Sublimely ridiculous

"Didn't she look lovely?" "Makes you proud to be British." 'That mallard's choking on a clump of non-biodegradable confetti." The royal wedding certainly gave us a lot to talk about.

There was the incessant media coverage, which did a great job of showcasing how many Middle Englanders will happily poke fun at the inadequates on shows like Britain's Got Talent, only to camp outside Westminster Abbey for three nights, dressed like Kate Middleton's engagement ring. ITV went for a light and frothy tone, whereas the BBC seemed to given Huw Edwards the wrong brief, since he spent most of the broadcast talking as though he was covering a national disaster.

We also got a healthy eyeful of the celebrity guests who make an event like this seem just a little more accessible. Victoria Beckham struggled to raise a smile, possibly because her ridiculous heels were twisting her leg into the kind of shape that only a skilled contortionist or that lank-haired ghost in The Grudge could manage. And Tara Palmer-Tomkinson proudly showed off the results of a sixty-minute makeover on her nose, even going so far as to wear a dangerously pointed Philip Treacy number that that made it look like she'd GeoTagged her own shattered septum.

Suffice it to say, this wedding was all about the headgear. For instance, Zara Phillips turned up in a titfer that could have doubled for the SETI dish from Contact. When the sun finally shone as the happy couple emerged from the abbey, it wasn't a break in the clouds, Zara had simply stooped to adjust her heel.

But the prize for fashion statement of the decade has to go to Princess Beatrice. Like Rumer Willis, the poor girl is stuck with a disturbing mishmash of her parents' features, having inherited the worst of both. With eyes so large they'd send a manga illustrator back to the drawing board, she obviously felt as though she needed to draw attention up and away. And did so with a piece of millenary that has already inspired its own Facebook page.

When we first got a glimpse of it, from the back seat of the limo that ferried her and Eugenie to the abbey, it gave her the appearance of an errant child who'd got his head stuck in the back of an ornate dining chair. Then she stepped out and the world gasped. Part Snow White's magic mirror, part facehugger, it was the kind accessory that didn't just say "look at me", it screamed "I dare you to look away".

Of course, the live broadcast meant that the commentators had to maintain an air of professionalism. Instead of blurting out "What the hell, did she answer the Call of the Cthulhu?", they were left to impotently discuss her pinky-beige ensemble. However, the Twitterverse exploded in disbelief that anyone would want to attend a wedding looking as though they ought to be mounted on a wood-panelled wall over a gun cabinet.

Yesterday was a pointed reminder that we're subjects, as well as citizens, in our own country. But at least we have a voice. And despite Huw Edwards and Simon Schama repeatedly asserting that "a day like today undermines the theory that we've become a cynical society", social media's record of the event tells a very different story. And it's fucking hilarious.

Cache and the addict

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Put a smile on her face

When The Big Bang Theory was first launched four years ago, it proved to be something of a surprise hit. Because although its creators came with a track record of successful comedies, there were doubts about whether or not science could actually be funny. After all, Stephen Hawking might win plaudits for his theories on quantum gravity, but no-one's ever asked him for his take on The Aristocrats.

The scientific community is more likely to study the effects of light particles travelling from A to B, rather than a nun and a rabbi entering a bar. Like those two old joke staples, I guess comedy and science aren't supposed to mix. So maybe we shouldn't be surprised that Lazar Greenfield, M.D. president-elect of the American College of Surgeons and inventor of the Greenfield Filter, has been pilloried for attempting to make light of a serious scientific subject.

Writing in Surgery News about the physiological symptoms of love, he began by discussing the mating habits of fruit flies, before moving onto the 'therapeutic effects of semen'. Citing research in the Archives of Sexual Behavior, he asserted that studies had found a link between unprotected sex and lower incidences of depression. Basically, he was arguing that "human semen has the potential to produce profound effects on women", beyond just fucking up their hair.

Although no-one seemed to be in disagreement with his theories about the mood-altering potential of spaff, they took exception to his romantic conclusion that "there's a deeper bond between men and women than St. Valentine would have suspected, and now we know there's a better gift for that day than chocolates." After the article was published, a number of women's groups threatened to protest. But it's not clear whether that's because they found his assertion to be sexist, or were simply suffering from a mass case of pink-eye.

Following the outcry, Dr Greenfield stood down from his role as the editor of the offending publication, and gave up his stewardship of the ACS. I just hope he's taking the opportunity to pitch his ideas to Nestle, just in case they ever want to shake-up their Quality Street line-up with a new soft centre.

But the fact remains that the study Greenfield was referring to, confirms that many women have indeed attested to "the anti-depressant effects of semen exposure". As Jennifer Aniston used to say, pay attention, here comes the science bit: "Only 5 percent of the ejaculate is sperm. What's left is seminal plasma, which is a rich concoction of chemicals, including many that have the potential to produce mood-altering effects derived from hormones, neurotransmitters, and endorphins. Within a hour or two after insemination, you can detect heightened levels of many of these seminal chemicals in a woman's bloodstream."

By all means, try using this rationale next time you feel like being Banksy in the bedroom. Just remember that, although your pistol paste might momentarily elevate her mood, leaving her with the wet patch will get you dumped quicker than a Scottish fiver.

Long overdue

I'll be honest, the last time I willingly set foot in a library, the book I took out had a big ladybird on the front. So I'm pretty sure things have changed plenty since then.

For a start, libraries are a lot less busy than they used to be. Probably because reading isn't the popular pass-time it once was. The majority of people won't even pick up a book unless it's got Katie Price or one of the Loose Women on the dust jacket.

But one service libraries offer that keeps those swing doors flapping, is access to the internet. It's easy to forget that in this 3G world, many people don't even have dial-up. They also don't spend their time worrying that they're not getting the full download speed from their fiber-optic broadband.

When they need to set up a direct debit, order Christmas presents or catch up on You Tube footage of kittens falling asleep, they can head along to their local library, and for a small fee, enjoy all the wonders of Windows 98.

There is a catch though. Not all the things that people like to use the internet for are conducive to an open plan environment. For instance, it's tough to take matters into your own hands when you're three feet away from the woman who works in the dry cleaners, trying to pay her gas bill. Don't be judging - a recent study found that 25 per cent of all internet searches were for pornographic material.

If you're confident enough to go trawling for adult material in a public space, you might want to cross the Atlantic and get yourself a library card in Brooklyn. Because according to the protections of the First Amendment, New Yorkers are perfectly free to check out the latest bukkake compilations in the city's public libraries.

A report in the the New York Post explains "Under US law, all libraries that take federal funding only must install filters on publicly used computers to block content containing illegal obscenity and child pornography, and New York City officials say they comply to the letter."

Unsurprisingly, the self-appointed moral guardians aren't too happy about this, with Catholic League President Bill Donohue telling journalists "It's not like a Playboy centerfold anymore -- it's far worse." Likewise, some library-goers were turned off by the idea of people being able to access porn in public. One woman explained that she'd seen an elderly man watching footage of a threesome - he'd thoughtfully tried to block onlookers' views of the screen, "but I could still hear the voices" she said.

With government cutbacks threatening the future of our own library services, local authorities would do well to take a leaf out of Brooklyn's book. And as long as users remember to keep the noise down when they take something out, where's the harm?

Saving Ryan's privacy

Better brace yourself for some bad news. Ryan Phillippe has announced plans to end his acting career because he's tired of the paparazzi lifestyle in L.A. Sorry, what's that? Ryan Phillippe? You know, Ryan PHILLIPPE. Phil-leap-pay. He's been in all kinds of things - Crash, The Way Of The Gun, Amanda Seyfried.

Anyway, he's sick of the pressures of fame of has decided to put his house on the market, so he can move to New York and live off the radar. He told journalists from the New York Post "I'm ready to be behind the scenes. I'm 36, but I've been doing this for 20 years", presumably whilst holding up a black and white headshot, just so they didn't think they were scoring a scoop on Justin Timberlake.

Back in the late nineties, he and his then-wife Reese Witherspoon were Hollywood's hot new 'It' couple. They'd met on the set of 'Cruel Intentions' and their onscreen chemistry soon turned into the real thing. But whereas Reese made some smart choices and ended up bagging herself $15 million for the sequel to Legally Blonde, Ryan ended up taking smaller roles in ensemble pieces.

As much as he might have tried to convince himself he was doing it for the art, movie-goers were less convinced. In 2002, the pair turned up at the Oscars to present an award together, prompting Phillippe to hand the envelope to his wife and say "After you. You make more money than I do." Of course, the audiences laughed, but then they'd just sat through a couple of hours of Whoopi Goldberg playing host. After that, you'd laugh at an angry voicemail from Mel Gibson. 

By the time they divorced in 2007, Reese was an Oscar winner and Ryan was attempting to hold his own in 'Five Fingers'. In more ways than one, I'm sure. Who knows, maybe he'll be better suited to a life out of the limelight. At least then he can look back on his starring role in 'I Know What You Did Last Summer', and fondly recall a time when at least somebody did. 

Stitches in time

We all make decisions that we live to regret. Mine was not taking the brief seriously, when instructed to select an appropriate fabric for my home economics class.

If I'm honest, I didn't take anything in home economics seriously. Given the emphasis my parents placed on 'academic' subjects, home-ec just seemed like a chance to fuck about with catering-sized tins of mixed fruit jam. Remember, 1988 was a simpler time - these days kids are learning how to make potato fondant and red wine jus. We considered ourselves lucky the week we got to bake brown bread.

So when the subject suddenly moved away from cookery in favour of a new focus on clothes-making, my thirteen year-old self became even less engaged. For our summer project, we were told we'd be making a shorts and t-shirt ensemble, which excited me even less than the prospect of two hours of geography in the classroom next door.

Sensing my indifference, my mum marched me into the haberdashery in town. I stood there like the petulant teen I was, refusing to engage with the saleswoman who rattled through a variety of garish fabrics. Realising that the longer this took, the less time I'd have to browse in Our Price, I chose the loudest one I could see. Black and purple, covered in neon watermelon slices and crudely illustrated palm trees. The kind of pattern that would make Ray Charles thankful for small mercies.

Over the next couple of months, I took my heinous cloth and half-heartedly fashioned a rudimentary two-piece out of it, foolishly assuming that it'd only ever be used for dusters. However, my frugal parents had other ideas, insisting that I wear my Bermudan folly on our holiday to Florida.

The photos that were taken that summer betray my shame and disappointment - onlookers would have been forgiven for assuming that I'd just received a stern 'no' from the Make-A-Wish foundation. It takes a special kind of effort to be singled out for poor fashion sense in Orlando, and yet somehow, even the schlubs dressed as Mickey and Goofy seemed to be looking at me with pitying despair.

But when you're a kid, appearance is everything. As you enter your teens, you become painfully aware of fashion and the role it plays in helping to form your fledging identity. So I can only wonder what the hell American senator Bruce Caswell was thinking, when he suggested that some children should be forced to dress exclusively in clothes from second-hand stores.

According to his proposal, children in the state's foster care system would be given special gift cards only redeemable in places like the Salvation Army and Goodwill. Asked to explain what made him the modern-day equivalent of Cinderella's lesser-known stepbrother, Caswell said that he'd grown up wearing clothes from the Salvation Army: "Once you’re out of the store and you walk down the street, nobody knows where you bought your clothes.” Although the flared collars and excess of paisley may give something away.

In theory, this was supposed to be a surefire way of helping the state of Michigan save some money. But really, isn't it just another example of Republicans looking to kick someone while they're down? Mummy and Daddy can't look after you anymore, so we think that you ought to spend the next few months wearing someone else's trainers. Then again, if you're having to make do with someone else's parents, why not take a similarly sanguine approach to your wardrobe?

Owner of a lonely heart

It's not so long ago that the worst thing about online dating was admitting out loud that you'd tried it. OK, maybe that's not strictly true. The worst thing was actually scanning a cafe menu for whatever would take the least amount of time to prepare and consume, once you'd realised that your perfect match had been as generous with the truth as they had with the trans-fats.

These days, no-one bats an eyelid at hooking up with someone who, several hours previously, only existed in binary. We've all been there, done that, and wiped it up with the T-shirt. What once seemed daring and exciting, is now about as edgy as doing a line of Coffee-Mate. 

That's why shows like Blind Date don't exist anymore. They're simply too archaic; representative of a simpler time. Well, that and the fact that Cilla Black is now too busy cursing the luckless adventurers who broke the seal on her sarcophagus.

With everyone now fully au fait with the intricacies of online dating, the phenomenon has evolved to incorporate a wider range of services. So we now have sites like 'My Single Friend' - Sarah Beeny's solution for introducing the outer rim of our social circle to anyone who'll tolerate their idiosyncrasies, if there's a chance they'll get laid at the end of the evening. Or there's Grindr, which lets gay men arrange a hook-up in the time it takes to walk home from the tube station.  

The biggest challenge with all of these sites, is that they're still dependent on the importance of chemistry. So I guess it was inevitable that someone would find a way of bridging the gap between the aspirational and the attractive - by boiling things down to what really counts. Cold, hard cash.

WhatsYourPrice.com takes the principle of the world's oldest profession, and applies it to those who have, until now, maintained their amateur status. It seems that everyone has a price, whether they're buying or selling, and this site simply acts as Cupid's Paypal. The website claims that its "patent pending dating system (US Patent Pending: Application No. 61407831) provides a platform where generous and attractive singles can negotiate and agree on a price for a first date." So it's a street corner with a modem attached.

If you're a wealthy benefactor, or just have a roll of twenties burning a conveniently-shaped hole in your pocket, you can pledge whatever amount you're prepared to pay for a date. Alternatively, if you think you're simply too hot to date for free, you can name your price and wait for the offers to come rolling in.

The site says "...dating doesn't have to be a waste of time. If you're beautiful, we are the only dating site that guarantees you will get paid while you spend time meeting fun and generous people." It couldn't be more pimpy if it was wearing a fur-trimmed zebra-skin hat.

Morality aside, there's something fundamentally distasteful about a site that's predicated on the same bag-a-bargain principle as Bid-Up TV. It's OK promising a range of "beautiful, gorgeous or sexy people", but would you really want to score with someone who's willing to settle for $20?

Everyone likes to be seen sporting a hot piece of arm candy. But there are few bragging rights to be enjoyed when the beauty in question can be scored for the price of a KFC bargain bucket. And I'd be willing to speculate that the similarities don't end there.

Everyone's a critic

I don't know how those women on 'How To Look Good Naked' do it. One minute they're bursting into tears when they see themselves in a cheval mirror, the next they're strutting down a runway in the middle of the Metro Centre, wearing less than Kim Kardashian in a home movie.

It takes an awful lot of guts (and in the case of Gok Wan's protégés, the ability to suck them in) to throw yourself open to the public. In a world where we're each given countless opportunities to expose ourselves, both literally and figuratively, we have to be prepared for the inevitable brickbats and bouquets that follow. And sometimes, even the bouquets come with nasty thorns.

I'm one of those people who takes every word of criticism personally. I burst into tears if a warden gives me a ticket for bad parking. So when I started this blog, I realised I needed to develop a thicker skin, otherwise I'd bleed like a haemophiliac in Fight Club every time someone posted a negative comment. By and large, I've escaped too much negativity, since the people who visit the site are a friendly, supportive bunch.

Of course, all that changed when I got the opportunity to share my blog with a wider audience. More readers means more opportunities to irritate or aggravate. And clearly, my recent post about Jodie Marsh and crew from The Only Way Is Essex managed to do just that.

When my BlackBerry alarm sounded its synthesised steel-drum alarm this morning, I noticed a new email had come in overnight. It was notifying me of a new comment added to the Marsh/TOWIE story, and told me in no uncertain terms that I was a "crushingly unfunny cunt". Hard as that may be to swallow, I guess it's still preferable to waking up to Sonny & Cher every morning.

Humour's a subjective business at the best of times. Some people are going to laugh, others are going to flinch like they just got a frosted margarita tipped down their back. That's OK - as long as the positives outweigh the negatives, I'll keep doing what I'm doing. The key is to not let the occasional voice of criticism distract you from what you're doing.

If only someone had directed similar advice to self-published author Jacqueline Howett, who achieved notoriety recently when she refused to let lie a less-than-glowing review of her book 'The Greek Seaman'. Taking objection to an Amazon customer's review, she decided to fight fire with ire, coming across like Glenn Close stood up on a blind date.

She tracked the reviewer down to his own blog and fired off a bunch of angry responses, citing the four and five-star reviews that her book had already achieved. That was bad enough, but when other visitors to the blog suggested that her defensive position wasn't winning her any fans, the gloves really came off. In a series of increasingly unhinged posts, she repeatedly argued "My writing is just fine!" only to continually disprove her own point. And when it all got too much, she resorted to that most witty of rejoinders - "Fuck off".

Ironically, the review itself was actually pretty even-handed, going so far as to compliment Howett's storytelling and characterisation. However, BigAl wasn't quite so enamoured with the writer's scattershot approach to grammar, punctuation and sentence construction. Reading through the incoherent excerpts that have popped up in light of his review, it does seem as though she dictated the book through a possessed medium with a stack of papers and a broken pencil.

Unfortunately for Howett, her war of poorly-arranged words went viral, sending her Amazon status sky-rocketing. But reviews don't necessarily translate into sales, even when your e-book is retailing for the grand total of $1.14. Like all the best stories, this one has a moral - don't feed the trolls. And under no circumstances should you stick your head through the bars to call them names.

Put your foot down

American comedienne Rita Rudner once questioned why women wear scents that smell like floral garlands if they want to attract a man. Surely, she reasoned, parfumiers were missing a trick by not marketing a fragrance called 'new car smell'.

I don't care about the fact that I lose three grand every time I drive a new car off the forecourt, nothing beats the feeling of being the one to break in a shiny new toy. It's the same as buying a new build property - what you lose in terms of character and heritage, you gain by enjoying a shower that no-one's ever pissed in. In spite of all the extra expense involved, I want a car that smells of freshly moulded rubber and uncracked leather upholstery, not James May's Scotch egg farts and a past-its-best Feu Orange.

Just like estate agents, divorce lawyers and bald referees, used car salesmen are held in universally low regard. And it's a shame, because there are countless friendly and trustworthy professionals out there who enjoy nothing more than pairing their customers with a low cost runaround. Sadly, it also seems to be a trade which attracts more than its fair share of disreputable shits - men who'd sell their own grandmother with the promise of a complimentary wax and free floor mats.

These are the guys who make buying a second-hand car such an unpleasant, joyless experience. It's like contracting Josef Fritzl to erect your new conservatory. Sure, he probably knows what he's doing when it comes to home renovations, but you don't really want to hear his ideas about extending the basement.

Given their less than progressive world-view, I'm not too surprised to see that one used car dealer in the US has started comparing his pre-owned stock with potential sexual partners. Dale Wurfel knows that when a model looks good enough, you don't really care if someone else might have already splashed their Red Bull all over her dashboard.

Perhaps concerned that a picture of a sexually alluring woman with the line "You know you're not the first. But do you really care?" might seem a little, well, sexist, Wurfel's dealership has also offered up a male alternative. What's a little harder to understand, is why they chose a picture of fashion designer Tom Ford for the new ad. Are they trying to appeal to gay car buyers, or lonely, overweight women who are still clinging onto an impossible dream?

As analogies go, comparing sexual prospect with used cars is an interesting one, and opens up a world of possibilities. When it comes to checking out Exchange & Mart, you want to know there's still some tread on the tyres and plenty of space in the boot. Equally, you might investigate whether the airbags are factory fitted, or have been recently replaced. And what about the odometer? Does it tell the truth, or have the numbers been rolled back by an unscrupulous dealer?

Whether or not you approve of the ads, this is one campaign that could run and run. Personally, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a picture of Madonna's boy-toy Jesus Luz, alongside that industry legend "One old lady owner."

But in the interests of safety, just bear in mind that you're not the only one getting comfortable in the driver's seat. You're also sharing it with everyone else who sat in it before you.

Seeing doubles

Everyone knows that the Oscar for Best Actress is a poisoned chalice. As Charlize Theron and Halle Berry soon found out, it's all downhill from there. Aeon Flux and Catwoman served as timely reminders that great actors are only as good as the material they're offered.

So far, Natalie Portman has managed to avoid making any horrible decisions about how to follow up her trophy-grabbing turn in Black Swan. And we'll have to wait and see whether Thor fulfills that particular brief. In the meantime, her post-win fall from grace is currently being managed by a bunch of disgruntled stand-ins instead.

It all started during the pre-Oscar campaign, as Natalie's breakout role was being talked up as the industry favourite. Critics unanimously agreed that Portman had given the performance of a lifetime as a troubled ingenue attempting to connect with her dark side of her id.

But in a twist that could have fouettéd straight off the screen, ballet dancer Sarah Lane went public with claims that she'd performed most of the moves on Natalie's behalf. Taking a stiff metaphorical nail-file to Natalie's overworked ego, Sarah wanted the world to know that the film's producers "were trying to create this image, this facade, really, that Natalie had done something extraordinary. Something that is pretty much impossible... to become a professional ballerina in a year and half."

Sensing that these loose lips were in danger of sinking the good ship Oscar, Lane was pulled to one side and told to stop rocking the boat. In the meantime, director Darren Aronovsky and Benjamin Millepied (the film's choreographer and co-baker of the bun in Natalie's oven) fired back with a number of percentages and statistics about Natalie's contribution to the dancing scenes. Very quickly the debate became needlessly mathematical, like trying to follow the morning stock report on Bloomberg.

Natalie managed to maintain a dignified silence on the subject, initially refusing to be drawn into the discussion. In the end, she was put on the spot by an interviewer, and simply said "I had a chance to make something beautiful with this film, and I don't want to give in to the gossip." Which is a super polite way of telling the world that Sarah Lane is a bitter, pissy bitch.

Now another stand-in has come forward to claim her own part in Natalie's success, telling the press that she took the plunge into an icy Belfast lake for new movie 'Your Highness'. Although we're reassured that the shapely arse in a historically authentic g-string bikini is all Natalie's own work, the dive was performed by Caroline Davis, her film-student double.

All of this talk of taking false credit is as old as the movies themselves. Back in 1974, Mercedes McCambridge effective scuppered Linda Blair's chances of an Oscar by speaking out (in a throaty growl, presumably) about the fact that she'd performed the gravelly vocals for most of the possession scenes. Linda lost out, despite handling the rest of the role, as well as a sticky crucifix, herself.

As for Natalie, she does at least have previous form for getting other actors to replicate her form. In fact, it was a major plot device in the Star Wars prequels, as Keira Knightley and Rose Byrne both played her doppelgänger handmaidens. A quick switcheroo and Padmé Amidala was able to go frolicking with Anakin at the drop of an elaborate kabuki headpiece.

This realisation suggests that it may be time for a forensic reappraisal of her earlier roles. How often has the gamine beauty pulled the same trick? Watch her shaven headed role in V For Vendetta, and don’t be surprised if Al Murray pops up in certain scenes as freedom fighter Evie. Even more worryingly, what if underage pre-teen assassin Mathilda was actually played by Jeanette Krankie? Suddenly, those inappropriate thoughts about the bob-haired Lolita don't seem quite so fandabidozi.