A seasick spoodle on the Norfolk Broads

Having lived within a stones throw of the Norfolk Broads for a year and not ventured down there,  we decided at the end  of the school holidays to throw caution to the wind and turn our hand to sailing. When I say ‘sailing’ I do of course mean rent a small boat and trundle along the river at 5 mph, but in our rather nautically challenged family, that’s as close to proper sailing as we’re ever likely to get.

Not wanting to leave Charlie at home alone for the day, he was duly packed into the car along with far too many sandwiches, a flask of green tea, 4 large bottles of water, a bird book, binoculars, a picnic rug, spare jumpers and several rain coats. I think subconsciously I was preparing for all possible worse case scenarios, including being swept away in a freak squall and left stranded far from civilisation on a floating polar ice cap. Surrounded by a flock of incredibly tiny unidentifiable birds.

Considering the average temperature last summer just about managed to reach ‘tepid degrees’, it was rather lucky for us that the day in question turned out to be the hottest we’d had since Spring. Perfect weather for messing about the river in fact, but rather too hot (as we soon found out) for four people dressed to keep warm with just one child-sized sun hat between them.

Arriving at the river we discovered one rather unsettling fact about sailing on the Broads: they really will hire out a boat to just about anyone who turns up and pays. Including, it appears, a family with not one ounce of river-going know-how between them. How scary for the water fowl indeed.

He looked nervous when approaching the boat, clueless when it came to mastering the controls and positively panic-stricken when untied and told we were free to go.  In fact, I believe our last words to the man in charge were “But what happens if we hit something?”  Of course he laughed.  Fool, little did he know.

Once we’d successfully navigated our way out through the waterways and onto the river we were relieved to find out that steering a boat is much like riding a bike. My son donned his full pirate outfit within minutes of setting off and both kids were in their element as they took it in turns at the wheel. The final member of our party however wasn’t quite so happy; he was clearly having difficulty finding his sea legs. Which does of course raise the question of why old sailors are often referred to as ‘Sea Dogs’.

Having been incredibly tentative about setting a paw onboard, Charlie became even less enamoured with the whole idea as we headed off down river. He whined at the passing boats, barked at every passing duck and positively howled when a swan dared flap nearby. And then, as if to really drive his point home, he pooed all over the floor. In lots of little brown, liquidity puddles. It’s amazing how fast doggy diarrhoea spreads when travelling across an uneven surface. And how much it smells when out in the fresh air. And how many wet wipes are required to mop up the mess.

Feeling rather sorry for himself (and possibly embarrassed) pooch took himself off to the back of the boat, laid on the cushion and peered rather gloomily over into the water. Every so often he looked our way with a hangdog expression that clearly said: ‘I didn’t ask to be brought along on this bloody boat you know’.

Forward onto the return journey – after a semi-successful mooring for lunch and the only sun hat somehow making its way into the water – and all seemed to be going fine. So fine in fact that my daughter was now in charge of steering the boat and both responsible adults were sat at the back, feet up, admiring the view and drinking a cup of tea.

Well when I say all was fine, I mean except for that small incident when my husbands (very expensive) sunglasses somehow took it upon themselves to leap from his face, onto the canvas awning and into the murky depths of the river. I would have been more surprised at this rather unfortunate happening, but the memory of him managing to dropping our camera (with a weeks worth of holiday snaps) into Sydney Harbour the last time we were on water is still fairly fresh in my mind.

Approaching the narrowing waterways as we came into land/park/moor up, my husband thought it wise to take control of the boat, so sent my daughter back to sit with the sea-sick dog. Suddenly Charlie’s bowels opened more, this time all over the cushion and then, as he was pushed off that, all over the floor of the boat. He then skidded around in it a bit and tried to clamber back on the cushion, trailing the mess from all 4 paws and rather matted, manky looking tail. This led to a rather rapid chain of events that involved my daughter letting out a squeal of horror and disgust, my husband turning around to see what the hell was going on, the boat banging straight into the side of the river, me flying backwards inside of the cabin and my son falling head first off the seat. It wasn’t the best 15 seconds of the trip it has to be said.

It took a fair few minutes to take stock, mop up, scrub the dog and rectify the damage – all with the few remaining wet wipes. It took quite a few minutes more before my husband managed to prise our boat off the wall … and straight into the path of another, much larger boat that was speeding towards us on our side of the river. To say it got a little bit tense would be an understatement, especially when I didn’t immediately offer to throw myself over the edge of the boat to push us off the wall. Something to do with the fact I was still up to my wrists in poo.

By the time we limped into our mooring space the owner was already there waiting, and the next family were ready to hop on board with their picnic. I’m rather hoping they never noticed the rather suspicious looking stain on the underside of the cushion, or the multiple bags of liquid mess I was holding as I clambered off. I’m pretty sure however (based on the fact they were busy mopping out the boat) that they did notice us hanging around the car park for another 2o minutes, as Charlie continued to drip out his business from one patch of grass to the next. And then throw up all over the nice (new) leather seats when he was finally loaded into the car.

All in all it was a great day out. Slighty messy and rather smelly, but fun nevertheless. Look forward to doing the same again next year, though it obviously goes without saying we’ll be leaving Charlie at home on dry land and I’ll be in charge of the wheel when we’re coming in to dock the boat.

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After 10 long years I’m finally in heat

I know some people simply don’t have the time for the likes of Heat magazine. In fact, they’ll make a great show of haughtily flapping their broadsheets right in your face and declaring that your IQ is bound to have dropped several points just by picking it off the shelf.

I’m not one of those people, I love Heat. Don’t know why, I just do.

Admittedly it may not have the editorial content of The Independent, or offer an in-depth analysis of world events – much beyond weight gain, wardrobe malfunctions and celebrities who can’t make up their mind who to date. But that’s the whole point of a magazine like this.

It isn’t meant to replace ‘The News at 10′ or ‘Question Time’ and it never claims to help improve your exam results or boost your earning power. Rather, it’s half an hour of total escapism every week – and, if we’re all honest, an opportunity to reassure ourselves that those celebrities who ‘have it all’ often don’t.

Because, whilst the average reader may not have the fame, fortune or enviable shoe collection of most of the people featured week after week, at least us unknown, relatively broke, Louboutin-less readers are safe in the knowledge that we won’t be photographed nipping out to Tesco in our ill-fitting tracksuits, with hair that looks like an unwashed birds nest and eye bags down to our cheekbones. And we won’t make the headlines when we meet, marry and divorce in the time it takes a normal person to draw breath. And we won’t cause a national panic because we lost a bit of weight, or god forbid, ate too much for lunch.

So I reckon that magazines such as these actually work as a rather handy and incredibly cheap form of therapy for Joe Public. They give you a glimpse into the sort of lifestyles most could never hope to afford – unless your mum was a Rolling Stone groupie and you’ve just found out you can move like Jagger – and then show you that the grass isn’t always greener in La La land.

And it’s for that reason – and the handy TV guide – that I have been buying Heat since Issue 1. Now, 12 or so years on, having produced 2 children, lived in 3 continents and survived one life crisis after another, I’ve carried on buying it every week. And yes, I still have a go at my husband if he dares flick through it before I’ve read it cover to cover.

Granted, I often feel like I’m on the wrong side of 30 for the fashion spread and technically I guess I’m also old enough to have given birth to some of the Torsos of the Week, but what the hell. All those years of trivia and escapism haven’t done me any noticeable harm and I’m pretty sure my IQ hasn’t diminished over the last decade – and if it has, I’ll put that down to having children.

So all of that said, it would be something of an understatement to say I was a tad excited to open Heat this week and see I’d finally won Letter of the Week – I think I might actually have let out a squeal. So overcome was I with shock that I immediately had to call my husband (who totally understood my joy) and my sister, who initially thought I’d won the lottery.

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It’s a funny thing that after all these years of writing, having published a book, kept countless clients happy with copy and received fairly respectable hits on my blog, it’s having a letter printed in Heat that really makes my day. And winning the prize of course…

Now not that my 25.5 seconds of fame have gone to my head, but just in case a member of the paparazzi has driven down the A11 by mistake and is currently ambling around rural Norfolk looking for a way back to civilisation, I think perhaps I’ll make the effort to brush my hair before doing the school run later today.

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The Survior’s Guide to (Take That) Concert Going

It’s safe to say I’ve never been a big concert-goer. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to, it’s just a small matter of never being in the right city, country or continent at the exact time with enough cash to afford it and the necessary means to get there. Add to that the years spent pregnant, lactating or sleep deprived from small children and the window of opportunity shut even further.

I think the last concert I actually went to was – and here I hang my head in shame and embarrassment – Vanilla Ice at the BIC in Bournemouth about 20 years ago. What can I say? A friend was a fan, we were buoyed up on ‘end of term madness’ and, to our still developing 16-year old brains, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So anyway, roll forward 2 decades and some musical taste later and Take That announced their ‘Progress Tour’. I vowed that for once, regardless of cost or logistics, I would finally find a way to go. So on the day the tickets were released I spent 12 hours on the phone and Internet simultaneously, desperately trying to find a way to get me inside any venue south of Glasgow. Needless to say that, along with much of the country, I failed miserably and ended up with nothing more to show for my efforts than a crick in the neck and a rather sweaty handset. After 20 years of not making an effort to get any tickets it was a rather deflating moment I can tell you.

As luck would have it my husband, who having never been to a concert of any sort was equally keen to go, eventually managed to lay his hands on those prized golden tickets. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have to kill anyone, donate an organ he still requires or sell our souls to a loan shark to get them, but to be honest, I was so happy to know we were going I thought it better not to ask.

Roll forward to last week and we were finally driving off with a spring in our ‘out of the house without offspring’ step. We made it from rural Norfolk to the scary streets of London in great time; unfortunately it took us ever so slightly longer and one argument later to find a car park. It seems that even the most intelligent sat nav (and it’s user) can confuse a ‘car park’ with a brick wall at the end of a deserted street.

Forward some more and we were racing through multiple tube stations and heading for Wembley, along with, or so it seemed, the entire membership base of the ‘That Take Fan Club’. A fairly female fan club as my husband pointed out, suddenly panicking that he was going to be the only member of a 85,000 audience sporting stubble.

I don’t think the enormity of the event hit me until we emerged into the sun and saw the sheer size of the crowd making their way towards the arena. It was intimidating and exhilarating in one hit and not really the ideal venue for those who don’t do big crowds. After queuing for a life time to get into the men’s toilets (the queue for the ladies was considerably longer) and parting with far too much money for the obligatory T-shirt, we walked in to secure our spot near the stage.

Had I been more prepared and considered how long we’d be waiting, I might have brought a picnic, a rug and some comfy cushions. Other more experienced concert-goers unpacked their cheese, crackers and sandwiches around us and settled back in relative comfort. Having spent most of the spare cash on the said obligatory T-shirt, we sat on the plastic matting with the remaining 2 packets of rice cakes and a bottle of water.

As for the concert itself, well what can I say. Once we’d got the Pet Shop Boys over with (could they really not have got anyone better?) and the music started, it was an amazing 2 1/2 hours of jumping, screaming, singing and shrieking. We weren’t that far back from the stage but some inconsiderate large people decided to stand in front of me, so thank god for the large screens and my newly laser eyes. I spent much of the time on my tip toes with my arms flapping above my head. Bizarrely enough on this occasion high heels would have actually been more comfortable than Converse. Who knew.

The set was great, the theatrics were incredible and Take That themselves…well what can I say. They were everything you imagine them to be in concert and more. Robbie in particular looking wired (although I’m sure he wasn’t) and particularly manic throughout and was obviously put on this planet purely to entertain.

Determined not to get caught up in the crowds, miss the last train and get left with an enormous taxi bill we couldn’t afford (down to that obligatory T-shirt again), my husband dragged me back through the crowds the moment they stopped singing. He did let me listen to some of the encore from the top of the steps, but with the 5 of them still warbling on stage we ran, sprinted and weaved our way out of the stadium, down all the steps, along the very long street and through the countless mounted police there to control the 85, 291 buzzing concert-goers about to leave.

Witnessing the sea of people coming up behind us, all heading for the same rather narrow walkways of the tube station, I have to say I’m rather glad my sensible husband didn’t let me stay any longer than we did. For once he was absolutely right – though don’t tell I said that.

Obviously I didn’t want to forget the night, so I spent much of the time waving my camera above the crowd and alternating between taking photos (below) and video clips. These are for me to look back at in years to come so I can remember that night I dragged myself off the sofa and up to Wembley – and for anyone out there who wanted to go, tried to get tickets and didn’t.

And finally, here are the lessons learned from my experience:

1. Make sure your husband knows just how much you want those tickets.
2. Wear shoes suitable for walking, running, sprinting, jumping & excessive standing.
3. Take as many supplies as you can fit into a back pack – and a husband to hold it.
4. Buy a souvenir T-shirt beforehand. Preferably somewhere cheaper. Like Tescos.
5. Hide your water before going in, being searched and losing it.
6. Be prepared to wait – for quite a long time.
7. Be prepared to queue for a loo – or sip fluids sparingly and cross your legs.
8. Don’t stand next to shrieking, tone-deaf girls who sing louder than the main act do.
9. Edge to the back of the stadium and start running before the music stops.
10. Don’t waste money on pricey seats; pay less & stand, there’s far more atmosphere.

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When beauty is only screen deep

I think it’s highly likely that as with most people, regardless of your shape, size or gender, you probably experience those depressing moments when you look in the mirror and realise the person staring back at you isn’t quite the ‘you’ you had in mind.

In your head you’re feeling pretty good about how you look – maybe not quite reaching a supermodel level of gorgeousness, but at the very least the best possible version of yourself. What you see in the reflection however is a rather disappointing mid-winter version; a pale and pasty post-Christmas being that’s eaten one mince-pie too many, had no recent exposure to sunlight or a hairdresser and obviously hasn’t felt the necessity to buff, exfoliate or de-fuzz since the previous summer.

And on these occasions – known as bad hair, face and body days – when your reflection fills you with feelings of hopelessness and despair, being continuously bombarded with an onslaught of impossibly perfect looking people in the media really doesn’t help to boost your moral.

Of course these beautiful creatures who sell us promises of flawless glowing skin, bouncy hair and eyelashes long enough to hail a taxi aren’t actually real. Somewhere between the photo shoot and the glossy pages of the magazine they’ll have had a helping hand, a nip and a digital tuck. Because let’s be realistic, they would have needed to swallow a light bulb to get such a radiant glow. Or sat in a wind tunnel to achieve that long billowing hair. Or stuck on false lashes to achieve that impressive volume and length. Oh yes, they admit that one now don’t they.

True, no one would want to buy clothes or hair and skin products if the model sporting them looked like an unwashed, overweight tramp, but why can’t they be slightly more realistic? Why use prepubescent twiglets to sell skinny jeans and wrinkle creams to more ‘experienced’ women with crows feet, stretch marks and kids in tow?

It’s true we all choose to be a little gullible from time to time – it justifies the joy of shopping and the excessive purchasing of new products we can’t afford – but we’re not entirely stupid. The average person does actually realise a Miracle Cream won’t have you walking on water and Magic Knickers won’t turn you into a super skinny Debbie McGee.

It’s all smoke, mirrors and Photoshop and it really shouldn’t be allowed. Never mind making the average person feel they lucked out on Glamour-Puss DNA, why should kids be growing up believing they need to look like an airbrushed Barbie to be beautiful? Or consider imperfections a problem to be surgically fixed? Or think that even freckles are an unwelcome flaw.

So for all those who are experiencing a bad hair, face and body day, or have daughters who need to see that beauty is most definitely screen deep, here’s a little something to remind you that when it comes to these impossibly perfect people, it is just that. It’s impossible to look that perfect.

OK granted they’re all still gorgeous before being ‘tweaked’, but doesn’t that just  prove that even the ‘beautiful people’ aren’t considered quite good enough to live up to the ridiculous ‘ideal’.

And if they can’t manage it, god help the rest of us. We might as well give up all hope and go and buy a brown paper bag.

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PA in our Pocket or Marketing Tool?

As technology surges forward, mobiles shrink and mankind busies itself getting connected, the world continues to grow smaller with every passing day. Now, wherever we turn, we see people talking, texting or completely oblivious to their surroundings, engrossed by the latest download.

Of course it’s good to talk – or so they say. Everyone and their brother are now happy to be ‘friends’. They post, comment, and tweet, happy to share their life and divulge their souls. Yet should they one day pass in the street, they’d probably just walk on by.

Yes, the world may be talking, but what, if any, conversations are actually taking place?

Not long ago mobiles were such a simple tool; used to catch up with family or make a quick call. Today, in many ways, they help to run the world. They are our lifeline and motherboard rolled into one.

We rely on them to bank, shop, travel, and date. To track down, meet up, and break up. They tell us what time to wake up and where we need to go. They can be our secretary and our salvation. For the foolish, who use them to cheat and deceive, they can also be our downfall.

As this market grows and mobile advertising looks set to explode, you have to ask yourself this – are phones really designed to help us manage our everyday lives, or are they just a marketing dream – a tool designed to sell, and therefore, in turn, control us?

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Couldn’t have said it better myself

Living in Perth, you really have to wonder about some of the people here. Do they have a warped sense of humour, or are they just incredibly thick? I’m talking number plates, and some of stupid things people choose to have stuck on the front of their cars. I’ve already listed some of the more ‘interesting’ plates that I’ve seen before, but below are a couple that really stood out from the crowd.

The first car I saw in the shopping centre yesterday, when it drove into the car park at a speed only acceptable on the German Autobahn or a race track. Once the lives of passing shoppers had been suitably put at risk, the driver screeched into the disabled bay /taxi rank right in front of the entrance, climbed out of the car and lolloped inside.

I use the word lollop, because for all extent and purposes he had the definite whiff of Neanderthal about him – no shoes, skanky feet, clothes that even the homeless would turn down. His tattoos encircled every limb, his hair was matted and greasy enough to fry a dozen eggs and he had, what could only be described, as the remains of dead rat hanging down his back. Basically he looked like something you might see painted on a cave wall, with a club in one hand and a dead animal in the other.

As he disappeared off to buy whatever it is that modern-day cavemen buy, several words did immediately sprung to mind – but I needn’t have bothered forming my own opinion. With his carefully chosen number plate, he’d already gone to the trouble of describing himself. How thoughtful and spot on. Maybe he was more articulate than first thought.

I didn’t actually see the driver of the second car, but I’m guessing they share many of the same qualities as the first driver.

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In case you’re unfamiliar with the word ‘feral’, it’s one that seems to be widely used here to describe a certain sort of person. The following description is from  www.urbandictionary.com, and I couldn’t have put it better (or more colourfully) myself.

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An individual who usually lives in a housing trust neighbourhood who loves wearing flannel shirts, tight faded jeans, tracksuits (usually FUBU, EMINEM, etc branded). Usually has a pack of smokes tucked under the shoulder of their knitted jumper/wifebeater, and one behind the ear for ‘ron.

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Commonly spotted at shopping malls and fast food outlets and especially Centrelink which is their sole source of income with the exception of drug dealing/manufacture/growing/selling stolen goods. Known to swear a lot and are frequently found not wearing shoes, much like their offspring who are usually dirty looking with snot running from their noses.

“What the **** are you looking at ****?” said the feral female with no shoes with a major muffin top over her 4 sizes too small mini skirt and no bra.“Nothing” replied the man walking by and minding his business.

“Well do ya wanna root? If I have another kid I can start me own footy team and Centrelink will fund it!” Asks the feral skank who can be smelled from 20 metres away.

“No thanks. I’d rather have sex with a garden mulcher. It’s much safer than your diseased, stinky p****” Replies the man about to be robbed by the group of male ferals waiting for him around the corner.

So that said, would you seriously want this word on your car?!

How to be a BAD parent

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Like I’ve said before, it’s very hard to know how you measure up as a parent, and how badly your child rearing techniques are going to scar them life.

Then you see pictures like these, and you think phew, at least I’m doing a lot better than some.

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Dam those pesky beavers

The following made me laugh when it arrived in my inbox. Summing up the sort of monkeys who run our governments, here is an actual letter (and his reply) sent to a man named Ryan DeVries, by the Department of Environmental Quality in the US.gasrg

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SUBJECT: DEQ File No.97-59-0023; T11N; R10W, Sec. 20; Lycoming County

Dear Mr. DeVries:

It has come to the attention of the Department of Environmental Quality that there has been recent unauthorized activity on the above referenced parcel of property. You have been certified as the legal landowner and/or contractor who did the following unauthorized activity: Construction and maintenance of two wood debris dams across the outlet stream of Spring Pond.

A permit must be issued prior to the start of this type of activity. A review of the Department’s files shows that no permits have been issued. Therefore, the Department has determined that this activity is in violation of Part 301, Inland Lakes and Streams, of the Natural Resource and Environmental Protection Act, Act 451 of the Public Acts of 1994, being sections 324.30101 to 324.30113 of the Pennsylvania Compiled Laws, annotated. The Department has been informed that one or both of the dams partially failed during a recent rain event, causing debris and flooding at downstream locations. We find that dams of this nature are inherently hazardous and cannot be permitted.

The Department therefore orders you to cease and desist all activities at this location, and to restore the stream to a free-flow condition by removing all wood and brush forming the dams from the stream channel. All restoration work shall be completed no later than January 31, 2006. Please notify this office when the restoration has been completed so that a follow-up site inspection
may be scheduled by our staff.

Failure to comply with this request or any further unauthorized activity on! the site may result in this case being referred for elevated enforcement action.

We anticipate and would appreciate your full cooperation in this matter. Please feel free to contact me at this office if you have any questions.

Sincerely,
David L. Price
District Representative and Water Management Division.

Here is the actual response sent back by Mr. DeVries:

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Re: DEQ File No. 97-59-0023; T11N; R10W, Sec. 20; Lycoming County

Dear Mr. Price,

Your certified letter dated 12/17/05 has been handed to me to respond to. I am the legal landowner not the Contractor at 2088 Dagget Lane, Trout Run, Pennsylvania.

A couple of beavers are in the (State unauthorized) process of constructing and maintaining two wood “debris” dams across the outlet stream of my Spring Pond. While I did not pay for, authorize, nor supervise their dam project, I think they would be highly offended that you call their skillful use of natures building materials “debris.” I would like to challenge your department to attempt to emulate
their dam project any time and/or any place you choose. I believe I can safely state there is no way you could ever match their dam skills, their dam resourcefulness, their dam ingenuity, their dam persistence, their dam determination and/or their dam work ethic.

As to your request, I do not think the beavers are aware that they must first fill out a dam permit prior to the start of this type of dam activity.

My first dam question to you is:
(1) Are you trying to discriminate against my Spring Pond Beavers.
(2) Or do you require all beavers throughout this State to conform to said dam request?

If you are not discriminating against these particular beavers, through the Freedom of Information Act, I request completed copies of all those other applicable beaver dam permits that have been issued. Perhaps we will see if there really is a dam violation of Part 301, Inland Lakes and Streams, of the Natural Resource and Environmental Protection Act, Act 451 of the Public Acts of 1994, being
sections 324.30101 to 324.30113 of the Pennsylvania Compiled Laws, annotated.

I have several concerns. My first concern is; aren’t the beavers entitled to legal representation? The Spring Pond Beavers are financially destitute and are unable to pay for said representation — so the State will have to provide them with a dam lawyer. The Department’s dam concern that either one or both of the dams failed during a recent rain event, causing flooding, is proof that this is a natural
occurrence, which the Department is required to protect. In other words, we should leave the Spring Pond Beavers alone rather than harassing them and calling their dam names.

If you want the stream “restored” to a dam free-flow condition please contact the beavers — but if you are going to arrest them, they obviously did not pay any attention to your dam letter, they being may not be able to read English.

In my humble opinion, the Spring Pond Beavers have a right to build their unauthorized dams as long as the sky is blue, the grass is green and water flows downstream. They have more dam rights than I do to live and enjoy Spring Pond. If the Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Protection lives up to its name, it should protect the natural resources (Beavers) and the environment
(Beavers’ Dams).

So, as far as the beavers and I are concerned, this dam case can be referred for more elevated enforcement action right now. Why wait until 1/31/2006? The Spring Pond Beavers may be under the dam ice then and there will be no way for you or your dam staff to contact/harass them then.

In conclusion, I would like to bring to your attention to a real environmental quality, health, problem in the area. It is the bears! Bears are actually defecating in our woods. I definitely believe you should be persecuting the defecating bears and leave the beavers alone.
If you are going to investigate the beaver dam, watch your step! The bears are not careful where they dump! Being unable to comply with your dam request, and being unable to contact you on your dam answering machine, I am sending this response to your dam office.

THANK YOU.
RYAN DEVRIES & THE DAM BEAVERS

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Fags, fame and photoshop

So poor old Kerry Katona has been dropped as the ‘face’ of supermarket chain Iceland has she. Poor love, how’s she going to fuel her drug habit now? I feel another stint in The Priory is on the cards for her any day now.

Having had just 2 run-ins with the police this week, and ‘on the verge of being sectioned’ amid fears over her mental health, the surprise isn’t really that Iceland has finally kicked her to the curb, but that they ever paid her to help sell their frozen pies and chips in the first place.

It says a lot about the power of celebrity endorsement, that a company would ever feel she would actually appeal to the average customer and inspire them to flock to their aisles and fill up their freezers.

I suppose when Kerry was first signed up, she was, on paper at least, the perfect candidate for the job. Riding high on the D list celebrity train, she was cheap and cheerful and had more column inches than the PM and Posh Spice put together. A few years on however, and she’s proved to the world a 1000 times over that she is just the perfect example of the bolshy white trash that now gets paid to scream and swear on TV, and roll around drunk in the gutter. Never mind the fact she must surely have sniffed more Coke up her snout since being signed to Iceland, than all of their customers have managed to buy and drink in a year.

So who is this lovely specimen of trashy tabloid fodder? Nobody really. She’s famous for doing precisely bugger all. Or to put it another way, famous for doing nothing of any real value or importance.

She originally climbed up into the public eye as a member of Atomic Kitten – a girl band that really only made it big once she had left, and her speaking vocals (she never actually sang a note) were taken off the music they released. Not wanting to lose the fading limelight, she quickly married into boy band ‘royalty’, and then of course got divorced. Before the marital sheets could even be washed, she milked her misery for all it was worth, bleating on in a heart-wrenching autobiography about her downtrodden upbringing, broken heart and terribly tragic existence. Well she didn’t actually write it herself – anyone who ever heard her speak would soon realise that – but her picture was on the front cover.

Appearing in as many reality shows as possible, she helped to take TV to an all new level of low, as she smoked and drunk her way through 4 pregnancies, screamed at her husband, neglected her kids and appeared as high as a kite on countless TV shows.

Did I forget to mention she was also given her own column in ‘OK’ magazine – a chance for her to air her views and opinions on her fellow celebrities. Seriously what on earth was the editor thinking? Did they really believe that any reader would really give a sh*t what this woman had to say in her 2 syllable or less weekly drivel?

I think it’s fairly obvious to say that these sort of pointless people really irritate me, but I can’t be the only person fed up with the rich and pandered getting away with bloody murder, just because they live out their life in the press and have Max Clifford on speed dial. Take the once great supermodel Kate Moss. When she is seen out with her child, she’s constantly flapping a cigarette in her face or rolling joints. And when photographed doing drugs a few years back, she merely said she was sorry, and then promptly landed new contracts and went on to double her income for the year.

I don’t think it would be so grating that some people get paid so much to do so little, if they really earned the money they got. But they don’t. With Kate Moss, it’s plain to see that it’s the guys with the airbrush who deserve the big bucks. The retouching must take longer than the original shoot.

The one thing I will say for Kate Moss is that at least she makes me feel pretty good about myself. We’re the same age, give or take a few extra months on her side, yet I don’t have a fraction of the wrinkles she does. So I guess I’m the lucky one really, not having been exposed to 20 years of partying through the night and a diet of lettuce, nicotine and narcotics.

Long live the King, the King is dead

Michael Jackson’s death will no doubt go down in history as one of those moments when everyone remembers where they were when they heard – just as when the first man walked on the moon, the Berlin Wall came down, Princess Diana died and 2 planes flew into the Twin Towers.

I was in the gym, peddling furiously away on a bike when I clocked the 3 TV screens above me and realised that something was amiss in La La Land. It took a moment to figure out exactly what was going on as the volume was turned down and my lip reading skills aren’t what they should be.

I immediately sent an SMS to my husband (which is not an easy thing to do whilst going uphill on Level 7) to ask him if he’d heard. He simultaneously called me to tell me the news. Apparently by this stage we were the last 2 people in this media led world to have heard the news.

Unsurprisingly enough, what has followed his death has been nothing less than the full blown media circus that you might expect. Every single TV channel has so far leapt with both feet onto the bandwagon, and bled the story dry for every last sensationalist drop. Tasteless jokes flooded the Internet before his time of death was even called, and desperate ‘comedians’ and talentless talk show hosts thought that the news was the perfect fodder for a few quick and cheap laughs.

Oh what a charmed and hypercritical world we live in.

A place where no matter how famous, successful or talented you are, the media would rather look for a way to break you down and pull you apart. That is of course, when you are alive. Should you die, preferably in an untimely, or even better, dramatic fashion, then every red carpet commentator and entertainment presenter will sure enough have something to say.

They will stand there, all primped, preened and ready for their moment in the spotlight, as they sing the praises of the dearly departed and talk about the travesty of a life lost. Oh please, what a load of cra*p.  These headline loving vultures are about as sincere in their grief as Hannibal Lector would be giving a rousing speech at a Pro-Vegetarian Convention.

If Michael Jackson had been in the news the day before, it would have been to make some snide reference to his weird appearance or spiraling debt. A chance to snicker over his eccentric behaviour, dredge up his checkered legal history or make even more assumptions as to why he did what he did.

If he had been on the news the day before, it certainly wouldn’t have been to commend his genius lyrics, his skill on the dance floor or the 5 decades worth of contribution he has made to the music industry. These sort of accolades, sadly, only come with death.

It would be nice to think that a man who has provided so many people with the musical backdrop for a lifetime of memories, be remembered for what he has achieved and not what he so royally buggered up.

OK, so maybe he did look rather odd, and for some strange reason chose to sleep in an oxygen chamber with a chimp called Bubbles. But for heavens sake, the inhabitants of Hollywood are powered by silicon and Botox, and half the stars are already onto their 2nd face. Joan Rivers certainly looks like an extra from Thriller, and no one seems to give her such a hard time.

And perhaps Michael Jackson did somehow manage to get himself into millions of dollars worth of debt, and then have to sell off his ranch and glittery glove to bring in some cash. But so what. Who are we all to judge? After all, those who live in houses built with credit cards, wear clothes bought with store cards and drive cars paid for by legal loan sharks, really shouldn’t throw stones.

Really, if you take comparative salaries into account, Michael Jackson buying a Ferris wheel and a couple of tigers, or a pair of 6 foot solid gold flamingos for his front lawn is really no different to the average person slapping a $1000 handbag or the latest Plasma on their plastic. Especially when they know all to well that there isn’t a hope in hell of ever being able to pay it off before the interest charges double the actual cost.

Michael Jackson lived his life on the stage, lost his childhood as a result and probably never really had a chance to grow up and experience the real world. Many would say that that was his choice, that he chose the life he lived. But those same people were also probably happy to sing along to the music he made and try their hand at a spot of moon-walking.

So lets hope, that instead of dragging his death through another media rumour mill, with endless ‘explosive’ new allegations and ‘shocking’ breaking headlines, he will finally be given a little respect and laid to rest in peace, and we can get back to our regular TV viewing.

dd

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dd