Reading the ‘Daily Mail’ is a punishable offence but looking at the pictures is de rigueur. It is impossible to live in todays world without the ‘Mails’ forensic journalism that focusses on mass shootings, spoilers for soaps, the phoney marriages of blind daters not to mention the turgid trailers for naked tv. I’m not a prude but I have had enough of clitoral culture
The ‘Daily Mail’ boasts the bar of shame, bite sized pics, thumbnail sketches of infantile investigative journalism that leads us into the murky world of celebrity. For the past two days we have been saturated with Rita Ora, The Kadashians en mass, Rihanna and Lizzo. We’ve had Lilly in leather, whatsit in plastic, doodah in semi sheer dresses and whatshername in an old bin bag shoved down our dowdy throats. We’ve had a skinny Minnie tripping up over her pearlised train, an overgrown singer presenting us with her humungous acciaccatura whilst showing us her newly shaved groin, and we’ve seen Bill Nighy holding hands with Anna Wintour. The bobtailed 73 year olds have finally revealed that they are romantically linked. Now the only reason I have any interest in their conscious coupling is because Bill could have had anybody and yet he went with the stony faced editor of Vogue. God bless vintage fashion.
The designer, Karl Lagerfield, you know the fattist, homophobic, racist German designer, has only gone and died. He left a white cat and untold millions to his sycophantic team. At the Met Gala Ball everybody, and their throuple, wore clothes to honour the small, petty, little man. Anyperson who is anyperson, displayed their tasteless ostentation.
Now unless you buy the comic aka the ‘Daily Mail’ you probably wouldn’t have seen any of the gaudy gowns; Rita showing her back, sack and crack, or Rihanna’s baby pouch and you would have missed Janelle leading the worst dressed list wearing a bizarre, nearly naked look. WHY? WHY do they do it? If you don’t subscribe to the ‘Daily Thing’ you would have missed a Kardashian covering her naked skeleton with pearls. You wouldn’t have seen the simpering, gaggle of influential gels, posturing in front of a predatory clutch of camera operators.
All of this as 20 thousand Russians are obliterated and clouds of sandy Sudanese dust fills the air.
I have no idea why it offends me so much, after all I spent my louche youth wearing Danny La Rue’s old frocks, my nubile knockers hanging out of his cheap satin creations whilst singing on stage in ‘The’Throstles Inn’ in Liverpool. Alas we lost all our props and dresses when some hooligans set fire to our van in New Cross. Ah! Them’s were the days. But I digress. Todays pouting young women showing their skin, their ignorance, their arses, their under boobs and pop up nipples, is beyond anything since the 18th century when the moneyed classes watched themselves being satirised on stage speaking Malapropisms and shtupping in front of the Royal box. Such an inglorious display of nouveau tush is blinding us now with its grotesquery.
Television broadcasts naked adults waggling their wobbly bits, displaying foreskins, whilst a French kissing Dalai Lama pokes his tongue out for a boyish suck, all of these abominations are nothing when compared to the pomp and wankery we are about to witness for the Coronating of King Charles de turd. The display of opulence by the likes of the Windsors and the Vanderpumps, the showy, pretentious, brash, kitsch, tasteless display of wealth is as vulgar as throwing a Lidl muffin into a crowd of benefit scroungers.
Lets face it spending the nations money on a family of pedophiles and old colonialists is gross and then asking Mary Berry to announce that ‘Coronation Chicken Pie’ is the winner of the ‘What shall we have for the Coronation street party food awards?’ when most of us can’t afford a pie let alone a Coronation chicken one, is an insult. When a stadium full of Celtic supporters sung ‘You can shove your Coronation up your arse.’ loyal Republicans screamed their approval. When food banks are the staple fodder for millions, when striking nurses are forced to stand on the picket line for a living wage I’ll tell you what what we should have for Charlies street party – An overthrowing of the establishment, a portion of good will, a soupçon of modesty and a bucket load of shame.
Viva La Revolution.