Fresh from my dispiriting flight of fantasy to the Oscars, I bring you a more earthly trophy polishing event: The British Press Awards.
I have the honour - and I genuinely mean that, folks, in the most unshowbizzy fashion - of being a judge again in these awards. The shortlist of entrants has just been announced on the Press Gazette website.
For the past couple of weeks I have been judging the submissions from the long-list of entrants for two categories - Interviewer of the Year and Scoop of the Year. It is a testing and time consuming task, and one that I conduct with a considerable sense of responsibilty and pressure, as well as pride.
The work that is produced by the nation's hacks is quite awe-inspiring. I have been a journalist for 22 years now - I've got the neck ache and thinning knuckle cartilage to prove it - and all except one year has been spent writing for the national newspapers. It is a career that is as rewarding as it is exasperating.
But, it is when you get a chance to really examine, professionally, impartially, what is achieved day-in, day-out across our newspapers that you really see the broad and brilliant talent that blesses our rags.
Steady on, mate. I really mustn't turn this into a complete kiss-kiss love-in. Any hack worth a round of drinks would take the piss and suspect I was angling for an extra drink at the Grosvenor. All I want to say is this:
On Scoops: the newspapers of this country produce more stories than anywhere else in the world. These stories set the agendas of TV and radio stations, magazines and websites in every corner of the planet. They ALL feed off us. Collectively, our newspapers are amazing.
On Interviewing: I know a lot about this beat. I've done it for virtually my entire career and I can tell you that it is often a labour-intensive, up-at-dawn, pride-swallowing siege (if I may bastardise a movie line). The quality of the content and prose in this year's long-list entrants (30 of 'em) was exceptional. Only five writers make it to next week's second round of judging.
But why on earth am I bothering to say this? Er, not sure really, except to maybe poke the ribs of the clueless, spoilt cynics, often the casual readers, who pick up a newspaper and too easily slag off the devoted work of the journalists who made it all happen.
Journalism is a tough career and one that is hardly well paid. These awards are a worthy reminder of the incredible work that is achieved each year in this business. Bravo to all those entrants.
All that said, mine's a large one. I thenk you!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
And the Oscar doesn't BLOODY go to ...
Well, another year gone and another bloody speech I didn't get to make at the bloody Oscars.
I don't know, it's all a tad irritating, isn't it? I mean, how many ceremonies have I got left in me? You know, some of the key people I need to thank might be among the departed if I faff around much longer.
Let's face it, my own personal little screenplay - my, y'know, "jooourney" - is actually unreeling in a very UN-Hollywood way. I should have been up there - F-A-C-T - years ago. People say that my dear pal from the neighborhood Marty (Legendary director Martin Scorsese to you lot) - has waited too long, that it was his turn, his night. Well, screw that, you muthas. What about ME? Where's my little friggin' gold man and goodie bag of diamonds?
To cap my disappointment, I've just read an acceptance speech online in MY category only to discover that some nobody bloke from Nowheresville has only gone and nicked the name of my lead character. Hmmm. There's only so much I shall take.
OK, enough. I'll take a chill pill, rise above it all. The Oscars, what a hoot. I feel obliged to stop by, blog-style, and acknowledge "the most glamorous night in the whole-wide-world". I only dipped in with an hour - OK, OK, I'll admit to two - on the "E" Channel. I was expecting to see that insufferable idiot Ruby Twatx presenting. Yes, she with the poorly pirated copy of a sense of humour. Imagine my relief to see she wasn't there - I was able to remove the iron grill I always put across the screen when she is on to deflect the bottles of Bud - so I stayed. Ryan Wotshisname from American Idol was very good. The right pitch. And that gazing gay guy (or as Hero of the Hour Marty would label, "that fockin' faggot" - a disgusting term I would never validate) was mesmerizing. It was like watching a fully camped up, 21st Century, politically corrected Action Man having his voice cord pulled every once in a while. His occasional side-kick was a bag of bones in a red dress hoping to grow up one day to be a Size 0.
Anyway, I've gotta dash, I have parties to go to. I have decided to give it all a wide berth next year. As any self-respecting, lying celebrity will tell you, it is all trivial nonsense ... until of course you are nominated. Yes, I'm staying away, like Sean Penn. He boldly said, "The Oscars? I'd be embarrassed to be there." Until of course, he totally milked his standing ovation for Mystic River a few years later. Cooool.
Right, back to my speech ... am I out of time? Can I just say a few Thank Yous? Pleeease. Most of all, I'd like to thank the one person who has stood by me through all the years of struggle blogging about the speech I didn't get to make about the book that didn't get published and then didn't get made into that great movie starring...
Blub-bloody-blub.
I don't know, it's all a tad irritating, isn't it? I mean, how many ceremonies have I got left in me? You know, some of the key people I need to thank might be among the departed if I faff around much longer.
Let's face it, my own personal little screenplay - my, y'know, "jooourney" - is actually unreeling in a very UN-Hollywood way. I should have been up there - F-A-C-T - years ago. People say that my dear pal from the neighborhood Marty (Legendary director Martin Scorsese to you lot) - has waited too long, that it was his turn, his night. Well, screw that, you muthas. What about ME? Where's my little friggin' gold man and goodie bag of diamonds?
To cap my disappointment, I've just read an acceptance speech online in MY category only to discover that some nobody bloke from Nowheresville has only gone and nicked the name of my lead character. Hmmm. There's only so much I shall take.
OK, enough. I'll take a chill pill, rise above it all. The Oscars, what a hoot. I feel obliged to stop by, blog-style, and acknowledge "the most glamorous night in the whole-wide-world". I only dipped in with an hour - OK, OK, I'll admit to two - on the "E" Channel. I was expecting to see that insufferable idiot Ruby Twatx presenting. Yes, she with the poorly pirated copy of a sense of humour. Imagine my relief to see she wasn't there - I was able to remove the iron grill I always put across the screen when she is on to deflect the bottles of Bud - so I stayed. Ryan Wotshisname from American Idol was very good. The right pitch. And that gazing gay guy (or as Hero of the Hour Marty would label, "that fockin' faggot" - a disgusting term I would never validate) was mesmerizing. It was like watching a fully camped up, 21st Century, politically corrected Action Man having his voice cord pulled every once in a while. His occasional side-kick was a bag of bones in a red dress hoping to grow up one day to be a Size 0.
Anyway, I've gotta dash, I have parties to go to. I have decided to give it all a wide berth next year. As any self-respecting, lying celebrity will tell you, it is all trivial nonsense ... until of course you are nominated. Yes, I'm staying away, like Sean Penn. He boldly said, "The Oscars? I'd be embarrassed to be there." Until of course, he totally milked his standing ovation for Mystic River a few years later. Cooool.
Right, back to my speech ... am I out of time? Can I just say a few Thank Yous? Pleeease. Most of all, I'd like to thank the one person who has stood by me through all the years of struggle blogging about the speech I didn't get to make about the book that didn't get published and then didn't get made into that great movie starring...
Blub-bloody-blub.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Let me put this to you...
It has been a long, thankless and quite brutal week in my world of interviewing. I hit a red light, next to a giant Stop sign in a cul de sac that ended with a 1,000ft sheer drop. I will spare you the details - for now - but I can speak from years of experience, not just the past few days, to deeply sympathise with John Humphrys this morning.
His much yearned-for and keenly plugged face-to-face with Prime Minister Tony Blair on Radio 4's Today programme has just faded from the hi-fi in my office. To be honest, I nearly didn't make it through, despite Humphrys sterling efforts. The reason: I found the entire talk annoying, frustrating, predictably fruitless. It wound me UP!
You need a fighting chance with any subject to get a decent interview, no matter your skill. Few are better at it than Humphrys. But if a subject is interminably dull, like the "superstar" who defeated me this week, or impossibly intransigent, like Blair, then you haven't got a hope in hell. No amount of guile or charm will work. No killer question will provide an answer worth hearing. Either there ain't nothin' to get, or they ain't got nothin' to give.
So, let me put this to you, if I may, in the clearest of terms: What really is the fucking point in interviewing Tony Blair?
His much yearned-for and keenly plugged face-to-face with Prime Minister Tony Blair on Radio 4's Today programme has just faded from the hi-fi in my office. To be honest, I nearly didn't make it through, despite Humphrys sterling efforts. The reason: I found the entire talk annoying, frustrating, predictably fruitless. It wound me UP!
You need a fighting chance with any subject to get a decent interview, no matter your skill. Few are better at it than Humphrys. But if a subject is interminably dull, like the "superstar" who defeated me this week, or impossibly intransigent, like Blair, then you haven't got a hope in hell. No amount of guile or charm will work. No killer question will provide an answer worth hearing. Either there ain't nothin' to get, or they ain't got nothin' to give.
So, let me put this to you, if I may, in the clearest of terms: What really is the fucking point in interviewing Tony Blair?
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
My Verdict: GUILTY. The lot of 'em.
I stand accused of wasting an hour and a half of my life last night watching BBC2's The Verdict. I hang my head in shame and plead guilty and ask for countless other similar telly violations of my freedom to be taken into consideration. My sentence? To watch the remaining episodes of this absurdly enjoyable tripe.
I missed the opening up of this "case", so I'm slightly off the pace, but that hasn't hindered me from easing into the role of a hang 'em high judge and jury. In fact, I couldn't give a bowl of salty porridge about the blokes in the dock, or the weepers in witess box. No, naturally, I'm judging all the celebrities. They're all in the dock here, of course that's what this is about - it's a reality show with a stocking over its grubby little face as a disguise. And I know for certain they are all GUILTY.
Yep, guilty, I say. First up is chuffing Ingrid Tarrant. She is guilty of suddenly making me feel empathy with Chris for going AWOL in his marriage. Next is Jennifer Wotshername-like for giving further incontrovertible evidence - recently displayed by Danielle Windyarse-like from CBB - that the scouse accent is the most tikcth (sic: thick) sounding and irritating in Britain. Then there is the ex-soap Ginga, up on charges of continuing to impersonate a bad EastEnders character. Her claim that she is just a Patsy is inadmissable.
Then there's the bloke from Blur - Alex James - who looks like he is a few glugs away from rehab'. (Apologies if he is actually in recovery). I interviewed Collymore and Archer last year, so I know their form. Therefore, I convict them both without a pause for breath. Well, let's face it, Collymore is always upto no good and Archer is always guilty. Who have I missed? Oh, yes, Jacqueline Gold. She is so quiet I think she must have been winded by sitting on an oversize Rampant Rabbit. Then we have old rubber nose, bloaty-face Michael Portillo. He is guilty of making me think that he is actually half-sensible, such is the company he keeps. There are a few others who are simply guilty of table manners affray and for consuming stolen goods - champagne and lorry-loads of food - all proven to be owned by hard-up Licence Payers.
But the main culprit in The Verdict so far is Megaman - or MegaChippyMan. He is exercising his right to remain silent with a violent stare. He has brought a stack of pre-conceived ideas, personal issues and prejudices into the jury room and dat ain't allowed, man. His main crime, however, is being caught in possession of an over-loaded, dangerous wardrobe, including diamonte studded CK sunglasses worn with no sense of embarrassment in a darkened dining room. He stands accused of using this wardrobe with malicious intent to pass off as a successful gangsta rapper.
Everyone in this show keeps saying - "You've got to go on the EVIDENCE". Well, I've seen enough, yer Crusty Old Honour.
Take 'em all down.
I missed the opening up of this "case", so I'm slightly off the pace, but that hasn't hindered me from easing into the role of a hang 'em high judge and jury. In fact, I couldn't give a bowl of salty porridge about the blokes in the dock, or the weepers in witess box. No, naturally, I'm judging all the celebrities. They're all in the dock here, of course that's what this is about - it's a reality show with a stocking over its grubby little face as a disguise. And I know for certain they are all GUILTY.
Yep, guilty, I say. First up is chuffing Ingrid Tarrant. She is guilty of suddenly making me feel empathy with Chris for going AWOL in his marriage. Next is Jennifer Wotshername-like for giving further incontrovertible evidence - recently displayed by Danielle Windyarse-like from CBB - that the scouse accent is the most tikcth (sic: thick) sounding and irritating in Britain. Then there is the ex-soap Ginga, up on charges of continuing to impersonate a bad EastEnders character. Her claim that she is just a Patsy is inadmissable.
Then there's the bloke from Blur - Alex James - who looks like he is a few glugs away from rehab'. (Apologies if he is actually in recovery). I interviewed Collymore and Archer last year, so I know their form. Therefore, I convict them both without a pause for breath. Well, let's face it, Collymore is always upto no good and Archer is always guilty. Who have I missed? Oh, yes, Jacqueline Gold. She is so quiet I think she must have been winded by sitting on an oversize Rampant Rabbit. Then we have old rubber nose, bloaty-face Michael Portillo. He is guilty of making me think that he is actually half-sensible, such is the company he keeps. There are a few others who are simply guilty of table manners affray and for consuming stolen goods - champagne and lorry-loads of food - all proven to be owned by hard-up Licence Payers.
But the main culprit in The Verdict so far is Megaman - or MegaChippyMan. He is exercising his right to remain silent with a violent stare. He has brought a stack of pre-conceived ideas, personal issues and prejudices into the jury room and dat ain't allowed, man. His main crime, however, is being caught in possession of an over-loaded, dangerous wardrobe, including diamonte studded CK sunglasses worn with no sense of embarrassment in a darkened dining room. He stands accused of using this wardrobe with malicious intent to pass off as a successful gangsta rapper.
Everyone in this show keeps saying - "You've got to go on the EVIDENCE". Well, I've seen enough, yer Crusty Old Honour.
Take 'em all down.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Police
Hmmm. A rare moment to post something of a lighter note, something more up beat. You know, that's the trouble with this blogging gig, it is all too easy and obvious for it to simply become a whinge machine, a place to vent thy spleen. It's a shame really because you just end up sounding like - and feeling like - an angry old grouch, that nothing is all that good, when indeed most of the time you really do look on the brighter side...
News that The Police are reforming to tour again brought back a happy memory. My first concert was to see them. I've just had to check the actual date - I'm not a spod for things like that. (Two clicks and I found that date. Still amazing, isn't it?) So, on the 22nd December 1979, I saw Sting and the other two at Lewisham Odeon. The concert was a major treat after one of my sisters - Ali - had queued from 5am at Capital Radio and swapped some toys for some tickets. I think it must have been the earliest days of Help A London Child.
When I was picked up from boarding school for the Christmas holidays and told by her that I was going to see The Police, well, that moment of elation is still a freeze frame in my head. A real, grown up concert. I was 14. OK, I have no doubt there are better, more dangerous, rarer "first concert" anecdotes, but for me it was, Wow.
My singular lasting image of that night - incredible that only one survives - is Sting singing Roxanne. We had good seats, central, me standing on mine. When he hit the chorus the entire theatre lit up red. And there was Sting, immersed in this red glow. Hell, I wanted to be a rock star.
I've just flipped through a normally detailed diary from 1979 - a diary was the spleen venting equivalent of a blog during boarding school - and I'm a little gutted to find no entry for 22nd December. You see, I was too busy having fun to write. (Now there's a lesson!) But on the 23rd there's a couple of lines, asterixed from after Christmas detailing presents received etc. It says: "I bought a really nice pair of black Pointed shoes with the money grandad gave me. With wooden heel, leather soles and leather uppers".
I may have just seen The Police, but what I didn't know then was that becoming a semi-Mod and seeing The Jam at The Rainbow awaited...
News that The Police are reforming to tour again brought back a happy memory. My first concert was to see them. I've just had to check the actual date - I'm not a spod for things like that. (Two clicks and I found that date. Still amazing, isn't it?) So, on the 22nd December 1979, I saw Sting and the other two at Lewisham Odeon. The concert was a major treat after one of my sisters - Ali - had queued from 5am at Capital Radio and swapped some toys for some tickets. I think it must have been the earliest days of Help A London Child.
When I was picked up from boarding school for the Christmas holidays and told by her that I was going to see The Police, well, that moment of elation is still a freeze frame in my head. A real, grown up concert. I was 14. OK, I have no doubt there are better, more dangerous, rarer "first concert" anecdotes, but for me it was, Wow.
My singular lasting image of that night - incredible that only one survives - is Sting singing Roxanne. We had good seats, central, me standing on mine. When he hit the chorus the entire theatre lit up red. And there was Sting, immersed in this red glow. Hell, I wanted to be a rock star.
I've just flipped through a normally detailed diary from 1979 - a diary was the spleen venting equivalent of a blog during boarding school - and I'm a little gutted to find no entry for 22nd December. You see, I was too busy having fun to write. (Now there's a lesson!) But on the 23rd there's a couple of lines, asterixed from after Christmas detailing presents received etc. It says: "I bought a really nice pair of black Pointed shoes with the money grandad gave me. With wooden heel, leather soles and leather uppers".
I may have just seen The Police, but what I didn't know then was that becoming a semi-Mod and seeing The Jam at The Rainbow awaited...
Monday, February 12, 2007
King Ken Con
Now, don’t get me started….
I am typing with trembling hands and gritted teeth as I try to calm an all-consuming impotent rage.
This is the final week of life as I and countless thousands of others know it in West London. The countdown is ticking before the man whose name I can only snarl – lying, sneering Ken Livingston – lets loose his latest con to cause mass-scale disruption and frustration to everyday folk doing their best to get on in this unforgiving city. I am referring, of course, to the Western CON-gestion Charge Extension Zone.
I don’t know what to do with my anger, so all I am left with is to spit a few pitiful pars into the ether. Quietly, in my head, I want to start a revolution, inspire the mob to destroy the cameras and bring this imminent fiasco to an abrupt end, but how can you do that? I have been on the marches, written the letters, filled out the questionnaires. Nada. No-one, least of all, King Ken Con, could give a flying toss. It is all about to happen, despite the opposition and agreed wisdom that it is pure folly.
The thing is, I am actually on the upside of this mess. I live inside the zone - you know, in "rich" Chelsea - so I will get the 90% residents discount. I am lucky. So, what are you complaining about, I hear you ask? Ugh! Just everything about this scheme's appalling undemocratic implementation. Then there is the physical and psychological stuff - those ugly, sinister cameras that have gone up all over the borough, about to watch you, take your picture, monitor your life; those big fat ugly red “C’s” burnt into the roads; the big ugly red warning signs drilled into the pavements; the big fat ugly queues of cars that will squeeze into the few side streets available to escape the charge; then the big fat ugly car park that will soon be on the few roads looping the zone. All because Ken Con said it should be so. How I loathe his power.
I feel exasperated that yet more expensive bureaucracy is about to blight my life. The days when I could pop up in the car to my bank on the Kings Road, the shoe shop, or the library with only the traffic and the lottery of finding a parking space to worry about are gone. Now I will have to be organised and pay the charge in advance, or remember to pay it later. How many times will I forget and cop a hefty fine? And because I live right by the no-charge loop, it will take me forever to get past the seething, desperate souls trying to avoid the eight quid charge. Arghh. As if life isn't irritating enough.
Hell, it pisses me off. Oh, and one more thing. You know the 90% discount us residents get? Well, that’s a lie, too. They won’t let you pay 80p to go into the zone once. Oh, no, they say it’s not possible to account for such a small sum. It's not viable. Huh, and this from a company that can photograph and bill thousands upon thousands of cars in the blink of an eye. No, us residents, have to buy five day’s worth at £4 quid.
Well, I don’t want drive into the zone every day, so my quick trip up the road will now cost four quid and some planning and care just so I don't screw up. Handy, all that. ******* *****.
To be bloody continued…
I am typing with trembling hands and gritted teeth as I try to calm an all-consuming impotent rage.
This is the final week of life as I and countless thousands of others know it in West London. The countdown is ticking before the man whose name I can only snarl – lying, sneering Ken Livingston – lets loose his latest con to cause mass-scale disruption and frustration to everyday folk doing their best to get on in this unforgiving city. I am referring, of course, to the Western CON-gestion Charge Extension Zone.
I don’t know what to do with my anger, so all I am left with is to spit a few pitiful pars into the ether. Quietly, in my head, I want to start a revolution, inspire the mob to destroy the cameras and bring this imminent fiasco to an abrupt end, but how can you do that? I have been on the marches, written the letters, filled out the questionnaires. Nada. No-one, least of all, King Ken Con, could give a flying toss. It is all about to happen, despite the opposition and agreed wisdom that it is pure folly.
The thing is, I am actually on the upside of this mess. I live inside the zone - you know, in "rich" Chelsea - so I will get the 90% residents discount. I am lucky. So, what are you complaining about, I hear you ask? Ugh! Just everything about this scheme's appalling undemocratic implementation. Then there is the physical and psychological stuff - those ugly, sinister cameras that have gone up all over the borough, about to watch you, take your picture, monitor your life; those big fat ugly red “C’s” burnt into the roads; the big ugly red warning signs drilled into the pavements; the big fat ugly queues of cars that will squeeze into the few side streets available to escape the charge; then the big fat ugly car park that will soon be on the few roads looping the zone. All because Ken Con said it should be so. How I loathe his power.
I feel exasperated that yet more expensive bureaucracy is about to blight my life. The days when I could pop up in the car to my bank on the Kings Road, the shoe shop, or the library with only the traffic and the lottery of finding a parking space to worry about are gone. Now I will have to be organised and pay the charge in advance, or remember to pay it later. How many times will I forget and cop a hefty fine? And because I live right by the no-charge loop, it will take me forever to get past the seething, desperate souls trying to avoid the eight quid charge. Arghh. As if life isn't irritating enough.
Hell, it pisses me off. Oh, and one more thing. You know the 90% discount us residents get? Well, that’s a lie, too. They won’t let you pay 80p to go into the zone once. Oh, no, they say it’s not possible to account for such a small sum. It's not viable. Huh, and this from a company that can photograph and bill thousands upon thousands of cars in the blink of an eye. No, us residents, have to buy five day’s worth at £4 quid.
Well, I don’t want drive into the zone every day, so my quick trip up the road will now cost four quid and some planning and care just so I don't screw up. Handy, all that. ******* *****.
To be bloody continued…
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
[Drum roll] May I introduce ... SALLY!
Well, two long years and three months after I had a simple idea to bring out a quick range of greetings cards, they are here. May I introduce... SALLY!
So, who is Sally and what does she do? Well, she's a free-spirited young woman who approaches the challenges of life with unbridled enthusiasm, but all too often things don't work out the way she had hoped. Nevertheless, she deals with it all with her own special brand of irreverent humour. In some way, I hope that Sally echoes what women really think. (Not that I would profess to have any special insight into that particular science).
Generally, I find the cards on the market a bit dull, old hat or plain stupid. And often they are unnecessarily cynical. Call me over-sensitive, but have you seen those ranges where they use old black and white photos of people - someone's loved one, long since dead - and simply add a nasty, cynical caption? They piss me OFF!
Well, it's good to get that out of my system. Moving on. I hope that Sally is a welcome and fun addition to the cards shops. They have been launched to the trade during the Spring Fair at the Birmingham NEC over the last few days and the feedback has been very good. So, Sally should be in a card shop near you soon.
Sorry, I must dash, I have Disney on the phone wanting to talk about the movie rights to Sally ...
So, who is Sally and what does she do? Well, she's a free-spirited young woman who approaches the challenges of life with unbridled enthusiasm, but all too often things don't work out the way she had hoped. Nevertheless, she deals with it all with her own special brand of irreverent humour. In some way, I hope that Sally echoes what women really think. (Not that I would profess to have any special insight into that particular science).
Generally, I find the cards on the market a bit dull, old hat or plain stupid. And often they are unnecessarily cynical. Call me over-sensitive, but have you seen those ranges where they use old black and white photos of people - someone's loved one, long since dead - and simply add a nasty, cynical caption? They piss me OFF!
Well, it's good to get that out of my system. Moving on. I hope that Sally is a welcome and fun addition to the cards shops. They have been launched to the trade during the Spring Fair at the Birmingham NEC over the last few days and the feedback has been very good. So, Sally should be in a card shop near you soon.
Sorry, I must dash, I have Disney on the phone wanting to talk about the movie rights to Sally ...
Monday, February 05, 2007
Loseur Theroux
Louis Theroux has been away from TV for a while. I’ve not missed him. He kicked off his new series of BBC2 documentaries with a trip to Las Vegas last night and the publicity suckered me in. After a long break from TV, with the whole world and its nutcases at the mercy of his lens, he goes there. Genius producing. Can you imagine the planning meetings that went into that? Series Producer: “Hey, the Hilton are offering us a freebie to Vegas for a few on-screen plugs, let’s go, do the strip see some strippers.” Louis: “Errrm. Yeah. Well. Hmmm. Yeah.”
But, hey, no matter the jam-packed travel library in existence on Vegas - all made possible with contra-deal kick backs - it is so full of madness and characters that any hack with a camcorder and a decent eye for a story should come up with some entertaining footage and interviews. But not Louis. He couldn't interview a Martian and get a story if one tugged on his baggy sweater.
For this show, Louis followed a few hapless gamblers and showed them to be hopeless losers. Gosh, sad gamblers found in Vegas, they lose money. I was staggered. Then Louis played the tables himself - twice. Original, imaginative. In terms of creativity, this show was tantamount to going on a junket to Vegas and staying at the airport to play the first 25 cent slot machine you see, then coming home.
If this loser of a show was the lead doc in the series, I doubt I will gamble any more time on Louis. He has no basic sense of how to ask questions or develop an interview with any depth. And once you are bored of his limp, whimpering delivery, and over-played laid back approach - if indeed you ever liked it - there is nowhere to go. I’ve always felt he was over-rated.
But, hey, no matter the jam-packed travel library in existence on Vegas - all made possible with contra-deal kick backs - it is so full of madness and characters that any hack with a camcorder and a decent eye for a story should come up with some entertaining footage and interviews. But not Louis. He couldn't interview a Martian and get a story if one tugged on his baggy sweater.
For this show, Louis followed a few hapless gamblers and showed them to be hopeless losers. Gosh, sad gamblers found in Vegas, they lose money. I was staggered. Then Louis played the tables himself - twice. Original, imaginative. In terms of creativity, this show was tantamount to going on a junket to Vegas and staying at the airport to play the first 25 cent slot machine you see, then coming home.
If this loser of a show was the lead doc in the series, I doubt I will gamble any more time on Louis. He has no basic sense of how to ask questions or develop an interview with any depth. And once you are bored of his limp, whimpering delivery, and over-played laid back approach - if indeed you ever liked it - there is nowhere to go. I’ve always felt he was over-rated.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Rehab'd
Apologies for my blogging absence but I have been in rehab’. I had been acting a bit stupid lately, you know, gobbing off at people, seeking publicity, so my manager checked me into the Priory for an obnoxiousness detox and a nice new sheen on my image. I’ve gotta say, for fifteen grand it was a bargain. Watch out for the new me next week on all the comfy daytime TV sofas. And also on 18DS on Monday evening.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The D-Star Of India
So, Jade Goody has received serious shock treatment for her acute bullying and racism symptons. It was delivered homeopathically - the medical philosophy of treating “like-with-like” - so she got severely bullied by the rest of the world and its media. And me. I’m sure it was richly deserved, but anyone who is genuinely against bullying must have winced at the sight of her falling apart beneath the nation’s glare and glee. She cut a pitiful figure during the Davina McCall interview, no matter how soft it was. The News of the World Q&A interview was also toe-curling in its pleading. But the video footage of that interview, played constantly on Sky, digital was excruciating and sad. She sobbed her heart out. It was like watching a five year old, who had been told off beyond all proportion to her deed, hyperventilating her way into a desperate frenzy to say sorry. Please, enough apologies, although I think that was only the beginning. Any continued Jade witch-hunt would obviously be absurd and unfair. She has had a tough enough kicking. I can’t help thinking that the experience might even be good for her in the long run. You know, in a personal development kind of way, but who knows. I won't hold my breath.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall in her agent John Noel’s office these past days. (Take a look at the intro to that website). It would be fascinating to hear the discussions and ideas being floated to re-boot the Jade “brand”. I bet Noel has never worked harder for his 20%. It was reported yesterday that Jade could fly to India next week, although apparently her visa application is on hold and being discussed at the “highest levels”. I pray to the big, racially neutral and politically correct poppadom god in the sky that the trip goes ahead. It could provide some of the most unintentionally funny copy, photo shoots and headlines of any envoy mission from the British Empire. As Jade is greeted by an angry mob (well, five bemused passers-by and 200 journalists), I think the papers will have a field day, from the red tops involved in the big money (all to charity, mind) buy-up, to the serious diplomatic writers of the heavies. What chance The Sun will come up with something along the lines of “Jade Tikka-d Off By India”?
Oh, to be a fly on the wall in her agent John Noel’s office these past days. (Take a look at the intro to that website). It would be fascinating to hear the discussions and ideas being floated to re-boot the Jade “brand”. I bet Noel has never worked harder for his 20%. It was reported yesterday that Jade could fly to India next week, although apparently her visa application is on hold and being discussed at the “highest levels”. I pray to the big, racially neutral and politically correct poppadom god in the sky that the trip goes ahead. It could provide some of the most unintentionally funny copy, photo shoots and headlines of any envoy mission from the British Empire. As Jade is greeted by an angry mob (well, five bemused passers-by and 200 journalists), I think the papers will have a field day, from the red tops involved in the big money (all to charity, mind) buy-up, to the serious diplomatic writers of the heavies. What chance The Sun will come up with something along the lines of “Jade Tikka-d Off By India”?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Sally Cards Plug
URGENT PERSONAL PUBLICITY WARNING. Please be aware that the following blog features a Blatant Plug for a product created by and owned by me with the sole intention to begin promoting it herewith. In the world of journalism and PR, this would be described as “pre-publicity” because the products are not even out yet. Please do not read on if you are easily offended by bare-faced publicity that is not masked by someone pretending to talk about something else while holding up a CD, a book, or reciting the booking number for a theatre. What follows is unrefined, arm-over-the-shoulder, self-back-slapping publicity.
I have just got the first retail order for 'SALLY', my first and utterly brilliant greeting card range. It has come from the equally brilliant card shop chain Paper Passions which will display these delightfully wry and irreverently amusing cards at its Kings Road branch and other London outlets. Considering that Paper Passions is the first shop I have approached, I am delighted to report a 100% success rate. I am mildly excited, which is an emotion I keep to a minimum in moments of baseless optimism. 'Sally' will become a global brand (no irony intended) soon after she is officially launched at the utterly brilliant Spring Fair trade show at Birmingham’s NEC on 3rd February.
Talking exclusively to his own tape recorder, Rob McGibbon garbled: “I am delighted to be successfully aligned with such an iconic - if, as yet unknown - creation as ‘Sally’ and fully believe that in Paper Passions we have found genuine cross-fertilised synchronicity with oceans of blue sky ahead of us for this venture. Most of all I would like to thank…” Drrrrrrrrrrrr. LOW BATT.
I have just got the first retail order for 'SALLY', my first and utterly brilliant greeting card range. It has come from the equally brilliant card shop chain Paper Passions which will display these delightfully wry and irreverently amusing cards at its Kings Road branch and other London outlets. Considering that Paper Passions is the first shop I have approached, I am delighted to report a 100% success rate. I am mildly excited, which is an emotion I keep to a minimum in moments of baseless optimism. 'Sally' will become a global brand (no irony intended) soon after she is officially launched at the utterly brilliant Spring Fair trade show at Birmingham’s NEC on 3rd February.
Talking exclusively to his own tape recorder, Rob McGibbon garbled: “I am delighted to be successfully aligned with such an iconic - if, as yet unknown - creation as ‘Sally’ and fully believe that in Paper Passions we have found genuine cross-fertilised synchronicity with oceans of blue sky ahead of us for this venture. Most of all I would like to thank…” Drrrrrrrrrrrr. LOW BATT.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Big Bother
Apologies for my absence, but I've been upto my elbows in the silt of my life while clearing out my loft. Heck, the things one keeps and what a bizarre high-speed slide show it is, going through the fragments of your yesteryears. But that subject is for another day. I simply need to quickly blog by on the big bother at Big Brother.
I have traditionally hated BB. I don’t watch it, apart from the odd dip in, like watching my old friend (well, 53!) Carole Malone make her dignified exit. But generally, I don’t watch because I don’t like the way BB makes me feel; it’s all that voyeurism, all those posers, idiots, and all that boredom. I get enough of that interviewing celebrities, so I choose to slump in front of equally crass TV on the other channels.
But as of last night, I’m now in da House, sadly hooked. The publicity about the race row suckered me in like a Two-For-One sticker in a supermarket. After watching an early screening of The Last King of Scotland (a tour de force from Forest Whitaker) I got home quickly because BB was in my mind. Not a nice feeling. I flicked on the TV and hit the moment it all kicked off. Most fans have spent countless hours scavenging for little highs from this series, but I suddenly main-lined neat reality TV heroin. It made me feel instantly sick. Seriously, it disturbed me.
Jade Goody is a snarling, foul-mouthed, tragically ignorant bitch, of that there is no doubt. I thought that long before last night. Honestly. I have been appalled by the heights of fame, media coverage and financial success she has been awarded. Er, for WHAT? Now, I believe, all that has gone for her. Oh, goody. Her true colours – blue aired and misty red with bilious rage – have been shown. The lovable, daft clown is really a volatile, vindictive vixen with deep-rooted bitterness in her veins and an enormous chip on her shoulder. She is a big, bad bully. And, yes, I believe she is racist, whether overtly or covertly. Her line of racism is probably based on pig ignorance, rather than the seething hate you see in a tattooed skinhead gobbing his way down Welling high street. What perfume manufacturer, TV production company, or any other product would want to be associated with Jade now? (That said, she might get the Iceland telly ad contract from the belching drug-mum Kerry Katona. They’re clearly not fussy.) The newspapers will love her until she has done her exit buy up, and she'll get another book deal, but little else.
There will be a certain poetic justice if this is indeed the end of the Jade show. Live by the plastic vanity sword of reality TV fame, then die by it. I have little sympathy, but I do feel distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of the world watching her unravel even more in the programmes ahead. She may be a veteran of the House but she must be unaware of the scale of the outrage focused on her. How can she be allowed to continue on this racist collision course? Big Brother must step in, illuminate her ways and give her the chance to save herself, although I doubt she has the brain or maturity to undo what has been done.
Watching Jade’s assault on Shilpa made me shudder and squirm. She was scary, unhinged, but the people I felt a real loathing for were her sniggering co-bitches Jo and Danielle. They are the worst type, the cowardly stirrers beside the bullies, mixing it from the sidelines, vicariously soaking up the thrill of confrontation without personal risk. Looking at those three girls, I felt a real sadness. They are products of the swearing, liquor swilling ladette explosion of the ‘90s and what a sorry sight they are. Devoid of intelligence, compassion and culture, they are the templates of the vacuous, Me-Me, gimme everything for nothing generation that haunts Britain's youth. How on earth are they going to feel when they see their behaviour? The prospect of these vain little creatures, with their bolser wood characters, coming out to the baying crowd hardly bears thinking about. But maybe their ilk will be in the majority and they will be cheered. God help us if they are. Whatever happens it will be compulsive – and uncomfortable - viewing.
I feel slightly ashamed that I will now almost certainly be tuning in to Big Brother. Am I just standing in the playground circle with the other kids shouting, Fight, fight, fight? Maybe, but not exactly. My excuse is that this is now part of a wider debate and news story and I am a journalist. I believe that Jade and Big Brother have inadvertently revealed a dark and powerful heart of racism that beats silently, but ever more strongly, across Britain today.
Personally, I hope that I will be watching the end of Jade Goody’s ill-gotten fame some time very soon, but, most of all, I hope we will also be seeing the death throes of Big Brother and its perverse, spiteful sport.
One thing is for sure – I think the time is now right to sell off a piece of memorabilia I came across while clearing out my loft. I found the original Channel 4 press pack from the opening day of the first Big Brother house. I walked through that building in 2000 and wondered what on earth this programme would be like. I didn't much like the idea of it then, and I have hated it since. Rev-up the bulldozers. And Ebay here I come!
I have traditionally hated BB. I don’t watch it, apart from the odd dip in, like watching my old friend (well, 53!) Carole Malone make her dignified exit. But generally, I don’t watch because I don’t like the way BB makes me feel; it’s all that voyeurism, all those posers, idiots, and all that boredom. I get enough of that interviewing celebrities, so I choose to slump in front of equally crass TV on the other channels.
But as of last night, I’m now in da House, sadly hooked. The publicity about the race row suckered me in like a Two-For-One sticker in a supermarket. After watching an early screening of The Last King of Scotland (a tour de force from Forest Whitaker) I got home quickly because BB was in my mind. Not a nice feeling. I flicked on the TV and hit the moment it all kicked off. Most fans have spent countless hours scavenging for little highs from this series, but I suddenly main-lined neat reality TV heroin. It made me feel instantly sick. Seriously, it disturbed me.
Jade Goody is a snarling, foul-mouthed, tragically ignorant bitch, of that there is no doubt. I thought that long before last night. Honestly. I have been appalled by the heights of fame, media coverage and financial success she has been awarded. Er, for WHAT? Now, I believe, all that has gone for her. Oh, goody. Her true colours – blue aired and misty red with bilious rage – have been shown. The lovable, daft clown is really a volatile, vindictive vixen with deep-rooted bitterness in her veins and an enormous chip on her shoulder. She is a big, bad bully. And, yes, I believe she is racist, whether overtly or covertly. Her line of racism is probably based on pig ignorance, rather than the seething hate you see in a tattooed skinhead gobbing his way down Welling high street. What perfume manufacturer, TV production company, or any other product would want to be associated with Jade now? (That said, she might get the Iceland telly ad contract from the belching drug-mum Kerry Katona. They’re clearly not fussy.) The newspapers will love her until she has done her exit buy up, and she'll get another book deal, but little else.
There will be a certain poetic justice if this is indeed the end of the Jade show. Live by the plastic vanity sword of reality TV fame, then die by it. I have little sympathy, but I do feel distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of the world watching her unravel even more in the programmes ahead. She may be a veteran of the House but she must be unaware of the scale of the outrage focused on her. How can she be allowed to continue on this racist collision course? Big Brother must step in, illuminate her ways and give her the chance to save herself, although I doubt she has the brain or maturity to undo what has been done.
Watching Jade’s assault on Shilpa made me shudder and squirm. She was scary, unhinged, but the people I felt a real loathing for were her sniggering co-bitches Jo and Danielle. They are the worst type, the cowardly stirrers beside the bullies, mixing it from the sidelines, vicariously soaking up the thrill of confrontation without personal risk. Looking at those three girls, I felt a real sadness. They are products of the swearing, liquor swilling ladette explosion of the ‘90s and what a sorry sight they are. Devoid of intelligence, compassion and culture, they are the templates of the vacuous, Me-Me, gimme everything for nothing generation that haunts Britain's youth. How on earth are they going to feel when they see their behaviour? The prospect of these vain little creatures, with their bolser wood characters, coming out to the baying crowd hardly bears thinking about. But maybe their ilk will be in the majority and they will be cheered. God help us if they are. Whatever happens it will be compulsive – and uncomfortable - viewing.
I feel slightly ashamed that I will now almost certainly be tuning in to Big Brother. Am I just standing in the playground circle with the other kids shouting, Fight, fight, fight? Maybe, but not exactly. My excuse is that this is now part of a wider debate and news story and I am a journalist. I believe that Jade and Big Brother have inadvertently revealed a dark and powerful heart of racism that beats silently, but ever more strongly, across Britain today.
Personally, I hope that I will be watching the end of Jade Goody’s ill-gotten fame some time very soon, but, most of all, I hope we will also be seeing the death throes of Big Brother and its perverse, spiteful sport.
One thing is for sure – I think the time is now right to sell off a piece of memorabilia I came across while clearing out my loft. I found the original Channel 4 press pack from the opening day of the first Big Brother house. I walked through that building in 2000 and wondered what on earth this programme would be like. I didn't much like the idea of it then, and I have hated it since. Rev-up the bulldozers. And Ebay here I come!
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
'ello 2007
Yaaawn. Stretch. Creak. Squint. Re-focus. Hello.
So, that was Christmas. What did I do?
Another year over.
Oh no! A new one just begun.
I haven’t got my blogging head fully back on just yet, but I felt I should stop by and, you know, wish everyone I don’t really know a "Happy New Year", whatever that actually means. Consider it mass-market PR, blog-style.
I for one am feeling genuinely positive about 2007. Purely on a personal level, I am expecting powerful, transformative shifts in every aspect of my life. I will be fitter and healthier than ever, professionally more successful and fulfilled, emotionally and romantically blessed. Yes, I am annoyingly bouncy with watery-eyed optimism for the future. I even have happy hopes for the world.
Ask me again in a week.
So, that was Christmas. What did I do?
Another year over.
Oh no! A new one just begun.
I haven’t got my blogging head fully back on just yet, but I felt I should stop by and, you know, wish everyone I don’t really know a "Happy New Year", whatever that actually means. Consider it mass-market PR, blog-style.
I for one am feeling genuinely positive about 2007. Purely on a personal level, I am expecting powerful, transformative shifts in every aspect of my life. I will be fitter and healthier than ever, professionally more successful and fulfilled, emotionally and romantically blessed. Yes, I am annoyingly bouncy with watery-eyed optimism for the future. I even have happy hopes for the world.
Ask me again in a week.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Le Grand Hotel, Paris
Time for some serious product placement: Le Grand Hotel, Paris. Go and stay there. I spent a few nights with the Artist there recently and it was, well, magnifique. I needed to be there, as opposed to any other hotel, to do some top-up research for a book I am currently re-igniting. Certain key scenes happened there in 1914. Oh, the wilful intrigue of my vagueness.
Le Grand is a big hotel and part of the Intercontinental Hotels Group. It might not be everyone's idea of a romantic Parisian bolthole. There are plenty of bijoux hotels in the 6th, but I always feel a bit uncomfortable in places of limited staffing - you know, when the same face pops up in different areas of the hotel, or the worn out Monsieur on the front desk knows too much about your movements. I need the freedom of anonymity you get in a big hotel to help me switch off.
If you are looking for immaculate, yet understated five star service that is devoid of stuffiness, then you will struggle to do better than Le Grand. The IHG group are currently on a mission to offer a more chilled out first class service across all their hotels. It works here already. The hotel, which is one of the oldest large hotels in Paris, had a major re-fit in 2002, so it is finely spruced throughout. Our room was luxurious and overlooked the Opera House. Recent modern additions to the hotel include a small, but perfectly adequate spa. Despite the lush re-furb, the cosmetic traditions of the hotel's more famous older parts have been preserved. There's the relaxing Winter Garden central atrium, the exquisite Cafe de la Paix with its ornate splendour (what a place for breakfast) and then there is the devine, gilt-mirrored oval ballroom called the Salon Opera. Take your girl for a private waltz here beneath the giant crystal chandelier. This is where Daniel Craig hosted the post-premiere party for James Bond's Casino Royale in November, so if you've got two left feet she can at least close her eyes and think of him.
So, if you are considering a break in Paris, think of Le Grand. If not to stay, then maybe for a meal, or afteroon tea, or a flute of champagne. Or, indeed, a dance. Feel free to mention my name.
Sound Sensors - ******* Censor This!
I cursed out loud when I heard about plans to bring in sound sensitive sensors close circuit surveillance cameras. Give us all effing strength, I thought. I am a big hater of the proliferation of cameras. It is nothing short of insidious and reflects the utter disdain with which the dark powers of our country view us all and our civil liberties. If I wanted to be watched everywhere I went, then I'd sign up for a reality show. I have a deep fear as to where it is all going, or, indeed, has already gone. What are we leaving our children? And don't give me that rubbish defence that cameras stop crime. Were the Ipswich girls protected by being watched by some copper in a watchtower 20 miles away twiddling his joy stick? Or was PC Sharon Beshenivsky, or John Monkton and countless others?
My London borough - Kensington & Chelsea - is currently being legally vandalised with the erection of cameras for the CON-gestion Charge extension which begins in February. Pretty, old, quaint streets are being blighted by these black poles with their sinister little cylindrical eyes. You never ever witness them going up though. I reckon all the work is done over-night, in secret shame.
I will save my full rant about the State sponsored insanity that is this Extension for another time, but for now, I say bring on the Sound Sensor censors. I often walk past a speed camera, or high altitude CCTV lense, or even a bus lane camera, and stick two fingers up to the sky like a demented village idiot. At least the new cameras will get the full value of my venom with the audio because I frequently accompany my pointless salute with the words: "FUCK OFFFFFF!"
My London borough - Kensington & Chelsea - is currently being legally vandalised with the erection of cameras for the CON-gestion Charge extension which begins in February. Pretty, old, quaint streets are being blighted by these black poles with their sinister little cylindrical eyes. You never ever witness them going up though. I reckon all the work is done over-night, in secret shame.
I will save my full rant about the State sponsored insanity that is this Extension for another time, but for now, I say bring on the Sound Sensor censors. I often walk past a speed camera, or high altitude CCTV lense, or even a bus lane camera, and stick two fingers up to the sky like a demented village idiot. At least the new cameras will get the full value of my venom with the audio because I frequently accompany my pointless salute with the words: "FUCK OFFFFFF!"
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Walk The Blog
A wise internet expert lawyer friend called Mark Lloyd told me ages ago that having a blog was like owning a dog. You have to walk it otherwise it looks miserable and unwell. What can I say, I’ve been busy getting on with life on my island, hence the lack of blogging exercise. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it. In fact, there’s too much to write about and I could happily tap away every day, but there’s only so much writing self-indulgence one should consume. However, here’s a potted round up of vignettes, or soggy, one-bite blog canapes I've ben chewing during the past week or so. Think of this as me putting the unfit blog on a lunge and making it sprint a few laps around the office.
THE RAT TRAP: In need of creative solace for various writing ventures that are still in long-term incubation, I headed alone to the Finborough Theatre in Chelsea to witness some actors putting themselves through the mill at the outer limits of the creative world.
Fringe theatre is a sobering leveller for anyone wanting to create something. This is the reality, the kind of place where stuff really begins, once it has exited the painful solitary place of one's head. The Finborough is a small room above a pub with the audience so close they can feel your breath and see the quiver of your veins. Actors are peeled back to the bone in such places and you cannot fail to admire the hideous, personal excavation work they do when you see them up close at a mini crucible like the Finborough. I can almost forgive some of those mad-as-hatters actors I have interviewed over the years for their vainglorious verbiage when I see what they go through. Almost.
The Rat Trap was written by Noel Coward when he was 18 - yes, 18 - in 1918 but was only put on for 12 performances in 1926. It has been revived by director Tim Luscombe. It is a moving and powerful play which follows the turbulent marriage of two writers, their love shredded by imbalanced success.
Whether this play could carry itself on a bigger stage, I do not know, but I was riveted by this production and the performances across the cast. Most notably, the leads by Catherine Hamilton as thwarted novelist Sheila and Gregory Finnegan as the feted playwright Keld. They were superb. There were just 21 of us in the audience and such was the intensity of one of their argument scenes I felt physically uncomfortable, to the point where I felt a sudden auto-defence release of adrenalin, as if protecting myself from their venom.
So, if you are ever in need of an ice cold sluice of creative water, go along to your local fringe. Watch the actors unravel, marvel at their dedication. It is wonderful, almost inspiring. And it is not very often you smell freshly toasted tea cakes props from the stage, or see the steam from tea, or have the lead actress look you square in the eye and smile as you enthusiastically applaud.
TV ROUND UP. THE X-FACTOR: As expected, the winner was Simon Cowell. To slag off the X-Factor is pretty pointless. It would be like standing up in assembly at an infant school this week and lecturing against the commercialisation of Christmas. I have watched only a few episodes of this series – maybe five or six. If you have known Louis Walsh like I have and could control him with a remote control, you too would hit the Off button. I’ve known Cowell a bit, too, and he's great, priceless, so I persevere intermittently just to see him.
The discovery of Leona Lewis is quite something and I think Cowell cannot believe his luck. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for. Now we have a brilliant spin-off reality show: PRODUCER X-FACTOR. Has Cowell really got the talent to make Leona a star?
No excuses now. Even Gary Barlow warned him, so he must be in trouble. Everyone acknowledges that this girl is a supreme singer, but what will Cowell do with her? He has some tough decisions ahead - like what cover versions to give her. Judging by the “original” debut single handed to Leona from the show, I fear the worst. Within one listening I was humming my own chorus:
“Some people watched this show for a lifetime,
For a crap song like this…”
EXTINCT: I felt a shudder of disgust when I saw this show unfold after the X-Factor, not least to discover that Zoe Ball’s TV career was not actually extinct. This was a bad start. Flippancy aside, I felt utter revulsion at the prospect of people voting to keep animals alive. I didn’t get past the first ten minutes - I had endangered species to eat at my local illegal steakhouse – so I am sure it had some worthy intentions. But I can’t help worrying about the message this phone and text voting culture sends out to children. OK, it’s fine for the talent contests, but with wildlife? Surely there is something morally wrong here. I can imagine a scene in 50 years time when the last polar bear is found floating face down in an arctic lagoon as warm as the Caribbean and little Leona from Essex – named after the legendary diva - says: “Well, it ain’t my fault they all died. I voted for them in 2006.”
Over a rare silver back gorilla fillet later that night, I went into a state of reality TV excitement. I suddenly imagined a hybrid show of X-Factor and Extinct. It would be called X-STINKS and you could vote for certain living creatures to be extinct. I'm not a reality show voter by nature but I immediately started multi-texting the word LOUIS.
THE SUFFOLK MURDERS: And I thought the Prime Suspect series had ended recently. I admit, at times, I felt quite ashamed at my acute addiction to News 24 and Sky during the past week. However ghoulish, let’s be honest, it was all so appallingly riveting. Sadly, right now, I don’t have the time to examine the macabre reasoning for that in detail, or indeed all the fascinating aspects of the media coverage that this case has thrown up, especially in light of Tom Stephens' arrest.
However, I must offer up congratulations to the Sunday Mirror and its editor Tina Weaver for their scoop interview with Stephens. It presents a mouth-watering prospect: Tina going round to Andy Coulson’s office at the News of the World to collect his £250,000 reward.
THE RAT TRAP: In need of creative solace for various writing ventures that are still in long-term incubation, I headed alone to the Finborough Theatre in Chelsea to witness some actors putting themselves through the mill at the outer limits of the creative world.
Fringe theatre is a sobering leveller for anyone wanting to create something. This is the reality, the kind of place where stuff really begins, once it has exited the painful solitary place of one's head. The Finborough is a small room above a pub with the audience so close they can feel your breath and see the quiver of your veins. Actors are peeled back to the bone in such places and you cannot fail to admire the hideous, personal excavation work they do when you see them up close at a mini crucible like the Finborough. I can almost forgive some of those mad-as-hatters actors I have interviewed over the years for their vainglorious verbiage when I see what they go through. Almost.
The Rat Trap was written by Noel Coward when he was 18 - yes, 18 - in 1918 but was only put on for 12 performances in 1926. It has been revived by director Tim Luscombe. It is a moving and powerful play which follows the turbulent marriage of two writers, their love shredded by imbalanced success.
Whether this play could carry itself on a bigger stage, I do not know, but I was riveted by this production and the performances across the cast. Most notably, the leads by Catherine Hamilton as thwarted novelist Sheila and Gregory Finnegan as the feted playwright Keld. They were superb. There were just 21 of us in the audience and such was the intensity of one of their argument scenes I felt physically uncomfortable, to the point where I felt a sudden auto-defence release of adrenalin, as if protecting myself from their venom.
So, if you are ever in need of an ice cold sluice of creative water, go along to your local fringe. Watch the actors unravel, marvel at their dedication. It is wonderful, almost inspiring. And it is not very often you smell freshly toasted tea cakes props from the stage, or see the steam from tea, or have the lead actress look you square in the eye and smile as you enthusiastically applaud.
TV ROUND UP. THE X-FACTOR: As expected, the winner was Simon Cowell. To slag off the X-Factor is pretty pointless. It would be like standing up in assembly at an infant school this week and lecturing against the commercialisation of Christmas. I have watched only a few episodes of this series – maybe five or six. If you have known Louis Walsh like I have and could control him with a remote control, you too would hit the Off button. I’ve known Cowell a bit, too, and he's great, priceless, so I persevere intermittently just to see him.
The discovery of Leona Lewis is quite something and I think Cowell cannot believe his luck. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for. Now we have a brilliant spin-off reality show: PRODUCER X-FACTOR. Has Cowell really got the talent to make Leona a star?
No excuses now. Even Gary Barlow warned him, so he must be in trouble. Everyone acknowledges that this girl is a supreme singer, but what will Cowell do with her? He has some tough decisions ahead - like what cover versions to give her. Judging by the “original” debut single handed to Leona from the show, I fear the worst. Within one listening I was humming my own chorus:
“Some people watched this show for a lifetime,
For a crap song like this…”
EXTINCT: I felt a shudder of disgust when I saw this show unfold after the X-Factor, not least to discover that Zoe Ball’s TV career was not actually extinct. This was a bad start. Flippancy aside, I felt utter revulsion at the prospect of people voting to keep animals alive. I didn’t get past the first ten minutes - I had endangered species to eat at my local illegal steakhouse – so I am sure it had some worthy intentions. But I can’t help worrying about the message this phone and text voting culture sends out to children. OK, it’s fine for the talent contests, but with wildlife? Surely there is something morally wrong here. I can imagine a scene in 50 years time when the last polar bear is found floating face down in an arctic lagoon as warm as the Caribbean and little Leona from Essex – named after the legendary diva - says: “Well, it ain’t my fault they all died. I voted for them in 2006.”
Over a rare silver back gorilla fillet later that night, I went into a state of reality TV excitement. I suddenly imagined a hybrid show of X-Factor and Extinct. It would be called X-STINKS and you could vote for certain living creatures to be extinct. I'm not a reality show voter by nature but I immediately started multi-texting the word LOUIS.
THE SUFFOLK MURDERS: And I thought the Prime Suspect series had ended recently. I admit, at times, I felt quite ashamed at my acute addiction to News 24 and Sky during the past week. However ghoulish, let’s be honest, it was all so appallingly riveting. Sadly, right now, I don’t have the time to examine the macabre reasoning for that in detail, or indeed all the fascinating aspects of the media coverage that this case has thrown up, especially in light of Tom Stephens' arrest.
However, I must offer up congratulations to the Sunday Mirror and its editor Tina Weaver for their scoop interview with Stephens. It presents a mouth-watering prospect: Tina going round to Andy Coulson’s office at the News of the World to collect his £250,000 reward.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Camera Diaz
I've just flipped through the multi-scented January edition of GQ and alighted on the Cameron Diaz beach photo shoot by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott. Styled and dyed within an inch of her recogniseable, natural self, she cuts quite a figure in the sand and surf. I only write because I am perplexed by the shot on Page 179 with her in a see-through shirt, the sunlight casting a Ready Brek glow around her right breast. Is it an unwanted truth-telling trick of the light, or a printing error, or is she proudly showing off her boob job scar. Maybe she is very open about all this, I don't know. Or maybe they simply ran out of puff for the airbrush.
Bond. Plugger Bond.
I finally caught up with Casino Royale yesterday. I had some dead time, needed to veg’, and wanted to see it for myself. Call me a victim of hype. Quite what keeps me going back to James Bond all these years on, I don’t know. As with most blokes of my era, my childhood threaded through the Connery/Moore transition. Quite a golden thread to have in your life. But I’m not a Bond-buff with box sets and vintage posters, although I do still have the signed picture from Roger after I visited The Spy Who Loved Me set at Pinewood in, I think, 1976. I saw the submarines, the car, some filming, the lot. And then big Rog, in a black polo neck jumper, smoking a long cigar, came over for a chat. It was quite a day, which easily secured another 20 years of Bond interest.
I thought I was finally over it all after those awful, bouffant Pierce Brosnan vanity walks, but I still went back to see Daniel Craig. Keeping tabs on Bond is a bit like keeping in touch with an old friend, no matter how far the friendship has drifted. Things are nowhere near the same, but it’s good to see how he’s getting on.
And, clearly, Bond is getting on well. It seems churlish to criticise it. I've always liked Craig. A fine actor, marvellous in Layer Cake, and yes, he delivers on all the fronts required in Bond – no mean feat, bravo – but doesn’t he pout a lot and sounds so dry-mouthed you want to give him some water. And does anyone else think he over-did the weights and protein? And wasn't that switch from Venice to the interior set tragically, unbelievably obvious. Who did the lighting there, eh? And, didn't that card scene go on beyond all belief - what were they playing, group patience? And... oh shut up, it's a Bond film, it doesn't matter, it was fine. Thanks to Craig, the “franchise” (highly irritating word) is in good shape and is better stripped back from all the gimmicks. But blimey didn’t it go on? With the amount of blokes piling into the loo afterwards, I thought I was in for a tear up like the scene when Bond-baby gets his double “O” just so I could have a double “P”.
The trouble with Bond is that it has to be everywhere to succeed. Bill-boards, bus shelters, mag covers, newspaper giveaways, TV trailers, making-of documentaries. I’d seen the best bits and was sick of it before I sat in the darkness. Bond marketing is so highly pumped it is as if you are beaten into submission - rather like in a protracted Bond fight scene - until you go. I went to Paris for a weekend with the Artist the other week and Bond had even taken over our hotel – The Grand – for the post-premiere party. It is impossible to get away from it. Craig walked by me, pouting, in a grey suit, and thought, I’d ‘ave him, no bother. I'd have glassed him with my craftily acquired flute of Bolly, then clubbed mercilessly with my steel NHS crtuch.
If there is one thing I have learnt from Bond, it is to be utterly shameless in the pursuit of off-setting costs by blatant product-placement. Hotels, airlines, cars, watches, lap-tops, mobile phones, clothes, they all get blatant banner positioning in the Casino Royale banker. Hence, from now on, I’m going full out for brand connection in my life, so don’t be surprised when you next hear from me that I am sipping a glass of Krug while posting from my 118 Wally powerboat.
If it’s good enough for Bond, it’s good enough for me.
I thought I was finally over it all after those awful, bouffant Pierce Brosnan vanity walks, but I still went back to see Daniel Craig. Keeping tabs on Bond is a bit like keeping in touch with an old friend, no matter how far the friendship has drifted. Things are nowhere near the same, but it’s good to see how he’s getting on.
And, clearly, Bond is getting on well. It seems churlish to criticise it. I've always liked Craig. A fine actor, marvellous in Layer Cake, and yes, he delivers on all the fronts required in Bond – no mean feat, bravo – but doesn’t he pout a lot and sounds so dry-mouthed you want to give him some water. And does anyone else think he over-did the weights and protein? And wasn't that switch from Venice to the interior set tragically, unbelievably obvious. Who did the lighting there, eh? And, didn't that card scene go on beyond all belief - what were they playing, group patience? And... oh shut up, it's a Bond film, it doesn't matter, it was fine. Thanks to Craig, the “franchise” (highly irritating word) is in good shape and is better stripped back from all the gimmicks. But blimey didn’t it go on? With the amount of blokes piling into the loo afterwards, I thought I was in for a tear up like the scene when Bond-baby gets his double “O” just so I could have a double “P”.
The trouble with Bond is that it has to be everywhere to succeed. Bill-boards, bus shelters, mag covers, newspaper giveaways, TV trailers, making-of documentaries. I’d seen the best bits and was sick of it before I sat in the darkness. Bond marketing is so highly pumped it is as if you are beaten into submission - rather like in a protracted Bond fight scene - until you go. I went to Paris for a weekend with the Artist the other week and Bond had even taken over our hotel – The Grand – for the post-premiere party. It is impossible to get away from it. Craig walked by me, pouting, in a grey suit, and thought, I’d ‘ave him, no bother. I'd have glassed him with my craftily acquired flute of Bolly, then clubbed mercilessly with my steel NHS crtuch.
If there is one thing I have learnt from Bond, it is to be utterly shameless in the pursuit of off-setting costs by blatant product-placement. Hotels, airlines, cars, watches, lap-tops, mobile phones, clothes, they all get blatant banner positioning in the Casino Royale banker. Hence, from now on, I’m going full out for brand connection in my life, so don’t be surprised when you next hear from me that I am sipping a glass of Krug while posting from my 118 Wally powerboat.
If it’s good enough for Bond, it’s good enough for me.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Press Gazette Lives!
Last Friday: The mobile goes while I’m on the M4 without a hands free set (please don’t tell). It’s Press Gazette. I nearly drive across three lanes to the Next Life exit. “But you died,” I say. “I wrote a sad farewell with TS Eliot and everything. I saw the hearse. A voice from beyond the grave, this can’t be so?”
But it was. Tony Loynes and the publishing company called Wilmington started banging on the coffin lid as PG was lowered into the ground and out it lurched. (Best I put us all out of the misery of this death analogy). OK. This company has bought the magazine and plan to publish this week. It is wonderful news, but talk about drama and leaving it all a bit late. I don’t understand. The editor and all the staff have collected their P45s and many of the key contributors have been, well, hacked off, but let’s not go over old ground. It is almost as if Mr Loynes and his team are having to re-launch the magazine from a standing start. Such a scenario seems crazy and unnecessarily difficult.
Mr Loynes wants me to continue the “Press Conference” interviews and we are going to talk again. Who knows how it can pan out for Press Gazette. A ruthless reduction in staffing and costs will help the accounts in the short term, but it will need decent news and features if it is to grow and continue to appeal to the most discerning readership you can imagine. However, it is the very nature of this readership that, in my brilliant opinion, is PG’s greatest asset and hope.
I only managed to blag all those big names to talk to PG because I believed in the unique demographic of the readership. I billed it in various mutations of breathless hyperbole along the lines of “the most powerful magazine readership in the whole world”. Seriously. A stream of PRs, managers and agents, from Tom Cruise's people down, got the hairdryer treatment from me as to why their client MUST appear in one of the smallest circulation magazines on Earth. I have to laugh when I think of some of the people I tried to get to. The Dalai Lama anyone?! But you can sell something if you genuinely believe in it. And a similar belief is what the new owners need to have.
Press Gazette has something special in its readership, but that readership is disappearing. So, there is a tough task ahead. Now that Wilmington has bought the magazine, they need to SELL it to the media world, so that in turn it will be bought. Only then can it have a healthy and prosperous new life. Welcome back.
But it was. Tony Loynes and the publishing company called Wilmington started banging on the coffin lid as PG was lowered into the ground and out it lurched. (Best I put us all out of the misery of this death analogy). OK. This company has bought the magazine and plan to publish this week. It is wonderful news, but talk about drama and leaving it all a bit late. I don’t understand. The editor and all the staff have collected their P45s and many of the key contributors have been, well, hacked off, but let’s not go over old ground. It is almost as if Mr Loynes and his team are having to re-launch the magazine from a standing start. Such a scenario seems crazy and unnecessarily difficult.
Mr Loynes wants me to continue the “Press Conference” interviews and we are going to talk again. Who knows how it can pan out for Press Gazette. A ruthless reduction in staffing and costs will help the accounts in the short term, but it will need decent news and features if it is to grow and continue to appeal to the most discerning readership you can imagine. However, it is the very nature of this readership that, in my brilliant opinion, is PG’s greatest asset and hope.
I only managed to blag all those big names to talk to PG because I believed in the unique demographic of the readership. I billed it in various mutations of breathless hyperbole along the lines of “the most powerful magazine readership in the whole world”. Seriously. A stream of PRs, managers and agents, from Tom Cruise's people down, got the hairdryer treatment from me as to why their client MUST appear in one of the smallest circulation magazines on Earth. I have to laugh when I think of some of the people I tried to get to. The Dalai Lama anyone?! But you can sell something if you genuinely believe in it. And a similar belief is what the new owners need to have.
Press Gazette has something special in its readership, but that readership is disappearing. So, there is a tough task ahead. Now that Wilmington has bought the magazine, they need to SELL it to the media world, so that in turn it will be bought. Only then can it have a healthy and prosperous new life. Welcome back.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Duran Durankle
I feel obliged to reveal the answer to a minor mystery laid down in the archive of this blog with more cunning suspense than anything Dan Brown could conjure up: the subject(s) of the interview that took me on a Jalfreizi jet to New York and, ultimately, to casualty and a month on crutches. Please carefully put down all fragile objects, the Phew! moment is here. It was Duran Duran.
The interview will run this weekend in the “Live” (as in LIVE each day, not perform LIVE!) magazine supplement of the Mail On Sunday. It was a decent interview - or “talk” as they/we say in the trade, with a good “line (angle) – which is them talking about the sudden departure of guitarist Andy Taylor.
They're a pretty good bunch to meet. Very normal, gracious, grounded, a laugh. They’ve been there and done it all and got out alive. By “it” I mean everything – the girls, the drugs, the booze, the fame. They are all in their mid-forties now, but they are still doing it - although without the substance support. Good on them. Their energy and indestructible desire for it all is quite remarkable and, no matter your musical taste, their back catalogue is impressive.
I had a drink and a chat with Simon Le Bon at Carina Round’s gig later that day. I reminded him that we had met years earlier - 1992/3’ish, I think. (“Hey, Rob, it's you! Have you done any good comebacks since then?" Numerous). Naturally, he didn’t remember and I wouldn’t have bothered if we hadn’t met at a slightly memorable event, rather than, say, a quick Hi at a party. No, I met Simon on one of my all-time favourite fantasy writing jobs that turned to mush in the face of cold-stone reality. And I've had a few.
Hello! and Autocar magazines asked me if I wanted to cover the inaugral London to Venice race of luxury super cars against the Orient Express. What a gig, yes of course. Imagine it - me, in a Ferrari or an Aston, hurtling across Europe, a babe taking notes for me in the passenger seat. Champagne and a masked Venetian ball on arrival, followed by a chilled out return trip on the Orient Express to rock my hangover away. I’ll murder to do this job.
I turned up at Victoria Station for the gala send off. The train was there in all its romantic Pullman splendour and the cars looked, well, amazing, and I’m not even a petrol head. Consider, if you will, my surprise when the race began and I was still on the platform with my photographer. When the fumes eventually dispersed, we were led to a silver Renault Espace, our home for the next 20-odd hours with other hangers on. Surely some mistake? No. Our vehicle was driven by a chain-smoking lunatic who was having a great time being “involved” in such a glamorous event. I'm not involved in anything, I thought, I'm in a van with you, you nutcase. I'm involved in misery. He insisted on playing Salt ‘n’ Pepper’s ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ at full blast every time the party mood slackened. I had bus fever before we got past Maidstone.
Anyway, Venice in October was deserted, freezing and wonderful. We made it in time – only bloody JUST! - to attend the big party at the Cipriani. My solo glide across the lagoon on the hotel’s wooden Riva* was worth every fist-clenching, tooth-grinding hour on the road. Well, just about. I remember chatting with Simon that night. He had won the race in a red Diablo and was very happy. He smooched the party away with Yasmin before slipping back to their suite to rest his aching ankles from all that pedal pumping. The Diablo is a tiring drive. Me, on the other hand, had a sleepless night in a twin room in what amounted to a hostel for the homeless with the photographer snoring like a sick pig. Then it was back into the no-Effingspace. Now that's what I call rock 'n' roll.
*Le Bon told me he owns a Riva.
The interview will run this weekend in the “Live” (as in LIVE each day, not perform LIVE!) magazine supplement of the Mail On Sunday. It was a decent interview - or “talk” as they/we say in the trade, with a good “line (angle) – which is them talking about the sudden departure of guitarist Andy Taylor.
They're a pretty good bunch to meet. Very normal, gracious, grounded, a laugh. They’ve been there and done it all and got out alive. By “it” I mean everything – the girls, the drugs, the booze, the fame. They are all in their mid-forties now, but they are still doing it - although without the substance support. Good on them. Their energy and indestructible desire for it all is quite remarkable and, no matter your musical taste, their back catalogue is impressive.
I had a drink and a chat with Simon Le Bon at Carina Round’s gig later that day. I reminded him that we had met years earlier - 1992/3’ish, I think. (“Hey, Rob, it's you! Have you done any good comebacks since then?" Numerous). Naturally, he didn’t remember and I wouldn’t have bothered if we hadn’t met at a slightly memorable event, rather than, say, a quick Hi at a party. No, I met Simon on one of my all-time favourite fantasy writing jobs that turned to mush in the face of cold-stone reality. And I've had a few.
Hello! and Autocar magazines asked me if I wanted to cover the inaugral London to Venice race of luxury super cars against the Orient Express. What a gig, yes of course. Imagine it - me, in a Ferrari or an Aston, hurtling across Europe, a babe taking notes for me in the passenger seat. Champagne and a masked Venetian ball on arrival, followed by a chilled out return trip on the Orient Express to rock my hangover away. I’ll murder to do this job.
I turned up at Victoria Station for the gala send off. The train was there in all its romantic Pullman splendour and the cars looked, well, amazing, and I’m not even a petrol head. Consider, if you will, my surprise when the race began and I was still on the platform with my photographer. When the fumes eventually dispersed, we were led to a silver Renault Espace, our home for the next 20-odd hours with other hangers on. Surely some mistake? No. Our vehicle was driven by a chain-smoking lunatic who was having a great time being “involved” in such a glamorous event. I'm not involved in anything, I thought, I'm in a van with you, you nutcase. I'm involved in misery. He insisted on playing Salt ‘n’ Pepper’s ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ at full blast every time the party mood slackened. I had bus fever before we got past Maidstone.
Anyway, Venice in October was deserted, freezing and wonderful. We made it in time – only bloody JUST! - to attend the big party at the Cipriani. My solo glide across the lagoon on the hotel’s wooden Riva* was worth every fist-clenching, tooth-grinding hour on the road. Well, just about. I remember chatting with Simon that night. He had won the race in a red Diablo and was very happy. He smooched the party away with Yasmin before slipping back to their suite to rest his aching ankles from all that pedal pumping. The Diablo is a tiring drive. Me, on the other hand, had a sleepless night in a twin room in what amounted to a hostel for the homeless with the photographer snoring like a sick pig. Then it was back into the no-Effingspace. Now that's what I call rock 'n' roll.
*Le Bon told me he owns a Riva.
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A line about me...
- ROB McGIBBON
- Journalist, founder of Access Interviews.com, creator of The Definite Article interview column in Daily Mail's Weekend magazine.