This pretty-boy Gately youth - whom God take to His bosom - who he to hog my headlines day after day and clutter my TV news and get the sort of blubbing to rival la princesse Diane of saintèd memory?
Gorgeous looking chappie, I admit, but what a team of nancy boys, for the nones (Actually, see Comment. I believe I stand corrected).
Still, I love it that the reptiles of the press got it so wrong about the drugs bit.
And didn't that Jan Moir take a drubbing? She was right, of course, but tell that to the populace and, more to the point, to her populace panting editor.
Rather her than me and it could well have been me if the subject had been of the slightest importance or interest.
I checked with the Spitfeuer and she's not aware of them on the hot radar either so I'm sorta safe in asking why the fuss fogging media moping ...
Well that's it, innit? Media manipulation.
"You'll have to excuse Nigel. He has deeply-held religious views."
I scribble down his cooler lines to use in the taverna when debating 'Disgusted of Drosato' but they never come out right.
Rod gets reptile journos and the Lately Gately brouhaha bang to rights:
"I have to say that I don’t particularly like newspaper and magazine columnists, as people.
Smug, not terribly bright, usually cowardly, lazy, always self-obsessed, self-important and narcissistic — forever brimming with themselves, a collection of mass-produced ornamental thimbles overflowing with foaming vomit.
I don’t excuse myself from most of these character traits, by the way, so I suppose you can add self-loathing to the list as well.
My argument isn’t that columnists aren’t good at what they do — some are very artful indeed, although it can be a thin and vapid art, not even a ‘half-art’, as Orwell rightly described photography. It’s just that personally I don’t like them very much; on the increasingly rare occasions when I am required to mix with people who do the same job as me, I experience the peculiar and frightening sensation that I am being eaten alive by mice.
The good stuff about journalism — reportage — has been left behind, bullied out of existence by the internet (which, ironically, is actually useless for accurate, intelligent reportage, but that’s another story). Instead we have this moronic inferno, a high-pitched fugue of endlessly self-referential squeaking, the sonar of a thousand bewildered but nonetheless blithely confident pipistrelle bats, all mothless. And so we have the Jan Moir affair.
Hell, all those complaints, whipped up by Twitter and Facebook and the infinity of bloggers — amounting to a massive 0.4 per cent of the Daily Mail’s readership. The PCC will need to re-evaluate the way in which it takes action, because these days a roll call of 22,000 complaints is very easy to amass, as Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross (via the offices of the Daily Mail!) will tell you.
... Moir had suggested that there might be something more to the death of the boy-band singer Stephen Gately than the ‘sugar-coated’ encomiums which had appeared in every morning newspaper. She was right about the sugar coating; as always, when a minor and not terribly talented celebrity dies, we had all that fatuous stuff about his incredible, life-affirming genius, how out of the blue it all was.
I suspect there was not one person in Britain who, upon hearing the sad news about Gately, did not — even if the thought were quickly banished to the back of their mind — think likewise. I suspect that most of the columnists who complained about Moir’s piece — and these include some of the most fabulously stupid people in Britain — will have had that idea at the front of their minds immediately. But it remained unsaid, apart from by ordinary people.
Moir’s article provoked swift and misplaced allegations of homophobia against the author; but her comments were homophobic only if you subscribe to the homophobic view that all homosexuals have the sort of lifestyle enjoyed by a minority of homosexual celebrities.
The Guardian’s Charlie Brooker — so funny and acute when writing about television, so sententious, dull and out of his depth when writing about anything else — suggested that Moir was ‘dancing on the grave’ of Gately ‘for money’. As of course, by extension, was Brooker himself.
Dance away, Charlie, mate: it’s what we do. Those twin pillars of British journalistic idiocy, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Janet Street-Porter — the latter of whom has never yet said or done anything for the benefit, enlightenment, amusement or entertainment of the human race — weighed in with their polystyrene cudgels."
Don't you love the bit about those wets including "some of the most fabulously stupid people in Britain"?
Anyway, read it for yourselves. I hate quoting at such length when all it takes you is a click.
Comment Alert: Anon-K taking time off to keep me honest and straight.
"I think you will find that all 4 of the remaining band members are definitely straight! ALL Married with children."
Glad we cleared *that* up, and goodness now that I look at them they do look superbly muscular and manly. No danger there of being asked what they've got in their sponge bags (remember that wonderful song by Cyril Rumble, 'what's in your sponge bag, Terry?' - straight up the charts, thanks to all those mums and aunties flocking to buy.)
But i digress - as i responded, the married ~ straight ~ kids ~ cortina in the garage bit is un peu dull and straightforward for my jejune tastes and style. But i'm beginning to scent a new euphemism ~ 'Married with children'. It always gets wheeled out as definitive refutation of suspicion that someone's homosexual, when in fact I know a number of stalwarts who married and sired and then came out and everyone lives happily ever after and the other bloke is pals with the kids and helps the wife over the curtains.
My current euphemism - and i really dont need one, it's just to get a laff - is "Good with colours".
I shall now retire that and move on. Next time some lady ogles a hunk who i happen to know bats for the other side, i shall wag a sympathetic finger and murmur into her ear, "sorry, darling - 'married with children'" nudge wink flutter of fingers as she pouts in disappointment.