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Showing posts from April, 2009

Don't Talk to the Hand. Coz Only My Publicist is Listening.

What a cliche. I can't even believe I'm about to say it. But here it is: It seems a damning indicament of the current celebrity-infatuated-media world we live in, when you read a news article on the BBC web site like this . The story itself is alarming, with the behaviour of Police during the G20 protests needing, unquestionably, to be scutinised. A woman was hit by a policeman, and questions need answering. Was it necessary, was it a breach of regulations? It needs to be dealt with, and this isn't my issue. But you do worry when you see the words 'Max Clifford' involved. And this is the rub. Why does Ms Fisher need a publicist? Is she planning on carving up a nice little media career for herself? Zelebrity Come Protesting On Ice . Are we to see her on the front page of Heat magazine next week along with 'G20 Star Favourite Hats' pull-out? Just weeks after we saw a rather peculiar media frenzy over the (admittedly very sad) death of a reality TV 'star...

I Loves Life I Do, No I Do

It's a little like when you've drunk too much of the fizzy pop and extras, the dregs of night have long turned into the early roots of morning, and you suddenly have an epiphany that you absolutely love to pieces your best mate/s who stand over the toilet of a Cardiff drinking establishment yacking their guts up. "I loves you y'know...you're bloody great you are...". Suddenly everything you hate about the world (which is really everything), that you've been copiously moaning about all evening, is a distant memory faded into oblivion. And isn't life wonderful. Until the hangover. Then it's full-steam ahead back to Shitsville.