SOME YEARS ago I
came up with the idea of IQ points for journalists — no,
not the usual measure of abstract intelligence, which
let’s face it was always going to be a bit of a
non-starter when applied to such alcohol-addled,
trivia-obsessed types as us hacks.
No, MY IQ points are awarded to journalists for
sheer, shameless ingratiation — and there’s certainly a
lot of it about, which is strange in an age of alleged
cynicism. And crazed, lesbian feminist separatist though
I am, it pains me to say that the worst offenders are
women; strangely, the subjects they flatter are more
often than not female celebrities. It’s as though they
figured that if a broad is extra nice to another broad,
it’s the opposite of a cat-fight — and therefore A Very
Good Thing. Though I loathe catfights for the
delectation of sad little men, there’s a certain level
of seat-sniffing, forelock-fondling submission to
celebrity which makes one feel that a truckload of
bitchery is the healthy option. There’s a thin line
between being sisterly and being a suck-ass, frankly.
Flannelling is bad for
everyone; for the celebs because they come to expect
every interview to be a PR opportunity and are then
upset when anyone is even mildly critical, and for the
hack giving the tongue-bath because they make seven
shades of laughing stock out of themselves. For an
example of how both sides are degraded by this practice,
and how not to conduct a celebrity interview you
could do worse than have looked at last weekend’s
papers. At The Mail on Sunday , a truly alarming
symphony of sycophancy took place in guise of an
interview with Nicole Kidman, an actress who brings out
the bootlicker in us hacks.
Where to start, faced with such a sumptuous banquet
of blandishments? Nicole is, of course, “a fiercely
private woman” — she’s only giving this interview about
her divorce, loneliness, love life or lack of it and —
double yuck! — her mother’s lifelong refusal to hug her
(maybe Mrs Kidman knew what a terrible creep her
daughter would grow up to be), to put some bums on seats
for her next artistic endeavour Bewitched, after
all. On top of that, she is of course “extraordinarily
beautiful” and “flawless” even without make-up. She
smells “fresh, flowery and clean”. Now isn’t that a
relief? Nicole doesn’t ming.
Not just a hottie, Nic is “comforting” and fair
bubbling over with “sweet compassion”; “she reaches out
to touch an arm or hand” of the mere mortal quizzing
her. And a right giggle to boot — “soon we’re both
laughing!” But it’s not all ha ha, hee hee; often her
“luminous eyes” are “full of unshed tears”. But she’s no
moper, no sirree! She “hikes, swims, flies planes and
drinks beers with the ‘old diggers’ in her local bars” —
but then on the other hand, she’s not a mindless jock:
“She writes short stories, reads Philip Larkin.” But
Nicole’s got her faults like anyone else: “She thinks
too much, worries too much, sees the best in people and
then gets hurt.” What do you bet she pukes caviar and
passes Chanel No 5 too?
Two thirds of the way through it’s like Kidman had a
premonition of how this piece was going to turn out —
come on, she must be psychic, with all her other
talents — and just totally goes off on one, bigging
herself up like a fiend. “I have a strong imagination
and sensitivity. As a child I spent a lot of time
pondering things and coming up with philosophies, ideas.
Love is what motivates me.” And then, as chundering
seems an inevitability, Kidman tips one over the edge
with the killer quip: “I don’t offer myself up quickly.
I like people it takes time to get to know. It’s partly
to do with being shy.”
There’s more, but I’m all saccharined out. Honestly,
I’m all for looking on the bright side, but this degree
of fulsomeness made me want to go and scrub myself all
over with a harsh carbolic soap — I felt slimed by the
time I’d finished. If you happened to miss this treat
don’t worry — there’ll be a truckload more at the
weekend, and only the names will change. I know that we
hacks are meant to be ashamed of our trade when we are
caught doorstepping orphans or fiddling our expenses —
but , this sort of thing is the only time I ever wish I
made my living differently.
The sterile life of ‘Shoesers’
I’M GOING to do a total Makosi here — that is act in
a profoundly two-faced and self-contradictory manner —
and maintain that while I feel it is very difficult to
put one’s finger on who is having better sex, it
is nevertheless quite easy to put one’s finger on people
who are having worse sex.
Female columnists who say, over and over again, that
“sex isn’t everything.” (You wish, you frigid little
mule.) Women who say: “Chocolate is better than sex.”
(Not if you’re doing it properly, dear.) Women who close
their eyes after the first spoonful of dessert and go
“Oooo. Orgasm.” (My gosh, you’ve really
never had one, have you!) Any broad who bangs on
overmuch about shopping — apparently three out of four
Frenchwomen would rather shop than have sex, and this
being the case no wonder all their husbands are having
affairs. (In my experience, there’s only one time of
your life when it’s not tragic to prefer shops to sex —
and that’s when you’re a shoplifting teenage virgin,
getting your parasexual kicks from pilfering. Bliss!)
Yes, all these types have surely faked orgasm more
times than Makosi has faked friendship. But is there any
sadder, more transparently non-climactic female than the
one who is obsessed with shoes? According to a recent
survey, most women buy a new pair of shoes every month.
Why? Do they have 12 pairs of feet?
I just can’t help thinking that there must be some
sort of inverse ratio between shoes bought and orgasms
had. “Shoesers”, I’ve noticed, also tend to go in for
girly evenings, where a lot of bad blush wine is downed,
a few half-assed secrets revealed and a job-lot of men
dissed. Yet these sexually desiccated boobies never have
the guts to go the whole hog and cross the floor. The
fact is that if you can’t “come off”, as it is coarsely
known, with men then you’re probably a lesbian. Don’t
fight it! Being a lesbian is both a good laugh and a
noble cause, and there’s not a lot of things you can say
both of.
I’m trying hard not to be judgmental here. But you
know what? On their deathbed, people generally think: “I
wish I’d had more sex!” I bet there aren’t many sad sods
who think: “I wish I’d bought more
shoes!”
