Yesterday once more

As Sandy Denny once sang, "Who knows where the time goes?" Maybe she also spent the Christmas holidays in a drunken fog, just outside of Sheffield. Either way, that's the reason that p0pvulture has been quieter than the output of Cheryl Cole's microphone for the last few days. But now we're up and running again, and counting down to the New Year.

So with that in mind, I thought it might be a good idea to review 2010 and take stock of the weird and wonderful things that the world of popular culture has thrown our way over the last 12 months. I've done my best to document it all, so now let's take a look back and see what went on. Well, if it's good enough for Clive James...

Hollywood was abuzz about two movies as 2010 kicked off. Avatar was packing them in, with its promise of eye-watering visuals and eye-straining 3D effects. Further exploring the technology's ability to damage eye-sight, the porn industry decided to take a leaf out of James Cameron's book, by applying an extra dimension to its own Pandora's box of tricks.

Cinemagoers always had the option of checking in with everyone's favourite detective instead, as Guy Ritchie shared his vision of the unique relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Unfortunately, many people found their mano-a-mano relationship to be a little too heavy on the mano, making it feel like a two-hour game of soggy biscuit.

Meanwhile, the Daily Mail was busy getting its bully on, taking potshots at the underdressed, the overdressed, and the wombling free. And it wasn't just the women who found themselves squirming under the spotlight, Cristiano Ronaldo's ad campaign for Armani underwear showed off his distinctive tackle.

Jennifer Love Hewitt spoke proudly about her confidence in using a glue-gun on her unmentionables, whereas Heidi Montage revealed the results of her extreme makeover, which were just, well, unmentionable. Lady Gaga inspired a whole bunch of video tributes, Taylor Momsen showed off a personality as dark and messy as the shit around her eyes, and Bear Grylls rinsed his out with a makeshift enema.

GMTV was also focused on cleaning house, as it turned the world's cosiest sofa into an ejector seat. As viewers placed bets on which presenters would face the axe, the show's hosts attempted to smile through their upset, much like Boyzone, who reformed for the world's most morbid pop video.

Rather predictably, February followed January like Kerry follows Jordan. And so we plunged head-first into the eighth and final season of 24, to see Jack Bauer working through more rubber hose than an out-of-town B&Q. Sadly, Jack's love of torture seemed to catch on, as a military man was found to have waterboarded his step-daughter in order to 'encourage' her to try harder in school. As an aside, she may also have confessed to an attempted plane hijacking in 2007.

Jack wasn't New York's only problem this year, as the race for the Governor's office saw a notorious Manhattan madam starting up her own campaign. In fact, February seemed to be all about the change of pace, as Dennis the Menace finally went soft, and the Pope turned wannabe DJ, with his recommendations for the best rock albums of all time. Even Desert Island Discs decided to change things up, by taking a more populist approach in selecting its guests. Listeners complained that this was the radio equivalent of mutton dressed as Spam.

But the most shocking image overhaul of the year took place on the golf course, as one of the world's most celebrated sportsmen showed an entirely different side to his personality. It turns out that countless women had enjoyed a Tiger in their tank, and as a result none of his former sponsors wanted to see Woods for the sleaze.

Ashley Cole didn't fare much better here in the UK, as he broke the heart of the Nation's Sweetheart by cheating on her with a bunch of BOGOF slappers. We all knew that he'd done it, because he didn't have the brains to cover his tracks. It probably didn't help matters that he'd sent a bunch of incriminating pictures and texts either.  If only he'd watched the highly publicised live episode of EastEnders, which finally revealed that Stacey was Archie's murderer - a secret that the show's producers had managed to keep for months.

Another long-suppressed secret from within the corporation's vaults finally saw the light of day, as it was revealed that the makers of Doctor Who occasionally used political subtexts in their storytelling. The Daily Mail was delighted that it had finally found the smoking gun sonic screwdriver it needed to prove the BBC's long-standing left-wing bias. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had simply rolled its eyes and moved onto the Sarah Jane Adventures.

But perhaps the most momentous event in February, was the first birthday of this blog. Although it sometimes feels like an albatross made of binary code and hyperlinks, it's actually grown into something I'm quite proud of. It's an outlet for my frustrations, and a forum for discussing the things that capture my imagination. And I'm thankful that I have a handful of committed readers who bother to check in every day. Tomorrow, March and April fall under the microscope.

Remember my name...

It's a sad day over at Daily Mail towers, as the entertainment team wakes up to a cold, unforgiving new world. After a week of frenzied speculation and almost hourly character assassinations, Chloe Victoria has departed the X-Factor.

In a way, Chloe is to be congratulated for achieving the impossible - becoming front page news at Boot Camp stage. At this point in the show's interminable run, most contestants struggle to be remembered as more than 'her with the chin' or 'him with the arms'. Not so for the Ridings' most graceful and demure beauty. Chloe has managed to capture the tabloid's imagination like no-one since Diana, Queen of HeartsTM.


Since her first appearance at the Manchester audition, wearing jeans that looked like she'd narrowly escaped from an industrial thresher, the luminous looker has become the Mail's poster child for 'Broken Britain'. Batting her enormous eyelashes at Simon (in itself an admirable effort, if only for the strain it must have placed on her neck), the Wakefield wannabe pulled out all the stops to prove she was worthy of a second chance. And despite sounding like Vicky Pollard auditioning for a stage production of 'Kes', she got through.

Aghast that someone so vulgar might actually go far in the contest, the Mail launched a staggering attack on Chloe, composing new headlines every day for a bunch of recycled 'content'. Rather than take the 'innocent until proven guilty' approach, the paper branded her the 'Leeds-based hooker' based on the findings of an 'undercover reporter from the News Of The World'. And let's be honest, that's an unimpeachable source, if ever there was one.

Obsessed with every gloriously grotty detail, the Mail has painstakingly reproduced the same images every day - Chloe with a vodka bottle, Chloe in a pink bra, Chloe's Bebo page. I'm not sure what to make of that last one, since the death of Bebo was predicted more than six months ago, and besides which, the ages don't even seem to match.

She maintains that she's not a prostitute, and that the whole thing has been invented by the media. Instead, she works as a 'sexy dancer' - suggesting she's more likely to be punished under the Trades Descriptions Act than any kind of vice clampdown. 

Chloe's final indignity, at least the one we can talk about here, was to be set up for a cocaine sting by a friend in a West Yorkshire hotel. No sooner had the lines been cut and a rolled-up twenty stuck in her nostril, the pictures had been sold to the Daily Mirror.

By the time last night's 'boot camp' episode aired (showing Chloe's departure from the show), she had already been allocated a new media-friendly nickname. Rather unsurprisingly, today's front page thoughtfully bellowed ' At last! Cocaine Chloe is kicked off The X Factor'.

Given how concerned papers like the Mail seem to be about the thoughtless and insensitive way that contestants are treated on shows like the X-Factor and Britain's Got Talent, this 'throw them to the lions' bloodlust seems slightly incongruous. Heaven forbid that anyone might suggest that the media are complicit in building people up, only to delight in knocking them down...

Greased, frightening

If there's one sure-fire way of guaranteeing yourself some front-page coverage, it's to get yourself involved in a 'gay sex scandal'. The lies, the deceit, the unflattering photos of you in an outfit you're twenty years too old for - it's the stuff that tabloid dreams are made of.

Here in the UK, the papers are falling over themselves to dig into William Hague's private life, as they delight in the fact that he appointed a 25-year old pretty boy as his 'special advisor' and that they often shared a room on the election trail.

There's something about the inherent hypocrisy of Conservative politicians preaching 'traditional values' Monday to Friday and spending their weekends in a leather sling that we just can't get enough of. In fact, the only thing we enjoy more than the tremulous quiver of a stiff upper-lip is the idea that some of our favourite alpha-male movie stars might be good with colours.

So let's hear it for John Travolta, who's managed to keep professional gossips in business for three decades now, with his less-than convincing portrayal of an avowedly heterosexual man. He's currently the subject of a 'shocking' expose that threatens to lift the toupee on his deceitful double life.

According to the National Enquirer, an author called Robert Randolph is lining up a new book for release, which promises to reveal the "underground secret world of celebrity gay spa sex" in Hollywood, the main target of which is the Saturday Night Fever and Pulp Fiction actor. Randolph maintains that he's come across (not literally, that would be tacky) the Hollywood star in his favourite bath-house on a number of occasions.

Ignoring for a second the tautology of an 'underground secret', it's hard to believe that Robert could ever score a book deal, when his revelations read like a thirteen year-old's bathroom wall grafitti - "I met John in 1998, after he had married Kelly. I believe the marriage is a total fraud because John is totally into guys and has been having sex with them behind Kelly's back for years." Time to start brushing up on that Pulitzer acceptance speech. Totally.

Equally depressing is the fact that the Enquirer considers news of John's man-on-man infidelity worthy of a 'scandal' headline. Even Randolph himself admits that John's "secret gay life is one of Hollywood's worst kept secrets". Surely the purpose of a shocking story is to surprise readers with things they don't already know?

It also doesn't help matters that Randolph attempts to empathise with Travolta's put-upon and pregnant wife Kelly Preston, saying "John should come out of the closet already and stop living a lie. His wife Kelly deserves so much better." He's clearly never heard of an arranged marriage, a beard or a pre-nup.

If John's sexuality is such an open secret, it's hard to believe that Kelly would be the last to know. She might not be the one that he wants, but I'm sure the benefits of their union work both ways.