Is Love's Beth cover a Ditto of NME's? No

A couple of Arcatistes have drawn my attention to the claim that Love's recent debut Beth Ditto cover is a rip-off of NME's Ditto cover in 2007 (left). I think not.

Whereas NME's is done in vulgar readers' wives style, with the clear intention to fetishise Ditto's voluptuous curves for the purpose of male self-pleasuring (consider the magazine's core readership), Love's is an asexual aestheticising of her form (given that the title is high fashion/art, gay, guest cunt-cock-cocking [ie straight female gay friendly]).

NME has stained Ditto's body with a tan hue: a visual trope of soft porn imagery. Red coverlines subliminally comfort the viewer in a tabloid red-top ambience while the red kiss lips mark on her buttock cheek is both playful and defiant, a common attitude struck by glamour models: a fake frisson is enticing to those who require the simulacrum of will in a sex doll. Ditto bears a Victorian-style come-hither countenance, her lips parted for the fantasy possibility of a reader blow-job, her hair bottled brunette because blonde would not work against the yellowy-gold background, redolent of the sun/Sun - however, given the model's colouring, brunette is most unsuitable here which is paradoxical perfection: colour clash reassures she's human, lower class, not quite with alienating perfecting. At its most extreme this cover is a poster for the taste that finds expression in the movie Feed.

Love's cover is more suggestive of classless exclusion: you are invited merely to admire the thing on the canvas, not to auto-eroticise, not to take part. The light-bleaching of Ditto's body transmutes flesh to stone (white marble?), the deep purple of closed lips hints at sexual unavailability if not death in its advance stage. Ditto's eyes are closed; she is lost in her own world (or dead again?); the viewer's role in this exhibition is to stand back in awed respect, as an aspirant window shopper with nose pressed against Harvey Nicks glass. Fat folds are light minimised, one is not encouraged to be prurient: the red copper hair exists only for one purpose: to set off for complementary effect the mint green background. The squiggly cover-choral-lines both artfully accentuate Ditto's natural curves and script editorial unorthodoxy and personalisation. Ditto's pink, ruched fig-leaf connotes a stylish and witty portcullis to further inquiry.

On other matters, an Arcatiste has kindly referred me to the website of Terry Richardson - the Love photographer whom I described as "off my radar". I now realise why - this is his mother ...

Terry's website

Robin Hood film delayed by the wrong kind of green leaves

The news that Ridley Scott's Robin Hood movie (no longer to be called Nottingham) starts shooting in April, with Russell Crowe in the starring role, is a green bud amid the incinerated debris of other news - and I'm sure Cate Blanchett will bring her customary dedication to the role of Maid Marian.

I have learnt that the project was so delayed partly because of a problem with the colour of British leaves: they weren't the right kind of green (for Sherwood Forest). The location manager scoured Britain for somewhere suitable, but it was reckoned the absence of the right seasonal colour was due to global warming.

Love mag is a many splendoured cock-cockery

J'adore Condé Nast's new biannual glossy Love edited by unofficial UK Vogue editor heir apparent Katie Grand. I'll review it properly sometime very soon but meantime my eye is drawn to the contributors list which boasts scarcely a cock-cunter.

Anders Thomsen shares: "I once shared my last pickled onion with a boy to make him love me."

Mert Alas reveals: "My first love was this guy back in Turkey ... I think he got married."

Olivier Rizzo: Has a partner called Willy. Hello, Willy.

Paul Flynn: "My first love was Lewis Collins in The Professionals.'

Handstanding Joseph Mercier names Optimus Prime in Transformers as his first love. "I Want To Fuck You Like An Animal by Nine Inch Nails is his favourite love song. Mmm, the jury's out on him.

Alasdair McLellan appears to like Bucks Fizz and Tina Turner.

Terry Richardson: Appears heavily tattoooed, naked from the waist up, bespectacled and is into Tropical Skittles. Off my radar, sadly.

Russell Crowe falls out with an entire film fest

What with the Oscars and Razzies both queening it this weekend, the poorly timed Tropfest ("The world's largest short film festival") in Sydney was easily overlooked on Sunday. And I understand that a row between the organiser (John Polson) and Russell Crowe (directed by Polson in Tenderness) may have deprived it of yet more photo ops.

On Tropfest's website you can read: '"This is a cultural experience like I’ve never had," Russell Crowe, Actor, Tropfest Patron and Judge.' But not this year.

So glad Slumdog cleaned up at the Oscars, incidentally.

And on another matter besides (because it's on the TV as I write), of course Jill Dando was murdered by some Serb. The fool who was stitched up can scarcely ride a bicycle. Only brain-washed hacks and corrupt police officers could have thought otherwise.

Andrew Neil in Australia and the 111 year-old woman

l-r Andrew Neil, Peter Costello, Oscar Humphries


An Arcatiste went to the launch this week of the Australian edition of the Spectator (at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music) whose editor, Oscar Humphries, son of Dame Edna's Barry Humphries, is most delightful. And who should be there but the ubiquitous Andrew Neil (a Gemini - he's quite into astrology), publisher of the title. He told some very funny tales in his speech about his fumbling introductions on his BBC politics show: last week, for instance, he mis-read the autocue and introduced a woman who was 111 years-old. It actually said she was ill.

I hear Mel Gibson is due in for the National Institute of Dramatic Art (Australia's RADA) party on Sunday evening - apparently he's donated $1m for its new theatre.

Julie Burchill's foot is still attached to leg

Met up with the goddess Julie Burchill and a few others last night for a drink at One Aldwych. Her foot is repairing nicely (not amputated as certain dead tree amateur hacks claimed) and she's just sold a short story to the the Sunday Times Magazine. Cathy Galvin (I think the dep ed) has introduced fiction which is great: might even make me read the paper again. "I'm not spiritual, I'm religious," Burch told me. I said I'm the other way round, as I am in lots of respects. Love to my two new young friends, the hairdresser and his PR girlfriend. I predicted they would live in New York after they told me that's what they wanted. I must be psychic.

Veritas: Life, times and Rupert Everett's cockring: An interview

Is that Veritas next to the statuesque April Ashley?

One of the stars of Madame Arcati is a mystery man called Veritas. He came to my attention when he revealed here that he had lost a crown to Rupert Everett's cockring: some doubted his story, but I tended to believe it. So, I asked Veritas to cough up more details of his intriguing life - one that has been inhabited by the likes of Andy Warhol, Boy George, Diana Dors, Kirk Douglas (and Kirk's encounter with 80s drag popsinger Marilyn is (D)divine) and many other stars. A movie beckons, the spirit world is manifest. Read on and embrace celebrity culture and the afterlife you godless goatherds ...

Veritas! Mystery man! Well, I assume you're male ... do you dress left or right?

Left. When I was 13/14 I was slightly confused as I lived with an aunt who loved to dress me in drag. She owned a pub so I tended to look rather tarty. The pub was a favourite with the local coppers who came in for payoffs and free drinks. Can't imagine what they thought seeing this young drag queen hanging about the place.

You first came to Arcatistes' attention when you told us of your encounter with Rupert Everett and how you'd lost a crown on his cockring. What were the circumstances of the encounter? And did you find that Rupes is a noisy cummer or whatever?

I had been at a dinner party given by Lady Edith Foxwell at the Embassy Club for some of her movie pals. Norma Heyman, Richard Johnson and guest of honour Zsa Zsa Gabor who Edith stayed with in LA. Edith had a young black boyfriend, Winston, at the time and Zsa Zsa said during conversation that there was no way Edith could bring him to stay. Edith threw a bread roll at Zsa Zsa and the dinner party sort of broke up after Zsa Zsa stormed out.

I was giving a French friend a lift home and we saw this tall, leather-clad boy hanging around out the front of the Embassy. We thought he was a hustler and asked him to get into the car - he did and invited us to his flat just off the King's Road (in the basement of his parents’ house). I didn't really fancy him but my friend did but Rupert preferred me so the French friend pissed off. Rupert was very wham-bam-thankyou-mam! And then kicked me out to sleep in another room although I was awoken for an early morning encounter and then booted out into the street as he had to go to a fencing lesson.

Now why the nom de plume? And tell us a little bit about yourself past and present - I understand you travel a lot ....

I'm anonymous at present because of some work I'm doing which would take too long to explain. I was rejected for the first 2 jobs I went for when I was 15 which I found paralysing as I'm very shy so since I've only ever taken jobs people have offered me.

It's meant I've been a short order cook in a Soho Bar, written a social/gossip column for a major newspaper, a PR agent for some stars, promoted films and records, worked on films as a gofer and acted in one, spent a few months putting up business cards in phone booths around Bayswater for a house full of hookers, waited in restaurants, run a King's Road shop, run a porn shop, worked for the Sultan of Oman and I was the official photographer on Princess Diana's final charity event shortly before she died. I can't remember all the jobs I've had. It's also meant I've travelled the world at someone else’s expense- to New York to promote a band or Monte Carlo for a party on the Kashoggi yacht, etc.

Clairvoyantly, the word "toyboy" comes to mind. Am I on the right lines about you?

My ex-wife was the first one to use the word "toyboy" when she was planning a photographic book on pretty boys. The (distinguished London) publisher John Blake wrote a story about it years ago - it was the first mention of the term. Even the Guardian took it very seriously. It was way ahead of its time but it didn't happen. Years later her friend Germaine Greer channelled her with "The Beautiful Boy". Then I was featured in a Sunday tabloid in a spread called "A Toyboy Tells All" - scurrilous but harmless tales about some celebrities. But I was paid well.

In one message you said that you're planning to make a movie of your life. Could you tell us more? Would it be a Brit or US movie?

Not about me but someone else who was well known who I worked with. I've been working on it for 20 years and had put it away in a drawer. Then, as so often happens, I was approached by a well known music figure who knew I had the project and within weeks we had a successful Hollywood producer interested. He loves it and the wheels are in motion.

Would you say you've lived with or worked around celebs all your adult life? Could you name-drop a few more with any stories ...?

I seem to have encounters with celebrities without seeking them out. I was Diana Dors’ publicist for a record she made. I once lived in Dodi Fayed's flat for 6 months, long before he met Diana.

He had a reputation then as not being able to get it up because of his cocaine habit. One night I was there with her, a friend and a very famous film star who began to choke on some peanuts after a heavy coke session. I saved her life with the Heimlich manoeuvre. She never thanked me!

Peter Allen (Liza Minnelli's ex) was a great friend and took me to a New Year’s Eve party at Studio 54 in New York (he was a huge star in the US). We were sitting in a booth with a group of friends - Andy Warhol, Diana Ross, etc. A girl came up and slumped against my then wife who was applying eyeliner. We were all covered in glitter that was an inch thick on the floor. Suddenly cameras started flashing and Peter said, "Quick move away." The poor girl was dead from an overdose (one of 2 that night). "You don’t want to spend all night at a police station" said Peter. A month later Women’s Wear Daily did a front page feature on what was In and Out. They said staying home watching telly was in and going out was out! Illustrating this was a big photo of my wife in a hot pink dress putting on make-up whilst slumped on her shoulder is this dead girl. "Out" was right !

I remember you mentioned living with the 80s singer Marilyn and his encounter with Kirk Douglas - please, don't hold back. How close were you to the Boy George and the Blitz crowd?

I had a small mews flat in Notting Hill for 15 years and after each Tuesday night at the Blitz loads of kids used to flop on my floor, including Boy George, Marilyn, Steve Strange, Billy Idol - none were famous then.

I had a friend staying who was transport captain on a film being made at Pinewood starring Kirk Douglas and Farrah Fawcett Majors (before drugs took their toll). I was working as Kirk's gofer which entailed things like picking up fish'n'chips for him, taking it to his hotel and charging him 20 times the price. We both slept in one Wednesday morning and there was loud banging on the door. It was Farrah's driver who said, "I've got Farrah and Kirk downstairs - Kirk's furious because you forgot to pick him up." We were dressed and downstairs in a flash. All the neighbours were now out and pointing at Farrah who was admiring the little houses and signing autographs – a grumpy Kirk leaned against his limo. As we all piled in the 2 cars and backed out of the Mews, out of my front door came a screaming Marilyn Monroe pounding on the car window screaming "Kirk, Farrah, I love you!" Kirk was mortified. He didn't speak to me for 2 days. Christopher Logue from Private Eye who lived at the end of the street later said, "I can't believe you people - you not only have Hollywood movie stars visiting you in the morning you have dead ones as well!"

Would I be right in thinking you're in your mid-late-40s now?

39- have been for a few years.

Tell us about the clairvoyant(e) who predicted you'd live a champagne life on beer money, or something like that. What else did s/he say? Do you believe in an afterlife?

My mother was a Spiritualist so I was brought up around them and have always believed. I think I attended services at the Notting Hill Spiritualist Church every week for 15 years. My ex-wife is a clairvoyante. I've seen things in séances that are simply extraordinary - materialisations and such. Naturally I believe in the afterlife - I've been there and been re-born many times. I've been told so many times to never worry about money when I have none so I don't - and something always turns up!

Where’s the movie now? Aside from Rupes, any other names who'd have anything to worry about?

The film script is in its third draft - no-one has been cast. I'll be an extra. Actually there is a great role Rupert would be ideal for.

How do agents/producers et al react to your story?

I have an agent and publisher for the book of the film - that came first. But it's Hollywood - who knows? My friend Stephan Elliot who made Priscilla, Queen of the Desert went there after he got an Oscar and hated everyone in the business. They offered him the next Bond film.

Where do you live?

Sydney, Bangkok and 2 months of the year in London.

What's your brand of toothpaste? And do you wax or gel your hair?

Bigger Brand - you get it in Thailand. Where I get my teeth fixed.

Don't you think cockrings are bad manners?

I'd never seen one before I encountered Rupert's . I thought it was a prosthetic device so didn't ask him about it. Whatever turns you on!

Veritas, I wish you all the best fortune with your project and please stay in touch MA x

Snob Twits. Or, welcome to the Snotters on Twitter

Naturally, Madame Arcati is the first to notice snobbish oneupmanship on Twitter (let's call those guilty of it "Snotters"). This is characterised by a huge followers figure and a very low following figure, expressing the huge importance of the followed ego. The trick is to keep the second figure as low as possible as the first grows - the vaster the difference the bigger the cock, so to speak. I must tell Catherine Ostler, she's sure to see this as the New Snobbery or something, but may wilt at the word Snotters.

Worst Snotters on Twitter - the first figure is followers, the second is following:

Al Gore: 116,080 and 2 (and calls himself a Democrat!)
William Shatner: 16,109 and 4 (which planet's he on?)
Jonathan Ross 105,197 and 261 (nothing catchy to say)
Ryan Seacrest: 6,364 and 81 (American pop idle)
Phillip Schofield 73,823 and 589 (too busy protecting Fern)
Jemima Kiss (of the Guardian) 8,013 and 282 (who does she think she is?)

Stephen Fry is at least to be commended for trying: 200,239 and 54,335. Well done, Stephen.

Personally, I think Snotting is the height of bad manners. The Snotter should follow their followers and remember they, too, will be a rotting corpse one day.

Elton John: Predator slaughters Jane Austen movie

God, I love Elton John. The latest movie project of his Rocket Pictures sees the alien Predator unleashed on the world of Pride & Prejudice. Sublime. I have some extracts from the script:

Mr. Darcy: May I have the next dance, Miss Elizabeth?
Elizabeth Bennet: [taken aback] You may. Oh my God what the cunting is that - aaargh!

Netherfield Butler: A Mrs Bennet, a Miss Bennet, a Miss Bennet and a Miss Bennet, sir.
Caroline Bingley: Oh for heaven's sake, are we to receive every Bennet in the - aaargh!

Lady Catherine de Bourg: That is very strange. Oh fuck - aaargh!

Pauline Prescott: New Pin-up of the Nancy Boys

Britain's former deputy PM John Prescott (a Gemini) claims on Twitter that his delightful wife Pauline is now a "gay icon". He says he has been reliably informed of this.

Pauline, who has just turned 70 and at her birthday din at a Hull Chinese restaurant received a silk shawl from guest Chinese Premier, Wen Jiabao, is certainly the Sphynx of the Lacquered Bouffant: she is a Kate Moss-like mute (and therefore, unsullied) exhibition of a certain brand of feminine aesthetic incorporating its own parody: I can think of a number of entertainers who would kill for such a paradoxical combo. Pauline is There but Not There, Pretty Vacant as a visual, an ornamental, an untouchable, a trophy virgin. Upon such a kohl-edged canvas, many a nancy boy will start to dream of the maquillage (before raiding mummy's vanity case and then graduating to Boots).

I do wish Holly Woodlawn had given me a more substantial interview.

Jonathan King: 'Camilla is a delightful gerbil'

The Eurovision-meister emeritus Jonathan King writes in praise of the Popbitch Madame, Camilla Wright ...

Dear Madame,
Camilla is one of us Madame; really sweet, intelligent, genuine, funny and bright. I'm a huge fan - which may not be regarded as a plus by all your correspondents!
JK

Dear Jonathan,
You've never said that about me. I'm really quite upset. You make Camilla sound like an enchanting gerbil, though I may have to reconsider my opinion of this nancy-woman. It's bad enough that Nicholas Coleridge fans have started to lobby me, insisting that he is "nice". Can it be possible that a man who writes appalling novels about ghastly rich alpha-types, who have ruined the world economy, and rules Condé Nast, is in fact Santa Claus wrapped up in a Bono aura in homage to the late Gregory Peck? It's as if my entire world is collapsing. I wonder who Kevin Spacey is fucking now. I want to know!
Love MA x

Catherine Ostler to edit Tatler. Oh dear

Yes, indeed. But my lips are sealed. I'm not one to gossip. Catherine, married conveniently to Condé Nast general manager Albert Read, is perfect for Tatler, a money- and status-worshipping priestess whose idea of heaven is a string of pearly noughts - she certainly never discouraged writer William Cash at ES from regaling us with news of his latest heiress love interest.

More to the point, Catherine suits her boss Nicholas Coleridge whose own craven attitude to wealth and status has to be seen to be believed - well, read one of his novels: just money measures set to dialogue. I shall never forget observing him running around like a deranged whippet at a Cartier polo day many years ago, trying to get a photo shot of the Queen blocked off by a crowd of ghastly gawpers. In those few moments I sensed all the materialist kinetic energy that drives him on.

As for Catherine, I'm just praying we don't have a Jane Procter re-run. I understand that she is blessed with a clear sense of purpose that sometimes is enforced by a voice that might be appreciated at the Royal Opera House. Or Wembley.

Duncan Fallowell: 'Did you really eat dog shit, Divine?'

Of the movie Pink Flamingos, and on the 21st anniversary of Divine's death ...

Which loopy Tatler editor aspirant was once found ...

... on all fours under an office desk poring over a document? The person's melodramatic behaviour in a context outside the media hothouse might be regarded as worthy of sedation.

Camilla Wright of Popbitch: Let's get her stats up

I see the Popbitch editor Camilla Wright's appearance last year on Five News to flog her online mag's Celebrity Excess book has only attracted 63 visits on YouTube, as I write. Oh dear. Let's see if we can get that figure up and turn her into the kind of sleb she writes about. Camilla's a sweet Oxford graduate - hence the snobbish Guardian's sycophantic interest in her - who loves otters and dislikes rude tales about the size of female slebs. Certainly otters have their uses, click here.

Do you have anything to tell me about Camilla?

Madame Arcati on Twitter for no obvious reason

Madame Arcati is on Twitter now and I'm not that taken with it except the sleb daisy chains could be intriguing - if the stars are who they say they are.

Someone calling herself Celebrity Big Brother winner Ulrika Jonsson writes: "Thank god my butler has finally come back. He is going to get the sack for taking so long". Among her followers is the TV person Andi Peters who tweets: "Morning. Check out my new pic. See you Saturday!! Listen to Moyles from 6.30am" - that's dull and self-promoting enough to be authentic.

He's following TV presenter Phillip Schofield - "Chinese takeaway tonight. Bring on the salt and pepper squid and crispy duck!" He's following former Capt Kirk William Shatner who tweets of his old foe: "George Takei claims I never invited him on Raw Nerve. Here's the tongue in cheek story behind it: http://tinyurl.com/ascf4v." Whatever.

William may have over 10,000 followers but he only follows 4 Twits among whom is the film director JJ Abrams (I think the two dislike each other) and he writes: "How intimate can I be when posting about my private life? How often do I make updates......... so confused with this I have to admit." This is deep for Twitter, almost philosophical.

Abrams follows Barack Obama who asks you to "honor Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr by volunteering in your area. Visit http://usaservice.org/ or text SERVE to 56333 for info." Obama is following nearly a quarter of a million Twits (including Madame Arcati) . And ...

Oh dear, a message has come up: "Twitter is over capacity". As I sign out, Wossy (possibly Jonathan Ross) leaves the message: "Am working on idea for comedy panel game show to host at San Diego. Need cage of comic nerds for in-house 'phone a friend' idea." And political blogger Iain Dale has just pranged his car in the snow.

Everyone's talking but not to each other.

Twitter

'The paper run by deluded white toffs'

Arcati, I'm growing increasingly bored with the dead-tree press. Why in 2009 is the industry still run by deluded white toffs? The worst offender is the Grauniad which also employs token "ethnic" writers who are given picture bylines to prove their non-whiteness and then assigned to write embarrassing and condescending drivel about The Black Woman's View and The Muslim Perspective. I'm sick of it all Madame. And the Evening Standard is the most hideous of the bunch!
John Sleet

Dear John,
Just don't buy the papers, simple as that. I don't know of any paper that reflects my perspective or interests beyond certain individual writers such as Germaine Greer; and the Indy's Johann Hari is starting to improve with age. The Guardian is now the upscale Hello! of the "qualities" and the Standard has always been the Daily Tatler run in the main by neurotic snobs hankering after a life upgrade.

Christian Bale: Dickhead's rant turned to dance classic

Screaming Christian Bale's bullying rant at someone on the set of Terminator: Salvation has been turned into a great dance track (with a Barbra Streisand cameo) by RevoLucian.

Roy Greenslade says 'bye to Evening Standard?

Roy Greenslade rages at Lord Rothermere for "washing his hands" in Pontius Pilate style of Evening Standard staff - supposedly facing inferior redundancy payments under the new owner. I take it he won't be the Standard's media pundit for much longer, then. Anyone with a peerage want the job? Click here

'Geordie Greig's resignation letter to Nicholas Coleridge'

A naughty Condé Nast person has given me sight of what could be Tatler ed Geordie Greig's first draft leaving letter to his boss Nicholas Coleridge as he departs for the Evening Standard editorship. Is it authentic? Let me know ....

Dear Nick,

It is with much regret that I resign the editorship of Tatler. We’ve talked about this so I know this comes as no surprise – Alexander sends his best wishes, by the way. And he said to tell you, cryptically, “Keep the door ajar, my friend.”

This however does not dilute my sense of sadness at departing a magazine that has been my life (and social/restaurant/hotel/Media Guardian/whatever visa) for nearly 10 years and that is indubitably better for the faith you vested in me, needless immodesty aside. If the Evening Standard fulfils me just half as much as Tatler has done then - in terms of hotel and restaurant reservation pulling-power, notwithstanding - I’ll be a happy man. I am already spoilt with expectation!

Tatler now sits at the apex of British journalism, alone: its society guides and upscale celebrity lists provide those media water cooler moments such as Coronation Street once did among those not quite within the magazine’s immediate target reader demographics.

There cannot be a hereditary living writer anywhere who does not covet space in our hallowed glossy pages; and royal photographers vie to shoot the latest hereditary English actressy Rose. Catch-up newspapers stumble over themselves in a pathetic scrum of social climbing to lift our pictures and parrot our judgements - I’ve often said to you, the Evening Standard would be lost without its monthly Tatler for lifting copy, or should I say, inspiration. And now look – they bought the editor!

I feel like Victor Frankenstein right now, insensible to what I created, even as Tatler celebrates its 300th year! Did it all start with me? Well, it's tempting to think ...

To me Tatler is a celebration of all that is best in the international gene pool, a champion of glamour social eugenics and an unforgiving barrier to anyone who fails to meet those exacting standards as set by our best British public schools and universities (over 500 years old, that is), the finest catwalks, The Sunday Times Rich List, Drebrett's and, if I may say, you.

Tatler is a template for the Better Future to come – I am proud to have worked with you on the long march to physical, intellectual and seating plan perfection. In short, I think we have started the ball rolling to the next Conservative government – and better service at Le Caprice!

And if I could continue to contribute in anyway – how about the six best-looking 6* global old Etonian hotel owner heirs under 30, for a feature? - I would be honoured to do so.

Best wishes (and love to Georgia and the children),

Geordie x

The Judge Judy/Madame Arcati Show

Hullo, Madame Arcati,

Knowing your sense of humour with regard to the affairs of the sexually active, I couldn't resist sending you this quote from the irreplaceable Judge Judy's American TV programme. Like you, Judy is an out and out pragmatist. I'm willing to bet a few bob that Judge Judy and you are 'blood sisters'. What a marvellous double act you'd make on television. Please get together and replace that bloody awful J. Ross and his smutty, puerile, barrow-boy style of speech and humour.

Best Wishes,

Eric Thomas
Nottingham

Judge Judy to prostitute : 'So when did you realise you were raped?'

Prostitute, wiping away tears: 'When the cheque bounced.'