A-list for effort

If you switched on the news last week you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the end of the world was nigh. On Wednesday, a bunch of students threw down their rolling papers in disgust and stormed the Conservative headquarters to protest the government's decision to increase tuition fees. Fire extinguishers were thrown, placards were waved and hair went unwashed.

Those arguing in favour of tuition fees are quick to point out the abuses and indulgences of academia as reason enough for people to fund their own studies. And based on an 'exclusive' feature in today's Mail On Sunday, I have to concede that they have a point.

Plugging her new book Starstruck, Elizabeth Currid-Halkett has written about her "major research project at the University of Southern California" to "understand the mechanics behind celebrity".

Sounds promising - even more intellectually robust than a degree in Lady Gaga studies. So what alarming insights has Currid-Halkett uncovered in the process of unravelling the mystery of modern celebrity?

Erm... well, apparently famous people have their pictures taken in London, Los Angeles and New York. She knows this because she and her colleague Gilad Ravid waded through 600,000 shots on Getty Images. As Elizabeth explains: "stars need to show up in key locations". I can smell the Pulitzer from here.

But there's more. Celebs also go to places like Sundance Film Festival, even if, like Paris Hilton, they don't actually have a film in competition.

Paris gets special mention, since she represents the kind of person who is "all celebrity - their fame driven by the ink spilled about them in gossip columns". But Paris and her ilk also understand the importance of keeping the company of A-listers, which helps to keep their profile high, because "celebrity networks produce a very different outcome" than meeting a few friends for dinner.

Liz's final silver bullet is the previously undiscovered gem that "celebrities cultivate a collective obsession with their personas which requires making themselves available." Astounding stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.

So, what have we learned here? Celebrities have their pictures taken, mix with other famous people and live their lives in the public eye. That was a year well-spent.

This bewilderingly pointless article ends with the following paragraph: "One thing has become abundantly clear: with the billions of pounds backing it, the millions of jobs created and society's seemingly unyielding desire for more, celebrity is a social and economic phenomenon worth taking seriously." Sadly, the same can't be said for the burgeoning phenomenon of celebrity studies. Please see me after class.

Smoking guns

As the X-Factor reaches the mid-point, it's clear who's tipped to win. Better head down to your local William Hill and place your bets now. I'll put a tenner on Simon Cowell - he's got this one in the bag.

Not with his hopeless attempt at resurrecting the age of the manufactured boyband - One Direction have all the charisma and vocal skills of nursery school pantomime. With slightly less body hair.

Simon's laughing all the way to the bank because once again, those timely 'leaks' from 'unnamed sources' have ensured that the X-Factor has dominated every tabloid front page for the last six weeks. In fact, I don't know why Syco even bothered launching 'The Official X-Factor Magazine' when the Sun or Daily Mail could have just redesigned their masthead and fitted the bill perfectly.

Sadly, the majority of the viewing public accept every bulletin, exclusive and revelation as though it's the gospel truth, and willingly subject themselves to the constant press maniupulation. This week it reached its nadir as Cheryl Cole refused to send one of her acts home, leaving the show's producers to go to a majority vote.

Unfortuantely, a brief interview with the Sun about how the show is put together, led tabloid hacks to proclaim that the show's host Dermot O'Leary had given them the smoking gun with which they could prove that the entire show is rigged.

The Daily Mail claimed: "One of the most controversial X Factor shows ever was last night exposed as nothing more than a charade. Presenter Dermot O’Leary revealed that Cheryl Cole’s decision not to vote when two of her acts were up against each other to escape the axe had been planned all along."

Except that's not really what happened at all. As Dermot explained (and then re-explained on Twitter for the hard-of-thinking audience), producers had briefly conferred about how to proceed if Cheryl refused to participate. Rather than casting a vote to take the decision to deadlock (which then reveals the lowest audience vote), Cheryl abstained completely. This way, the producers had a pre-prepared contingency to add a little more drama to the proceedings - in effect punishing Cheryl for non-participation.

Hardly a conspiracy to rival '9-11 was an inside job'. Assuming for a second that these mindless journalists actually believe any of the trash they print, how do they think a live show gets made? Does Dermot make it up as he goes along, with someone waving at the back of the studio to let him know when the time's up? Perhaps next week they'll uncover the name of the show's Stage Manager and use that as evidence that the show is planned ahead of time. 

The press want us to believe that Simon Cowell wants Katie to win, when nothing could be further from the truth. At best, she's good value to the X-Factor because the press are obsessed with her. On the rare occasion where they and the public are aligned in their distate for someone, it legitimises their love of bullying and gives them carte blanche to proceed without caution. 

The fact is, Katie can shout "sod it", drop to her knees and beg people to vote for her, like she did in last week's sing-off. But the audience have made it quite clear that she's a taste which none of us have acquired.  She, like Wagner, is only in the show for one reason. And winning isn't it. 

If audiences are genuinely furious about being manipulated, maybe they need to stop mooing long enough to question the bullshit they consume everyday, and remember that ultimately, it's a singing contest. The moment you make it any more than the sum of its parts, people start getting hurt. But you can bet that Simon Cowell won't be one of them. 

Another childhood memory ruined

We can all thank Hollywood for introducing the word 'reimagining' into the cultural lexicon. This horrible term manages to distance film makers from the admission that they've run out of fresh ideas, whilst at the same time allowing them to declare that they can improve on a classic story.

But the 'reimagining' phenomenon isn't exclusive to movies - it's also starting to make itself felt in other media, such as children's stories. The latest example, currently being held up as an example of 'what happens when liberals get hold of much-loved stories' - is the tale of three little pigs.

You know how it goes - three pigs, three different building materials, and a lupine Jehovah's Witness that's determined to his paw in the door. There's more huffing and puffing than an Ann Widdecombe/John Sergeant dance-off, and it ends with the third pig congratulating himself for choosing a brick domicile as he cooks the wolf for supper. 

Times change, and so too do the cultural references we all recognise. So someone obviously thought it was a good idea to give the porcine triplets a 21st century update. In the new version of the story, piggy number three is clearly an architecture student, and erects a fancy adobe-style residence. 

His two siblings aren't just gormless straw and twig-dwellers either. They diagnose the wolf's laboured breathing as signs of myocardial infarction, and offer to do the counting as their brother administers CPR. Once he's recovered, the wolf tells his saviours that he had no intention of 'eating them up' (he's a vegetarian of course), and was simply looking for flatmates. 

In the fairy tale books of my childhood, the pigs would have cut open the wolf, filled his belly with rocks and tipped him down a well before he had a chance to offer to whip up a caramelised onion quiche. Instead, these prickly porkers "throw up their hooves in exasperation" and berate the wolf for his failure to communicate clearly. Having forced him to say his line again, the pigs decide to let their new pal move in and even "remodel the adobe house so that there was room for all of them". In fact, all that's missing from this thoroughly modern update is Kevin McCloud on hand to film the building work. 

All of the values introduced in this new version of the story are worthwhile - co-operation, communication, understanding, even the gentrification of neighbourhoods. The problem is, it spoils the simplicity of the message and confuses kids as to the intention of the story. "I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll build you a nice new wet-room" just doesn't have the same ring to it. 

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. 

Protesting too much?

Oh Nadine!

It should have all been so easy. She's got the voice, the swishy hair, and legs like a pubescent giraffe. Her solo career should have been a no-brainer.

Unfortunately for the Chupa-Chup chanteuse, she's the no-brainer in question. Why else would she have decided to sign an exclusive deal with Tesco for her debut album? I can picture the scene now: "I'm just popping to the supermarket to pick up some Toilet Duck, Mini-Kievs and the new Nadine Coyle CD."

Now, to hear Nadine tell it (in an accent that could warp a copper kettle), it's all about the music. In looking for a home for her solo career, she claims that she turned down all the major labels, in favour of the one with 'value' on it.

Describing the bidding war that sprung up when Nadine announced plans to branch out on her own, her manager claims "It wasn't just waving cheque books at her. Tesco has a massive marketing campaign, which is innovative. It uses every aspect of Teco's canopy of services: the entertainment section, the cosmetics... Tesco card holders...Nadine is putting the launch of the rest of her life in the hands of a company that she trusts. And we will get their undivided attention." As long as there's not a recall on frozen sausage rolls.

He has a point. Whilst her bandmate had to settle for a full-scale production in front of 15 million TV viewers, lucky old Nadine was invited to perform to a bunch of Tesco executives at their annual management conference. Score!

Last Sunday it was revealed that Nadine's debut single Insatiable had limped to number 26 in the charts, as Cheryl's second CD entered the album charts at number one. But Nadine's not bitter, her lips are just naturally pursed.

She told Star magazine "To be honest, I'm happier doing what I'm doing now, no matter what the sales are like. I'd rather be singing in pubs for 50 quid a night and be happy than doing something that I wasn't really interested in or passionate about. For me, it's not about money or fame or getting on big television shows - it's about being happy with myself."

I'm not sure exactly which 'big television show' she's talking about. It must be yet another passive-aggressive dig at the Nation's Sweetheart. Because she couldn't possibly be referring the Irish edition of Popstars which she lied about her age to take part in. Or Popstars: The Rivals, which saw her win a place in Girls Aloud. That would be like biting the hand that feeds her (then sticks its finger down her throat).

But it's hard to know what Nadine means. She's not exactly consistent when it comes to talking about her life or career. She can claim that it's all about being happy, and yet in the next breath she says that she's "absolutely gutted" that she only just scraped into the top 30.

Cheryl might have "the power of The X Factor and Simon Cowell behind her", but she also has the goodwill of the nation. And that's worth more than the other two put together. Nadine may have the better voice, but she's also got a massive chip on her shoulder. Not that she'd ever dream of eating it.

Voices from beyond the grave

Despite the persistent rumours that he was in dire financial straits, the revelation that Michael Jackson was almost half a billon in debt when he died, shocked everyone. $400 million? How many giant Egyptian vases did he buy?

But like all those dodgy husbands in Ashley Judd thrillers, Michael's management knew he was worth more dead than alive. So it's hardly surprising that in the first 12 months since he died, his estate earned over $275 million. This was one cloud with a gold-plated lining. And if he'd still been alive, Michael would probably have bought six of them.

So now the albums have been repackaged, the movie has been released, and the souvenir plates have been printed and shipped. What's left to sell?

Well, how about all those discarded demos and unreleased snippets - the sweepings from the studio floor.  Don't worry, those canny record label execs are one step ahead of you, and have managed to cobble together an entire album of 'previously unheard' material.

The output of this exercise in cynical grave-robbing keeping Michael's memory alive will be released on December 14. In the meantime, you can head over to michaeljackson.com and hear 'Breaking News', the lead single from the album.

The King of Pop may be but a distant memory, but the new track sounds just as derivative and repetitive as if he was still here with us - burying a lack of ideas and well-ground axe in a soup of over-produced rhythms. The song opens with a series of melodramatic audio samples from (fictionalised) news reports about Jackson himself. By the time the main part of the song kicks in, you'd be forgiven for thinking you were listening to second-rate mid-nineties album track 'Tabloid Junkie'.

However, when Michael starts singing you know you're in all-new territory. Largely because it doesn't really sound like Michael Jackson. Dig past the "propulsive, robotic... thumping, skittering beat" (I've got a headache just writing about it) and the "lively strings", and you'll be hard pressed to identify who's singing.

All his stylistic ticks, whoops and hiccups are present and correct, but it all just sounds a little too synthesized. Perhaps that's why Jackson's own family have questioned the song's legitimacy - alleging that the vocals were performed by an impersonator. Michael's nephew TJ claimed on Twitter "Sampled breaths after sampled breaths mixed in with fake vocals to try to fool u They said this is 100% my Uncle. Not 70, 80 or 90 but a 100%. Every line, every word. My Uncle's legacy didn't deserve this!"

Sony were quick to defend themselves against the accusations, stating "complete confidence in the results of our extensive research as well as the accounts of those who were in the studio with Michael that the vocals on the new album are his own."

But does it really matter? After all, maybe all the fans want is the illusion. During his lifetime Michael Jackson became a caricature of himself - from the dancing and vocals to the image and styling. So it wouldn't be too hard to keep generating MJ-style output to keep the hungry fans satiated. A little like the publishing empire that built up around the legacy of author V.C. Andrews after she died.

As Michael himself once promised: "I can thrill you more than any ghost would ever dare try..."

Shut up and sing?

Ever since the golden age of disco, female singers have been intermittently churning out gay-friendly anthems to encourage and support their sparkliest fans. The songs themselves haven't always been explicitly pro-gay, but they tend to have a message that can be easily applied to the trials and tribulations of post-closet life.

These days, however, the divas are getting much more active when it comes to voicing their support for the gay community, beyond the occasional PA in a clothing-optional nightspot. Katy Perry, Lady Gaga and Ke$ha have all become outspoken advocates of homosexuality, consigning Gloria Gaynor and Diana Ross to the bargain bin of homo-activism.

Despite still being months away from an official release, Gaga's 'Born This Way' is already being talked up by no less than Elton John as the ultimate gay rights anthem. So far, all anyone's heard is a short acappella snippet that Gaga performed whilst accepting her MTV Music Video Award. But that was enough to inspire a bunch of DJs to turn the sample into a stomping anthem that's been doing the rounds in every club from Christopher Street to the Castro.

Katy Perry's new single Firework is also being talked up as the official soundtrack of the 'It Gets Better' movement. Having pledged her support for the anti-bullying YouTube campaign, Katy managed to tear herself away from her epic nuptials long enough to tweet that "Everyone has the spark to be a firework.”

The video for the song features two boys snogging each other's faces off as a series of spectacular pyrotechnics burst from Katy's dynamic décolletage. This is starting to become something of a trend for the new Mrs Brand, since the film clip for her previous single 'California Girls' featured cans of whipped cream exploding from her bikini top. At this rate, by the time her third album is released, she'll have lactated the entire periodic table.

But the real surprise is Ke$ha - a girl with less depth than her own calendar. She's managed to cobble together a timely answer to the outbreak of suicides in the form of a new song called 'We R Who We R'. Presumably she was in such a rush to record it that she didn't have time to sort out the punctuation.
It turns out that when she's not brushing her teeth with bourbon and clambering out a skip, Ke$ha spends her time thinking about people “who haven’t felt accepted because of their sexuality.” 

Her new song is a rallying cry (autotuned, natch) for "people [to be] themselves unapologetically". Although it sounds like a rehashed megamix of all her other singles, Ke$ha believes that she's struck solid glitter this time - "I never could have imagined how much impact my music could have on people. I realized that through pop music, I have the opportunity to stand up for something I believe in.” Even if standing is something that she has trouble doing unaided. 

No doubt the critics will carp that it's all a cynical exercise in selling records and aligning themselves with all the right social issues. And at the end of the day, what difference can a bunch of pampered pop-stars really make? A lot, according to activist and sex columnist Dan Savage. He told the New York Times: “These songs are countering a hateful message that a peer, family member, politician or a bully might be saying. I get frustrated with gay politicos who discount or undermine the importance of pop stars. They’re a huge part of this fight.”

OK, it might be cause for concern that vapid pop tarts like Katy Perry and Ke$ha are the only hope for the world's disaffected gay teens. But given the amount of support they can expect to receive from this niche audience once they find the nerve to throw open the closet door, it's the least they can do.

Next stop, D-list

Channel 4's hit show Coach Trip has always been a rather downmarket affair. Everything, from the casting to the itinerary, seems designed to make viewers feel as though all that's missing is Reg Varney.

So forgive me for feeling a little cynical about the recently announced 'Celebrity Coach Trip'. We're all fully aware of just how debased the word 'celebrity' has become, so it stands to reason that the new edition of the travel/game show isn't likely to be attracting too many A-listers.

Not that anyone seems to have told host Brendan Sheerin. In an interview with Digital Spy, the camp coach commandant talks viewers through the illustrious roll-call of names we can expect to see queuing to use the chemical toilet on board.

After several years of playing peace-keeper to a bunch of argumentative chavs and horny teenagers, it's clear that Brendan is delighted to have a bus full of stars to raise the tone of the show. He says "There's great excitement about it. My first feeling was, 'well what celebrities will we have?' If there are a lot of egos, it might be a problem. But they weren't like that at all. They just do extraordinary jobs, you know."

Extraordinary jobs? Really? Given that the most famous people taking part in the new series are the Chuckle Brothers, it's safe to assume that Brendan is a less than reliable witness.

Imogen Thomas and Bianca Gascoigne? Carol Harrison and Ingrid Tarrant? Raef and Ben from The Apprentice? They don't even have jobs, never mind extraordinary ones.

Funnily enough, despite Brendan's glee at playing host to this glittering array of stars, it's clear that he's already got his eye on making the leap from audience member to participant. Asked if he'd be willing to appear on a celebrity reality show, he answers "I'm too busy doing Coach Trip really, but I would, I would. I'd be up for anything, within reason. I think it would be a lot of fun actually."

At this rate, we'll soon have celebrity editions of some of our best loved shows featuring anyone who's been seen jamming a screwdriver into an ATM on CCTV. Or anyone who's had a letter printed in their local weekly free paper. 

Join me in the race to the bottom - we're almost there...

There's no 'me' in mea culpa

So, that's the midterms out of the way then. Not so good for the Democratic party, but then again, midterms are never easy. And at least the tea-partiers didn't notch up too many seats. 

Nonetheless, Obama will be drowning his sorrows today, and perhaps even wondering how his predecessors dealt with the disappointment. But it's important that he not lose too much of that hope that he talked up on his route to the White House. Because as underwhelming as his first couple of years have been, he's still not quite the flaming-schoolbus-full-of-screaming-orphans level of disaster that George W Bush was. 

Although, it's funny - the rest of the world might remember Dubya as the worst president the world has ever known, but his own reflections on his time in Washington are decidedly more favourable. 

This week W was interviewed by Matt Lauer in order to plug his forthcoming book 'Decision Points', and he finally admitted the lowest point of his eight years in office. Despite having 96 months of gaffes, cock-ups and blunders to choose from, Bush cited Kanye West's post-Katrina attack on him as the nadir of his presidency. 

So not the illegal war on Iraq. Or the deception around the weapons of mass destruction. Or giving his tacit approval to torture as an interrogation technique. Or declaring 'Mission: Accomplished' about seven years too early. Or promising to leave 'No Child Behind', then doing precisely that for an entire generation. Or turning his back on the Kyoto Protocol. Or choosing not to get his hands dirty in New Orleans. Or blocking stem cell research. Or approving wiretapping tactics. Or giving all those lucrative reconstruction contracts to his friends at Halliburton. 

When it comes to reflecting on his presidency, George Bush's darkest memory is of the moment that he felt like Taylor Swift, standing in the spotlight as Kanye West shot his mouth off.  

Cast your mind back to the moment when Mike Myers rocked uncomfortably on his heels during the 2005 Concert for Hurricane Relief, as Kanye declared that “George Bush doesn’t care about black people.”

1,836 people may have lost their lives in the hurricane and the floods which followed, and $81 billion of damage was caused. But it's George who's still bearing the scars: “Five years later I can barely write those words without feeling disgust... the suggestion that I was racist because of the response to Katrina represented an all-time low.”

Doesn't your heart just bleed? 

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.