at knife-point by trainer pirates” “No,” she conceded -“but I am called a retard and a dork. I’d rather be stabbed.” The truth was of course that she was being stabbed. Needless to say we pulled together as a family, called in some counsellors and had the child suitably billboarded and labelled. I knew that one day our innocent unbranded world would end. We had had a good run. She was nearly seven after all.
My dear friend Oscar Sparrow wrote a poem about fashion and how it had mattered to him as a kid – long before he became a stuffaphobe Buddhist and renounced all possessions. Check out “Fashion Footwear” here.
And so it is that I tip out my load of kids each day at the college as waves of fashion branded youths troop in. A few retards and dorks mingle in, but are clearly an underclass of non-populars. Fashion and status have become tyrants, and it is not only the young who suffer it. In my guise of a sportive cyclist more and more carbon fibre bandanna clad executive types swap “better than you” tales of Specialised and Trek. I have a Boardman from Halfords and jolly good value it is too!
This whole subject came to mind as Prime Minister Cameron launches a mission to restore childhood and to stop kids advertising to kids on TV. Pester power is truly an awful phenomenon. Most parents I know with even 3 year old kids are hounded by demands – some of which the three year olds pick up from advertising on their lap tops. I witnessed such a thing earlier this week and I was astonished. Would you let a three year old play on the internet? Come to think of it they would probably be a bit sophisticated for some forum sites.
Some things are just so hard to judge aren’t they? The trial of Yulia Tymoshenko (ex-president of Ukraine) all looks a bit like a political shenanigans to me. (Good job Gordon Brown was’nt put on trial for losing £7billion on our UK gold!). I mean – she’s a simple billionaire girl who mis-read her gas meter. Seven years in jail seems harsh. I just hope they have decent hairdressing salons. I can tell her that Gilles is very much on her side and that if ever she comes back to politics he would definitely offer to stuff her envelopes. Why are there so many multi-billionaires? Which bus company are they driving for?
Emma thinx: Reveal your inner darkness. Let your roots grow out.
Whilst weeding the garden, I noted the normal panic and probably terror of insects and ants as their worlds and empires among the roots crumbled and rearranged themselves. So, we slightly higher life forms should not be surprised by sudden change and the fall of certainties. So it has been in the world of books – a subject which I mentioned yesterday. However, the landscape of magazines and newspapers has always shifted. When I started out trying to get anything published I had read a book called “How to be a writer” which I had found in the local library. According to the author, you simply produced “Formula first person” stories to the correct length and sent them off to editors. The editors just sent them back, lost them or put them on a pile. The formula story was written in the first person (a female) who had arrived at a crossroads. Her mind then “flashed back” to how she had arrived at this point. Occasionally I managed to sell a story. Sadly, those story/love/romance magazines no longer have sufficient readership and most have closed. These days it is the celebrity mag that sells. The fact is that the antics and amours of celebs routinely trump any fiction that my imagination could create. What we now have is the formula love on/love off tale starring people who you actually know and have seen on TV. The reason I had been writing romance is because some of the publishers at the supermarket end of the business still accept manuscripts. I’ll leave it to the posh “sincere and artistic” writers to follow their calling with integrity.
So, that brings me on to Celebrity. In France we do have them but most of them are somewhere inside Gérard Depardieu.(American readers will know him from “Green Card”) Now, I love this guy. He’s a kinda Jolly Green Giant crossed with the honey monster. He’s also a brilliant actor and seems to be in every French film. Recently he came to international fame by urinating in an aeroplane.(I do not believe that he was filming a re-make of “Snakes On A Plane”). Seemingly he had asked to use the toilet and had been refused because the plane was about to take off. So, he did what any Frenchman would do. He stood, got out his manhood and anointed the floor. Some reports suggest that he was very considerately aiming for a bottle. This is an honoured French tradition that you are likely to witness at any moment in France. Polite males turn their backs on the closest spectators and enjoy their relief. Any aircraft taking money from French passengers should install at least a small area of soil or a corrugated iron partition to allow for cultural expression. We have to be ultra sensitive to all manner of special interest groups. A Frenchman with a full bladder is as special as you can get. I’m gonna create a church of the Open Fly in the Sky and sign up paying members. Once you’re a church they can’t touch you. Gérard – I’ll be your priestess.
A French lady has sued her husband for “lack of sex”. A judge has ruled that under section 215 of the legal code, partners have to provide this service. The guy had to pay out £8,500 Euros. Don’t think my man will be in court for a while!!!!
The trial of ex-president and Mayor of Paris Jacques Chirac has opened. Seemingly he has memory problems and cannot attend. All looks a bit political and spiteful to me. He was ultra French and I liked him just for that. Emma says – leave the old guy alone. If his opponents win they’ll look like muggers robbing an old gent regardless of the rights and wrongs.