There have been some moving tributes paid to Amy. My personal favourite has to be the one from a Glaswegian newspaper seller, minutes after the news broke. I was buying an evening paper and mentioned to him that she had been found dead in her flat. He stared blankly at me for a few seconds, then began shaking both his hands frantically in front of his chest, before shouting at the top of his voice, ‘And that’s jazz!’ He then struck an applause cue with a big smile on his face.
Perhaps a more fitting tribute would be to re-examine both our nation’s increasing reliance on the crutch of alcohol and the potentially destructive nature of fame. Or alternatively, just crack open a few more cans in front of The X Factor.
Her family said she hadn’t touched drugs in three years, as touch was one of the many senses she’d lost the use of. Amy had even been off the booze for three weeks, which wasn’t even enough time to sort out all her cans and bottles for recycling. Amy was given a medical examination 24 hours before she died. I say medical examination; she was looking so rough, the doctor started doing a post-mortem. He only stopped when he noticed that she had a return ticket for the tube. The toxicology report could take weeks to be delivered. Even if they left the printer on overnight.
Pete Doherty was genuinely shocked to hear news of Amy’s demise. Up till then, he’d assumed they were both dead already and this was just some kind of limbo. X Factor creator Simon Cowell sent his sympathies too – I think it’s particularly touching to have tributes from outside the music industry.
Amy died at the age of 27. As have other musical geniuses, such as Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison. What can I say, except Victoria Beckham is 37? When I was 27 I’d just had my first child and was appearing regularly on panel shows. Add my name to the list. I was dead on the inside.
‘At Amy Winehouse’s Funeral’ sounds like the title of one of those upbeat Pogues songs about drinking, where everyone would dig up George Best’s body and make it buy a round. Amy dying so suddenly would make you think that she was a sick person who needed help – rather than one who was dragged around the concert venues of Europe like a neglected performing circus animal.
Ah well, I was honestly gutted when I heard the news. She was a real talent. I often wonder if drugs are as much a problem in show-business as the addiction to fame and booze. I’m not sure that the place we call ‘celebrity’ isn’t actually hostile to human life. There are people who seem to be battered by it physically, and others who get swamped spiritually. Fame is now such a universally accepted goal, people can’t even run when it’s eating them. And even outside of the people who want to profit from them, friends and family will throw them back to the monster just as surely. Who wouldn’t want you to get your act together so you can make more movies, write more songs? Who doesn’t want to be famous, right?
Some of my friends were a bit baffled at being so upset by Amy Winehouse dying, but isn’t this what art is all about? Someone being able to touch people they don’t know? Well, only if it’s someone I like. If it’s Princess Diana or something, you’re just an idiot.
Still, it would be a stone heart that could watch her perform with such open vulnerability and feel nothing. But you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? We all know what you’d have to do if you didn’t laugh. I don’t know who I feel sorrier for, Amy or the lice who became junkies while infesting her hair.
Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood says he stopped boozing because he was turning into Victor Meldrew. Which reminds me of the episode of One Foot in the Grave when Victor falls out of a tree after injecting heroin into his scrotum. Although my favourite one was when Victor has an argument with his neighbour, gets incoherently drunk and ends up dragging his 22-year-old Russian girlfriend through the streets by her hair. It beats Del Boy falling through the bar any day of the week. You haven’t turned into Victor Meldrew, Ronnie – you’ve turned into a roadkill rook. Ronnie says since he’s stopped drinking he’s like a newborn baby – well, a newborn baby’s ball sack.
Elton John’s house is now home to the pitter-patter of tiny feet, as an army of Filipino nannies desperately try to raise a baby in silence so as not to enrage their masters. Chris Evans has admitted he feared that becoming a father at 21 would stop him fulfilling his dreams. Luckily it didn’t – though it must help if your dreams are just talking over records like the bloke who does the waltzers at a fair.
Victoria Beckham gave birth to a baby girl via Caesarean. It’s a shame, as a natural birth was probably the best hope she had of ever successfully hitting a high C. Doctors administered muscle relaxants. So that Victoria could smile when handed the baby.
It was weird seeing Victoria pregnant – with that bulge it looked like someone had trodden on a hose. It was a simple two-hour operation. 90 minutes on the delivery, and another 30 to remove her Dolce & Gabbana womb lining. At one point Victoria asked for gas and air. Then after lunch she gave birth. Like a lot of rich women, Victoria opted for a Caesarean, because she’s ‘too posh to push’. Even when she goes for a dump her Hispanic maid has to give her the Heimlich Manoeuvre. Her vag might be holding up but her stomach must be starting to look like it’s been used as a breadboard. Top designer Christian Louboutin even designed a pair of booties for Harper, as Posh believes it’s never too soon to corrupt her offspring’s value system.
They named their new baby ‘Harper Seven’, partly because they thought 7 was a lucky number. Not sure anyone whose legs were blown out of Aldgate Station on 7/7 would agree. The proud parents probably felt there was some mystical element to her being born in the 7th hour of the 7th month. Forgetting that it was an elective Caesarean. David was said to have found the name in one of those baby-naming books. At the very bottom of a page near the front, tucked right in the corner. How nice of them to have rejected a Hello! deal for photos of baby Harper. Are they respecting her privacy? I suspect they may just have run out of room for any more money.
Victoria Beckham considered calling her new baby girl Santa, after one of her favourite places, nearby Santa Monica. And if you want to get a girl’s name out of the words ‘Santa Monica’, Santa’s the obvious choice. Brooklyn Beckham has appeared with three stripes on his wrist that people assume are a temporary tattoo. They’re actually scars from self-harming while watching Calum Best on All Star Family Fortunes.
Michael Jackson’s former British bodyguard claims he acted as a sperm donor for the singer after he told him he wanted an ‘athletic’ child. Whether or not that’s true, Jackson was present at the birth, which involved a mammoth 14-hour labour. Apparently the baby saw him waiting and refused to come out.
Before his death, Michael recruited leading throat specialists to see if they could implant vocal chords into his pet chimp Bubbles. It sounds horrific, but it’s probably not the worst thing he tried to put down that monkey’s throat. The monkey did master uttering weakly three words through endless repetition: ‘Please, Michael … don’t.’ Bubbles was so close to Michael he was like the son he never fancied. He was just a performing monkey really, and Bubbles was his pet.
A new Michael Jackson album came out made up of any spare recordings found of his voice. Hence the tracks ‘What Do You Mean the Doctor’s Sick, Is there a Locum That Can Write Prescriptions?’ and ‘Now You Realise This Is a Special Secret between You and Me … Why Does Your Chest Have a Wire on It?’ Even the Jackson family aren’t sure if it really is Michael. Admittedly, they doubted whether it was really him every time he turned up for Christmas dinner for the last 15 years.
The album is called Michael – rather than the more honest Songs Too Shit to Go on Any of His Other Albums. In many ways it’s great to know that Michael lives on through his music – rather than just through kids’ nightmares. After hearing Michael perform on the recordings, his dad Joe decided, for old time’s sake, to beat the tapes with his belt.
Oh, the paradox that is celebrity second-hand dartboard Jordan. Or is it Katie Price? How can someone with two such distinct personalities also appear to have le
ss than one? Jordan observers say her recent activity suggests she may be becoming ‘self-aware’. Apparently something boffins have feared ever since she was built for the Daily Star by Cyberdyne Systems to fill slow news days … a story reminiscent of when Daily Express special forces had to hunt down their own creation, ‘Home Counties Black Male Stereotype Re-enforcer Droid MK IV’, more commonly known as Biggie Smalls, when it bypassed its own remote-command circuitry.
Jordan was named ‘The most hated woman in Britain’. Don’t worry about that, Jordan. You’re ‘The most hated person in Britain’. Give it time, baby. You’ll eventually be ‘The most hated object in Europe’.
There have been various tedious stories about Jordan’s relationship with her new Argentinean boyfriend. I won’t bother with the name, it’s pointless you getting used to it. I hope this time Jordan finally gets the fairy-tale wedding she deserves and ends up locked in a dungeon for a thousand years before being eaten by a wolf.
Jordan clearly has a void that can never be filled. I only wish that was a psychological analogy. Apparently, the key to her relationship lasting is communication. They’ve both promised on no account to learn the other’s language. If they reproduce, with their combined genetics that baby will be the idiot equivalent of Brazil’s 1970 World Cup side.
Satellite intelligence seems to suggest that Katie is stockpiling semen in huge concrete silos at her mansion, it’s feared in preparation for her transformation into a giant ‘Queen’, with plans to relentlessly pump out a huge mega-titted army to bring the world to an end as every man on the planet wanks themselves unconscious.
I do feel for her kids. Now they’re at that age when they’ll be asked at school, ‘What does your mum do for a living?’ and just having to answer with a blank shrug. Jordan has gone to tremendous lengths to preserve her children’s anonymity, frequently drawing the fire of prying paparazzi by splaying her legs like a tipsy faun and filling her cleavage with vomit outside Chinawhite.
In the latest twist, Jordan’s tits have announced that they’re leaving to pursue a solo career. But the big shock was Jordan’s previous marriage to cage-fighting tranny Alex Reid ending after eleven months. It certainly wasn’t a long marriage. I’ve taken dumps that lasted longer. And photographed better. And that you’d rather sit next to on a first-class train journey.
Jordan says Alex ended up just wanting her for her fame. Presumably, she longed for the happier times when he just wanted her for her big rubber knockers. He surely doesn’t deserve half her fortune – mind you, neither does she! Katie was apparently really upset about the whole thing. Or maybe really happy. It’s impossible to tell. Her face doesn’t move and she speaks in a robotic monotone. It’s like trying to understand how your Hoover is feeling.
It must’ve been awful for Alex to hear Jordan say the marriage was over – hearing that from her cold, dull, monotone voice must be like discovering Optimus Prime doesn’t love you anymore. Perhaps that explains why Alex has been putting on the lippy and mascara again. Not that feminine, it has to be said, but if David Lynch ever makes a movie about clowns he’ll be straight in there. He’s not so much female impersonator as female impersonator impersonator. I feel sorry for Alex. I know he’s a hard man but he must have feelings. Not in the face obviously – there’s no nerve endings left there – it’s been tenderised like a cheap steak.
No matter how low you think you are in show-business, there’s always another layer beneath you. An escapologist in Atlanta, Georgia, was lucky to survive after failing to get out of the chains and getting dragged behind a car. I think you’ll find, mate, that you’re actually just a pologist. The incident must’ve had Michael Hutchence wanking in his grave. The spectators in Georgia had never seen a man dragged behind a car before. Well, not a white one. The accident took place on a racetrack. That must’ve been a test for the pit teams – do you use slick or wet-weather tyres to get grip when driving over the layer of face skin on the back straight?
Hazel Maddock, an actress from Merseyside, left her dead mother’s rotting corpse in the bedroom so she could collect her benefits. Which turned out to be a waste of time as she had to spend most of it on air freshener. All for £200 of benefits. She could have made a lot more money from a maggot farm. Thank God it was a pension. If her mum had been under 60 I suspect she’d have been putting on her pelt once a fortnight to sign on.
After failing in show-business, Hazel could think of no other way to earn money than to keep the corpse of her mother. I will personally pay to show this news report in the ad break of every episode of The X Factor. Living with a corpse can’t be that bad – it’s probably very similar to being married, except you’ll actually get to have sex. Hazel worked as a TV extra on Hollyoaks, meaning she will be considered to have already served most of her sentence.
There’s also the whole freaky, sleazy crossover we now have between show-business and politics. A website has been created where the public can vote for who they consider to be the sexiest MP. Finally something on the internet that I can’t wank to. Looking at that list is not the first time I’ve imagined David Cameron having sex. But it’s the first time he’s not been getting raped.
Former Fugees frontman Wyclef Jean was shot in the hand in Haiti, where he’s standing for president. When asked how many times he was shot, Wyclef was able to say, ‘One time.’ This is why, no matter what rappers tell you, you should always look around for snipers before putting your hands in the air like you just don’t care.
Margaret Thatcher’s handbag sold for £25,000. Thatcher had several bags, though by far her favourites were one made from the pelt of the last working miner, and one made from a 19-year-old Argentinean conscript shot while trying to defend his foxhole with a corkscrew and a chip fork.
And think about Comic Relief – a night where celebrities ask you to solve social deprivation that their coke habits have largely caused. To be honest, I only realised last year that Comic Relief doesn’t mean being wanked off by a clown. Just a lucky coincidence it happened on the same day, really; it meant I could pass it off by shaking a tin at the same time.
The real irony is that Lenny Henry’s life is worse than somebody’s who’s living in a Kenyan slum. They should do a show where one of those guys comes over and spends his whole week pitching game-show ideas to UK Living, scanning his wankbank and only finding memories of Dawn French swaying above him, coming like an electrocuted walrus.
Gordon Brown was interviewed by Piers Morgan. Piers didn’t make a home visit like he did for Katie Price; Gordon had to come into the studio. His wife was sat in the audience and he had David Cameron as a ‘Phone a Friend’, in case he forgot the answer to the ‘How did you feel when your child died?’ question. It seems our leading politicians have learnt something from The X Factor – the British public like nothing better than to vote for the recently bereaved.
We are bringing up our children with a very odd concept of how it feels to be bereaved. We will soon have raised a generation for whom the stages of bereavement will be denial, anger, government position, recording contract, acceptance.
If my child died it would be so private, so personal, I would never try to get sympathy by talking about it in an interview. I’d probably tell a few gags about it on a panel show, but never try to get sympathy.
Once, on holiday in Romania, I sat and watched Romanian TV with my friend and his family. There was a show that involved a host doing a big topical monologue, so I got them to translate. He’d do a bit about the defence minister and the defence minister would actually be in the audience. The host would walk up into the crowd and have a bit of banter with him. Then there’d be a bit about some other government official and he’d be there too, and again they’d swap a bit of chat. It seemed incredibly corrupt. ‘You could never have a show like this in Britain!’ I scoffed.
‘You do have a show like this …,’ my friend said seriously. ‘I saw it when I was over there … Have I Got News for You.’ Another friend, a TV produ
cer, told me that his company approached Lembit Öpik, the former Lib Dem MP who doubles as a bad hand at Scrabble and a banana with Down’s syndrome. They wanted Lembit to appear in a series where he becomes a cage fighter, perhaps with one eye on having his face punched into a normal shape. What a tragic thing that you ask a production company what they think the public would like to see someone do and they reply, ‘Being savagely beaten’.
I suggested that they tell Lembit the show had been commissioned but actually start filming something slightly different. There is a guy called Oleg Taktarov who won the Ultimate Fighting Championship for a couple of years. A story at the time (my source is a Combat magazine I read at a house party) went that he walked across Siberia and down through Alaska to enter the championships. Actually walked all the way there across the top of the world. A dead-eyed living weapon externalising the blankness he feels within through the medium of other people’s pain. What we should do is get Lembit to train with a different trainer every week. We laugh at how he can’t master basic skipping, smile as his trainer shakes his head in exasperation at his lack of cardiovascular fitness. Meanwhile, Oleg Taktarov starts walking from his home in Siberia to London for the end-of-series bout, where he will destroy Lembit. Minor training victories for Lembit would be intercut with shots of this grim mountain walking impassively. At the end of each episode Lembit’s trainer that week will be flown out to fight Taktarov, wherever he is, and be left as a bloody smear at the side of a motorway. Through countryside, through rain, through waist-high snow, Oleg carries a perfect meat replica of Lembit tied to his back. He hangs it from trees and the doors of motorway-service toilets and practises killing blows and nerve attacks. Every episode ends with Oleg Taktarov on top of the dummy in his sleeping bag, slowly and powerfully fucking it.
Work! Consume! Die! Page 18