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.

Cranford: The show gives good suck

“My sister doesn’t like the word suck,” said Dame Judi Dench apropos the eating of an orange, in her latest period vehicle for an award aka Cranford (Sundays, BBC1). It was the second sexiest thing about this Elizabeth Gaskell adaptation. The first sexiest thing was Dame Judi sucking on an orange in the privacy of her bedroom – she made it look like a fruity type of cunnilingus: she had already said at table that she likes to make a hole in her orange for the sucking of the juice. She was tasteful enough not to allow a dribble, that would have been too much for this otherwise twee costumed tale about a group of hymened hysterics who faint at the first squeak of a woodlouse fart. Her sister did allow herself a bit of a suck, but from neatly cut orange segments. Still, the build up will be to a romantic tumescence - spinster redemption by cock - for even in Cranford oranges are not the only fruit.

David Montgomery and his Cycle of Doom

Reading the Guardian's entertaining report on David Montgomery and his empire building across Europe in the van of the alien-sounding Mecom – buying up hundreds of regional newspapers – reminds me to remind you of the usual Monty cycle as witnessed at News International and Mirror Group:

1. The surprise move as he emerges from nowhere to take control (he's a Scorpio, see. Secretive).

2. Lots of promises not to sack anyone ie “Everyone is in place …”

3. A brilliant start – cuts impress the suits, he talks the talk to the City types, paints his visionary future. Some useful purchases made.

4. Cuts start as promises are shredded, the troops start to revolt, editor heads roll, lots of vile coverage in the media. He is described as "thin man" and his nickname Rommel revived.

5. Eccentric editorial initiatives, bizarre appointments, more sackings, horrible or scandalous diary items about his love life. But he loves opera and is a delight on the piano.

6. Media Rumours of unease among the suits – concern about editorial hostility to Monty and the feasibility of some of his ideas. Is Monty a one-man band?

7. It's not that Monty's wrong on everything, it's just he cannot get over his basic contempt for journalists. This warps everything he touches. Doubts are raised about his understanding of readers and everything's done on the cheap. People tap their temples when they speak of him in hushed tones.

8. He’s fired and scuttles off several millions of euros wealthier.

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.

Picture of the year: Look, no tongues!

I am Spartacus I am Spartacus
I am Spartacus I am Spartacus
I am Spartacus I am Spartacus
I am Spartacus I am Spartacus
I am Spartacus I am Spartacus
I am Spartacus I am Spartacus
I am Spartacus I am Spartacus

Anthony Haden-Guest: FT gives him the FO

Is the Financial Times editor Lionel Barber the most self-important turd in "Fleet Street"? Probably not - the competition is keen - but I am appalled that he has sacked living myth the Hon Anthony Haden-Guest, as the paper's Weekend FT saleroom correspondent, for not being strictly accurate about the troubled politics at the National Gallery. Given H-G's decades as a high profile socialite and art critic, Barber could have at most demanded dinner at the Ivy at the author's expense as punishment.

Not that H-G is bleating. As he told Mediaguardian: "The allegations about Peter Scott had previously been published by both the Times and the Independent. Nonetheless I should certainly have double-checked. So I am not going to whine."

Let us hope that the FT was not perceived as the softer touch by the complainant, or as Barber put it in his Papal Bull of an email to his staff: "The FT's reputation depends on the integrity of its reporting and its unflinching commitment to accuracy." For more click here.

To acquaint yourself - if you need acquainting - with H-G, visit his website, click here.

I like Toby Young's story about H-G - whom he terms the Beast - in his excellent book-to-movie How To Lose Friends & Alienate People. The Beast and Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter (and family) fell out while strolling on the latter's Connecticut estate. One of Carter's kids spotted a silver coin in a stream. "Where?" asked H-G. "There," replied the boy. At that the writer waded into the water and pocketed the treasure. "Aren't you going to give that to my son?" asked Carter. H-G replied: "No fear, finder's keepers."

Heather Mills: Two bitch superstars (and a dog)

Michele and Bijou. David is elsewhere

I am pleased to see that Heather Mills McCartney's new global PR Michele Elyzabeth has put on the moderator on her Heather blog at long last – I am most impressed. She has also wisely removed all the tabloid-driven commenter bile and replaced it with a confetti of lovely healing thoughts with only the slightest sign of demurral to Heather’s gospel – this too is wise: it gives the impression of free-speech (a childish notion in net world).

I think I may like Michele who has a dog called Bijou and a gay hairdresser called David. In contrast to Heather’s last PR, the Yoda-ish Phil Hall who understands how thin-skinned the average hack is, Michele vlogs weekly rants at the media as Bijou looks on with a sad countenance. Some media pundits are saying that Heather has made another big boob with Michele, but I’m not so sure. I did suggest in a previous posting that perhaps she could improve her image with some humour and self-parody. I think Heather has just found herself the perfect lightning rod.

And so to the Michele vlogs. In the first she appears without Bijou and announces in what may be a French accent: “I am sick and tired of all the lies about Heather.” She promises to “take apart” lying articles every week. True to her word she then launches into a splenetic attack on Barbara Walters and her show The View over claims Heather cancelled an appearance. Not true you bastards! And of Walters’ broadcast opinion that Heather is a "difficult woman", Michele explains that this defamation arose because Heather had the audacity to ask "for water at room temperature” when she appeared on Barbara's show earlier. "Heather had a tooth pulled that day so she was sensitive and in any case water at room temperature is a healthy option," Michele adds. With regretful pathos she sighs: “Walters was a fabulous journalist who got famous and became this storyteller of ... tabloid magazine” (sic).

Vlog 2 is even better. Here Michele appears with David on a sofa. Bijou sits between the drama queens and falls asleep to Michele's caresses. “If Heather were a man she’d be considered strong,” drawls David. They then both crucify a galère of anti-Heather villains including the Daily Mail and Perez Hilton – of the latter Michele says: “He drew something disgusting over Heather’s picture. He took someone else’s name to get famous. ” David responds: “That’s because he’s a nobody”.

The pair reveal their true glorious colours though when they bitch about someone called Joy Behar who slagged off Heather on The View. David: “She laughed about Heather’s leg, about a disability. I mean, I don’t laugh that Joy is 30 pounds overweight, has bad colour and needs a facelift.” To this Michele screeches and Bijou cocks up a fluffy ear. The show ends with a dodgy claim by David that Sir Paul’s “big PR machine” has shut down a lot of Heather’s charity work. Oh, more, more please.

It is plain to me that Michele and David must be given their own talk show PRONTO. They are brilliant. Like true stars they take the media seriously and aren't ashamed to customise their rage to the needs of the payer - a symptom of what some call loyalty. Two fabulous motormouth bitches! And little Bijou! Heather, I love you for bringing these people into our lives. I hope you get $100m from Macca. You have earned it in my view.

Catch Michele and David yourselves, click here

Tony Blair unpaid - a confirmation

The excellent Times diarist Hugo Rifkind reports today that Tony Blair's Middle East envoy role for the Quartet is unpaid. "I'm sure we have said this before," a bewildered spokesman for the former PM tells Hugo. But he begs to differ. Actually, back in June, Sky News reported that the role was expected to be unpaid, click here. But it's nice to be reminded.

Heather Mills: New PR may not last long ...

Heather Mills has appointed a new worldwide PR to replace Phil Hall - one exotic Michele Elyzabeth who has aristocratic pretensions and a new Heather blog unwisely unmoderated. The result is a cascade of atrociously insulting anti-Heather comments from the net's gabby anonymice - along the lines of "Crazy hires crazy", "She's only famous because she sucked a Beatle's dick" and "Why doesn't she take off her stump and knock you both over the head". Oh dear, this is not good PR at all, unless it's an experiment to measure the level of tabloid-driven bile directed at the embattled Lady Macca. Whatever, read up for yourself, click here.

Observer and Guardian disagree on homeophobia

In the Guardian, novelist Jeanette Winterson soberly tackles the tricky subject of homeophobia – the fear and loathing of homeopathy, that is. She relates how while staying at a remote cottage in Cornwall she ran a temperature of 102, had spots on her throat, was delirious. And she had a book to finish. Her “desperate” publisher suggested she call the homeopath Hilary Fairclough who sent round a remedy called Lachesis, made from snake venom. “Four hours later I had no symptoms whatsoever.” (I believe this piece first appeared in The Times in 2004). She finishes: “We should be careful of dismissing the testimony of millions who say the remedies have worked for them.”

For once I have no firm view to offer – by temperament I am too impatient for results. And homeopathy, by my understanding, works slowly and subtly, if at all (Winterson’s rapid symptomatic relief surprises me). Zap me with the chemicals and I’m all yours (reluctantly). But it intrigues me that the piece has been resurrected in the Guardian when its sister paper the Observer only very recently ran a Nick Cohen homeophobic piece in which Hilary Fairclough got a kicking over claims that homeopathy can help in the treatment of Aids. “Of all the pseudo-sciences on offer, homeopathy is the most obviously spurious,” Cohen asserted, in the way Christopher Hitchens promises his flock that there is no god.

I see no reason why The Guardian and The Observer should not run contrary pieces – it’s very fair-minded of them – if a little redolent of their opposing stances on Iraq. Being all things - if done intelligently - is a very attractive commercial proposition.

Nicky Haslam, Russell Brand and frying old boobs

Fish was right – publication of Nicky Haslam’s Redeeming Features: A Memoir has been postponed from November 1 to January 3. How annoying for Weidenfeld and Nicolson to miss out on the Christmas prezzie rush, and for me. I was getting sooooooooooo excited at the prospect of learning more of Tallulah Bankhead’s infatuation with him – she loved public schoolboys as I think MI5 discovered in their trawls and she may have even yielded to some under-age cock, the dirty cow.

So, instead I have to read Russell Brand’s tiresome “memoirs”, My Booky Wook, serialised in the gorgeously celebrity-obsessed Guardian (shouldn't it be restyled The Guardian! ?). His prose style stirs up Henry Miller as realised by Ken Dodd – “I didn't understand what I was witnessing, but by jingo, I knew I liked it," he writes. "Dumbstruck, I sat looking at the women, their hair, each strand identifiable as it responded to a fan that had been placed there to elicit exactly the reaction I felt in my pantaloons.” The extract I read today chronicled his sex addiction and its treatment at the KeyStone clinic. “In Hong Kong, I was naked and shy about my body. I had trouble getting hard, and the blow job seemed daft, not sexual, just giggly and intrusive.” It's all very tattyfilarious and I'm sure Guardianistas will appreciate this smutty excursus. To read click here.

For class I sought out the American former supermodel Janice Dickinson, currently residing in a downunder jungle on I’m A Celebrity. Of Lynne Franks she said: “I’m going to stab her in the middle of the night. You don’t think I’m kidding, I’ll eat her tits. I’ll fry up those big old boobs.” My kind of bitch.

Jonathan King: Pessimistic about Euro Appeal Contest

Jonathan King has replied to a new star on the Madame Arcati reality blog show (re: King's appeal to the European Court of Human Rights against his conviction for sex attacks on teen boys). The pseudonymous Feodor quoted King on his site as saying: “[I] proved I could not have committed 4 of the 6 offences". Feodor replied: "So, the man implicitly admits having committed two of them, doesn't he? Enough said." Jonathan King writes:

"Feodor "doh" - the other (more obvious conclusion to those without tunnel vision) is the correct one - that I could not prove my innocence on the other two false claims. It is hard to prove you didn't do something 25 years earlier, especially when there is no proof that you did, but one person's word is enough for the legal system.

"Madame - sadly I would predict (though my crystal ball is rather cloudy) total failure in Europe as in the UK system. Once a Vile Pervert always a Vile Pervert. The truth is less important these days."