Posts Tagged ‘Jordan’

Piers Morgan’s Life Stories: Katie Price

March 11, 2009

piers morgan katie price jordan

ITV is many things to many people, but mainly it’s just rubbish. ITV doesn’t give the world much these days, apart from the anomaly of Harry Hill and the occasional Al Murray moment. It’s the gaping hole in the middle of the schedule – a vortex where decent television simply doesn’t occur. It’s television for children and the elderly – bright, flashy and filled with hollow applause. If you find your brain actively engaged by ITV’s output, it’s a sure sign of mental decline.

Piers Morgan’s new show could only be an ITV product, with the third button being the key channel specialising in the kind of glossy dross he tends towards since being kicked out of publishing and having entered the light entertainment arena. When he was at The Mirror, Morgan was a forgivable prick – always managing to rustle up a twinge of sympathy because, for all his myriad flaws, at least he wasn’t the Editor of The Sun. But even in his early days he was caked in the slime of smug self-assurance and seemed to have smarm running through his innards like sap.

His Sunday evening Life Stories vehicle is way beyond the bland rubbish you might expect it to be. In fact, it’s so tedious and vacant, you could be forgiven for thinking your television’s vanished and been replaced with a vague space. You’d actually be better off staring at the wall.

Following on from last week’s episode in which we re-learned that Richard Branson is very rich and smiles a lot, on Sunday evening we were landed with a Katie Price sucker-punch. The show opened, as it does every episode, with Piers talking to camera (or someone just off-camera, to give it an air of reality) about how he wouldn’t avoid any issues and would ask the right questions in order to get us some really meaty answers. Katie, in turn, promised that she would give her all and reply honestly to anything Morgan could throw at her. It was as if, for a second, they actually believed they were about to make some proper television rather than get themselves messy in the overlit, sycophancy-session that followed.

The first topic for discussion was Katie’s apparent schizophrenia and the fact that she ‘misses Jordan’. She made it seem as though the identity she created purely to allow her to build her fortune – using tabloid tittilation and flesh-flashing – had substance. To blur the boundaries between Katie and Jordan even further, ingeniously merging the two personalities, she was then encouraged to show off her jewellery for the cameras like a blinged up material girl. But ultimately it was left unclear, the actual difference between the two. Was it the change of hair colour that signalled the change? Or the graduation from the showbiz pages in the tabloids to the OK and Hello spreads?

We moved on, the question unanswered. They discussed her husband Peter as openly as they could, with the poor sod sitting mere yards away in the audience, wilting bashfully. Throughout the show, Katie talked about Andre as though he’s the randy stalker she fellates out of pity.

‘I can’t have sex seven days a week’, she informed us. ‘so when he gets it, he gets it’. She talked about their shared, sacred moments of intimacy in the functional way you might ask a neighbour to feed the dog while you’re in Cromer for a week’s holiday. In the most non-erotic description of marital relations you’re ever likely to hear, she discussed their first moment of passion and how she stormed his hotel room after the I’m a Celebrity wrap party. He answered the door wearing only a towel, insisting he’d just got out of the shower and hadn’t expected her. ‘I give him a blow job in the toilet’ she declared, smiling at her killer punchline, to the joy of the audience and the sympathetic mugging of Morgan.

The show was interspersed with VT in which members of Katie’s family discussed her rise to fame. Piers’ voiceover could be heard over the top using phrases like ‘Britain’s first couple’ and ‘unlikely modern role model’ – unqualified assertions that slipped by unchallenged, reaffirming brand Katie and making the viewer implicit in the bullshit-flow. To give us a little bit of humanity, Katie’s mum, brother and sister spoke semi-candidly about her implants and how her investment in the chest-bulgers was born out of insecurity – but this wasn’t explored.

Another area that wasn’t dwelled upon was a bizarre and remarkably awkward sequence in which we seemed to hear something about sexual abuse. It was so strange I had to rewind and check I’d heard right. When talking about her first, apparently unsavoury modelling shoots she said ‘worse things have happened to me’. Then, when Morgan asked what she meant, she expanded with the gnomic: ‘in a park’. She then began to yelp a little before composing herself and saying ‘just some weirdo in a park’, alluding to sexual abuse with the scantest details, garnering sympathy from the audience for something they probably weren’t even sure they’d heard right. Watching this weird little sequence felt grubby for multiple reasons, none of which I can quite place.

After superficial discussion of her disabled son, reality television and wealth, the conversation was wrapped up. The promise of depth and insight went sadly unfulfilled. But there was no room for disappoinment. If you’d tuned in to a show like this and found anything profound within, you’d have the mental faculties of a child or an infantile pensioner.

So I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting.

Heat

October 2, 2008

How does one sum up the contemporary female as viewed by the gutter press?

Well look no further folks, it’s here.

Being perpetually presented with media stereotypes of women, the new Heat advert is the perfect representation of all that is wrong with how we view the role of the young woman in today’s society. What is more disturbing is how this celeb crap is something women aspire too.

My favourite whipping boy (and she’s got a face like a bloke) is Jordan, the tit-waggling tart who, by a combination of self exploitation and sheer greed, has managed to make a fucking fortune by using the media to reinvent herself at the expense of her own family. As a role-model, the damage has already been done. Every other aspiring ‘celeb’ is only too happy to be seen, cosmetically adjusted for the purpose of the universal proletariat bloke, swaggering about wearing nothing but tooth floss in order to gain the attentions of the paparazzi.

But there is more. After the mutual exploitation has established a ‘celeb’, said celeb will often bite the hand that fed it. This results in violence – think Allen/Winehouse who regularly find themselves having to punch their way out of their own homes or clubs when the monster they’ve created turns to suck the very marrow out of their bones.

It has to be said that the violence is usually dished out by those that, to some degree, have earned their fame via talent (the likes of Jordan and Marsh couldn’t afford to spurn the attentions of the press) but obviously such behaviour keeps the artist in the public eye, which will ultimately result in record sales. young women are left with the notion that it’s acceptable for women to use their fists as well as their tits.

Now the Heat advert. Incidentally, Heat is nothing more than a paparazzi-landfill with a desire to do no more than poke its nose into the lives of those that jangle their enhanced privates / damaged emotions at cameras before dishing out gushing praise or more commonly, screaming vitriol, to nosy gossips and fishwives.

So, after being presented with a typical cover of Heat, an expose on some gits Lumpy Thighs’ for fucks sake, two women start to punch the crap out of one another.

We’re presented with the idea that Heat is of such value that two perfectly normal women are prepared to kick seven bells out of each other in order to read the last available copy. But even within the advert there is more bird-baiting, while these two fairly ordinary wankers roll about on the floor a model serenely plucks the magazine from the shelf looking down at the ‘ordinary’ pugilists with a certain degree of disgust.

Sort of says it all about the magazine, it’s content and it’s readers.

Actually, I could go on and on about this… but I won’t.

Katie & Peter: The Baby Diaries

July 24, 2007

Sick and wrong 

Ok, before I get started I want to make it quite clear that even upon writing this article, I haven’t put myself through a whole episode of this series of self-indulgent hyper-cack, but then why would I? Just noticing that it exists is enough of an excuse to vent my spleen. And let’s face it, who needs to watch it? The content is irrelevant, if not self explanatory; It’s that fat-nosed, pregnant attention-whore Jordan lolling pointlessly about with her gargling elf of a husband poncing excitedly by her side like a neutered and bloated spaniel wagging his little trouser tail.

I confess however, that I watched a whole mind-shafting 15 minutes before coming to my senses and doing myself the favour of tuning out. In that I time I witnessed Katie Andre Jordan Price wobbling about to some music like a slaggish bouncy castle with her unborn child being ragged about inside. To complete this horror sequence, the outlandishly squat creature known as ‘Peter’ was frantically frotting himself against her baby-bearing frame like a randy adolescent at a school disco. No wonder her other fuck-trophy Harvey was born with his optic nerves detached after spending the best part of a year being rattled about like a galstone in a pig’s bladder.

Next, David Gest’s stupid apocalyptic fizzog appeared on screen to add an eerie supernatural effect to an already bizarre programme. I’m not sure quite what service he was offering, as I wasn’t paying the required attention. All I noticed was that his darkly robed body was looking like a priest’s fevered nightmare.

Finally, I saw the dozy tit-beast almost reduced to a pant-shitting due to what she descibed as her ‘needle-phobia’ during a visit to her G.P. Maybe having been breached by the Andre-needle once to often has provoked this reaction, or maybe she was afraid that one false move by the spike-weilding quack would have her tits wilting like a tramp’s cheap, flimsy, dirty, stinking, cum-spattered lilo that’s been snagged on a skanky bit of bone in a butcher’s doorway.

Among these sequences there was plenty of equally meaningless footage which was so damaging to the intellect I was afraid my frontal lobe may begin to bleed at any time. I can honestly say that having a big dump leaves me feeling more entertained than viewing the activities of this pair of village idiots.

Their careers seem to consist of fly-on-the-wall type glimpses into the day-to-day workings of their own careers. Careers which incidentally, would not exist without such public attention upon the supposed ‘careers’ in the first place. So really, the careers don’t even actually exist. If it wasn’t so annoyingly ridiculous it would be genius. I cannot begin to grasp the point of the programme from a viewers perspective and struggle to imagine anyone out there actually caring about these substance-free parasites, or what happens to them. What do folk gain from watching shit such as this? I doubt viewers are tuning in because they can’t wait to hear what Peter Andre says next. And if you’re a sad loner watching in the hope of getting an eyeful of some good ol’ jug action then you’ll be disappointed. It’s not even good for a wank unless you’re keen on shuffling one out over a fully-clothed, sprog-hauling, has-been cock-charmer.