When I was seven my mother hired me to murder my father. I’d always wanted to be an assassin and I had to get the job done before my eighth birthday. Eight was the age of criminal responsibility for children in Scotland last century. Now kids have until age twelve to commit patricide and any other wee job Mom requests.
These days Mummy’s evil plot would be nipped in the bud. “They” would have been watching us as she hired me over a glass of Irn-Bru with a knickerbocker glory chaser. (Yes, dear reader, last century I used to eat!)
Is anyone really surprised that governments snoop? It’s nice that Mr. Snowden is getting to travel around the world, deciding where he’s going to take off his mask, but I pity the poor man in the Pentagon who’s reading my text messages. I hope he was never stuck in a loop between myself and my Beijing driver, Gang Bang, whose English is even worse than my Chinese. When I thought I was asking him to pick me up nearby, I was really requesting a big shit.
The cinema has made us all voyeurs and now Apple has equipped everybody to be a spy. All you need is something to spy on.
When billionaire art collector Charles Saatchi appeared to be strangling his wife over Sunday lunch, it was the couple’s private business, ccording to some columnists. (And am I the only Noseyparker who can’t help wondering what they were eating?) But if you put your hands on your wife’s throat then flatten her largish nose in front of the paparazzi, you make it the world’s business.
It was only after these pictures were published a week later that Big Nigella felt obligated to flee the Chelsea coop she shared with Chas for a £10,000-a-week apartment. Could the moral busybodies pontificating on Twitter have forced her to make a stand? To take off her wedding ring, cook a big batch of brownies, and down them in one?
Nigella gives good schadenfreude because while she’s considered hot as a muffin by lots of men, she is lardier than most ladies want to be. The director of her hit US show allegedly bends over backwards to avoid shots of her rear end. To quote the New York Post, “Nigella has way overeaten. The result is a butt like a horse.” Horse isn’t the animal that springs to mind, but my lips are sealed in sisterly solidarity — or do I mean smug delight? — that I’m ten sizes smaller than Pigella without even holding my breath?
Will Saatchi, a shadow of his former size a decade after marrying the chef who advocates gluttony, now go out on the pull with Rupert Murdoch? Was Nosegate a stunt to stop the media speculating about Mrs. Murdoch’s alleged affair with Tony Blair? Tony’s “people” have issued a denial on his behalf, but conspiracy theorists note the use of the present tense: “He is not having an affair with Mrs. Murdoch.” But did he shag her senseless last week?
And is this just distracting us from the real issue, that Blair, Murdoch, and Saatchi are all past their sell-by dates? Power may be an aphrodisiac, but bad hair needs a better barber. Wendy Deng (pronounced Dung) is possibly the only woman on the planet who dresses worse than Cherie Blair, who has the additional disadvantage of looking bonkers.
Mr. Lash called security when the ex-Prime Minister’s wife advanced, grinning, at a party. The Spice Girls had the same reaction when she appeared backstage at a concert. I’m sure she’s a nice lady, she just happens to look like a nut-job who’d be more at home in a straitjacket with a stomach staple than a black-carpet do.
What next? Is Rupert going to give Nigella a show — Pigella Bites Back? — or maybe ask her out for a spit-roast? And will Snowden be offered a new face so that he can hide better, as a reward for distracting the media from marriage meltdowns?
Snowden becomes more visible when he disappears. Garbo understood that wanting to be alone would just make her more famous, lying in bed reading her press cuts. Being visible contains the desire to be invisible. Garbo fantasized about dying in a car crash wearing a green hat. I want to be blown up, leaving no trace.
Even in death nobody’s safe from the camera’s lens. Princess Diana couldn’t, like Marilyn, die in the nude. Somebody would have been there ready to snap her cellulite. And I’m over the idea of being a beautiful corpse. You would just be unable to resist kissing me goodbye.
See Vivien Lash play herself in the Spying on Strange Men film