Love thy neighbour

Do you like your neighbours? Actually, scratch that. Do you even know your neighbours? We've all heard our parents talk about the good old days, when they could head off for a week at the seaside and leave the front door wide open, without a second thought. Back then, everybody knew everyone else's business and watched their comings and goings through a set of immaculately kept net curtains. How times have changed.

Back in April, when Kate and William tied the knot, the papers did a great job of trying to convince us that the entire country was going to be hosting parties in every street. Trestle tables as far as the eye could see, laden with the finest party foods that twenty quid and ten minutes in Iceland could muster. The only flaw in their plan was the fact that these days, we know more about the Orange call centre employee who activated our new number, than we do about the people next door. For most of us, the neighbour's name is "that fucker who's taken my parking space again".

Barry Crocker used to sing that "everybody needs good neighbours". It's a sentiment that might have suited the temperate climate of Melbourne, where the biggest worry on anyone's mind was the occasional exploding caravan. Here in the real world, it takes more than the Ramsay Street Olympics to bring neighbours together. 

It probably doesn't help that, as our population continues to grow, we're finding ourselves living on top of one another, which makes comfortable cohabitation that much more tricky. Especially when we view the people next door with the same kind of distrust that a Daily Mail reader would reserve for a halfway house full of ḥijāb-wearing single mothers.

Strangely, the closer we find ourselves, the further apart we seem to be. If you've ever lived in a terraced house, you'll know what I'm talking about. When you're separated from the family next door by a wall that's thinner than the plot of Twilight, you find yourself kept awake by the sound of their sickly kids trying to gulp down their Benylin. 

God forbid you ever find yourself, as I did, sharing a party wall with a house-full of Afrikaans-speaking backpackers. I say speaking - in fact every mangled syllable was yelled at a volume that could drown out an air-force fly-by. And if that doesn't drive you mad, the twat who decides to show off his bongo-playing prowess at three in the morning just might.

And yet, despite having endured more than my fair share of problems, it still gives me no comfort to read that Which? has published a new report suggesting that five million other UK households are blighted by troublesome neighbours. Apparently, four in ten people have their sleep disturbed by inconsiderate shitheads, with many of them choosing to fight fire with Earth, Wind and Fire - attempting to drown out the din with their own music collection. 

Occasionally, the animosity even spills over into violence. One Swedish man decided 'if you can't beat them, stab them', and murdered his teenage neighbour. As Which? executive director Richard Lloyd observes, "Three in ten Brits get annoyed with their neighbours. That so many people are losing sleep, getting stressed and struggling at work because of noise from next-door shows the damage this does."

However, it doesn't have to end in bloodshed. If you want a peaceful life with the nobheads next door, you could always extend the olive branch. Or at least offer to cut it back if it's overhanging their pergola. Lloyd's advice is to work on a resolution face-to-face, but in order to do that, you probably need to be able to pick their face out of a line-up. 

If you're lucky enough to have a garden, try inviting the locals over for a barbecue. And keep an eye on what they bring to the party. If they rock up with a couple of cans of lager, then head straight for the nearest bottle of champagne, just don't invite them back. Either way, at least you'll know their name in case you ever need to scream it through their letterbox in the middle of the night. 

Cries for help

Real life is boring. Growing up, I wanted a movie adolescence instead. I dreamed of finding a treasure map and a deformed man-mountain under a run-down cafe. Alternatively, I imagined setting off on a two day adventure to find a dead body and poke it with sticks. But reality had other ideas. Instead, my rites de passage involved downing my first bottle of Mad Dog in an adventure playground, and trying to keep down a spam fritter whilst watching the 'miracle of birth' video in social studies.

If you're of a similar age to me, you probably suffered through the same one. And let me tell you, seeing the gory details came as quite a shock. Especially after years of fictionalised birthing scenes, where the mother broke into a mild sweat for a few minutes, before being handed a spotless three-month old. Instead, we got to see a woman whose inner thighs looked like Noddy Holder, shitting out a blue scatter cushion covered in chicken madras.

These days, our teenage counterparts have far more explicit content streamed directly to their iPhones. So what's left for teachers to show that'll upset the desensitised little buggers? According to the horrified tabloids, it's a 'how to top yourself' video starring "notorious assisted suicide campaigner Dr Philip Nitschke". As soon as the cyber-bullying gets too much for them, troubled teens can simply take a few extra notes in their GCSE Philosophy class. And English Lit will help them compose a suitably poetic farewell note. Job's a good 'un.

Except, that's not really how it works at all. The film they're getting so upset about was actually prepared by a company called 'Classroom Video', which is responsible for many of the educational films currently in circulation. And rather than helping kids to decide whether plastic bags or carbon monoxide are the most effective way of checking out, it's been created to explore the medical ethics of euthanasia. Teachers who've used the resource claim that it handles both sides of the assisted suicide debate in an unbiased and constructive manner. But that doesn't really sell newspapers.

This is all big news at the moment, since the Commission on Assisted Dying is expected to make its recommendations to MPs this Autumn about whether the law should be changed. So it's hardly surprising that the news media is doing everything it can to derail the discussion, just in case someone's in danger of actually making a sensible decision.

The BBC doesn't emerge unscathed from this campaign of misinformation either. It's planning a documentary later this year following Sir Terry Pratchett's investigation into assisted suicide. Apparently, the programme will feature "footage of a man with motor neurone disease travelling to the Swiss euthanasia clinic Dignitas and being shown dying on screen." That all sounds very distressing, but not something we should automatically shy away from, just because it's a little more challenging than Antiques Roadshow.

Even so, it's downright bizarre to see this described by one journalist as a "snuff movie". As if drunk teenagers are going to watch it in a double-bill with The Human Centipede, and cheer on the evil doctor as he loads his syringe. Complex issues like assisted suicide demand mature, reasonable debate, not name calling and 'la-la-la, I can't hear you' rhetoric.

Just like those formative rites of passage, death is nothing like it's portrayed in the movies. It's tough, painful and desperately sad for all concerned. And to demean it by comparing it to the worst kind of exploitation is the greatest crime of all.

He wants your sex, apparently

It's almost the end of January, but sunny days and bright evenings still feel so far away. Every day is like watching an Ingmar Bergman retrospective. In the original Swedish. It's no wonder half the country is wandering around in a fug, complaining of Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Unless, of course, they're George Michael. Having £120 million in the bank means you can afford to follow the summer around the world, so the only clouds you need ever see are the ones that occasionally form in your bong water. 

Rather than terrorising London's photo developing shops, everyone's favourite mishap-prone Greek (besides Prince Philip) is currently living it up in Sydney, where he divides his time between a rented cliff-top apartment and suites at the Park Hyatt Hotel. In the afternoons he likes to pop into The Hunky Dory Social Club for a glass of white wine, and can often be found grabbing a bite to eat at The Manta Ray restaurant. 

Whether it's the sun, the lifestyle or the countless burly truckers, something about Australia seems to agree with George. And the feeling's mutual - George is still very big down-under, as if all that distressed denim he used to wear left us in any doubt. 

I'm sorry, what was that? You don't care where George Michael stopps off for a chilled Chablis? Well somebody must. Otherwise, why else would the Daily Mail choose to run an entire article about his Australian exploits? 

Reading between the lines (few of which seem to actually connect with one another), the poorly-written story isn't really about George's recreational activities. It's just another opportunity to paint gays with a broad brushstroke, as a subspecies of sexually deviant hedonists. 

It starts out accusing a fan of posting a fake George Michael profile on 'Scruff', a networking app for guys into "bears, furred, inked, uniformed, jocks, geeks and more." This, despite the fact that the leader on the paper's homepage incorrectly states that his profile is on the "sordid site Grindr". 

Six paragraphs in, and the story changes. Now, the paper has decided that it's George himself who has created the profile, using the name 'Sydney rocks'. Another three paragraphs later, it's back to an official spokesperson for the singer, who says "We hear about stories like this all the time and they always turn out to be pranks." So is it George, or an overzealous fan? In the Mail's eyes, it doesn't really matter. 

Interestingly, the writer even makes reference to the fact that George was happy to "rub elbows with the hoi polloi" - a disingenuous statement that manages to make him sound like an aloof elitist, even as it acknowledges that that's not the case at all. And anyway, if he is on Scruff or Grindr, it's not their elbows that he's interested in rubbing. 

But who cares about things like facts and narrative, when you've got a lifestyle to disparage? It's far more important to reference George's entourage of "shrieking male pals" or the fact that he's been busy "painting Australia’s largest city pink for the last month." 

This lazily homophobic article comes as no surprise, especially from a paper which recently caricatured two gay men excluded from a Christian-run bed and breakfast as swastika-tattooed Nazis. Or that ran a Melanie Phillips column this week, lamenting the fact that "just about everything in Britain is now run according to the gay agenda." 

If there is such a thing as a gay agenda, it's been developed by mean spirited tabloid hacks to portray the gay community as a bunch of insidious, morally bankrupt "McCarthyites". They're keeping their fingers crossed that, rather than looking for evidence and reason, their readership will be willing to take it on Faith. 

The King's SMS

I think we'd all better prepare ourselves for more "The British are coming..." speeches in the next few weeks, since there's a UK film that seems to stand a genuine chance of bagging all the big gongs during this awards season.

Unlike most British period drama, which are full of starchy characters and showcase more stiff upper lips than Meg Ryan's bathroom mirror, The King's Speech is being championed as a feel-good film that just happens to be set in the past. Of course, some of the genre staples are all present and correct - plummy accents, obsequious footmen and Helena Bonham Carter. But people are going to see it because it's an entertaining and uplifting movie, rather than as a shortcut in their English Literature revision. 

The film couldn't have come at a better time, after the double-whammy of Downton Abbey and Upstairs Downstairs 2.0. The whole nation is currently in the grip of period drama - and before you know it we'll be in a new age of civility. Instead of knocking back a Smirnoff Ice in a bus-stop, girls will be practicing pouring tea whilst delivering pithy bon-mots. 

But let's not forget that we are British, after all. So it's our collective responsibility to start kicking The King's Speech* before it's even completed its ascendence to Oscar and BAFTA glory. Leading the charge (shocked faces all round) is the Daily Mail, which today ran an extraordinary piece of nitpickery by self-proclaimed 'elitist' Philip Norman. 

You have to feel a little sorry for Philip. Whereas audiences around the world have been lapping up Colin Firth's exceptional portrayal of a stuttering monarch, Philip found himself peering through his fingers in disgust, like the Girl Guides' screening of I Spit On Your Grave. 

Philip claims: "I watched it in a state of agonised suspense unconnected with whether he would succeed in spitting out the next syllable. For like almost every ‘period’ film nowadays, and certainly every British one, it is riddled with preposterous historical distortions, over-simplifications and out-of-period anachronisms." Taking a somewhat hyperbolic approach to film criticism, he compares the Archbishop of Canterbury's involvement in the pre-Coronation rehearsal, to Uma Thurman travelling on a plane armed with an unsheathed samurai sword.

If you're not already falling into a consumptive swoon at the audacity of these fly-by-night film-makers, then consider the fact that Sooty, the world's least interesting hand-puppet, is mentioned a good fifteen years before he was created. Even worse, a stuffy BBC executive refers to a royal broadcast "going out live tonight". With such astounding inaccuracies in place, we should perhaps be thankful that we were spared a scene of the Queen Mother shopping for Manolos. 

And what of the Queen Mother herself? Well, Philip's not happy with her portrayal either. It took Herculean resolve on his part to "accept Helena Bonham Carter, usually such a sensitive actress, playing Queen Elizabeth as a sharp-tongued snob, crushing ordinary people as the future, lovely Queen Mum would never have dreamed of doing." Perhaps his own subjective sense of history has blinded him to the fact that she would have happily bitten the head off a chambermaid, if only her teeth were up to the job.

As you might expect, the entire article is just another in a long line of stories designed to convince Mail readers that IQs are dropping around them. A couple of weeks ago, the Mail ran a story claiming that Downton Abbey had lost 25% of its running time for airing in the States, due to concerns that "American TV executives fear its intricate plot will baffle U.S. viewers". So, the country that gave us Mad Men, The Sopranos and The Wire, is somehow too stupid to grasp concepts like inheritance and advanced bonnet-wearing.

As it happens, the whole story was as fictional as the plot of Downton itself. One of the show's producers wrote a scathing critique of the article, pointing out that he had repeatedly explained to journalist Chris Hastings how the show's running time would be different on a channel with no ad breaks. None of these details made it into the final story since Hastings "clearly had an agenda of its own". 

Call it a classic case of misdirection. The more stories that the Mail runs about 'dumbing down', the less likely it is that its readership will notice that its preferred paper has a world-view that amounts to little more than 'us' and 'them'. Now put that in your period-appropriate prop pipe and smoke it. 

*Oh, and good luck to Iain Canning, who produced the film.

Wii Fit for purpose

Whilst most of us are still struggling to get back up to speed after a couple of weeks off over Christmas, some people have returned to work with the kind of renewed vigour that manages to make the rest of us look like feckless, work-shy losers. Chief amongst them is the diligent PR account manager for Nintendo. 

Maybe they've slashed their advertising budget thanks to the new 'age of austerity', or perhaps Xbox Kinetic has taken a big bite out of their motion-controlled market share. Either way, they're clearly ramping up their PR efforts in an attempt to boost their profile more cost-effectively. 

Journalists are always happy to receive a press release with a human interest angle. They can just top-and-tail it, throw in a couple of stock shot library images, and they're another article closer to hitting their daily quota. 

Most newspaper readers are oblivious to these tactics, largely because the publishers in question are smart enough to cover their tracks and hide the evidence of 'churnalism'. It doesn't look good for a paper's objectivity if it's found to be sourcing half its stories from a marketing department. 

That's why Paul Dacre, editor of the Daily Mail, prefers to point the finger at his paper's competitors when accused of relying on PR puff-pieces for content. However, there are bound to be some embarrassed faces on Fleet Street tomorrow, when someone points out that his esteemed rag managed to run two separate stories on the same day that presumably came from the same source. Possibly even the same press release. 

Don't get me wrong - the Wii is a fantastic piece of kit that has transformed gaming for millions of people. As well as changing the way people engage with interactive software, its innovative motion-based controller has seen Nintendo consoles popping up in care homes and rehabilitation wards all over the world. 

But to hear the Daily Mail tell it, we could pretty much do away with the NHS by just giving every family a small, white games console. 41 year-old Jean Hinton is proudly showing off her new slimline figure, in a lovely 'leggings and PVC boots' ensemble, thanks to half-an-hour every day on her Wii Fit. 

Devastated by being called 'fatty bum bum nana' by one of her grandchildren, the 'glamorous grandmother' took to the computerised wobble-board because she couldn't afford a gym membership. Singing the praises of her Wii, Jean says: "Now, my confidence is back and I have so much more energy. It's helped my social life and I was even able to stop taking anti-depressants as I had so many more natural endorphins from the exercise." See - who needs a GP when you've got a copy of Wii Sports and some reinforced floorboards? Jean's even set up an online support group "in order to spread the word about the wonders of Wii Fit." 

She should probably have a word with 54 year-old Julie Wilks, who discovered she had Parkinson's disease by playing on her own Wii. Brave Julie "found out she had the degenerative disorder after noticing that she was leaning heavily to one side when she was standing on a Balance Board while playing the popular Wii Fit computer game." 

Talking about her shocking discovery, Julie says, "I'm so grateful that I was playing the game that day and that it ended in my diagnosis. What an amazing piece of technology." In fact, it's so amazing that she can't shut up about it: "The Wii fit makes it much easier to exercise. I can take it as easy as I need to and sometimes part of the problem is getting where you need to be to exercise, this way I can just set myself up at home." 

Clearly, this is no ordinary games console - it's Lourdes with a scart cable. Coincidentally, the news story also mentions that the selfless ex-lab technician has also set up a website to offer "help and advice to other sufferers".  Such as links to Amazon, Argos and Game, I imagine. 

Maybe it's the conspiracy theorist in me, but the fact that these two remarkably similar stories were published just 80 minutes apart (and are both attributed to the anonymous 'Daily Mail Journalist') seems too much of a coincidence. Dacre and his team may argue that they represent the highest standards of journalistic integrity, but in this instance I think Wii know better. 

The thrill of the chaste

The other day I wrote a post about a dubious article in the Mail attempting to convince women that they don't really want equality in the workplace, because all they're really interested in is 'marrying up'. Depressingly, the paper followed up that story with another piece that gave its female readership 12 reasons to distrust their menfolk.

Rather than take a positive approach, and advise people on how to strengthen their relationship, the Mail chose to set off a series of psychological distress flares. Earn more than your husband? He'll go off and fuck the au pair. Is he working long hours? He's probably doing his secretary in the stationery cupboard. And if he's been married before, well, you might as well give the ex-wife keys to your house, because that bitch is already rumpling your bed linen. And she hates your curtains.

But have no fear, because help is at hand, courtesy of those ingenious folks at CB-6000. They're the self-proclaimed 'world leaders in male chastity', and offer a number of innovative solutions to keep your fella's fella under lock and key.

Taking their inspiration from the clunky medieval contraptions designed to keep women's virtue intact, these snug devices encase the right honourable member in plastic. Suddenly, man's real best friend is out of bounds until you say so.

Obviously, there are issues of emasculation to consider here. So the thoughtful designers have created a range of finishes to ensure that your man still feels all man, even if he can't actually feel his old man.

There's a beautiful carved model that gives new meaning to the term "getting wood". And if hubby's a military man, you might want to invest $160 in the special camouflage edition. Now that the US government has finally repealed DADT, countless soldiers will want to protect their privates from other privates' prying eyes. Plus, it even matches their workwear - everyone's happy.

According to the company's website, the devices aren't just for keeping wayward husbands on the slightly-crooked and narrow - they can also be used to spice things up in the bedroom: "In reality the majority of customers purchasing a male chastity device fall into two main groups: either fetish devotees or couples interested in expanding their sexual experiences with chastity play."

It all sounds like a great idea. But surely, couples interested in "chastity play" could save themselves a bunch of money by just taking it in turns to claim to have a headache and sleeping in the spare room.

It's (still) a man's world

Blame it on the popularity of Downton Abbey and Upstairs Downstairs. The heady stew of crinoline and corsets has got people regressing back to the good old days, when men were men, and women had to leave the room to blow their nose. 

Whilst millions of people peered through their fingers at the depiction of a world where the 'help' had to ask permission to swoon in front of their employer, the editorial team at the Daily Mail was hanging out the celebratory bunting at the fond memories it brought back.  So perhaps we shouldn't be too surprised that this nostalgia for the way things used to be, has inspired them to ramp up their campaign for a return to old-fashioned values. 

Take women in the workplace for example. In the Mail's eyes, women serve two purposes - scribbling poisonously homophobic columns, or cleaning the offices once the journalists have gone to the bar. So they're delighted to discover that women don't really want to be working anyway. According to a new survey, they'd rather be raising kids, so that Mr Big can go out and earn the big bucks. 

Across the country Champagne corks are popping, as beleaguered bosses are realising that they can finally throw out all those diversity training handbooks. No need to worry about how many women hold a place on the board; they're happier cleaning up yellow shit. 

Let's all raise a glass to Dr Catherine Hakim, who's produced incontrovertible evidence that ladies have no business in the workplace. Her research on behalf of the Centre for Policy Studies shows that "men dominate the top positions because women simply do not want careers in business". Glad someone cleared that up. 

Instead, the majority of women prefer to "marry up", finding a husband who brings home a bigger pay packet. Rather shockingly, more women feel this way than in the 1940s. Although I'm not sure how many women would have dared to imagine that they might earn more than their partners 70 years ago. 

Dr Hakim states that "Research evidence consistently shows that most husbands are the main bread winners in their family and that most mothers would prefer not to have competing demands of family work and paid jobs." She would have said more, but she had to get home to put the dishwasher on. 

Political implications aside, this is yet another academic study designed to confirm what everybody already knows. Given the choice, I'm sure most people would be happy to keep the whisky decanter topped up, leaving the hard graft to their significant other. 

It's interesting that no-one seems to have conducted a similar study, asking how the husbands of major female breadwinners feel. I'm prepared to bet the keys to the executive washroom that they're perfectly happy hitting the golf course, leaving the Mrs to bring home the bacon. Hasn't anyone seen Mr Mom?

Forever Autumn

Welcome to the penultimate post of 2010. It's been a year of ups and downs, with more than a few sideways glances. And as we sweep up the remains of the decade, along with all the tattered wrapping paper and empty vodka bottles, there's time to take a quick look as what Autumn brought us, in addition to a skip-load of damp leaves.

The month of September got off to a great start for Peter Hitchens, who felt he'd finally identified the smoking gun that confirmed what he'd always suspected - that the BBC leans to the left. No-one had the heart to point out that the telling bulge in the corporation's corduroy slacks had given the game away years ago.

Elsewhere in the pages of the Daily Mail, the knives were drawn for Lady Gaga, Davina McCall and Chloe Mafia. The paper's ill-concealed misogyny spilled out all over the place, as these women were attacked for being too calculating (Our Lady of the Tenderloin), too liberal (Big Mutha) or too slutty (do I really need to point that one out?).

However, it was clear that the real enemy of our traditional British sensibilities, was the growing Islamification of this great nation, as evidenced by the pernicious spread of Halal McNuggets. It was clear, to the Mail at least, that although most people don't give a Towering Zinger about what they put in their mouths, they do care about which religiously associated slaughtering methods are being used in the abattoir.

Which leads me rather neatly onto 'Fuck You' - Cee Lo Green's chart-topping, foot-tapping, profanity spouting retro throwback. Although a radio friendly version was released (managing to squeeze an extra syllable into the title), it was the explicit version that really caught people's imagination. And it was just one of a number of fairly innocuous pop songs, spiced up with some dockyard language. In the past, singers have recommended gargling with warm, salty water before going onstage - these days they'd be more in need of soap and water.

The first few Christmas decorations were already popping up in certain stores, so naturally our thoughts turned to gifts - even though we planned to leave buying anything until the last minute, certain that our postal service wouldn't be impeded by any seasonal snowfall.

Answering the age-old question 'What do you buy for the man or woman who has everything?', we discovered a rare malt whisky distilled from diabetics' piss, a pearl necklace of sculpted silver semen, and a new women's magazine aimed at plus-size ladies.

The publishers' timing couldn't have been better, since women's body size continued to be a big issue. Christina Hendricks complained that dress designers were unable to provide her with suitable red carpet couture, thanks to her abundant figure. Used to dressing stick-thin waifs of indeterminate gender, it's no wonder the designers struggled to dress a woman with more curves than an alpine racetrack. Nonetheless, the media's obsession with post-baby weight loss continued, as celebrity mothers were damned if they did and damned if they didn't.

P0pvulture took a trip Stateside in October to take in the delights of New York and San Francisco, most of which came with a gargantuan side order of fries and dipping sauce. The people were friendly, the shop assistants helpful and the choices varied. In fact, it was only the high prices that reminded me of home.

Meanwhile, X-Factor rolled on, giving the UK a fantastic new supervillain to hate. Apparently, these days you can be branded Satan's emissary on Earth just for having curly hair and an over-inflated opinion of yourself. Lookout Mika, they'll be coming for you next.

The Jackass boys launched another assault on taste, decency and each other's genitals, this time in 3D. Apparently, the immersive nature of the technology makes you really feel like you're there. In this case, that means trapped in an airborne Portaloo.

Looking further afield, we followed closely the developments in Chile, as a major rescue effort was mounted to extract a number of miners trapped in a collapsed shaft. Thankfully, all the men were safely removed, although one found himself facing a different kind of jeopardy when both his wife and mistress turned up to celebrate his safe return.

Over in Spain, prostitutes were forced to wear high-vis jackets when working the rural roads - but struggled to accessorise their new outfits. And a different kind of sex scandal erupted in Italy, as children were removed from a prestigious school because of concerns about the sexiness of one of the teachers. You'd think the mothers of the children would be happy that their husbands finally showed an interest in attending parents' evening.

Concerned by a spate of gay suicides, Dan Savage launched the 'It gets Better' campaign, which saw a huge number of illustrious celebrities, and Ke$ha, create encouraging YouTube videos encouraging kids to rise above the bullies. Unfortunately, no-one pointed this out to Amanda Platell, who continued to churn out her own special brand of underwritten cruelty, directed at anyone who happened to catch her eye. Now, I'm reluctant to lower myself to her level, so I'll simply point out that she looks like a snow shovel coated in vaseline and leave it at that.

OK folks, tomorrow's the big one, as we count down the last two months of the decade. Please join me and we'll raise a celebratory glass of something to the year that once was.

A bumpy landing

Apparently Christmas isn't just a time for wanton consumption, gluttony and liver abuse. According to Wikipedia it's also some kind of religious holiday (who knew?) when we're supposed to remember those less fortunate than ourselves.

So spare a thought for the people who'll be spending this December shivering in the cold, pressing their drippy noses at the window and gazing enviously at our plentiful feasts. People like Liz Jones, everyone's favourite professional victim and Mail columnist.

Despite pleading poverty several months ago (inspiring hundreds of old people to hand over their meagre pensions so that she could buy organic cat food) our intrepid journalist recently packed up her Vuitton luggage and headed off to Bolivia. How was she to know that while she was away, Britain would descend into wintery chaos.

The poor woman left her hotel in La Paz assuming that she had a relatively stress-free return flight ahead of her, only to find herself stranded in Schipol airport as Heathrow was all-but closed over the weekend. Displaying an ever-present flair for the dramatic, Liz describes the scene that met her in Amsterdam as being similar to that which might follow "a shipwreck or an earthquake". People were forced to change clothes in the terminal, breastfeed in public and, brace yourself, sleep "open-mouthed".

She couldn't understand the Tannoy or find her luggage, an experience that left her feeling like "the walking dead". By now, your eyes are probably blinking back hot tears, so I'll try to spare you some of the gory details of the experience which left Liz "stripped of [her] humanity". Suffice it to say, she found the airport staff unwelcoming and seemingly immune to her cries of "But all my Christmas presents are in the suitcase". It didn't help matters that her weather-appropriate boots were also packed away in her case, leaving her to tramp around a snowy airport in flip-flops.

Now, the churlish readers amongst you might chuckle at the utter lack of common sense it takes to fly back to the UK in late December wearing flimsy beach-wear. But Liz has never been over-endowed with any kind of capability for lateral thinking. Remember, she's the victim here.

And yet, even in the depths of despair, our kind-hearted correspondent was able to empathise with her fellow passengers. Having asked for information about arranging an alternative flight to the UK, Liz says "I was given a piece of paper by another mute employee; this had a phone number on it. (Anyone without a mobile – old ladies, nuns, the weak, the injured – were culled.)" Although, I'm sure that, if push came to shove, even Mother Teresa could have operated a payphone.

After a flight that involved waiting on the runway "for what seemed like the rest of my life" (if only), Liz found herself in Birmingham. It was here that Liz was able to get a lift with another passenger to heathrow. This good Samaritan's name, or the circumstances of his selfless offer? Fuck that - this is Liz's story; there's no room for bleeding-heart liberalism here.

Sadly, Heathrow was even worse than Schipol. Her car was buried under a 'mound' of snow, leaving her unable to unlock it. And the security staff were no use, even when Liz banged on the window of the closed airport and "mimed driving a car".

If you've gnawed your fingers down to the knuckles at this point, wondering whether Liz would ever get home to her hydrotherapy and macrobiotic pet sanctuary, don't worry - it gets better. Industrious to the last, our plucky heroine was able to fashion a makeshift snow shovel from a Pixie Lott CD, and finally made good her escape from the coldest Colditz of car parks.

But she doesn't blame the airport staff who were deaf to her need for unwarranted prioritisation. She understands that the reason they "stood, mute and uncomprehending, shoulders shrugging, staring into space" was because they were contemplating "the life they could have had". Nice touch.

Here's the thing. We all have bad customer experiences - times when we curse our rotten luck and wonder if things could possibly get any worse. Only to discover, moments later, that it already has. We even take to blogs, Twitter and facebook, to find a friendly ear and a sympathetic tut of understanding.

Liz's problem is that she doesn't understand the fundamental problem at the heart of her writing. Liz feels that, because her case was laden with gifts, the airport staff should have been more understanding. And although she relates the story of an elderly couple worried about missing their grandson's first Christmas, she still misses the point.

It's not that the staff don't care. It's that they can't. With tens of thousands of irritated, agitated would-be travellers descending on them, they have to adopt a degree of distance in order to get the job done. When you've heard one sob story, you've heard ten thousand of them.

At times of crisis, everyone has a horror story to share. Unfortunately, in Liz's world, hers is the only one that counts. In the end, she wasn't "stripped" of her humanity, she just discovered what it is to be part of it.

The smear test

In the world of political tactics, the smear attack is as predictable as kissing a baby or gripping the hand of your recently-wronged partner in a photogenic post-affair display of solidarity. As soon as someone appears to threaten your cosy, moat-draining, duck house-building existence, you need to drag their name through the dirt and shift press attention onto them instead.

The world's media are a bunch of magpies - throw them something shiny and they're easily distracted from the matter at hand. However, if you really want that mud to stick, you have to ensure plausible deniability so that no-one can trace the story back to you. If only someone had pointed that out to the Swedish government, who are currently high-fiving themselves about their successful plot to eradicate the threat to international security posed by Julian Assange.

In the last month, the defiant Australian has leaked over 250,000 classified U.S diplomatic cables on his website WikiLeaks; in the process infuriating the world's most powerful people, and Prince Andrew. A vocal advocate of the freedom of speech, Assange has argued that the documents he's leaked shine a light on the nefarious espionage techniques employed by countries like the U.S., that ironically profess to export democracy and fairness.

So I guess no-one's too surprised that Assange's been silenced quicker than you can say 'concrete shoes'. Following the 'leak' of the news that he was wanted for questioning by Swedish police in connection with sexual assault charges, extradition proceedings were quickly implemented. This morning, a defiant but cooperative Assange turned himself into London police.

The police may claim to be taking the charges seriously, but I find it hard to believe that anyone else is - this whole plot sounds dodgier than Ke$ha singing acapella. Not least because the women involved seem to be less-than-credible witnesses.

Both freely admit to having consensual sex with Assange - and why not, he looks like Baz Luhrmann doing Morten Harket on Stars In Their Eyes. That rugged 'silver fox' appearance, coupled with the whole rule-breaking freedom fighter image, would make him a worthy notch on anyone's ethically-sourced bedpost.

They also enjoyed cordial relations with him after their respective sexual encounters, and only concocted their accusations of sexual assault and rape after conferring with one another. Irrespective of the validity of the charges, it's interesting that within 48 hours of the women speaking to police, the "news had leaked to the Press" who wasted no time reporting it.

There should be a delicious irony in the story of an arrogant man being undone by the dubious practices that he himself championed. But then, isn't that precisely how this whole counter-attack has been engineered?

This is the powers-that-be playing SuperNanny and attempting to teach an unruly child a lesson. Unfortunately, it's likely to have the opposite effect, because the overriding message here is that leaks and media manipulation are both acceptable practices, assuming that they work in one's favour. As well as running the risk of making Assange a martyr to the cause, their actions will also cast a shadow of associated doubt onto the testimony of countless real victims of rape and sexual assault.

I hope that the two women at the heart of this story, illustrated in the papers looking like two Tetris screengrabs, reconsider their role in this woefully misconceived conspiracy. Maybe they're just unhappy at how quickly Assange was able to fuck them and move on - which is pretty much how the political figures at the heart of the WikiLeaks scandal must be feeling too. But when even the Daily Mail voices concerns that this is just a "dirty tricks campaign" on the part of the U.S. government, it's clear that their believability needs some work.

How the other half lives

Several weeks ago, Lord Young was pressured into standing down from his position as David Cameron's enterprise tsar, having commented (somewhat tactlessly) that most Britons have "never had it so good". Seemingly oblivious to the widespread impact of the recession, Young was basing his assertion on the idea that low interest rates meant cheaper mortgages for many.

Although he's right in that regard, his comments showed a fundamental lack of empathy for the other financial pressures faced by ordinary people. Pressures which show no signs of letting up, especially with Christmas just three weeks away. 

After all, Christmas is a time for remembering those less fortunate than yourself - people like Charlotte Metcalfe, who told her Bob Cratchit-worthy tale in the Mail this weekend. Her harrowing memoir begins: "Less than five years ago, Christmas for me meant leisurely afternoons in Harrods buying a pretty embroidered cushion, some bath oil and a toy or two here, some smoked salmon and a box of chocolates there." 

Tragically, the three properties that she and her partner snapped up during the property boom haven't held their value, saddling the unlucky couple with negative equity. The TV production work has also dried up, leaving Charlotte "lucky if I earn £500 a week as a writer."

Those happier days, when Charlotte "thought nothing of spending £45 on a pot of gold-lidded lusciously scented body cream as a Christmas present for a distant cousin." are long gone. Now she's worrying about how to buy the family's Christmas presents, when even "Boden, that reliable stand-by of well-to-do mums in the Home Counties, is now looking too expensive".

Although she's not oblivious to how her 'Nouveau Pauvre' misery might irritate some readers, she soldiers on, investigating the bargains in Poundland and Tesco like some kind of post-modern anthropologist. She remembers the days when her grandmother used to provide "tin upon tin of home-made mince pies and a Christmas cake" and laments the fact that she would love to bake, but simply doesn't have the time. Although I'm not sure why, since she's already pointed out that the freelance work has all but disappeared.

Rather depressingly, Charlotte's article is nothing new. In fact, as Enemies of Reason pointed out yesterday, the Mail regularly runs these "Gosh, I wondered where poor people buy their scrunchies from" stories. Only last week, a similar feature popped up in the Evening Standard, where Deborah Collcutt wrote about "A weekend eating Poundland food" as though she was forced to chew on a kangaroo vagina as part of a bushtucker trial. Without a trace of irony, she even comments that she's glad to exclude her daughter Dory from the experiment, fearful that "if she saw the pink label Heinz Barbie pasta in tomato sauce she would never eat broccoli or quinoa again."

All of which begs the question, what on Earth are these articles attempting to accomplish? If they're attempting to portray the harrowing impact of the recession on the papers' beloved Middle Class, perhaps they shouldn't have mentioned the fact that someone's Christmas has been ruined because they can no longer justify spending £50 on velvet and silk wrapping ribbons from VV Rouleaux. If anything, they simply serve to illustrate the incongruity of the Mail's worldview when compared with most people's day-to-days reality.

What's also apparent, is the fact that shopping in Poundland is one of those behaviours, like becoming a WAG or getting a tattoo, that was only ever intended for the underclass. The writers might try to put on a brave face and celebrate the bargains they've been able to snag, but their message is loud and clear - "I don't belong here. This isn't for me."

It seems that class warfare is alive and well. But perhaps, just for a moment, this might be the consumerist version of the Christmas truce. Two opposing sides downing arms for a moment, and bonding over the cut-price bargains in the no-man's-land of the 99p store, if only for a moment. We can but hope.

The end of an era?

Although advertising is, by its nature, a transient medium, agencies occasionally come up with a concept that transcends the format and becomes part of the public consciousness. Think of the PG Tips chimps or the Hamlet cigar ads - thirty seconds of product pushing that live on in the nation's memories, long after the campaign has ended.

That's how a lot of people will be feeling today, with the news that the Andrex puppy has been sent off to the big farm in the sky, so that it could be replaced with a creepy, anthropomorphised CGI alternative. Defending this decision, Jon White, Marketing Director for Kimberly Clark Europe told the press: "We really believe we’ve given him a new lease of life and have evolved his character. We’re confident you’ll love him and his new Puppy World and will be reminded about why you fell in love with him in the first place."

It's a noble thought, but I think White is missing the point. People 'fell in love' with the Andrex puppy because he behaved like a real dog - mischievous, annoying and adorable. I'm not sure the same can be said for a pup-atar that surfs the internet and bakes birthday cakes. My dogs are pretty intelligent, but neither of them can figure out how to set up an iTunes account.

As a precursor to the reveal of the new campaign, Andrex staged a casting call to find their new puppy at Pineapple Dance Studios, which the lazy tabloids were quick to cover in their pages. Of course, now that the CGI pooch has been revealed, the Daily Mail is feeling the cold drip of egg on its face. 

Covering this fast-breaking story, Gavin Allen writes "Forgive us for being a little cynical about it all but given that the company has revealed it spend six months working on the animated dog, the doggy audition was clearly just a marketing ploy." No dog-shit Sherlock.

And yet, the paper's indignant tone at the cynical manipulations of the PR machine doesn't sit right with me. Especially since, sitting right alongside the reveal of Puppygate, is a story about dinner party cheats that came as a ready-made article by the marketing team for luxury pudding company Devilishh. 

It's standard practice in PR circles to whip up a survey based on a topic in the zeitgeist (in this case the 'Come Dine With Me' phenomenon), then present the finished article to any editorial team too lazy to generate actual news. But as fantastic news blog Tabloid Watch pointed out back in February, the Mail's editor Paul Dacre has renounced claims that his esteemed paper relies on churnalism. 

So what do you think - is Dacre telling the truth or lying through his teeth? There's only one way to find out: Survey!!!

You gotta have fai-fai-fai-fai-faith

An unusual alliance seems to have formed between the BBC and the Daily Mail this week, as the former has inadvertently added fuel to the latter’s ongoing fire again the Islamification of Britain. A new Panorama documentary due to screen tonight aims to expose how thousands of Muslim children are being educated in the fundamentals of Sharia law in ‘weekend schools’ across Britain.

All told there are around 40 of these schools, which are currently teaching the Saudi national curriculum. And since they’re part-time, weekend-only institutions, they fall outside of Ofsted’s remit. This means that the kids are free to learn about the sins of sodomy, the severing of thieves’ hands as punishment for theft, and the dangers posed by the Zionist plot to take over the world. Well, I suppose it’s more interesting than studying cross-sections of tundra soil anyway.

Unfortunately, as one might expect, the Mail’s coverage tends to fixate on the ‘otherness’ of the teachings, making clear their distaste for the indoctrination of children into profoundly non-British protocols. In fact, the real danger posed by schools like these, is highlighted in a throw-away quote at the end of the article.

Taken from a report by Conservative think tank ‘Policy Exchange’, the statement reads “The Government’s policy of opening up the education system to new academies and free schools programmes could be exploited unless urgent measures are taken to counter extremist influence.” Notice that this relates to all faith schools, and not just the ones that happen to observe Ramadan.

And given the Mail’s disdain for the Saudi curriculum, let’s take another look at the shocking subject matter being shared with impressionable Muslim youths. The notion of a Zionist plot to take over the world is both offensive and ridiculous. But not so far removed than the Mail’s own preaching about the Islamification of the west. It’s also hard to see how many of the Mail’s “hanging’s too good for ‘em” readers will be particularly upset by the idea of amputating a thief’s work-tools. They’re probably sharpening their electric carving knives even as I write this.

So what about the nasty homophobia that’s being taught in these schools? Or the fact that six year olds are being taught that those who refuse to convert to Islam will burn in “hellfire”? Forgive me if I point out that these are some of the same viewpoints regularly articulated whenever a Christian militant argues that their religious freedoms are being quashed by the PC brigade or the gay agenda.

Furthermore, it’s particularly galling to see Education Secretary Michael Gove wading into the debate to deplore the teaching of homophobia in our schools, when his own political party has such a woeful track record on the subject.

The real issue here is the dangerous precedent set by any ‘faith school’ with an agenda, irrespective of which God it happens to tell children to fear. The Mail may have a problem with Muslim women wanting to pull a veil over their face, but it’s even worse to willingly pull the wool over our eyes.

Men are from Mars, women are from Argos

Sod the recession - Christmas is coming, so it's time to whip out that credit card and spend like there's no (VAT increase) tomorrow. But how to be sure that you're buying your significant other what they really want?

I'll be the first to admit, I'm a difficult person to buy for. If there's something I want, chances are I've either bought it or pre-ordered it to be dispatched the moment it's released. As a consequence, Christmas morning usually becomes an exercise in voucher collation.

But despite the average person being much less avaricious and materialistic than yours truly, it seems that many people still struggle to pick out a gift in those fevered weeks running up to the holidays. Worry not, the Daily Mail is here to help you to figure out those painfully cryptic clues, ensuring that Boxing Day won't be spent sleeping on the sofa in disgrace or queing for hours in the 'returns' queue at Debenhams.

When it comes to understanding modern female psychology, there's really no finer source than the Mail, which has its french-tipped finger on the pulse of contemporary womanhood. Its editorial team know exactly what drives the female mind, and exploits these incredible insights at every turn to make sure that women feel guilty for having children, not having children, being feminists, being bimbos, gossiping, working, studying, socialising, dieting, putting on weight, shopping and being frugal. If you have ovaries and you don't already hate yourself, a couple of week's of Britain's best-selling paper will soon have you plunging into a spiral of self-loathing despair.

With the female psyche a heaving maelstrom of hang-ups, it's a good job that the Mail is on hand to guide clueless menfolk through the perils and pitfalls of present picking, with an exclusive guide to interpreting their better half's hints. Hold onto your hats folks - here comes the scientific bit.

Perhaps you're married to a 'pepper hinter'. She constantly seeds her conversation with "mentions of preferred gifts". Presumably, that means statements like "I really want one of those for Christmas." See? Now, you're starting to understand the labyrinthine complexities of the female mind.

But as we all know, many of the messages we receive are non-verbal. In fact, according to John Borg, "human communication consists of 93 percent body language and paralinguistic cues". That's an awful lot of arm waving.

So the next time you're standing outside Ratners and your beloved starts gesticulating wildly at a sparkly necklace, she may well be indicating that she'd like to be wrestling it from the dog's eager jaws on Christmas morning. She's what the "experts" call a 'present pointer' - cleverly using hand gestures to draw your attention to those objects of desire. And you thought she'd just developed a violent twitch.

Still with me? Then down the rabbit hole we continue. The 'Chinese Whisperer' tells friends and family what she wants for Christmas, so that they can relay the message to her clueless spouse. These oh-so-subtle clues might come in the form of the following exchange: "Do you know what she wants for Christmas?" "Yes, she said she wants a Gucci purse." If only there was some way to decode this cryptic messaging. 

Finally, there's the 'Careless Lister', who cleverly leaves a Christmas List (usually entitled 'List of Things I Want For Christmas') lying around the house. If you see such an item artfully arranged on the breakfast bar or coffee table, it's possible the lady in your life could be trying to tell you something. Like the fact that she wants a fucking iPhone.

By now your jaw is probably agape, and you're scratching your head at how on Earth you're supposed to decipher such complex messaging. After all, as ex-Big Brother body-language expert Geoff Beattie explains, "Women know what they want and are increasingly turning to “adventising” in order to get it – using clues to advertise to men what they want for Christmas. However, their covert suggestions can at times fall on deaf ears and men are missing out on a massive two thirds of crucial hints dropped by the ladies in their life."
If it wasn't for Boots kindly stumping up the cash for this hard-hitting and revelatory research, men might still be in the dark about how to placate their passive-aggressive partners. Unless this is all just a cynical exercise in PR designed to sell more fragranced soap and toilet bags at 4.30 on Christmas Eve.

Surely, no-one's that credulous, are they? Or do I have to give you a clue...

Dressed to distress

I miss Points Of View. I know it's still on, buried somewhere in the Sunday afternoon schedule, but there was a time when it was real must-see TV. 

For those of you too young to remember its heyday, the show gave BBC viewers the chance to write in and vent their spleens about the channels' output. Although Esther Rantzen, Barry Took and Anne Robinson are no longer sitting patiently whilst paid-by-the-hour actors read out a series of irate missives from 'disgusted of Tunbridge Wells', the spirit of the show is alive and well.

But if current presenter Jeremy Vine isn't your cup of tea, you can thank heavens for the Daily Mail, which gives those solitary voices of discontent an alternative forum for sharing their outdated, flat-Earth views of Auntie's programming. The newest controversy to "cause a storm" on the network comes in the form of an inappropriate outfit during BBC One's Countryfile.

But rather than a pair of crotchless knickers on BBC Breakfast, or a low-cut party dress on Songs of Praise, the offending ensemble was a relatively inoffensive sweater and a pair of jeans. On the not entirely unappealing form of Tomasz Schafernaker.

Admittedly, Countryfile is a show aimed at the elderly, infirm and terminally rural. Even so, it's remarkable to think that anyone could be "upset" by the idea of a casually dressed weatherman.

However, viewer Stephen Jones, 35, disagrees. He told reporters (on a slow news day, presumably) "I thought I had tuned into Newsround or Blue Peter for a minute when I saw the main presenter wearing jeans and a jumper. I've heard of having dress-down days before but I didn't think the BBC went in for that. When you are presenting to the nation, especially on the BBC, surely you should look as professional as possible, not like someone who's just come in from off the street."

It's hard to understand how anyone could be offended by a V-neck sweater. He was even wearing a poppy, for Christ's sake. But since we're talking about the Daily Mail here, I'm willing to put my disbelief on hold. 

They love any opportunity to bash the BBC, and run through all of Tomasz's previous run-ins with the powers that be. He accidentally forecast "muddy shite" for Glastonbury, and in 2007 referred to the Outer Hebrides as "nowheresville". Maybe he should be sacked for being accurate - that's not what we expect from our weather forecasters. 

To be fair, weather presenters are notorious for showcasing less personality than an unbranded muesli bar. As his recent 'obscene gesture' showcased, at least Schafernaker has a playful sense of humour. Not to mention a rack that you could dry your dishes on. 

If anyone wants to complain about the BBC, perhaps they should be writing letters of protest about the decision to switch the telegenic Schafernaker to radio. 

Shot through the heart, and you're to blame...

Next time you have a bad day in the office, remember that at least your job doesn't involve being shot at by a disgruntled, coked-up barrister. There must be less stressful ways to earn a living.

Back in May, Mark Saunders "descended into a drunken hell of binge drinking and cocaine abuse" before loading a gun and taking pot-shots at his neighbours houses. Scotland Yard were promptly engaged and a five-hour stand-off ensued, before seven trained marksmen shot him down in a blaze of glory. It's a dirty job but someone had to do it.

Following the inquest, none of the marksmen faced charges since they were, after all, just doing their deeply distressing job. But now a new inquiry is underway, since it emerged that one of the shooters, known only as Alpha Zulu 8 (AZ8), may not have taken the original investigation seriously enough. In the eyes of the law, this was no laughing matter.

It turns out that AZ8 was disciplined over his verbal testimony, because it's believed that he may have quoted a number of pop songs in his statement. Sure, it might seem a little insensitive, but who hasn't slipped a few song lyrics into their conversation every now and then? I've done it before, and I'll do it again.

The problem is, it's a tough allegation to prove. Even the Daily Mail freely admits that no-one knows exactly which songs were quoted. Although it has managed to piece together some dubious evidence based on the fact that the Alan Freeman of assassins did use the phrases 'first time' (by Robin Beck), 'enough is enough' (Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand) and 'point of no return' (Duran Duran).

I'm not sure it's sufficient grounds to support the idea that he was callously tainting his testimony - it actually sounds more like the shooter was coming out of the closet.

If nothing else, this new investigation seems like an inordinate waste of resources. After all, it's only words. Song lyrics are littered with cliches, as are the speech patterns of most law enforcement professionals. I think we can chalk this one up to unfortunate coincidence. Stranger things have happened.

Bully for you

Being a newspaper columnist must be a piece of piss. Flick through the papers every day, find a few snippets of news to comment on, and then email 800 words off to the editor on a Friday afternoon. Other than that, just stick a bulldog clip on the back of your head every couple of years and pose for a new headshot.

Which explains why Amanda Platell always looks so smug. Every week she gets to round up a few people she doesn't like (it must take her five days just to draw up a short-list) make a few ad hominem attacks, and then laugh all the way to the bank. Not that I imagine hers is a life with much laughter in it.

In today's edition of the Mail on Sunday, the Wicked Witch of West London takes potshots at Wayne Rooney, Cheryl Cole, Paul Gascoigne, Katy Perry, Russell Brand, Kate Moss, Evan Davies, Nick Clegg, Gordon Brown, Charlotte Church and even Ann Widdecombe. It's not so much an editorial as just throwing a handful of darts at a rolodex.

I wouldn't mind so much if the writing showed any kind of incisive insight. Unfortunately, what we get are gems like "Cheryl Cole proudly poses beside her Madame Tussauds’ dummy and says: ‘It’s mind-blowing, it looks so real.' I’m not so sure. One of them’s got lifeless hair extensions, painted-on tan, improbably pert breasts, acrylic nails and an expressionless forehead.
And the other one’s a waxwork." Someone give the woman Noel Coward's dressing gown - she's earned it.

Maybe it's just yesterday's post weighing on my mind, but I can't help feeling that Amanda is just another malicious bully, although with a slightly bigger vocabulary than the average wedgie-giver. As a die-hard conservative, she longs for simpler, more gentile times when people were nice to one another. But she has to admit that she fully embraces all the ugliness and cruelty of what she dismissively labels 'Planet Celebrity'.

Here's hoping that someone takes pity on Cheryl, Wayne et al, and records an uplifting YouTube video for them. Hang in there guys and don't worry - It gets better.

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...