Vanity Fair, its Exiting Just-So Editor and Gwyneth Paltrow

Rhadika Jones is soon to exit the Vanity Fair editorship. Thank goodness for that. She seeks to climb a new career Matterhorn, as you usually do when the bosses leave the exit door ajar. Ages back I wondered aloud at the sheer dullness of her VF. Cover after cover out-wallflowered the last on the magazine shelves, desperate not to excite or be noticed. Quite why she was appointed in the first place is a mystery to me, though I suspect Anna Wintour had a lot to do with it. Darling Anna will have wanted le total Graydon Carter Exorcism, a ridding of vulgar political engagement, controversy, and funny hair (Graydon's). In its/his place? The joys of just-so. Rhadika strikes me as awfully just-so. She and I could spend an hour together over a Matcha Three Mint tea in a Dorchester tea room and t(w)inkle in light convo. Faint giggles. Not one reputation would be pulled apart. No gossip exchanged. We would depart the hotel in a state of sobriety, before I rushed headlong to a local boozer for restoration of stupefied clarity. 

It is then a surprise to discover the latest VF with Gwyneth Paltrow as its star image. In her dying days as editor Radhika decides at long last to produce a not-uninteresting cover. Gwyneth is nonchalance itself seated (not sat) on a carpeted staircase, long seemingly bare legs crossed in Saint Laurent elegance. The SL scanty torso clobber is a tease: the cliched sexy tropes may give rise to sub-Hefner concern, but are struck dead in an instant by Gwyneth's unsmiling countenance. The hauteur of self-possession (or CEO power display - a male [XY!] thing for too long). Her expression is fuck you with a touch of Miss Whiplash admonition. What have we peeping toms done to be admonished about? For causing Gwyneth to pose in high-end lingerie? Which has been volunteered into our lives courtesy of mega-stardom? Courtesy of VF? Punish me!

Smile-seekers will be disappointed when they turn to the fawning, almost unreadable PR piece on (sorry, interview with) Madame Goop. More flesh is revealed yet the face remains inert, joyless, wrinkle-free strategic. Commercial. More lingerie is displayed out in the garden on a sun-lounger, and in other places. She is saying: I don't have to smile or please/I don't have to say cheese. It all seems so novel not to smile until you recollect that runway models rarely smile, either. What could Gwyneth be selling?

It's not a cover to ignite the world. Not like Tina Brown's Demi Moore one or Carter's Caitlyn Jenner. But in its own terms, the Paltrow triggers a low-wattage glance on the just-so spectrum. A pulse is detectable on the gurney. It's elegant, dry, sexless and noir-glam. It's a welcome spritzer after a tiring day before the cocktail hour. That's about as nice as I can be about our Radhika's editorship. See, I am all heart. Almost.   

Kirk Douglas on bisexuality - and why Tatler is now soooo gorgeous

Kirk Douglas by Darrell Robinson
aka Wooden Horse

There's no point moaning about my non-attendance or imagining that I'm dying of a communicable disease. I have the Christmas and New Year horoscopes to work on. I am sozzled on future doings. However, the unprofitable present still has the capacity to stir my torpid interest.

First, I am delighted that the immensely improved Tatler has placed Duncan Fallowell's How To Disappear travel memoir [reviewed here] among its sexiest reads of the year. Ever since the 'spinning vagina expert' took over as editor, and Tiny Tears fucked off to the Mail, the magazine has gone from strength to strength in its championing of aristocratic and models-look eugenics: I can only aspire to the perfected physical and mental entitlements as showcased and celebrated in its glossy pages - but silly me!

This fabulous exhibition of good taste in Tatler draws me inexorably to the second thing to stir me - a YouTube video conversation about bisexuality, threesomes and cock-cocking prison sex. Once again we have Duncan F to thank for anchoring me in the present. It is in his interview with the legendary Hollywood actor Kirk Douglas that our attention is drawn to sexual practices that may be foreign to our nation's prim, comme il faut tabloid journalists.

Kirk wisely declines to say whether he has ever done anything that might outrage the Tinseltown homophobes, but he does reminisce about a big butch cock-cunter who went to jail for 10 years and there discovered that a pretty stubbled face in twilight is a perfectly acceptable substitute for organic relief. Having served his sentence and rejoined the public, our hero reverted to his normal sexual service without apparent need of psychotherapy, priest or agony aunt.

Suddenly, the present has its attractions - but the future beckons once again.

To watch the Kirk Douglas video, click here. Darrell Robinson's gallery can be viewed here.

Omg! Your chance to breathe Anna Wintour's air!

Oh, hand-fan your face, girlfriend! The legend that is Anna Wintour has created an "opportunity" to meet her at American Vogue on the 12th floor of 4 Times Square, NY. You don't just swan in for ritual humiliation, natch. First, you must make a bid for the chance in an online charity auction - here's the link - and the price to beat as I write is $12,000.

I'm surprised that only 16 bids have been placed; the deadline is April 29 - plenty of time to butter up daddy for the dosh or whatever. Aside from meeting Anna you get to do unpaid intern work at the magazine - y'know, do the coffee runs, push clothes racks and watch Grace Coddington pull faces behind Anna's back. All cash goes to the RFK Center for Justice and Human Rights, but more important, "Just Being Near Her [Anna] Will Make You Chic," as organisers Charity Buzz put it.

How common.

'Tatlersnob': The man who is utterly obsessed with Nicholas Coleridge

Nicholas Coleridge: In the company of Jordan, Megan Fox, Justin Timberlake et al, he is now a sex object: in this instance, the pin-up of 'Tatlersnob'

Even my most unforgiving critics - yes, you - will readily agree that Madame Arcati has a talent for finding human nuggets: very singular creatures with peculiar tastes. The gorgeous Robin Tamblyn and his preoccupation with Kevin Spacey. Fish and her exquisite fanaticism for Nicky Haslam. Now meet "Tatlersnob".

Tatlersnob, 28, is the alias of a young man who has a fixation on ... Nicholas Coleridge, 52 (job title below), the man who presides over Vogue, Glamour, Tatler etc, in the UK. Recently, Tatlersnob began dropping comments on various Arcati posts in praise of Mr Coleridge: after a while I thought, "I do believe I have spotted another nugget for my Museum of Charming Peculiarities." [I thought these words as a proper sentence]

I am quite confident that Tatlersnob is not a tiresome stalker or clinical loon: he appears to have an incomprehensible obsession with the upper classes (as framed in upmarket glossies, I hasten to add), the aristocracy and Coleridge in particular as icon of the genera. Tatlersnob, after a little persuasion, agreed to a brief, explicatory interview ....

Tatlersnob! Crazy name! Now look, it's become apparent from messages you've left on Arcati that you have a thing for the Managing Director of Condé Nast and novelist, Nicholas Coleridge. Tell me as much as possible what this "thing" is and how it started - do not stint on detail.

I'm a 28 year old male from the wilds of Scotland. I do so love the upper class and the aristocracy. All those ex Eton and ex-Le Rosey types: so attractive and sauve.

You stinted on detail. Anyway, starting with what remains of his hair down to his well shod feet, give us a guide to your thoughts on Nicholas' body parts. I mean, what do you think of his face, his shoulders, tum, other areas, legs etc. And tell us what you think he is like as a person.

Mr Coleridge has such a handsome face. He looks quite sporty and like he enjoys the outdoors. His chest looks quite wide and muscular and he seems to have lovely chest hair. He may well ride and so have very muscular thighs and bottom. AS a good snob I'm sure his crown jewels are well polished and sparkling.

In your dreams what would you love to happen between you and Nicholas, bearing in mind he's a happily married father of four. Share your fantasy - do you have fantasies about him?

I would just like him to take me out to dinner. I'm sure he is a very interesting person. It would be so lovely listening to his lovely voice for a couple of hours.

My own view is that Nicholas is a status obsessed snob as reflected in the magazines he oversees such as UK Vogue, Tatler, GQ etc, and in his rather facile novels which are just about money. How is this healthy? Defend your hero/fantasy lover from my brutal assessment.

I'm sure Mr Coleridge is just going by the old adage "write what you know about". He knows so much about high society and the upper classes, then why shouldn't he write about them? Mr [Geordie] Greig and he made a wonderful team at Tatler and Tatler needs to be somewhat snobby to remain a society magazine.

Christmas is a-coming. What would you love to buy Nicholas and him you.

I'm sure he could could find me some vintage copies of Tatler or maybe get me an invitation to bounce around a stately home. I would take him as my guest as it's always fun to have someone else to bounce around a stately home with.

Tatlersnob! Thankyou for sharing. xx

Candy Pratts Price: How Gord could get back in FASHahhn

CPP © Dimitrios Kambouris/WireImage.com

Style.com executive fashion director Candy Pratts Price (CPP) easily steals the show in the US Vogue movie doc The September Issue, out shortly, in which she stakes her claim for immortality with a one-liner: "SepTEMburr is the JANuahhry in FASHahhn". The way this Puerto Rican drawls and croaks out the dictum with the oddest basso cantate diction is one of many unintentionally comic moments, so much so, you can now download it as a ringtone (click arrow on Myxer to listen).

Candy (or Candida Rose Theresa Pratts Price) also appears in cartoon form in her periodic Candycasts on the Style.com site, laying down the law on such matters as eco-pod coffins (or "echo-pod" as she puts it. "Don't pollute, just bury correctly") and playing dominoes on Sunday (but not in Alabama). The Anna Wintourised stick insect 'toon-Candy bears little resemblance to the living-breathing irregular Candy, beyond her dark colouring; and the graphic version has the weirdest crossed arms: stretched out she'd be able to balance on them without stooping.

I just love CPP. And her animated form should be an inspiration to others who in the flesh may also not look entirely the part. Gordon Brown should think about joining the Bugs Bunny tribe and turning himself into a 'toon for his YouTube performances. He'd lose the eyebags, the alarm smiles, the intake-of-breath mouth movements: he could be made to be cute and sexy. I can't help but feel that this bold act of imagination could reverse his fortunes. Possibly. Think CPP, Gord.

CPP 'toon show

A celebration of CPP

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.

Dylan Jones - a penis in a woollen?

Press Gazette's Axegrinder reports that GQ editor Dylan Jones thinks all bloggers are "unemployed journalists" shouting at the top of their voices to get noticed. It then observes that his own boring blog has not been updated since about July 1 - plainly a moronic brand tart whose ego meshes with his catalogue has more interesting things to do than murmur quietly on his net stage. Well, that won't last forever.

At a dinner last night, another noted magazine editor said to me: "Dylan's known as the penis in a polo neck."

Vanity Fair - colour blind as ever

Lots of good things in Vanity Fair's 25th anniversary issue though the title turns 95 this year - you'll have to read editor Graydon Carter's letter for the explanation. Not so excellent is the magazine's anniversary picture sampling of its best covers of the past quarter-century: "A sampling [which] shows how many ways this choice bit of media real estate [the cover] reflects the world around it," as the publication puts it rather vulgarly and pompously.

Of the 239 (or so) celebrity and non-celebrity faces that appear in solo or group cover shots, just 14 are black. Even if my count is a little out by one or two, this suggests that the magazine's mind is not as broad as it makes out.

Dylan's Cameron has more plugs than B&Q

The Etonian look. Note the hair

GQ editor Dylan Jones must have a lot of admirers on the Eton-Boris Johnson-loving London Evening Standard. Yesterday’s edition had at least five plugs for Dylan's new book Cameron On Cameron in different parts of the paper. And today, its Londoner’s Diary tittle-tattle page gives the book another mention: apparently David Cameron will continue to ride his bike should he become PM. Alas, the report doesn’t say where he would continue to ride his bike – through a Center Parcs perhaps? - along Hyde Park’s Rotten Row walkway with HM’s horses? Details, dahlings, details.

The video on Amazon pushing the book is interesting, too. Of Cameron’s private education – a democratic curse or privilege of about 7% of the British population – Dylan Jones says: “Eton has many connotations, both good and bad and I think Cameron has surpassed that.” Really? He still has upper class hair. He needs to do something about his hair. Dylan expresses the hope we’re beyond class consciousness now. Indeed, but that’s a bit difficult when nearly 60% of Tory MPs are the spawn of private schools: I love the way we must buy the lie just because Cameron looks like a winner as I write. Incidentally, Dylan’s boss is the pompous Nicholas Coleridge, the noted Etonian and the World’s Worst Novelist, who most certainly does not wish to surpass Eton's invaluable connotations.

On related matters I have been reading Old Moore’s Almanack, an Arcati annual astrological favourite. Moore predicts no election in 2009. So onwards to 2010 for the New Etonianism!

Who is Georgia Coleridge married to?

Dear Madame Arcati,

Are you interested to see that Georgia Coleridge, wife of Nicholas, is about to publish a book? Presumably the Seven Secrets for Successful Parenting does not include "Marry a mega-rich man who can own two properties and employ a nanny and afford to send children to posh boarding school" - since unlike her colleague, who is married to a financier, Georgia is only married to "the writer Nicholas Coleridge" and not the Managing Director of Conde Nast!

Pip, pip!
All about Georgia, here

Anon.

Dear Anon

Thank you for drawing this to my attention. Actually, and quite accidentally, I was invited to Georgia's book party, which required the bringing along of one's child(ren) for tea, cake and a natter. As I am presently without issue (I call my womb "Appendix 2") I was tempted to borrow a few brats from friends but then thought better of the idea ... blogging has matured me a little and I have thrown away childish whims. I am happy to take it on trust that the Coleridges are highly desirable parents and that they set a fine example to us all, should we be interested in the expensive consequences of cock-cunting.

Best, MA x

Vogue (Italia, not US) wakes up to black

Vogue Italia's plan to feature black models almost exclusively in its July issue is an extremely welcome counter-weight to the racism Naomi Campbell (the noted bully) has complained of in the fashion world. Anna Wintour's US Vogue botched a tentatively bold (oxymoron, yes) step in using a black model on the cover of its April issue - athlete Lebron James, but cast as a King Kong lookalike; or some sort of apish sexual monster with white gal supermodel Gisele hooked up like Jane to his Tarzan (or other jungly connotations).

Wintour, of course, is no pioneer of equality of any sort - horses for courses, darling (frocks 'n' jeans in her case) - but we might have expected a zeitgeist queen of her calibre to have been uneased as she stooped over the light box pix of James - to have detected a leeeeeeetle playing up to (unintentional, I'm sure) elderly racist stereotypes of black men.

Perhaps the old girl is starting to lose it a bit.

Still, full marks to Vogue Italia's editor-in-chief Franca Sozzani for her initiative. She tells the Indy On Sunday: "Nobody is using black girls. I see so many beautiful girls and they were complaining that they are not used enough."

Ten-Step Guide to Being Dylan Jones

A yummy brochure for Westfield London (a new large shopping centre [or “retail icon” if you prefer] in Shepherd’s Bush) arrives full of scrumptious testimonials to London’s “food landscape”. GQ editor Dylan Jones’ is among them which set my mind thinking about his many, many consumer recommendations in the media ... he is truly a one-man advert for stylish, branded capitalism ... here’s my top 10 Dylanisms. You, too, can live like a glossy mag guru:

1. “'Not only is London the art capital of the world, the fashion capital of the world and the financial capital of the world, it is the culinary capital, too.' Dylan Jones, Editor GQ.”
Westfield London brochure, 2008

2. “'Connaught Village is one of the hidden treasures of central London. Tucked away behind Marble Arch ... it offers ... the best Italian restaurant in the postcode, Stuzzico, run by the unofficial mayor of Connaught Village, Pino Guido.' Dylan Jones is the editor of GQ.”
Mail, September 22 2007

3. “'If you ask me, La Colombe d'Or has become the most English restaurant in all France ... Not only is it an oasis of calm, it really is the most exquisite country garden, the sort that every Englishman would like if he had the money.' Dylan Jones is the editor of GQ.”
Indy, Sept 8 2007

4. Mr & Mrs Smith CD 4 -“Our brand-new soundtrack to the weekend - 'Like a warm bath, this CD will relax and invigorate in equal measure. Now, hand me that glass…' Dylan Jones, editor, GQ”
http://www.mrandmrssmith.com/shop

5. “I spent my honeymoon at various Aman hotels and they're the most romantic places I've ever been. Amanwana is probably the best, because the tents ... are right on the beach. The resort is on the island of Moyo, just east of Bali ... There is no better place to watch an Indonesian sunset drinking chilled vintage champagne."
Observer, February 4 2007

6. “'There hasn’t been one photograph of Comrade [Gordon] Brown on holiday; simply the stock-shots of the Timothy Everest suit (a tailor who I, for my sins, suggested he choose back in 1997 — I apologise: I used to advise Mr Brown).' Dylan Jones is editor of GQ.”
Spectator, Dec 12 2007

7. ... “’While I rarely buy clothes in Milan (when I do, I go to Aspesi, on Via Mon­tenapoleone) …’ Dylan Jones is the editor of GQ and author of Mr Jones’ Rules for the Modern Man.”
Spectator, July 25 2007

8. “’Acqua di Parma would be my soap of choice, principally because of the smell.’ Dylan Jones is the editor of GQ and the author of Mr Jones’ Rules For The Modern Man (Hodder & Stoughton, £14.99)”
The Times, December 23 2006

9. “Jones was in Dublin, as guest of honour, for the launch of the new Nokia 8800, their first luxury mobile phone ... it's easy to see why Dylan Jones was happy to endorse it.”
Social Dublin blog, August 26 2005

10. “In the afternoon, my two young daughters come in to pack the Men of the Year goodie bags: the October issue of GQ, Links of London cufflinks, Jo Levin’s GQ Cool book, Elton John’s Rocket Man DVD, Michael Caine’s Cained CD ...”
Press Gazette, September 10 2007

Poor Zsa Zsa Gabor mugged by VF

Abusing a frail old lady is usually unthinkable in polite society. But in the case of ancient starlet Zsa Zsa Gabor, the December issue of my second favourite magazine, Vanity Fair, throws caution to the wind and gives a very good impression of a hoodie happy slapping a passing pensioner. It sets on the old glitz-bag in a most thuggish way – probably because she didn’t have a savvy agent/PR to police the copy and threaten reprisals in the first place.

The assault appears to have been provoked by gossip writer Cindy Adams’ claim that Zsa Zsa is the prisoner of her very odd and much speculated about husband, Prince Frédéric von Anhalt. “This charge greatly upset von Anhalt, the aging German stud who counts himself as Zsa Zsa's 10th husband, although she claims to have married a mere eight”, reports the magazine. So in a damage limitation exercise he called in VF’s finest cosmetic prose and picture stylists for a summit with the actress – perhaps over-estimating her personal interest in the project. The Prince tells the writer that she fears being perceived as old, or as he puts it gallantly, “She doesn't believe she's 90 years old. She says she's 82." The “interview” is brief.

VF offers a geological treatise on determining his and her age and then later reminds us of the episode in which three women robbed him in his Rolls and left him naked and bound to the steering wheel. But there may be an alternative explanation: “Several internet gossip columnists suggested that von Anhalt frequents gay cruising areas and might have picked up the wrong person,” VF scrupulously reports. Before this Zsa Zsa is “poofed” into a powder-caked vision for the pics and then ritually slaughtered – it’s no way to treat a disabled person, is it?

It’s journalism at its worst and I just wish there was more of it. Click here for fun.

Nicholas Coleridge: At home in his graveyard

Not content with reviews of his novels in Condé Nast's many gorgeous catalogues, Condé Nast MD Nicholas Coleridge has now granted an Hello!-style audience to Condé Nast's opulent The World of Interiors. In its December issue it carries a 10-page feature, entitled A Fantasy Flower, on Nicky's grand Worcestershire home, Wolverton Hall - and I must compliment him on his exquisite taste if not the pretty pics.

However, as is the Indy on Sunday media diarist, one is perturbed by signs in the home of what the paper calls "creepy personalised features". These include "Sunhats perched on antlers from a deer shot by Nicholas Coleridge" and, in the bathroom, "the mounted butterflies above the basin were netted by Nicholas Coleridge, aged 10."

My friends at PETA claim that "Violent acts towards animals have long been recognised as indicators of a dangerous psychopathy that is not limited to animal abuse." While I think we may safely conclude that Nicky poses no obvious threat to his fellow humanity - if he sticks to writing non-fiction books I may grow yet more generous - the presence of the deer's antlers on one of his walls at least connotes an affinity with old aristocratic (if not royal) pastimes. A much-deserved peerage would surely complete the illusion.

Tina Brown - 'Arcati, you're wrong ....'

Anon writes: "Oooh, Madame - may I humbly suggest an alternative interpretation for Conde Nast's corporate hailing of 1986 as a high point in Tatler's creativity? The fact is that it WAS a high point, given that this was the period of the late, great Mark Boxer's editorship. If anything, focussing on that period is not so much a criticism of his predecessor, Tina Brown, as of his successor, Emma Soames. She was the first editor to be fired by Nicholas Coleridge, then Editorial Director and now MD of Conde Nast, and who presumably still wishes to justify her termination."

Dear Anon,
Thank you - yes, all that's possible. But I favour my anti-Brown theory because the Vanity Fair piece on Murdoch is so sniffy about its former editor - failing to so describe her and implying some aspersion on her journalistic virtue. I also understand that Graydon Carter cares little for his predecessor, and I believe Coleridge didn't have a happy time at Tatler under Brown. And while he's on my mind, and if you're in a happy position at Vogue House, please do the world a favour and ask Coleridge to desist from writing novels. He's a gifted journalist, and a titan of editorial management, and his worship of India is almost Forsterian, but he has no voice for fiction beyond attaching recalled dialogue to what I may politely term a wafer thin interest in the complex topic of human motivation. Like his friend William Cash, and distant acquaintance Tina Brown, his preoccupations are cash and cachet - and who's made it - topics well covered by his gooooooooooooooorgeous magazines.