Thought this might be worth keeping handy for when the British press start weighing into the French magazine, Closer, for publishing the topless photos of Kate, Duchess of Cambridge.
This from the current edition of Private Eye:
There are times when you try to get away from it all. If, like me, you live in the public eye those times are rapidly becoming few and far between.
I am like everyone else in that I do like to have time to myself. While I fully appreciate that it is you, the fan and the reader who have made me into what I am, I do expect the press and media to respect the difference between my public life and my private one.
The editors at French magazine Closer saw sense and decided not to publish topless photos of me, on the grounds of good taste and for the public good. No-one wants to see that over their cornflakes.
One can only hope the British press – following the unfortunate incident with the Prince Harry photos earlier this month – decide to heed Lord Leveson’s directions and leave these snaps where they should be left : in the back of a camera, in the bottom of a forgotten drawer.
Just like “Waity” Katy, my body betrays my eating habits (I’m more “Weighty” than waity, and it may not be a sight to everyone’s taste. In the past, this seems to hold no sway with the picture editors of Fleet Street. But please, I beg of you, think of the children and say “Non” to paparazzi pics.
Thank You.
And now, some music.
(Picture below taken with a very short, wide lens)
Sorry to have to report the news of yet another great man who has passed on. Seamus was another in a long line of working and drinking buddies who will be sadly missed. He was wonderful to work with, hilarious to listen to and a pleasure to stand at the bar with. He called a cvnt a cvnt (and we worked with plenty of them at The Telegraph) and always stood his corner in The Cat and Canary afterwards, bless him.
Here’s the Evening standard from yesterday:
Fleet St veteran Seamus Potter dies at 57
Seamus Potter, chief sub-editor of the Evening Standard’s international pages, has died at the age of 57.
A Fleet Street veteran who enthusiastically upheld all its traditions, Seamus was the eldest son of Daily Mirror features executive and author John Deane Potter and Mirror fashion editor Eve Chapman, who was also the News of the World’s agony aunt in the Eighties and Nineties.
Brought up in Chelsea, Seamus added a literary and arty elan to the Evening Standard on his first tour of duty in the late Seventies.
In 1987, he was transferred from the middle-bench of the paper to become deputy editor of the revived Evening News, as Lord Rothermere sought to squash Robert Maxwell’s newly launched London Daily News. The move was a success — and the Evening News was closed soon after it had helped the Standard successfully scupper the opposition.
After a stint heading production at the Sunday Telegraph under Charles Moore and Dominic Lawson, and spells on the Daily Telegraph’s back-bench and then as Scottish editor and City chief sub-editor, Seamus launched The Sportsman as production editor.
When the paper ran out of cash and folded, he returned to the Standard and supervised the foreign pages, dispensing wit and wisdom and offering friendship and support to younger sub-editors and editors alike.
In his early days on the Western Daily Press, he was a founder member of the “Hole in the Head gang”, a group of maverick young Turks. He jumped off a ferry in the Irish Sea miles from Liverpool to save a cartoonist fellow member who dived overboard for a wager.
In his early twenties, Seamus was named among the top 20 most eligible bachelors in London by a society magazine.
A man of firm views, Seamus was a loyal and committed journalist and friend who accepted the onset of throat cancer with dignity, stoicism and a complete lack of self-pity.
His son Luis and his sister Lucinda were by his bedside during his last weeks in Trinity Hospice, Clapham.
A private family funeral service will be held. The Evening Standard is planning a memorial service later in the year.
Given that you should never judge something til you try it, yesterday four of us did just that:
The author walks around Olympic Park ,unaided, during the Paralympics.
Baked Potato, Topped with Mayo………………………………………………..£6
Bottle of Water …………………………………………………………………….£1.60
275 m Bottle of Bulmers Cider…………………………………………………….£4.30.
A space in Park Live to watch British Airways adverts on tv……………………No Charge
145g bag of Cadbury’s Twirl…………………………………………………………..£3.00
18.7cl glass of (as yet unidentified) White Wine……………………………………..£4.80
Bench in front of huge BMW ads screen…………………………………..Complimentary
Pie & Mash…………………………………………………………………………….£8.00
Son queuing for 20 minutes for waffles, to be told they’d run out…………………..Free
Team GB mini umbrella………………………………………………………………£15.00
Signed copy of man laughing all the way to the bank…………………………….Priceless.
I expected to stand corrected. The athletes were marvellous, and inspiring. But I had woefully underestimated just how crass and callous Locog and Coe’s Corporate Carve-Up manifests itself once you get inside the gates. Disgraceful.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…. as some bloke once said.
Well let’s see.
It was going to be the Best of summers – the summer of summers: The Queen’s Jubilee and all that went with it, was greeted by and staged in the Worst of weathers: the wettest summer for 100 years, but you can’t do anything about the weather, I suppose. We do live in Britain, after all. So the biggest and Best birthday party was arranged, and the nation really started getting to grips with this street-party thing. And everyone turned up outside Bucking Palace to wish ma’am all the very best, but some of the very Worst vocals arrived in the shape of a purple headed unidexter-fancier. He even mimed out of tune, which some would say was nigh impossible – but Sir Paul somehow managed it.
And he wasn’t alone. Dame Elton John and friends did their best to promote euthanasia, but the OAPs’ faces were saved by Sir Tom – a Welshman, no less – who proves that you don’t have to give up singing just because you get old. It’s just that if you find you can no longer sing, then shut the buggery up and live off your many, many royalties. Logan’s Run had it’s good points.
Meanwhile, over the other side of the park, England, the Best cricket team in the world were showing us how it was done : by beating the woeful West Indians into submission, and thus reaffirming our dominance over the rest of the world in this, the most noble of all games. We were The Best, and don’t you lot forget it.
Except we did, when the real Best arrived in the shape of the South Africans. They played some of the Best sport we’ve seen this summer, while the hosts (many of whom weren’t good enough to qualify to play for South Africa) played as bad as they had for many a year. Some ex-South Africans showed the Worst kind of bad form by suggesting to the current South Africans how to bowl out the English Captain (or they should have already known how to, as he used to be one of them anyway). So the numbers 2 in the Word are now, quite rightly, The No1s and the former Best in the World played like a pile of No2s. We wept, but not for long – cos we’d seen it all before. Before we knew it we’d lost both ex-Bokkes. One had been sacked, the other retired altogether.
But hang on, we’ve gotten away from ourselves.
Earlier on that summer, over the other side of town, Seb’s Olympic extravaganza was taking place and, as luck would have it, we did awfully well. The Opening Ceremony was sensational, only again marred by the Purple Beedle, flashing a V-for Victory sign while mis-timing (again) his run into the pre-recording audio. I have to admit flashing the odd V-sign myself. Had they not learned from the Palace Party ? Is there anyone they could have picked to sing who would have been Worse than him ? (Sit down Ringo !).
The threatened strikes (whether by London Transport or Al Qaeda) failed to materialise, no-one minded working from home and the games belonged to the wonderful volunteers – which is handy cos think of all the profits made by McDonald’s, Coca-Cola, Heineken, Visa and the rest which would have gone to waste if they had offered their services for free.
But no matter. What is a few million quid wrenched/embezzled out of the hands of a country in recession when there are Olympic Medals to be handed out ? If religion is the opium of the people, then sport must be the upturned spoon (and this reporter is an addict).
As luck would have it TeamGB (for it is they again) were The Best – well nearly the best, certainly The Best of The Rest and thus the whole games were deemed a success, and there’s no denying that it was sensational to watch. Lottery money and proper sports funding certainly seems to have done the trick, a point not lost on Gideon Osborne who was seen crying into his morning suit when he heard the pitter-patter of another U-turn looming.
With the country glued to its sofas, and the Union Jack industry going into overdrive, no-one cared about the weather of the economy. All we cared about is that a refugee called Mohammed got round the track first, and we were prepared to stand up, do a silly thing with our hands on our head to prove it. Honestly, we did. This black bloke even appeared on the front page of the Daily Mail. And not for stealing stuff or scrounging off the state. Wouldn’t you have loved to have been in morning conference to discuss that one with them ? It was a fantastic time for one and all, though I did talk to a woman who had her misgivings, saying that it’d be nice if “one of our own could have done it”. I kid you not. I’ve chosen to ignore this as I’m really hoping we may just have turned a corner. I’m starting to think the best of people. It’s a strange feeling, I have to say.
So for two weeks after that we had to go back to reality : The Government were handing out goodies (or this time, railway contracts) to their mates; Barclays were getting fined for something else and yet still no-one in Britain has been nicked; Gideon has admitted that he was wrong about how much shit he said we were in . AGAIN.
The English lost again to the South Africans on the cricket field and, Worst of all, the fvcking soccer season has already started and it’s only the middle of August. We have lots more cricket left to play, the Ryder Cup is still a month away and the back-door-back-door-on-me-‘ead-john mob have started already.
But wait. Last night saw the opening ceremony of what promises to be the Best Paralympic Games in History. The omens were certainly good. The stadium was sold out; there were many more athletes on parade than ever before; and someone had finally twigged and replaced Paul McCartney with the much-more in-tune Professor Stephen Hawking. Hoorah ! At least he came in at the right time. Heather Mills must be kicking herself.
But just when I thought this will surely be the Best TV watching of the summer, Channel 4 dropped the Big One: Claire Sodding Balding has jumped channels (which, I believe is now the only thing she can jump) from the Beeb.
Could it get any Worse, I wondered ?
I had a chat with someone today who refused to watch the Paralympic games because, as his argument goes, the teams are “full” of ex-servicemen. That the ceremony and competitions glorify and justify this “and Blair’s” governments’ decision to send men and women to war, and that this country would, at the drop of a hat, send many more back to be killed and maimed. He was not going to sanction this action by supporting these games. I pointed out that not all the athletes were ex-servicemen. “I bet about 95% are, though” he said. I left. He would not budge.
I didn’t care if they were or were not Army vets, but when I got home I looked it up anyway – just to enlighten me, and perhaps bolster my argument. According to yesterday’s Guardian the figure of ex-military in the GB team is 2%, By Rio in 2016 they hope to get it up to 5%. I couldn’t bring myself to ring my friend. I shall tell him face-to-face when we next meet.
This morning I watched a bloke win a swimming race: 100 metres backstroke. He did this even though he was a double amputee. He had no arms and beat men who had both. By a long way. It was the most amazing performance I’ve ever seen. The Very Best. And we’ve only just finished Day 1. Please ignore everything you’ve read previously.
If only life had taken a slightly different turn, who knows ? I may have been a slim, handsome, fit bloke, former rugby international, catwalk model and loved by all who knew me. But that’s how life is. It all comes down to the roll of the dice, the rub of the green.
If life had treated these three a little different, perhaps Victoria and David Beckham would be living in a 1930s semi in Brentwood – he an unemployed former assistant manager at Asda, she a failed singer, writer and fashion designer… oh, wait a minute….
If Mr John Depp had turned out the way he is depicted below, he would surely be drinking in four times a week in my local boozer, The Shovel. He certainly wouldn’t stand out from the crowd if he did.
Fortunately (or otherwise) these are just ‘celebrity makeunders’ by New York artist Danny Evans and you can see lots more of his stuff here, if you so wish.
I’m off up to the loft to dig out some pics of me that would fit in well with these. I’ve got hundreds of ’em.
Question: If we care anything at all about photos of Prince Henry flashing his King Edwards about, should our prudish ire be focused on the Prince for doing what so many twenty-somethings tend to do, or should we be pointing fingers at the so-called mate who released the blurry phone photos in the first place ? (by the way, who has a camera phone that poor in quality any more ?) .
When Harry was lambasted for turning up at a fancy dress party as a Nazi, showing all the tact and class of his granddad (he is out of hospital, isn’t he – else I won’t use that line) I was right up there booing him from the highest gable of my humble terraced abode.
But when an apparently good looking, seemingly fit, charming, ginger (look ! – ginger hair runs in the family, alright ??? – leave it) bloke get’s his kit off during a game of Pissed Strip Billiards, why do we act so surprised? Why is he behaving like this ?? Because he can. He’s a young man, his prospects ain’t bad, and the throng/thong of surrounding scantily clad babes who were dribbling over him that evening seem to have quite enjoyed it. He’s a Royal. Royals have been acting like this for a thousand years. Harry’s Third in Line to the Throne. He’s going to have nothing to do for the rest of his life except drink, shag and dress up as a Nazi. Have we really already forgotten what Prince Andrew was like when he was a kid (let alone how he behaves even now) ? Harry, like uncle Andy, went to war and became a national hero. Now please don’t tell me that because he got his willy wet in Las Vegas he’s now a pariah ?
I’m sure I read somewhere about what people do behind closed doors is their business. He wasn’t garrotting grannies, or molesting beagles at the time, was he ? He went to a party with some blonde birds, got pissed and got his tackle out. Wow ! That’s a first for a young bloke.
There’s a bloke I know who used to – stone cold sober, mind you – used to get his cock out and put £2.10 in 10p pieces (that’s old 10p pieces) under his foreskin and jangle it in front of any interested female or male close at …er…hand. The same bloke (I can’t name names as he reads this column and I wouldn’t want to Sean Cooper him.) dragged on a cigarette with his anus while on his way to rugby matches.
Now if Prince Heinrich was photographed lugging on a Marlboro with his arse, one may have cause to question his judgement. As it is, romping with young women after a night on the turps is hardly worth a bollocking from anyone save his nan. And I’m sure she’ll have a word.
We’ve all done stuff that we’re not particularly proud of. Some of our antics have ended up in national newspapers. I was once in a photo on page 2 of the Daily Mirror (that’s the page where they put their news stories) under the headline “Ban This Paparazzi Scum”. Mum was pleased with that one. I also once ended up in the linen of the Daily Star having posed as a randy removal man for a shoot they’d commissioned for some story they were doing (I can’t remember who wrote it – John Pilger, I seem to recall). It wasn’t my proudest moment. For the record I was bushwacked by the photographer (my boss at the time) and, as is often a studio assistant’s poor fortune, I was forced to dress up and pose. That is my story and I am sticking to it.
Unlike Harry, I knew that these photos were likely to appear in a paper (and unlike Harry I was very happy that they were to appear in the piss-poor Daily Star and therefore only 3 pensioners in the West country were ever likely to see my pic). In both cases, no-one was killed, and apart from my mum and HRH, no-one cared one jot. It may be news in the Daily Star, but any serious-thinking person would file it the Fergie Toe-Job bin.
Please note: I was told to keep my clothes on. It is, after all, a family newspaper.
Just pick up your kit, pack your bags and fuck off back to South Africa. No wonder they were glad to see the back of you in the first place.
Enjoy life in Natal’s Sunday 2nd XI
Rare footage of Team GB’s first Taekwondo team. They were less successful than you would have thought. After this BBC performance, they went on to lose to The Dave Clark 5 in the third place play-off at the 1964 XVIII Olympiad in Tokyo.
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The Sharp Single 