Having casually prophesied the death of Robbie Williams and Co., Moir moves on to her main point: that Gately’s death strikes her as a bit fishy … ‘All the official reports point to a natural death, with no suspicious circumstances … But, hang on a minute. Something is terribly wrong with the way this incident has been shaped and spun into nothing more than an unfortunate mishap on a holiday weekend, like a broken teacup in the rented cottage.’
That’s odd. I don’t recall anyone equating the death with ‘an unfortunate mishap on a holiday weekend’. I was only aware of shocked expressions of grief from those who knew or admired him, people who’d probably be moved to tears by Moir likening the tragedy to ‘a broken teacup in the rented cottage’. But never mind that – ‘shaped and spun’ by whom, precisely? The coroner?
Incredibly, yes. Moir genuinely believes the coroner got it wrong: ‘Healthy and fit 33-year-old men do not just climb into their pyjamas and go to sleep on the sofa, never to wake up again. Whatever the cause of death is, it is not, by any yardstick, a natural one.’
At this point, I dare to challenge the renowned international forensic pathologist Jan Moir, because I personally know of two other men (one in his twenties, one in his early thirties), who died in precisely this way. According to the charity Cardiac Risk in the Young (c-r-y.org.uk), ‘Twelve apparently fit and healthy young people die in the UK from undiagnosed heart conditions’ every single week. That’s a lot of broken teacups, eh Jan?
Still, if his death wasn’t natural ‘by any yardstick’, what did kill him? Moir knows: it was his lifestyle. Because Gately was, y’know … homosexual. Having lanced this boil, Moir lets the pus drip out all over her fingers as she continues to type: ‘The circumstances surrounding his death are more than a little sleazy,’ she declares. ‘Cowles and Gately took a young Bulgarian man back to their apartment. It is not disrespectful to assume that a game of canasta … was not what was on the cards … What happened afterwards is anyone’s guess.’
Don’t hold back, Jan. Have a guess. Draw us a picture. You specialise in celebrity death fantasies, after all.
‘His mother is still insisting that her son died from a previously undetected heart condition that has plagued the family.’ Yes. That poor, blinkered woman, ‘insisting’ in the face of official medical evidence that absolutely agrees with her.
Anyway, having cast aspersions over a tragic death, doubted a coroner and insulted a grieving mother, Moir’s piece builds to its climax: ‘Another real sadness about Gately’s death is that it strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of civil partnerships … Gay activists are always calling for tolerance and understanding about same-sex relationships, arguing that they are just the same as heterosexual marriages … in many cases this may be true. Yet the recent death of Kevin McGee, the former husband of Little Britain star Matt Lucas, and now the dubious events of Gately’s last night raise troubling questions about what happened.’
Way to spread the pain around, Jan. Way to link two unrelated tragedies, Jan. Way to gay-bash, Jan.
Jan’s paper, the Daily Mail, absolutely adores it when people flock to Ofcom to complain about something offensive, especially when it’s something they’ve only learned about second-hand via an inflammatory article in a newspaper. So it would undoubtedly be delighted if, having read this, you paid a visit to the Press Complaints Commission website to lodge a complaint about Moir’s article on the basis that it breaches sections 1, 5 and 12 of its code of practice.
*
After this article was written, over 25,000 people did indeed complain to the PCC about Jan Moir’s article, although how many of them did so after reading this is anyone’s guess. The PCC eventually found in favour of the Daily Mail, saying that, although it was ‘uncomfortable with the tenor of the columnist’s remarks’, censuring the paper would represent ‘a slide towards censorship’.
Which is fair enough, really. I think columnists should have the right to air offensive views, so I don’t really know why I encouraged readers to lobby the doomed, meaningless PCC; I think I just wanted to use one of the Mail’s own tactics against it – the paper often urges readers to complain to official bodies about things it deems offensive. But that’s not really got anything to do with poor Stephen Gately. By implying Jan Moir had no right to spout her unpleasant bibble, I somehow ended up, to my mind, on the wrong side of a tricky freedom-of-speech debate.
Still, no matter what mistakes I may have made in the above column, and no matter where you stand on the freedom of speech, it’s essential that we all try to learn from everything that happened – as a people, as a society. And ultimately the moral of the story and the single most important thing to remember is this: Jan Moir is a twat.
PART TWO
In which Jedward are born, Dubai is revealed to be a figment of the world’s imagination, and snow falls from the sky to the amazement of Britain’s rolling news networks.
Jedward: the Jenesis
16/10/2009
A bit of background, because let’s face it no one remembers this stuff: at the time this article originally appeared, celebrity dance prick Anton Du Beke was in trouble for using the word ‘Paki’ during some ill-advised backstage tomfoolery, Dannii Minogue had upset X Factor viewers with a mild gag about a contestant’s sexuality, and following a blackmail attempt, US talk show giant David Letterman had made an on-air apology for having sex with members of his staff. Also, human beings had recently learned to walk on two legs.
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The times, they are a-jumpy. Really, when we’re upset by something as simple as a man shouting a racially abusive term across a room full of people, or a woman teasing an aspiring pop star about his sexuality in front of 13 million viewers, isn’t it time to wonder whether political correctness and basic human decency have gone too far? Apologies flutter through the airwaves like startled doves. ‘Forgive me,’ plead the transgressors, ‘for I knowed not what I done. It was a joke! Geddit? Upsetting Pakis or poofs was the last thing on my mind. Really! And I’m sorry!’
From Anton Du Beke on Strictly to Dannii Minogue on The X Factor; at this rate, every show on TV will soon need to incorporate an on-air apology into its opening sequence. Unless, like Letterman, they make directly apologising down the lens a regular ‘format point’ in the programme itself. Christmas is traditionally the time when Strictly and The X Factor fight to see who can pull off the biggest climax, kicking ratings into the sky with displays of consummate showmanship. Instead, this year they’ll be fighting to see which of their respective foot-in-mouth stars can issue the most spectacularly wretched request for forgiveness.
‘Next on BBC1, Anton Du Beke prostrates himself before the cameras, sobbing with remorse while an entire Asian youth orchestra tramples up and down on his back.’
‘Great Yuletide fun on ITV now: hilarious reparations as Dannii Minogue performs a selection of the biblical world’s most hideous acts of penance in front of a panel of witheringly critical bisexual judges.’
Crikey. Unless I’m mistaken, both those shows would actually provide record-breaking Christmas Day viewing figures.
Now, on to business: The X Factor. The new format for the early audition shows (berks yelping in front of a massive screaming audience) left me wondering how the production team could possibly differentiate those instalments from the established format of the live episodes (berks yelping in front of a massive screaming audience). Saturday brought the answer: extra lighting.
Loads of lighting. They’ve dismantled the entire Las Vegas Strip and glued it round the walls of the studio. Everywhere you look, an impossibly bright neon tube; pulsing, blinking, flashing, strobing, scraping your retina off with its thumbnail … The X Factor’s carbon footprint surely now dwarfs China’s. To beat this next year, they’ll have to scoop out the contestants’ eyeballs and replace them with megawatt LED baubles. Then make them perform live in the middle of an exploding firework-and-diamond-factory.
But the galaxy of lightbu
lbs can’t quite distract you from this year’s thudding truth: there’s no one that astonishing, really. They’ve got Stacey, who comes across as the sort of goonishly endearing comic character Victoria Wood would create (and is correspondingly impossible to dislike), a smattering of prettyboys, and that’s about it. Even this year’s joke act (a pair of twirling, tweeting Cornettos called John and Edward), doesn’t seem massively grating, because we’ve seen it all before. Same difference.
And thanks to the new Sunday night results episode, viewers can now enjoy the same samey show twice in the same weekend. Still, there are a few differences: last week’s offering debuted with an oddly atonal opening number in which all the acts simultaneously tried to out-flat one another. Fortunately for all concerned, Robbie Williams soon bounded on stage to wipe viewers’ memories by sounding marginally worse, repeatedly breaking off mid-lyric to squeal ‘hello you!’ and ‘ooh!’ and ‘get her!’ at random audience members. This after about two hours of sustained lecturing on the subject of what a world-class showman Mr R. Williams is courtesy of the judges the night before.
But never mind that: check out all that neon in the background! And, ooh, they’ve got a searchlight! Etc., etc. Repeat till Christmas.
Sleep: a guide for the knackered
26/10/2009
Sleep is underrated. According to experts, it is as important to your health as exercise, nutrition and not being set on fire. And it’s the easiest route to self-improvement imaginable, far more straightforward and achievable than 100 squat thrusts. All you have to do is lie around doing nothing for eight hours. So simple, even a corpse could do it.
But not, apparently, a child. Concerned health campaigners want Britain’s schoolchildren to be given ‘sleep lessons’ to teach them the benefits of regular night-long slumber. This is an exciting development, because it raises the prospect of ‘sleep exams’ – practical snoozing assessments that even the thickest kid could pass with their eyes closed.
It’s easy to sleep when you’re a toddler. Your mind and body skitter around all day until they burn themselves out, leaving you blissfully knackered when the sun goes down. You’ve only got two modes: on and off, like a blender. But once you reach adulthood, things are altogether less binary. You’ve got responsibilities and concerns, not to mention an alarm clock with a sarcastically oversized face sitting beside the bed mocking any attempt at shuteye. Chances are you’ve spent your day mumbling to co-workers, bumping into furniture and performing pedestrian chores. Your brain spends the daylight hours in a state of drowsy semi-consciousness, and only decides to spring into life when the lights go out.
The insomniac brain comes in various flavours; different personality types you’re forced to share your skull with for several hours. It’s like being trapped in a lift with someone who won’t shut up. Sometimes your companion is a peppy irritant who passes the time by humming half-remembered TV theme tunes until 7 a.m. Other times it’s a morose critic who has recently compiled a 1,500-page report on your innumerable failings and wants to run over it with you a few times before going to print. Worst of all is the hyper-aware sportscaster who offers an uninterrupted commentary describing which bits of your body are currently the least comfortable. No matter where you put that leg, he won’t be satisfied. And he’s convinced you’ve got one arm too many.
This is the point at which ‘sleep lessons’ might actually come in handy. Not when you’re a kid (they’ll only baffle you), but when you’re an adult who spends several hours each night staring at the inside of your eyelids, exploring desolate inner dimensions on a rickety mental tricycle. That’s when you need all the help you can get.
But practical tips only, please. No one needs to be told how important it is for your health. We’ve all experienced the aftermath of a sleepless night. You shuffle through the next day feeling fuzzily toxic, as though all your internal organs have been for a twenty-mile run and haven’t had a hot bath yet. I’ve got a phrase for it: ‘time-poisoning’.
Anyway, in a bid to pre-empt the health professionals, here’s a list of insomnia ‘dos and don’ts’ guaranteed to give you a good night’s sleep:
DO keep your eyes closed.
DON’T try to convince yourself you’re asleep by making snoring noises.
DO focus on slowing your breathing down as much as possible. A handy tip is to imagine there’s a speed camera pointing at your face; a magic speed camera that can photograph air. If you inhale or exhale too quickly, it’ll fire a sharpened steel bolt into your forehead. Keep thinking about this all night.
DON’T go to bed wearing a makeshift crown fashioned from coat-hangers and bells – and if you do, don’t sit upright violently shaking your head from side to side until sunrise.
DO keep the ‘worrying cells’ of your brain occupied. Playing simple word games in your head is an excellent tactic. If it helps, imagine you’re a contestant on Countdown, but try not to picture the gigantic clock looming behind you on the studio wall, with its huge sweeping hand marking the frantic passage of time, its hideous unbroken sweep impassively signifying the silent extinction of second after second; the hand that describes an arc; an arc that becomes a circle; a circle that becomes a spiral; a spiral that mirrors your twisting descent as you corkscrew downwards through time itself, plunging ever deeper into a void of meaningless decay. If you start thinking about that, quickly interrupt yourself by imagining the presenter throwing to a break.
DON’T stay in bed if you haven’t fallen asleep within thirty minutes. Instead, get up and do something practical, such as driving a car or operating some heavy machinery.
DO drink nine litres of warm milk before bed.
There. Simple. And if none of that works, eat some drugs, use a different pillow, or saw your head off and stick it on a pole made of lullabies. Piece of piss.
Next week: how to solve the Iranian nuclear crisis.
Masturbation minefield
31/10/2009
I don’t want to claim I predicted the state of modern television in its entirety almost a decade ago or anything, but around ten years ago I wrote a website called TV Go Home filled with satirically exaggerated programmes, many of which have come frighteningly true.
Here’s the latest example. In its TV Go Home incarnation, ‘Masturbation Minefield’ was a pornographic game aimed at lonely male viewers: a show which consisted of rude footage (such as a naked dairymaid bending over) randomly interspersed with profoundly unerotic imagery (such as an extreme close-up of Ian Beale’s eye staring straight through the centre of your soul). It was a lo-fi interactive challenge: could the viewer achieve climax during the ‘rude’ bits without being put off by the ‘unerotic’ bits?
A puerile idea, but there you go. At least it wasn’t real.
I lie. The new television show Pants Off Dance Off is essentially ‘Masturbation Minefield’ with one or two tweaks. The premise is as simple as its intended audience: ordinary members of the public dance to music while taking their clothes off. It’s a striptease show. But, lest they be accused of peddling sordid pornography, the producers have cunningly included enough ‘mines’ to ensure that only the most determined psychopath could possibly manipulate their way to fruition.
First of all, the strippers themselves are self-avowedly ‘zany’ types: real yelping, whooping, jumping-up-and-down-and-clapping ‘I’m-mad-me’ irritants. Not only is it impossible to get turned on in their presence, it’s impossible to assign them any human emotion whatsoever. If, instead of stripping, the programme showed them being injected with sedatives and dropped out of the back of a C-130 Hercules flying 20,000 feet above the Nevada desert, it would actually be easier to masturbate to.
Next, neatly sidestepping accusations of body fascism, they’ve chosen a wide variety of figures from both sexes. Fat ones, thin ones, hairy ones, ones whose faces are so disturbing they look like Steve Buscemi with Bell’s palsy pressing his nose against your bathroom window … all human life is here, apart from anyone you actuall
y want to see naked. Occasionally they’ll feature a Chippendale type or a lapdancer, but to stop this being arousing, they’ll make a little window pop up, in which the next stripper (inevitably a 64-year-old man with a nose like a thumped glans) dribbles something about how they can’t wait to show you their bum.
But they’re not finished yet. There’s still an outside chance you might be excited by the occasional shot of exposed flank, so just to nail that possibility to the floor and stove its face in with a jackboot, there’s a kerrr-azy joke-filled voiceover yapping away in the background, which outstays its welcome at the first syllable. It’s not very funny. In fact, if they replaced it with the soundtrack to one of Michael Buerk’s 1984 Ethiopian famine reports, wailing children and all, there’d be 30 per cent more laughs.
Finally, they’ve cut out the actual nudity. Yes, you read that right: THEY’VE CUT OUT THE ACTUAL NUDITY. Instead, every time someone actually takes their ‘pants off’ (which, after all, is the entire purpose of the show), the action freezes and a URL pops up to protect their modesty. In other words, they’re encouraging their audience to stop watching the show and go online instead, which must make the channel’s advertisers very happy.
The website, incidentally, doesn’t contain uncensored strip-teases either. But never mind! I’m told you can find footage of people actually taking their clothes off – and occasionally doing racier stuff, like kissing – elsewhere on the internet.
I can make you hate Page 4
