The people under the stairs

OK, so you're lonely, lovelorn and maybe even a little bit sad. That's not an accusation, just a hypothetical scenario. Once upon a time it was considered astonishingly brave for a lonely-heart to sign up with an internet dating site in the hope of meeting their perfect partner.

These days, web dating sites are ten-a-penny, even taking out TV ad space to shout about all their HOT NEW MEN at the top of their lungs, like a pimp with a PA system. To put it simply, web dating is yesterday's news.

The love of your life is out there, but if you want to find them you have to be prepared to look a bit harder. And you have to be willing to do it with a full camera crew in attendance, and a furry boom mike picking up all your best flirty banter.

The Bachelor, The Bacherlorette, The Farmer Wants A Wife, Joe Millionaire - the hits just keep on coming. In fact, Wikipedia currently lists 86 different dating reality shows, all of them filled with no-hopers too shameless to even make the grade on Big Brother. And now there's a new one to add to the ever-growing list.

Having already appeared on two awful-sounding dating show called I Love New York 2, perennial bridesmaid Frank 'The Entertainer' Maresca has now been granted his own show. This time, instead of competing, Frank will be the ultimate prize for fifteen women with low standards and even lower self-esteem.

The 32-year old beefcake still lives at home with his parents, so they'll be playing a key role in the new show, as they help Frank determine which high-class hottie will finally entice him out of their home and into a place of his own. The big twist is hinted at in the show's name - Frank the Entertainer In A Basement Affair.

That's right, the girls are all moving into Susan and Gary's conveniently spacious below-stairs living space, and will battle it out to win the heart and mind (tbc) of the handsome hero. One glance at the line-up of talent suggests that the show's location is spot on, since Melodi, Christi et al might best be described as 'Bargain Basement' beauties. Their headshots suggest that the show's entire make-up budget amounted to little more than what could be snatched from a hooker's purse while she used a public bathroom.

According to the rules of the show, "The girls will have to compete for Frank’s love, and follow Mom and Dad’s house rules if they want to stay in the house. Each week at elimination, Frank will give the ladies keys to his basement, and those locked out will have to pack up, and move out."

Is anyone else feeling a little creeped out by this? Coming so soon after Josef Fritzl's home improvements hit the headlines, the idea of a bunch of young women being kept in a basement for one man's pleasure takes on a particularly unsavoury angle. I know about the old saying that "Love is blind", but this is like poking its eyes out.

The world's biggest intervention

He may have starred in three of America's most popular shows, but David Hasselhoff still has his fair share of demons. After almost three decades of stardom he's amassed several generations of fans, and now his ex-wife is calling on them to help instigate a public intervention.

In the eighties he boasted a nice line in snug jeans and a pithily sarcastic Trans-Am. In the nineties he traded in the gay car for a bevy of ex-Playboy bunnies and spent his summers running up and down Malibu Pier in an equally snug pair of red shorts. Now, in the noughties, he sits on the judging panel of America's Got Talent, where the outfits may be roomier (at last) but his sidekicks shift a lot fewer calendars. Half-naked Piers Morgan anyone? Didn't think so.

Although AGT regularly wins the ratings war, David's own battle with the bottle is proving a lot less successful. His drinking problem first became public news when he got kicked out of Wimbledon in the summer of 2006 for being drunk and abusive, weeks later he was thrown off a British Airways flight. Of course, the papers lapped it up because nothing sells quite like a celebrity in full-blown meltdown.

Things took a more serious turn last week when the 57-year old was hospitalised after getting hammered at home. A disturbing recording was even released of his daughter Hayley's panicked 911 call to the emergency services - almost as disturbing as the recordings that Hasselhoff has released over the years.

Following the lead set by Candy Spelling, David's gracefully aging ex-wife Pamela Bach has done what any concerned family member would do - she's gone public: "The despair—feeling hopeless and unable to believe that things can ever change with David's alcoholism over the years—has affected our whole family. We want our lives to be different, but nothing we have done has brought about change."

Most interventions involve a handful of aggrieved relatives and some bitter recriminations, whereas this is an international call for "David's fans, supporters and handlers" to "save this wonderful man's life". I suppose it's nice that Pamela's been able to move past the ugliness of their divorce, when she accused him of breaking her nose (although the photos suggest it was more of a surgical procedure) and calling her a "bitch", "whore" and a "slut".

If David does decide to get some much-needed help, at least he can be sure that he can afford the treatment. His latest innovative moneymaking venture is a personalised greeting card service. For just $15 you could order an exclusive Hasselhoff Christmas card featuring a shirtless Hoff posing in an open Santa coat and holding a surf-board. As if the picture wasn't enough of an incentive, David promises fans "You choose the name and write the message (nothing too naughty!) and it will appear in an exact replica of my handwriting..." It's enough to make anyone hit the bottle.

That was the year that was

Ordinarily, a year-end review is best saved for the end of the year. It's right there in the name. But we're already half way through December, and New Year is looming on the horizon like the threat of another glut of weight-loss DVDs starring ex-EastEnders.

So in honour of the great and the good (and the eye-scratchingly awful) who have made this blog the awesome cultural barometer that it is, here's a video I found that summarises the year that was 2009. It's a parade of shame that calls upon a number of this year's most notorious alumni, including Jon and Kate Gosselin, Nadya Suleman, Spencer and Heidi Pratt, Barack Obama, Kanye West and Taylor Swift, Lady GaGa, Christian Bale and Twitter.

Best of all, it's been edited to show off the magic of Auto-Tune, a piece of software that makes the Calrec SoundField Microphone seem like yesterday's old news. When you're using Auto-Tune, even the most mundane conversation can be transformed into a melodic chorus. JLS are big fans.

Anyway, here's 2009 in review. See how much you remember, and don't forget - you saw it here first (apparently Viacom are closing this down, so be quick).



This Year in Auto-Tune 2009 - Watch more Funny Videos

Punch drunk love

It's been fairly quiet on the Katie Price front, since she packed up her tucker bag and flounced out of the jungle. Sure, she's still in the papers every day, but more like the awful cartoons on the crossword page that you never bother reading - you're just peripherally aware of their continued existence.

But a funny story emerged in the Daily Star today, alleging further trouble in Camp Katie. Despite the fact that we've seen her in various states of undress so often that most of the UK could sue her for sexual harassment, she's worried about being exposed in a different way.

According to the story, she's concerned that Alex Reid is going to talk to the press about 'the real Katie' - even if that is a contradiction in terms. Ever the soft-hearted romantic, Katie made Alex sign a confidentiality agreement when they first got together, guaranteeing that he would 'not speak publicly about Price'.

Pre-nuptial agreements are strange enough, but to sign legal papers before you even start dating is downright worrying. Still, the pantie-wearing pugilist proved that he knows a meal-ticket when he sees it, and managed to pull a fast one on Katie. Apparently, Alex 'outsmarted' Katie by signing the papers as his lipstick-smearing alter-ego Roxy, making the agreement null and void.

Admittedly, Katie could be outsmarted by a damp bath-mat, but for Alex to get the upper hand is even more embarrassing. And let's be honest, signing a contract with a woman's name is about as sophisticated a deception as signing an opinion poll "Donald Duck".

What's clear about this whole ridiculous story is that Katie isn't really worried about her secrets. In fact, the whole concept of privacy is as alien to her as the 'natural look'. Her real concern is that someone else is likely to make some money out of talking to the press about the ins-and-outs (not literally I hope) of her life.

Thankfully, our resourceful heroine has one more trick up the place where her sleeves would be if she wore them - she plans to keep Alex on side until he's appeared in Celebrity Big Brother next year. Then she'll dump him and move on. Warms the heart doesn't it?

Is it art? Part 2

Lots of people have plastic surgery, but some people insist on taking it to extremes. For instance, Joan Rivers looks like an alien struggling to get her human disguise to fit, whereas Jocelyn Wildenstein has turned herself into a one-size-fits-all punchline. Whenever a picture of them appears in the press, you can guarantee that someone will pop up and diagnose them with body dysmorphia.

Blame Lolo Ferrari - by turning herself into an 11 year-old grafitti artist's depiction of womanhood, she inadvertently introduced the world to the psychological disorder. As a result, anyone who goes under the knife more than a couple of times is instantly damned with dysmorphia-by-proxy.

Like anorexia and bulimia, it's a mental condition that manifests itself in a pathological disappointment with one's appearance. It's hardly surprising that many people were keen to diagnose Michael Jackson with dysmorphia too, given that he rearranged his face the way most people try out a different haircut.

But maybe Michael wasn't as unhappy about his appearance as we all thought he was - it turns out he actually wanted to look like that. Even if it meant he had the eyes of a cartoon bear and a nose that only existed in two dimensions.

In the last few days, Michael's collection of artwork has been revealed to the world, and it's a sight to behold. In the last ten years he commissioned a host of paintings, depicting his idealised self in a variety of poses. It's enough to make Jarvis Cocker's head spin.

As well as being portrayed as a superhero and King Arthur, Michael appears in one painting as a bizarre cross between Michelangelo's David and Botticelli's Birth of Venus. Surrounded by floating porcelain-skinned cherubs, the tastefully draped King of Pop shows off some pretty impressive pecs and abs that Peter Andre would kill for. And although there's only a swathe of muslin between Michael's groin and a crowd of naked children, there's absolutely no sense of predatory sexuality.

No doubt people will be falling over themselves to condemn Michael's lack of taste (and possibly clothing), but is it really that shocking? After all, Michael may have paid up to $150,000 for the portrait, but all he's done is what countless thousands of people do every day. The only difference is that they do it in those 'pose as a cowboy' photo studios, or by sticking their heads through a crudely cut hole in a cartoon of fat people in Victorian bathing gear. Different strokes, different folks.

Is it art?

American daytime soap operas are a TV staple - impossibly beautiful people doing beautifully impossible things, with an arched eyebrow and tongue so firmly in-cheek it's sometimes hard for the actors to spit out their lines. Intellectually void and highly addictive, they're junk food for the eyes, gobbled up by people who can't follow the labyrinthine plots of Big Brother or Biggest Loser.

The world of soap opera acting is also similarly inexplicable, operating as it does like a self-contained ecosystem, with its own food chain and hierarchy. Occasionally, a Demi Moore or Eva Longoria Parker will manage to dig under the fence and break out into 'proper' acting, whilst the majority of them are stuck inside the compound for the rest of their career. But even more rare, are the established and successful actors who turn their back on Hollywood success in exchange for a role in a daytime soap.

So it was shocked faces all round (frozen in place while the end-credits rolled) when James Franco, star of Pineapple Express and the Spider-Man trilogy, announced that he was taking a role in General Hospital. After all, it's a little like a major movie star deciding to take a gig switching on Christmas lights. Stranger things have happened, I guess.

Meanwhile, back on General Hospital... The popular daytime soap is something of an institution, having been on the air since Joan Collins was sticking her hands down short trousers. And yet, despite its considerable track record, it's not exactly a logical career move for an actor like Franco.

It turns out that it's all part of a high-brow experiment in performance art, engineered by Franco who is currently enrolled in courses on filmmaking and fiction writing. Writing in the Wall Street Journal, in an article that feels more like a first-year thesis than a piece of journalism, James reveals his creative aspirations.

Having explained his passion for performance art, he continues: "I disrupted the audience's suspension of disbelief, because no matter how far I got into the character, I was going to be perceived as something that doesn't belong to the incredibly stylized world of soap operas. Everyone watching would see an actor they recognized, a real person in a made-up world. In performance art, the outcome is uncertain and this was no exception."

As much as he'd like to think that everyone knows who he is (call it the curse of celebrity), he spent most of the Spider-Man movies dressed like a Power Ranger. The rest of his career, whilst eclectic and interesting, has hardly been headline grabbing.

One outcome that is certain though, is the planned finale for Franco's time in America's best-loved fake hospital. "After all of the Franco episodes are aired, my character's storyline will be advanced in a special episode filmed in a "legitimate" New York gallery. One more layer will be added to this already layer-heavy experiment. If all goes according to plan, it will definitely be weird. But is it art?"

The problem is, he's prioritising his need to make a statement about art, over the audience's need for an enjoyable, compelling and consistent soap opera. And that's the reason why so many regular people turn their nose up at the pretentious artistic expression. It doesn't just exclude them, it actively critiques them. To use a much-loved soap cliche, maybe modern art is just popular culture's evil twin. 

Caveat emptor

It's Saturday night, which can only mean one thing - another blog about the X-Factor. This time, I'd like to take a few moments to remember the original winner of the show, Steve Brookstein. 

When the X-Factor first arrived on the scene in 2004, no-one seemed too sure what to make of it. As the brainchild of Simon Cowell, it was created to fill the gap brought about by the end of Pop Idol. Although the Idol format had successfully shipped overseas (along with its most popular judge) it died a death here in the UK, following a showdown between two of the least likely finalists ever, Mark Rhodes and Michelle McManus. 

After Pop Idol, Mark went on to host undemanding children's TV shows, whilst Michelle (the second series' eventual winner) pooed in a plastic storage container for Gillian McKeith to poke at. Michelle also managed to squeeze out an album, during her short-lived time as victor, but audiences were decidedly underwhelmed. It didn't help that the songs sounded like the kind of material that even Jane McDonald would turn down. 

So Simon invented the X-Factor and the rest is TV history. Despite a stinging verbal attack by Elphaba Osbourne in the final, Steve Osbourne was bathed in silver sparkles as he crooned his winner's song - a cheesy cover of Phil Collins' already lactose-heavy Against All Odds. With his blue-eyed soul voice, and squint-eyed handsomeness, he looked a little like Top Cat's sidekick Benny, in a mid-priced suit. 

As Steve's mentor and producer, Simon was more concerned with winning the contest between the judges than he was with discovering an enduring music megastar. Steve's debut album was rush-released and crammed full of unimaginate covers. It shifted a few copies, but the lack of viable singles, and Steve's vague air of embarrassment at being involved in a TV talent contest, meant that his time in the spotlight was even shorter than Michelle's. Although we were at least spared the sight of him shitting into a food storage container. 

In the years that followed, the show's profile grew exponentially, introducing us to such luminaries as Shayne Ward (great voice but looked like Britain's hottest ASBO recipient), Leona Lewis, and Alexandra Burke. Leon Jackson was also there, but if winning the X-Factor gains you access to the music industry's most illustrious club, Leon will forever be handing out mints in the bathroom. 

Meanwhile, Steve kept plugging away, taking the independent route, and occasionally resurfacing to remind the world of Simon Cowell's Machiavellian machinations. He's now got a blog called 'Searching for Cheese - The ramblings of an insignificant man' - the title of which perfectly encapsulates his shoulder-shrugging indifference, which is why the audience at home never really connected with him. 

But in a classic case of 'protesting too much' Steve can't help but pick at the scabs which, five years on, really ought to be healing by now. He's smart enough to realise that he needs to "let go of the negative feelings", but can't resist talking about the "manipulation of the British people by the Godfather of Pop Schlop and propaganda". 

Whether he's recalling "how clever Simon is at getting what he wants", telling readers that they're being "force fed bullcrap", or decrying a "new world order via media manipulation", it's clear that there's a therapist somewhere who's going to be putting in some serious overtime sometime soon. 

Ultimately, it all feels a little like the obsessed ex who claims they're over you, and writes 15 status updates on Facebook to that effect every day. But what Steve doesn't seem able to acknowledge is the fact that his audience just weren't that interested. 

As Steve quite rightly infers, Simon's an entrepreneur who knows how to maximise his investment. But he also knows when he's bought a lorry-load of past-its-best fruit. That's usually the time when the smart businessman cuts his losses and makes a smoothie. Which is exactly what he tried to do with Steve the crooner. 

Size is everything

Pity the poor unauthorised biographer. Their lot can't be a happy one. All that time spent poring over back issues of OK! magazine whilst waiting for a root canal. Or fishing through the bins of their favourite celebrity in the hope of finding some greasy tidbit to help piece together the details of their private life. 

Given the lack of access they have to their chosen subject though, it's easy to understand how such a hack might grow to resent the very talent they're writing about. Take Alison Bowyer for example. She's an obnoxious hack who fills in her time between poorly-reviewed character-assassinations, by penning equally ugly little articles for the tabloids. 

Having already coughed up two dodgy 'biographies' of corpulent comedienne Dawn French, she's penned a new article about her favourite subject for the Daily Mail. Apparently, Alison thinks that Dawn is a hypocrite for criticising people who make jokes about people of girth, sorry - fatties. Because, according to Bowyer at least, Dawn has made an entire career out of fat jokes. 

Although it's tempting to wonder whether she even understands how comedy works. For instance, she cites Dawn's famous appearances as Pamela Anderson, suggesting that the joke was Dawn's size. Actually, the joke was actually the unconvincing and preposterous nature of the recreations - as with all of French & Saunders' spoofs.

Then again, maybe that's why Alison is so unhappy with Dawn's PC ouburst - because she clearly finds fat people hilarious. She describes the Vicar of Dibley as being funny thanks to Dawn looking "so gargantuan in her black cassock and absurd tartan pyjamas." If that's all it took to get the audiences falling about laughing, Richard Curtis could have just taken the the last decade off work. Maybe then we'd have been spared Love, Actually and The Boat That Rocked - so not a bad idea in itself. 

As usual with the Mail, money also has to come into it, with Bowyer claiming Dawn's "expanding waistline has been the making of her career (the spoils of which include a £3 million home in Cornwall and a £2million residence in Berkshire)". I love the fact that writers at the Mail still use words like 'spoils' - conjuring up an image of Dawn French dressed like a highway robber on a Thelwell Pony. 

Dawn's biggest sin, however, is her unwillingness to be disgusted and ashamed by her size. In Bowyer's skewed world view, Dawn is actively waging a "campaign against her slimmer sisters (she refers to non-fatties as 'coat-hangers')". Of course, none of this is true. In fact, the 'coat-hanger' comment was made in an interview 15 years ago, in relation to the skinny women that men choose to wear like accessories. Still, the way Bowyer spins it, Dawn thinks everyone should have cardio-vascular disease and a mobility scooter. 


Regardless of how many more unauthorised volumes Bowyer chooses to scribble, the fact remains, she'll never get any closer to understanding Dawn French. Not because she's an inordinately complicated woman, but because she's happy. She looks in the mirror and sees comfort, beauty and femininity, rather than a bunch of problems that can be blamed on someone else. In the world of the Daily Mail, that's the biggest mystery of all.  

They've been putting a Tiger in their tank

It's been almost a week now since the stories of Tiger Woods' extra-curricular activities first hit the headlines. Since then, the papers have been filled with a series of shocking revelations about a man so dull that he wouldn't know a scandal if he hit it with a sand wedge.

He's spent the last thirteen years grinning all the way to the bank, thanks to a host of tediously unimaginative but spectacularly lucrative sponsorship deals, not to mention a staggering haul of competition prizes. Having got his career as a professional sportsman off to a spectacular start, he hit a slump in the middle of the decade. But thanks to a swing adjustment, he was soon back on form. But now it sounds as though he's been adjusting his swing again, this time in the direction of some comely wenches.

The National Enquirer was the first to break the story, alleging Tiger had been pitching in the rough with nightclub manager Rachel Uchitel‎. Predictably, the golfing gossip-vacuum claimed that there was nothing in the stories, stating "the many false, unfounded, and malicious rumors that are currently circulating about my family and me are irresponsible".

Then something really weird happened - Tiger crashed his SUV into a fire hydrant outside his house and was rushed to hospital with facial lacerations. As the world waited on tenterhooks to find out whether Tiger would ever drive again (see, golfing puns are the gifts that keep on giving), it emerged that his panicked wife had 'rescued' her injured husband. However, when it emerged that she'd done so by smashing her way through the Cadillac Escalade with a pair of golf clubs, eyebrows were raised in suspicion.

It didn't take an overly active imagination to picture Mrs Woods confronting the grin-happy golfer with the Enquirer's revelations, then chasing him out of the house brandishing his most precious clubs. Distracted by the screaming banshee running down the driveway, Tiger smashes into the fire hydrant, only for his scorned woman to start attacking the back of the car. Police arrive, calmness descends and lips seal. Move over Columbo, taxi for Poirot.

But then the plot thickened again today, as it emerged that a cocktail waitress has been having a long-running affair with the prodigious putter. According to Jaimee Grubbs he's been playing in her bunker for over two years now, and who could blame him? She's the classy looking one in the picture below.

Just kidding -she's the skank on the left, who looks like she'd cut you if you looked at her funny. Don't panic - I said 'funny'.

There are concerns that some of Tiger's lucrative sponsorship deals could be in jeopardy if it turns out he's been rinsing his balls elsewhere. But I can't imagine why. Eldrick Tont Woods (is it any wonder he prefers Tiger?) is so resolutely uncontroversial, it makes a pleasant change to see him in the news for something more interesting than the pleat in his chinos.

After Boris Becker's broom-cupboard baby, and Andre Agassi's crystal-meth abuse, it seems that scandal is all the rage in the sporting world. Maybe, if we all wish really hard, the next 'sports personality of the year award' might even go to someone with a personality. 

Bye George

I've tried to steer clear of 'I'm a Celebrity...' this year, given the astonishingly low profile of most of the 'talent' occupying the camp beds. On the whole it's all been about as entertaining as a bra full of mealworms, and when that bra happens to belong to a passive-aggressive cleaner built like a WWF wrestler in a one-piece swimsuit, the appeal tends to wane pretty quickly.

It doesn't help that the incessant Iceland ad-break bumpers keep showcasing food that makes the bushtucker trials look edible by comparrison - any day now we're going to see Coleen Nolan tuck into a kangaroo anus in satay sauce.

Adding to the general sense of ennui is the fact that the camp has had more people walk out than the Sugababes. Camilla Dallerup gave up after a couple of days, citing 'exhaustion', then Katie price followed a few days later, having finally realised that the audience didn't like the look of her new Mursi-tribe inspired lips.

But the biggest blow to camp camaraderie was the departure of George Hamilton. Despite being exempt from virtually every task on health grounds, he soon established himself as one of the more likeable members of the camp, with his quick wit, gleaming smile and career that involves more than occasionally appearing in heat's 'spotted' column.

After a heart-to-heart with several members of the camp, George decided that he'd had enough and opted to take an early bath. Ostensibly, he did it out of love and respect for the show's other participants, but it's telling how that compassion manifested itself.

Explaining his reasoning to Kim, he said “Here’s the thing, I’m going to tell you what I’m thinking, they’re people who are starting careers... I’m not going to go head to head, so I’m thinking about leaving, pulling out tomorrow.”

The thing about celebrities is that they have to believe that there's an army of fans hanging on their every move. Just look at Katie Price - audiences would happily have voted for her to be bundled into a sleeping bag full of scorpions and beaten with an old hammock frame. But ask her why and she'd shrug and say it might be because the public love to watch her. 

It's the same with George. Whatever his real reasons for leaving the show, he couldn't help but feel that he was a threat to the younger, less established contestants. By selflessly quitting, so as to avoid going head-to-head with a weaker member of the pack, he revealed just how much he fancied his chances of winning. Then again, when you're up against such showbiz luminaries as Justin Ryan, Gino D'Acampo and Jimmy White, it's hardly surprising.