Much a bow about bowing

After his recent Asia trip, there's been a lot made and much brouhaha (at least in the US) about this display of Obama simply following international protocol and offering a formal bow to Japan's Emperor Akihito. Critics claimed the sign of deference went against US State Department protocol, which decrees, somewhat arrogantly, that presidents bow to no one.

I just see it as Obama acknowledging a man wearing a superiorly tailored suit - no doubt Saville Row of London.

Much a bow about bowing

Z-list "slebs" on 'Reality TV': a rant

Now how on earth did I missed this...?

Jordan: apparently every inch the equal of Neil Armstrong and Amelia Earhart...

For those of you reading who may not have heard of her, Jordan is a pneumatically-titted UK 'glamour model' with [purely ghost-written] literary pretensions - think Anna Nicole Smith, but without the MENSA credentials, talent or social grace, and you'll be in right neighbourhood.

There are other differences, of course.

Whereas you or I might have our car serviced every 10,000 miles or so, instead, she has another breast augmentation done, to her existing G-cup, at one of the many drive-thru von Zeppelin Maintenance Depots in LA - a habit now second only to her penchant for Botox touch-ups, collagen abuse and cosmetic surgery on those finicky bits behind the ears which no one else sees any way. They've even invented a genre and styling for her: 'Chav Chic'; and one to which Julie Burchill has duly managed to rattle-off a dozen tomes in praise. Mind you, our Julie knows about these things; what with her living in the tortured ghettos and mean streets of leafy Brighton & Hove...

So what's wrong with Jordan?

To the extent that she's made her entire reputation by selling her near-dirigible breasts as the sole reason to notice her, I guess nothing. It's hardly a new method of self-promotion, is it?

No. The reason I mention her is that she's emblematic of all that is tragically samey and predictably uninspiring about the cheap populist, mass-produced and celeb-obsessed dross which has become the mainstay, and chief output, of UK commercial television; with it's stockpile of otherwise arresting titles like 'Celebrity Wife Re-grouting', 'Celebrity Goat Husbandry', 'Dancing with Celebrity G-Spots on Ice', 'Celebrity My Left Testicle Plays a Gershwin Medley Whilst Doing The Ironing' (actually, that would be one for which I'd stay in and watch), and other, seemingly endless talent-free fare.

The depressing thing is, it is precisely that: endless; cheap to make and easy to sell to advertisers; with a ready and ever eager slew of viewers who've an apparently bottomless appetite for just about any old tat to which a 'reality' claim can be slapped. Couple that with a herd of 'slebs' so unassumingly famous that they've managed to remain under my radar for the duration of their entire careers and you've apparently the recipe for a 13 week fan-doting TV series. Or is that just a long-winded way of saying 'lowest common denominator TV'?

But let's be honest for a minute - just how 'real' is so-called 'Reality TV', anyway - when, in reality, hardly any of it so much as skirts the circumference of being real. Should we have a quick think...? Hmmmm...?

Well, unless you've either undergone SAS selection, or unfortunate enough to have been captured by the Khmer Rouge during the murderous reign of Pol Pot, when was the last time your life got so 'real' that you were gagged and bound, like some willing dominatrix fodder, before being nailed to a board, suspended beneath a helicopter, and then dragged upside-down through a crocodile-infested swamp in a jungle, whilst being force-fed worms and other items not normally found on a Michelin-starred menu? In all likelihood, probably never, right? In which case, surely there's a potential breach of the Trades Descriptions Act in that 'reality' claim somewhere?

Are there exceptions to the rule? I'd be lying if I said no.

I'll confess I'm one of those folks who enjoys watching annoying Z-list "slebs" make utter arses of themselves for the viewing masses; and all for the chance to reboot their all-but-moribund (otherwise they wouldn't be on the show in the first place) careers. If forced, I can watch it for, ooh... minutes, as this is the only time in their fleeting careers when we're ever, in all seriousness, going to get the chance to see them as they really are: warts and all, sans make-up, and without their standing coterie of fawning Green Room-gofers.

Do I love seeing the expression on their faces change after being told that they can't have their own way? That they're not going to get any hot food for the next two days as a result of making a complete jakes of the tasks needed to win food-stuffs? Seeing them so paranoid because - heaven forfend - someone else in camp was "talking about me!"? And then, after only 20 minutes of being 'on set', on the first day, sat round a log fire, treating each other to their back-of-a-cereal-box cod-psychology & rhetorical mantras about "we've just got to remain positive, innit?", whilst giving each other pep-talks on the only jungle survival techniques their brains have managed to retain from the rushed briefing given to them by the programme's Production Assistant, only 15 minutes before being cast to nature's elements?


Do I love it? Hell yeah!

And now, after having already completed one tour-of-booty on the show in 2004, Jordan, whose breasts are so large they've been allowed their own post (zip) code and require their own seat when flying, embarks on her second course of "I'm a Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here!" in the Australian jungle; the same place she met her now former husband, Peter Andre.

So I'm wondering, in signing the contracts for appearing, whether she'll insist on a pre-emptive prenuptial divorce clause, prior to meeting any of the male members of the cast? Let's face it, it'll save time. Mind you, she's not really looking her best these days, after all 'the work' she's had done - no doubt it's a different kettle of fish for any potential jungle husband to see his bride-to-be without any of her usual caked-on warpaint and looking like a sulking Ethel Merman most of the day. I reckon it may just dampen their ardour a touch and see her leaving the show without a husband! What will Hello! magazine spend its budget on?! They've nothing in the diary, wedding-wise, until one of David and Victoria Beckham's kids ties the knot!

There is an upside, though. The prospect of seeing another series of this starve-a-sleb on commercial TV makes me eternally grateful that I can now Sky+* the entire thing (is that a bona fide verb yet?): record it and then fast-forward through as much of this full-contact adult-crèche thing as I like, missing all those damned adverts (*for North American readers, think TiVo)! Happy days!

Things are looking up already!

Now, about that show where a left testicle plays Gershwin whilst doing the ironing...?

Z-list "slebs" on 'Reality TV': a rant

Britain is European capital for "legal highs"

Given this year's remorseless bad news of famine, floods, Christmas being outsourced to Sarah Palins' pre-emptively-divorced-son-in-law, and the ban on dwarf-tossing coming into effect, I was more than a wee bit surprised to read this piece of news: Britain is European capital for "legal highs"

Of course part of the beauty of living in the UK is that we don't have a written constitution - apparently we've been around since way before they were either invented or became an optional extra, you know, a bit like an electric sunroof, or bullet-proof body armour for British soldiers. This allows us to interpret reasonably freely what does and doesn't suit us in terms of rules; and certainly without all the rigmarole of having to seek, and then argue about, endless "amendments" to it, as is the national blight of our US cousins, and their best friends: the French.

The theory here basically works thus: unless it's specifically illegal, it's legal. Happy days. That's the kind of simpleton's reasoning I can get behind.

But then I thought, unlike in the article, surely there must be other methods of achieving a 'high' than downing a bunch of chemical substances and mind-altering drugs?

So, with that firmly in mind, I'd like to suggest five (non-substance abuse) additions to the existing list of 'legal highs', apparently so frowned upon by our European neighbours.

1. Politician Baiting: whilst horse racing is the sport of kings, here's a sport the common man can embrace and in which he can excel. The rules are simple: if you see a politician in the street, or in his car, merely stand in front of him and refuse to budge - forcing them to lose their temper and then push you over, the more violently, the better. Duly assaulted, you sue them for every penny they're worth, thus losing them their job, thus preventing them from claiming any more fraudulent expenses - so in effect, you're doing both a national service, and allowing them to cleanse their souls of all previous crimes and misdemeanours; thus allowing them to be at peace with themselves. Win/win.

2. No-penalty Suddenly-acquired Amnesia: again, the rules to this game are straightforward, whilst allowing for individual interpretation (with extra points being available for ingenuity and guile). The point of this game is to get yourself into the most precarious situation you can (the more potentially lethal, the better the 'high'), before declaring at the top of your lungs, "How did I get here?! I don't remember anything! I do hope I've not offended anyone?!" It can be a hugely enjoyable jaunt this one, but I've yet to see anyone beat my current record of driving a motorcycle, naked (except for my backside painted baboon-red) and whilst drinking from a bottle of single malt, around the checkouts of three different Wal-Marts, before then finishing in each by doing a wheelie into the women's clothes section and then skidding to halt just next to potted meats aisle - all on the same Saturday afternoon.

3. Become a Circumstance Denier: whilst some forms of being a 'denier' will land you in prison (as it's becoming increasingly perilous, if not downright illegal, to be found in possession of certain opinions, no matter how bizarre or unsupportable), you can avoid a lengthy jail sentence and get away with either being turfed-out on your ear by the proprietor, or a police caution at worst, by dining in any fine restaurant in London, and then declaring that you were completely unaware that the food there wasn't free of charge! All proof to the contrary (i.e. the menu) can be further and summarily denied also. If the police or proprietor do push it, simply tilt your head at a coquettish angle and demand to see the cheese trolley, and then inform them that you'll gladly pay if they can produce some mildly-chived wombat's cheese. NB: a ready standby alternative here is to walk into Home Depot, claim to be an undercover policeman, and tell them that you'll have to impound their entire stock inventory, as it's all reportedly stolen property and will need to be "dusted for prints".

4. Go around selling 'protection' to policemen: rather self-explanatory this one - simply find two policemen walking the beat (although granted, nowadays these are as rare as hen's teeth, Swiss admirals and Chinese chefs with naturally ginger Afros) and try and sell them the concept that they will "come to no harm on this beat" if they hand over £250,000 a month to you. This one can end up with you being sectioned under the Mental Health Act, so be careful and try and remain cool in your deliberations with them. If all else fails, run!

5. Become 'The Messiah': here's your opportunity to prove the link between having more money than sense and being a irretrievably gullible idiot. Given how many people in the movie business follow The Church of MindFuck Scientology, this one will win you immediate celebrity status, as you do battle with Tom Cruise, John Travolta et al, as you walk into their London HQ and claim to be L Ron Hubbard come back to "see how it's all going". Cruise likes to think he's still got his John Woo moves, but in reality, he's getting slow and flabby. Go for his knees and, if that fails, tell him that you've reached a higher "auditing plane" than him; this will have the immediate effect of him calling his agent and demanding to know why he wasn't told that there existed anyone on the planet on a higher level than he.

Britain is European capital for "legal highs"