Posts Tagged ‘Polly Hudson’

Vacuous Bimbo Extraordinaire

January 18, 2009

Cheap Hotel

I have just found out who Yasmin Alibhai-Brown’s mate Liz Jones is. She is the fashion editor and columnist for The Daily Mail. She used to worship at the Altar of the Cult of Thinness and, if she is involved in the fashion industry, she still does. She is a former anorectic and used to be editor of Marie Claire, a magazine that also worships at the Altar of the Cult of Thinness. No doubt she passed on her ‘wisdom’ to any vulnerable young woman foolish enough to purchase that magazine. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who spends a good deal of time in ‘Working Men’s Clubs’ watching ‘working men’ ‘swigging beer’: ‘Responding to beer-swilling blokes in Wibsey Working Men’s Club, in Bradford, who said on television that they had lost their place as the backbone of the nation because Asians were overtaking them, she wrote: “A snail with special needs would overtake this lot … It is patronising and not remotely useful to treat the white working class as though they are all helpless, giant toddlers in need of conservation.’

I cannot find any evidence that Ms. Jones is of ‘working class stock’. I’m willing to bet that the working men she expresses such contempt for have contributed more to society that she ever will. I wonder how many young women’s lives have been destroyed as a result of the tyranny of slenderness promoted by the magazines she has worked for. She clearly doesn’t believe young women are ‘in need of conservation’ either.

I once called Polly Hudson of The Daily Mirror ‘Vacuous Bimbo Extraordinaire‘. Well, sorry Polly love, you’ve just been usurped. Step up to the stage, Ms. Jones, to accept your new title.

Addendum: I’ve found out why Nobby is called ‘Nobby’!  Good old Wikipedia:

yup, I’m oh so fuddy-duddy

November 10, 2008


According to Vacuous Bimbo Extraordinaire.

The poor kid (Georgina Whatserface, that is) is an aspiring model, not an actress.  By the standards of the fashion industry she’s probably too short and too fat.  The only way she’ll achieve that ambition is to break both her legs in two places and starve herself to the point of emaciation.  What fun! I’ve tried the last but never the first.  Still, maybe someday.

Addendum: I have to add though: who could fail to be moved by this ? (I like the pic of Stalin in the background. Very subtle.) He’s endearing, I’ll give him that. Get rid of Wossy and keep him.  At the very least, he’s rather appealing eye candy for the lay-dees. He may also have a role waiting for him as poet laureate (I’d like to apologize for those terrible attacks/Andrew Sachs/I’d like to show contrition to the max/Andrew Sachs/I’d like to create world peace/Between the yellows, whites and blacks/Andrew Sachs). He couldn’t be any worse than the one we’ve got – Andrew Motion who sucks and sucks and sucks some more. He sucks more than anything’s ever sucked before.


November 2, 2008

I don’t get Jonathan Ross. I never have and probably never will. I am simply unable to see his appeal. Perhaps his humour is far too sophisticated for my humble tastes. I most certainly don’t believe he is worth six million pounds a year of license payers’ money. Russell Brand is more talented but given that I don’t credit Jonathan Ross with any talent at all, that’s not much of a compliment.

One person who appreciates them both and credits them with an abundance of talent is Vacuous Bimbo Extraordinaire Polly Hudson. In her column in that bastion of intellectualism The Daily Mirror she claims that those who do not appreciate the gruesome twosome’s ‘unique’ brand of humour are either too old or devoid of a sense of humour. Now, I’m guessing that Ms. Hudson is not celibate. I’m also guessing that she has at least one living grandfather. If someone telephoned her grandfather and informed him that he had ‘slept with his granddaughter’ would she find it quite so amusing? Somehow I doubt it. Perhaps one of her former boyfriends could put that sense of humour of hers to the test sometime.

Ms. Hudson goes on to claim that: ‘The most annoying thing is that the person who’ll benefit from this saga the most is the only one involved with no talent.’ Don’t knock it, sweetheart, lack of talent doesn’t appear to have hindered your progress. You have the journalistic acumen of my dead cat. If she were even remotely perspicacious, she may well have spotted the subtext which was that Ms. Baillie had dumped Brand and this was his thoroughly nasty revenge.

Ms. Hudson omits one crucial fact: Jonathan Ross (or ‘Jon’ as she calls him) is 47. He is not young in anyone’s estimation. He is also a father. Someday he may well be a grandfather. I wonder what reaction such a telephone call would provoke from him. What goes around comes around, Mr Ross. What a neat little piece of poetic justice that would be and if that day ever comes I will be convinced that there really is a God.

Addendum: Oh yeah, and FYI I couldn’t give a toss what Ms. Baillie said to The Sun because it is irrelevant. I am not subsidising her.  I am not compelled, on pain of imprisonment, to purchase that truly repellent ‘newspaper’.  I am however forced, on pain of imprisonment, to subsidise the twuly wepellent Wossy and, fwankly, that pisses me off.  Comprendez-vous?

Another Addendum: It would appear that the young woman at the heart of this saga is making the most of her fifteen minutes of fame. Unlike many I don’t have a problem with this. She didn’t initiate this unfortunate episode. When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. As for Wossy and Bwand, expect to see them soon on a TV near you, starring in Celebrity Strictly Come In My Mouth closely followed by I’m a Celebrity, Give Me a Lethal Injection.  But they won’t, they’ll carry on as before because they’re blokes and blokes are expected to be foolish and juvenile.  They even get paid for it. None of this is their fault, it’s all down to the way they were made. The women in this affair, as always, are held to a much higher moral standard.   As they say, ‘Cherchez la femme‘.  And we do – time after time.

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