Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Kate Moss does George Michael with her barnacle lips

I loved the George Michael film Freedom. Such a surprise too last night. The TV listings mags, printed these days on Andrex rolls, had not made much of it; so I felt like I had been mugged by a very lovely Santa when he just popped up unheralded on TV - George! Oh but I'm not going to review it. I leave that sort of thing to the indentured slaves on rags, poor poppets. What will they do with themselves when they are retired at 41? Drink themselves to death? Find a deity? Edit an inflight magazine?

No, it's Kate Moss I come to praise, or evaluate, or at least notice. She kicked off the docu-film - and at first, one had to absorb the shock of her actually talking to camera. Pure Estuary, darling; a great career preservative these days. But it's her lips that fascinate me and what she does with them. Some time back, in the British Vogue fly-on-the-wall doc Absolutely Fashion, I saw for the first time this trick: that when the camera is on her, she moves her lips about as if inviting the lens to enter her mouth: semi-pouting, closing, parting, rippling, closing: it's a gentle pulsation, a slow-mo twitching or part-gurning that only involves her bouche. All done silently, on automatic. In the street this behaviour might invite alarmed comment. She was doing this again last night in Freedom. Before she said her little piece about George, she weirdly lipped us. Why? This wasn't a fashion shoot. The barnacle performs a similar motion with its mouth before feathery cirri emerge to to grab plankton. Kate is absent of cirri which is just as well. I can't imagine the London look would last long if she had cirri lunging out of her gob to grab a Pret a-Manger sarnie.

After Kate had said what she said, the lips started motioning salaciously again. Decades in fashion have left her with this curious habit. She learned a long time ago that gently moving the lips about increases the likelihood of an interesting shot being caught for the magazines. But on TV, outside the photographers' studios, she just looks very odd, as if in the midst of a sultry stroke she has decided on a last bout of self-pleasuring. But she does it well. Better than those bimbos on Babestation.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Si Newhouse never looked at data? Oh Anna Wintour!

I was sorry that Si Newhouse - who built Condé Nast's glossy mags division into an empire of highly lucrative scented-page snobbery (Vogue, Vanity Fair, Details, GQ and so on) - passed away before he met moi. How distressing! Actually, I missed the news of his death at age 89 altogether and only learned of it from Alexandra Shulman's new, most entertaining column on the Business of Fashion website. He was sucked up the astral tunnel on October 1 or thereabouts. I wonder who greeted the poppet in the afterlife. We shall never know.

Naturally, I googled the obits - and was most fascinated to see what Anna Wintour had to say about him. After all, he raised her to the heights of the American Vogue editorship (and beyond) and was immeasurably delighted by her editorial genius and celebrity glamour. Both Scorpio, they would have appreciated in each other the fervent desire to keep so much under wraps while the next chapter was plotted if not connived.

But, oh dear! Did Anna know Si at all? I have just been reading her Newhouse statement on Vogue.com. One line stands out: “Si never looked at data or statistics, but went with his instincts and expected his editors to do the same. He urged us to take risks and was effusive in his praise when they paid off."

He never looked at data or stats? Can this be true? I don't think so. We have to go to Thomas Maier's book Newhouse to get some hard facts as opposed to Anna's entrancing tosh. On page 63, for example, there's this: "Ascending to the role of chairman of Condé Nast Publications in 1975, Si became a devotee of market surveys and scrutinised the circulation reports to see how readers reacted to each magazine cover...and how they liked each feature inside." In another passage: "Armed with this information [the market research data], the editors working for Si Newhouse were expected to adhere to the computer results in making their decisions."

We learn that "Diana Vreeland [Vogue siren of Sixties' indulgences] particularly objected to the Newhouse concept and its reliance on marketing rather than artistic considerations or editorial judgement."

Perhaps Si changed as he got older but I have yet to meet anyone who very much alters over the decades, except to get droopier and more irritable before the dementia plateau. I suppose maintenance of the sepia tint on memory requires bullshit to be spouted.

All this does remind me of one thing, though: I really must find myself an Anna Wintour for my post-death eulogy. Her (or his?) words, "Madame Arcati never said a bad word against anyone", will resonate through media jails and trigger much in the way of chortling.

Sunday, February 05, 2017

Graydon Carter: It was "not my wish" to meet Donald Trump

The latest issue of Vanity Fair arrives in the post (I'm on one of those six-month subs that cost me about £12 - cheap, that's moi) and I turn excitedly to editor Graydon Carter's letter. The poppet is such a good writer, and just about hates everyone I hate, so his remote company is just like sharing a soul steam room. I want to know how it went, y'know, when Donald Trump visited the Conde Nast offices in NY. Did they end up wrestling on the polypropylene fire-resistant rug?

See, Anna Wintour (who is now my ultimate hero after years of satire and abuse at my hands) invited Trump to come say hello to the glossies in early January. I don't know why. She supported Hillary. But in the high-end world, hypocrisy is the coin. Must keep up those appearances. Democracy is the grand excuse. Carter did offer to boycott (perhaps for decency's sake, given his relentless hostility to the new President) but somehow was persuaded to attend and share the oxygen of the Commander-in-Chief he calls "short-fingered".

It is in Carter's editor's letter, though, that we find a little pearl. He confirms that he and his peers met Mr President and writes: "The get-together was off the record. (Not my wish. Nor was the meeting itself.)..." Ooh poppet! There's definitely a whiff of "Get my meaning?" about this bracketed aside, as if he did not think it a good idea. Whether it was Anna's idea or someone else's on the board, no one has said; but it was Anna who paid Trump a visit at his NY obelisk suite and lured him over (as Trump reported on Twitter).

It is distressing to think that Conde Nast editors do not think as one, and do not care if the world knows. I mean, only the other week or two, darling Anna was seen in a TV reality documentary about British Vogue. While she loyally rhapsodised about editor Alexandra Shulman (with eyes shaded), viewers had already witnessed Alex secretly shafting Anna over the Rihanna cover. How we pulled faces of gleeful horror! Goodness knows what Anna had to say when she saw the show.

So, now Alex has announced her exit plan.

Monday, January 09, 2017

Donald Trump: Meryl Streep and the accidental existentialist

Darling Meryl Streep needs no support from Madame as Donald Trump brands her "over-rated" for calling him a bullying cunt (in effect). How can a mere clairvoyante medium top all those articulate movie, TV and theatre awards that she's truffled away over the decades? - there are so many that Wikipedia has a separate entry on them. I'd be jealous except I can't act jealous. You just can't be jealous of genius. You tend only to envy the first-raters; the merely very, very good. Genius is beyond our grasp so we tend to be big about being small.

Trump is so grotesque, such a liar, deceiver and fool, that it is beyond my modest gifts to send him up or even mock and revile him in any effective way. Alec Baldwin gave it his best try - but his target out-did the send-up all the way. Trump is his own circular, self-creating satire, a fake whose absurdities depend on the paradox of his authenticity of self-manufacturing: he truly believes every word that passes his mauve lips as each day he resets his man-cave coordinates, for the best back alley ahead. He is utterly committed to the moment and the fact of his being beyond role, status or anything extraneous to the self-Trump. This is why he pays no account to his word, to what he said the minute before, to reality - except functionally to navigate from A to B - or even to his new role fast approaching, that of US President. He is an accidental existentialist. In his world there is no good and bad; both are relative terms that are moulded into matters of pleasure and pain by other people's flattery or insult (of the Trump-self). And good or bad things are just as likely to happen now as never or tomorrow, and with no consequence that cannot be seen off with a resetting of the Trump man-cave coordinates - and/or with an expensive lawyer.

This by far makes Trump the most fascinating US commander-in-chief ever. A philosopher-president with no philosophy at all. Before you stands 6ft 2ins of opportunist impulse arising from the selfish sentience that once dreamt of playing US President. There's no God or Devil to defer to, not even a non-God/Lucifer: he may be atheist or he may be a cod evangelical - which interest must be served in this moment for 'belief'? What anchors him in this or that moment of reality is not conscience or even any concept of good or bad but the visceral, sensation-hungry ballast dangling between his legs. These bestow a sense of power, entitlement; of timelessness (for they enable procreation of the self, among other things) as well as giving him something to think about when the mind wanders from business, politics or pussy. Bollocks, c'est moi. He talks bollocks, thinks bollocks, acts bollocks. So full of bollocks is he that we already start to forget what he said yesterday or this morning or ten years ago. In a few moments, the Streep tantrum will be forgotten by just about all. For that too was bollocks.
I suspect I shall have much more to say about Trump.It is of course an irony that this accidental, amoral existentialist most probably has opened the White House door to the pious Christer-evangelical by his side. Such an outcome would be in keeping with the low comedy to which we are witness Stateside. I'd laugh but I've just been diagnosed a hernia. 

Sunday, January 08, 2017

The Queen and the new Holocaust book

Much excitement today. The Queen has emerged from her Kleenex snot-igloo to attend church at Sandringham. The poor poppet. I don't catch colds any more by the simple policy of declining parties, especially around Yuletide and New Year. People only invite you to parties to give you their colds. They disguise the symptoms with Sudafed (other brands available). I know these things.

My point of course is that HM has demonstrated that she is still alive. A rumour was put out recently that she had passed away on account of her sneezing. Twitter got all excited while the rest of us slept. Suddenly a conspiracy was afoot. You can see how Holocaust deniers gain traction with their absurd claims and questions. Just say something and before long a moron will believe you as a symptom of her/his/its self-diagnosed illness-career.

Thinking of the Holocaust, may I draw your attention to a new book out next week. It's called Final Solution: The Fate of the Jews 1939-1949 by David Cesarani. It makes "extensive use of previously untapped resources such as diaries and letters from within the ghettos and camps (many of them in Polish or Yiddish and therefore previously largely inaccessible to Anglo-American scholars) and by adopting a rigorously Judeocentric approach the whole narrative of the march to genocide."

It appals me that Google has only lately started to act against anti-Semitic sites that peddle Holocaust denial, amending its algorithms so that neo-Nazi trash do not top the search. What's wrong with these bedroom-bound beards that run Google? Do they have some self-diagnosed illness-career we should know about?

Saturday, January 07, 2017

Esther Rantzen and anonymous internet swine

Madame was most distressed to learn that Dame Esther Rantzen is the victim of false, disgraceful allegations. From memory I can't quite recall what these may be but the eating of raw rhubarb was not among them. Something to do with turning children into fine dining recipes courtesy of Masterchef. This is the problem with sharing expertise with the sofa-bound sedated - a little knowledge in the wrong brains too easily leads many astray. Just ask Dr Google!

But let not my forgetfulness, doubtless brought on by living too close to a main road, distract us from the fact that Dame Esther has suffered grievously.

Her abuser, it emerges, is an anonymous website poster, unwittingly aided by the monstrous Google and its scheming algorithms. It has long been my view that people who veil their identity to launch malicious cyber attacks are plainly not entirely to be trusted with a sharp axe - a point the Dame herself makes, kind of. You can just imagine some lonely, pathetic male person posing as someone else (a notable woman, say) in order to vent his spleen or advertise his psychopathy. Dignitas would be too gentle a fate for such a person.

Nonetheless I was fascinated to learn that though Google unforgivably declined to remove the offending website or the grossly offensive items on Dame E - which might lead a post-That's Life millennial to think that Dame Esther was up there with the late Myra - it did delete a copycat entry on a Blogger site. This does not surprise me. Google has long treated Blogger as the equivalent of a holiday camp where everyone must smile and stroke their pussies and post tiresome items about their boring day. Nice cosy crap from cradle to grave. All in the name of responsible blogging.

Btw, Dame Esther had no idea what Blogger was, writing of it as if an obscure Inuit cultural artefact. What world does this woman live in I wonder. Easy access to the Mail editor has made her soft. But I wish her well in naming and shaming the filthy swine who uses a cyber mask so horribly. Exposure! 

Trump to meet Graydon Carter? Oh my....

The US President-Elect tells his growing Twitter mob that American Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour paid him a visit at his indebted Trump Tower suite in the last few hours, inviting him to meet fellow Conde Nast editors. He said he would graciously do so "this AM". This is a canny move on the part of CN's artistic director who really should now be called Dame Anna. Dame Anna (to repeat myself - do please keep up, Donald) herself backed Hillary and Obama before her - and then there's the problem of Graydon Carter, the Vanity Fair editor. His dislike of "short-fingered" Trump is one of the wonders of journalism in its mainstream, imperilled current form. Why, only this morning, my new copy of Vanity Fair arrived in the post, and scarcely a good word may be found in its silky pages on the topic of Trump and his clan. Oh my! Just read Graydon's very rude editor's letter. But perhaps he's being post-ironic, confecting a rage that disguises a love of celebrity and success. And when Trump turns up, Graydon will throw out a welcoming hand in an attempt to latch onto those elusive short fingers, hoping not to crush the titchy digital petals in his mighty manly paw, assuming he doesn't miss them altogether.

Graydon's campaign against Trump did smack of playground big cockism, in its focus on size. In photos, Trump's hands look 'normal' to me and not appreciably smaller in scale to the rest of his over-sized, big-burgery booming self. My suspicion is that Graydon may take the day off when Trump pops in - I mean it would look most odd if the two men were photographed all bromantic after the anti-Trump propaganda unleashed by Carter's pen and commissioning. One has to think about credibility even in these times of post-truth and post-irony and hacked email posts.

I do hope that Graydon is not about to disappoint Madame.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Donald Trump - made in China

Bone-headed Trump and China
President-elect Donald Trump really must do better - if we suppose he's serious about anything he has to say. I see nothing but doom with this dreadful fraud.

New Year's Honours 2017 list suffers from lack of anal

I do wish the newspapers and BBC would get it right. It's the 'New Year's Honours list 2017'. Not 'New Year Honours list 2017'. Unfortunately the press release from HM Government also gets it wrong - 'New Years Honours list 2017'. I had hoped that the UK Telegraph would set an example in anally retentive practice but sadly we just get the couldn't-be-arsed 'New Years Honours....' It's possible that some under-paid sub-editor or unpaid intern will tidy up these solecisms on discovery. Then again, probably not. Madame enters 2017 faintly distressed.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

Mary Beard (nearly) blows up over Henry VIII tapestry tale

My favourite historian Mary Beard has asked me (and about 10 million others) to make it clear that the Christmas tale of her discovery of one of Henry VIII's Caesar tapestries is not quite as reported in the excitable newspapers. She is threatening to blow up! She writes on her TLS blog apropos her chat with The Times: "I insisted that M Beard should not emerge from this as some Indiana Jones style discover. Anyway, what appear is this article in the Times (to see it all, you need to subscribe), and the BBC Radio news has an item on how Mary Beard has found one of Henry VIII’s lost tapestries. Aggghh." Oh dear, these pesky hacks are so desperate to fill space while famous people die all around us in a rush to catch the 'cull of 2016' headline. Fashion  queens! The actual story should read: "Cambridge prof discovers on Google a later version [my italics] of a lost tapestry owned by Henry VIII". She admits this sounds a lot less sexy but I think she's just being humble; oh but look, read the whole thing yourself.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Madame Arcati Uncut

Before she went to back to prison, Farah Damji conducted this interview with moi - in 2010!
Just to warm the cockles of your frozen heart this chilly Sunday night, here's a previously unpublished i/v with media blogger and celebrity scourge Madame Arcati. Just last week, Darling MA exposed an X Factor contestant's raunchy granny's porn / escort past in true tabloidese, and the blog which was established in 2006,  peaked at over 40 000 hits in a week. Be warned, you are no longer in Kansas, Dorothy. 

What made you start writing up the trivia and torpedoes of the media / showbiz world's gossip? Was there a shortage of good gossipistes? Did you fill the *ahem* gap? Who is your favorite gossipiste du jour ( I know this is subject to change hourly, double Gemini just take a tabloid and stick a drawing pin on a page. Ouch)

My dear, Madame does not gossip. Gossiping is what you do when you don’t know anything: I’m sure Peter McHackey of the Daily Mail will concur. A more accomplished bottom feeder of others’ droppings I have yet to encounter. Madame shares what she knows with her discerning public (and a few loafers indentured on newspapers seeking a free lunch) and in turn a few of them tell me what they know. 

This exchange is less complicated than sex and no one ends up stalked.

The best supplier of actual information is probably Nicky Haslam - he has the stamina and memory for all the parties. The best gossip (in the sense of not knowing anything) is the above mentioned Peter McKay (aka McHackey)  who daily fills his Mail  Ephraim Hardcastle ‘column’ with the bruised peel of yesterday’s fruit nibblings

What was your biggest scoop?

Where do I start, poppet? Certainly my best recent scoop was breaking the news of Sebastian Horsley’s untimely death - his body was still warm when the news went up, and for half the day a great many arts hacks thought I’d made it up. People say I’m tasteless but at least I didn’t put up the photo of Seb fucking that quadruple amputee woman.

The scoop I’m most proud of was my revelations about a London newspaper editor who left his wife and family for the London mayor’s comely PR person - a potentially tricky matter given that the mayor had a say in where the editor’s paper could be sold on London Transport property. Happily there was no conflict of interest; but it’s best to know of these things than not know. The newspapers ignored the story, natch. Editors like to cover each other’s back. 

What was your biggest disappointment?  

So many, my sweet.  So many. I am by nature a trusting person. The writer Precious Williams deeply wounded me. She assured me over and over again (in emails I still possess) that she did indeed have a relationship with the Channel 4 news anchor Jon Snow - which he denied. He even denied knowing her. Precious promised me proof. I am still waiting. My thumbs have been twiddled to limpness. My finger nails have been drummed into the bone. I find it astonishing that Mr Snow then married Precious - another Precious, that is. Such a common name.

What do you wear while you blawg? Do you blawg naked? Do you have an aperitif to get you in the mood?

It depends on the time of day and who’s in the room. Mornings I have been known to face the blog in my lace and poly silk negligee designed by Jane Woolrich while a stranger’s hands search my person fervently for signs of (re-)arousal. Writing about the likes of Kevin Spacey in such a situation adds a frisson to one’s online breakfast. Of an evening I have been known to sip a certain anise-flavoured beverage as I deliberate on the fate of some unfortunate TV host favourite - a few words and it’s all over for them. Power must be exercised responsibly. Top up!

What's the view from your desk? Keep it clean dearie.

Well, I’m most concerned about the Union Jack that used to flap about in my peripheral vision in a neighbour’s garden. It has disappeared. I think a storm the other night brought down the pole, most distressing for the Dame Vera Lynn fans who erected it. You just can’t get the wood nowadays. Otherwise a copy of Lady Colin Campbell’s novel Empress Bianca sits on my desk as a paperweight. Any attempt to read it would lead to much documentary chaos.

Tell me your most perverse fetish. Don't keep it clean.

Cling film aside, I curiously delight in Royal Doulton’s Bunnykins collectables based in the mythical village of Little Twitching. I have only to run a finger along the cool English Translucent China of Reggie Bunnykins’ floppy-stiffy ears and my thigh muscles relax somewhat. God help you if you're in the same room as I should I be caressing a Reggie figurine and his floppy-stiffies. My cleaner gives me a wide berth at such times.

Which Jean Genet character are / were you in your last / next life?

It would have to be the straw in Un Chant d'Amour through which smoke is exhaled in what must be the smallest prison glory hole in 20th Century movie history.
What do you have to say to those calumnist columnists who steal your copy and lift your exclusives like peeling skin when the SPF 50 has rubbed off?

Fucking heterosexuals. They’re all the same.

Who are your favorite subjects? Who are the most devoted Arcatistes and why do you think they return for more love / ego-stroking / abuse, for another ride on the carousel of desire in your tunnel of love?

Madame Arcati is the only website conductor in the world who drew in Kevin Spacey’s entire family (almost) and then artfully set them against each other for years. On my blog you will find a textbook-sized amount of info on the clan - it was the blogosphere’s very first reality soap. People come to me to spectate, to observe living slebby drama, to conduct feuds and serve up the Revenge dish. Madame Arcati is indeed a tunnel of love, and one dripping with authentic lubricant.
Steph Mastini
Cock pic by Steph Mastini
How do you bring your alleged psychic powers into your work?

Alleged? How dare you. Madame Arcati casts her horoscopes and sees beyond the rational spin and din. But I am responsible. People must go through certain experiences for karmic reasons, such as public and humiliating exposure on Madame Arcati. It’s not my business to editorialise fate’s design.

Can you tell me (privately of course) who some of your sources are?

I find that death makes people garrulous.

What's your 'scope and how does it effect the vapours and whims of your blogging?

By ’scope you mean horoscope? It’s a little like illegal phone hacking. The trick is to find a trail that disguises the illicit means of discovery. The PM’s spin master Andy Coulson will know what I mean.
Quentin Crisp
What happened to the most requested author of HMP Holloway, Susan Hill and you?

I don’t know about Susan. One minute she was confiding the most extraordinary things in me (my lips are… coated in a Tom Ford Private Blend). And in the next she had swanned off to the Spectator and now writes a very tiresome right-wing blog there about hedgerows and Wellington boots. I don’t know why I thought she was a socialist. But anyway, I have a soft spot for Sue who I think should be made a Dame for her services to ghosts.

What do you think about celebrity bloggers? Tell-all biographies? Boxers or Y Fronts and on the Brighton sea front is it a one piece cozzie or a tankini?

Like gossips (or gossers as I prefer), sleb bloggers know nothing about slebs, except what they’ve read in the weeklies. Perez Hilton now thinks he’s a sleb when in fact he writes his PR sheet from his mum’s house and has to wank a lot cos he can’t find enough living spunk buckets. At this time of year Brighton sea front is scrotally challenging.

What's your philosophy in life? if you could be the gusset in someone's drawers whose would you choose? Just for a day of course. Health and Safety and all that.

Do unto others before they do unto you. I would be most interested to be the scented paper in Kevin Spacey’s chest of drawers. Perhaps I’d find my neighbour’s Union Jack.

Chanel or Adolfo?

I have no time for Hitler.

You're often heavily criticized for your unflailing support of some of your protegees and your long, actually unending engagement to bad girl Molly Parkin is leg-end-ary. Will you ever tie the knot or will you just continue to tempt and tease your many paramours by putting them always in second place.

Madame Arcati is loyal, poppet. Pure and simple. The joy of an engagement is the delayed gratification itself - so why end it? Why spoil it by gratification? I’d make a splendid agony aunt.

That bicycle. Comment please. Do you have the panier for packages and testubes of animal sperm and parcels or did you dump it for aerodynamics and the power of speed?

Animal sperm? Enough about Perez, please. I cycle very fast and as close to pedestrian elbows as possible.

If you could be anyone in history who would it be? And no, you can't be the Child Catcher. That is already taken.

Eva Braun. The mountain views from the Berghof were enchanting, and think of the things that usefully could be dropped from a very great height.

Sometimes the comments on some of the articles look like the mess after a sixth form common room (co-ed) party. How do you decide when to censor and when not to?

I rarely censor - the very idea! People feel relaxed in my drawing room blog, they let go, along with the syntax etc. But accusations of prime ministerial bestiality cannot be encouraged.

Is it true about Duncan Fallowell's cock? Evidence please.

The picture of his cock is on Madame Arcati. I rest my case.

Do you think people are generally good or generally evil?

I think people are generally.

Do you believe in god? Don't give me the Nick Cohen atheist lisp please.

There is no God but we were invented by something recurringly sentient. Even George W Bush was invented by something recurringly sentient.

When you dance naked around the ouija board what is the music piping from your iPod?

Oh Justin Bieber! Isn't he adorable? I wonder if he’s had his first wet dream yet? Plus I love Cliff Richard dance remixes on YouTube.

Blackberry / iPhone?


Jordan / Katie Price?

Jordan is a safer place to holiday.

Christmas / Hanukkah / Eid?

Winterval darling with touches of Dickensian reinvention.
and anything else you wanna add......or leave out of course.
Thank you for your wonderful questions, Farah. 
And to think we’ve unleashed Piers Morgan on a blameless America. 
Love, MA xxx