News from the Cotton mill

A conversation with someone last week, on the subject of my Most Favourite Celebrity in the Whole World Ever, mwah mwah mwah, snuggle:

'I facking hate Fearne Cotton' I said, glint in my eye.

'What's wrong with her? She's alright, isn't she?' replied someone I'd met 2 hours previously.

'She's the most irritating, patronising, overexcitable, insincere presenter in the world. Can't stand her.'

'Fearne Cotton? She's the blonde one, yeah?'

'Yep'

'Oh. I quite like her. Didn't realise she was on Radio One though.'

'How can you quite like her? Her vocabulary consists of one word. "Amazing". Everything's amazing. Everything's so exciting. Fearne, your shoe is on fire. "Amazing!!!" She'd attend the splitting of a toenail and gush about how amazing it was the next day.'

"She's the one with short blonde hair, bit overweight?'

"Not really overweight. Long blonde hair. Annoying face. Slightly hairy, I expect. But bleached, like stealth face hair.'

"Hmmm. Presents This Morning?'

"No, love. That's Fern Britton.'

"Oh. In that case, I don't know who you mean. But she sounds like a right idiot."

True story. Anyway, I mention this conversation because a couple of days later Brennig, the little information beaver that he is, provided me with news that made my belly gargle with rage. The news was that Fearne Cotton, bain of anyone who has working ears, has been given Jo Whiley's slot on Radio 1. This moves her away from her wanky weekend slot which only whales, dolphins and other high frequency transmitting mammals can hear, and into mid morning, where she will be broadcast into any workplace unlucky enough to have a radio tuned to BBC Radio 1 during the day. My thoughts are with you.

But then he sent me the press release put out by this tower of deaf incapables at Radio 1:

"Fearne said: Jo is leaving very big shoes for me to fill and it’s nerve wracking. She has been a massive inspiration to me throughout my career so I have a high standard to live up to. The live music legacy will live on in the new show and I can’t wait to get started.”

Ooh! Excited again are we Fearne? Is it all very exciting? And what's this music legacy you speak of? Oh! Will you be playing more new amazing Kings of Leon and Arctic Monkeys and Keane songs and raving about how they're really really great, and that you saw them last night and you're all great friends now? Are you on crack, woman? Clearly, I was not the only one perturbed by this, as Emsbabee alerted me to the actions of another, more err, viciously active member of the FEARNE BEGONE! group:

"A man has been arrested for allegedly sending threatening text messages to Radio 1 DJ Fearne Cotton"

[source]

^ Fearne Cotton being taken away for crimes against radio ^

Not guilty your honour! But strange how the two incidents occured within hours of each other, wouldn't you say? Radio 1, I think your listeners are trying to tell you something.

She is excited. Your audience are not.

Reason no. 12376456383453 why being famous is probably crap

I don't share this generation's obsession with becoming famous. The idea of being splattered across newspapers, photographed at every turn, idolised / hated by the public at large just doesn't appeal to me in the slightest. Everyone wants to do a job they love and get paid for it; but what if succeeding in that job automatically means that you have to become a figure in the public eye? Nowhere is this more prevalent than in the media world. It's a fickle industry where people will love you one minute then turn on you the next just to make themselves a few bob. Look at Big Brother contestants. Last year, a friend at uni was contacted via facebook by a journalist digging dirt on one of the housemates. She was offered £1,500 if she put her name in the story, and £1,000 to be named as a source.

Plus, it's no longer just the photographers and journalists you're hiding from, either. Suddenly the public, with their camera phones and instant YouTube / Facebook tendencies are the 21st century paps, and the internet is their front page.

On Saturday night I realised just how careful people in the public eye have to be. While dancing in the marquee in our enclosure at Henley on Saturday night, one such person got himself into quite a lather over a video we'd inadvertently taken of him ballroom dancing to Club Tropicana with a friend of ours. Ironically, we hadn't realised who this mystery man bum wiggling, side stepping, twirling and bending our friend round the dancefloor was, until he spotted us recording the show and immediately stopped and came over to ask us to delete the video. It was then that the penny dropped: I recognised him from an almost daily presence on TV, where he's a respectable, very well known figure. Even yesterday I noticed his face appeared on the front page of one of the weekend newspaper supplements and thought about the potential goldmine on my camera.

It's all a bit hazy, but he was, to put it bluntly, cacking himself about what we were going to do with the video and the effect it could have on his reputation if the papers got hold of it. But we're kind hearted soles, and I reassured him the footage would go no further, and that we hadn't even realised who he was to begin with. He was polite, thankful and never arrogant - just visibly concerned about the potentially damaging results that letting his guard down for a few minutes could have on a career.

"Thank you so much. It's just the papers would have a field day and twist it all out of proportion. You're never safe in the media."

And with that, we said goodbye and he went on his way.

"Oh, and mate?"
"Yep?"
"Nice moves"
"Ha! Thanks."

If being famous means you can't let your hair down to a Wham! classic, then in my opinion, you're better off being a nobody.

Twitter mania

Is it wrong that I feel cool for having clocked on to Twitter way before the Daily Telegraph got hold of it and did their explanatory "And this, people over 50, is a newfangled WEB THING called TWITTER!"

As I now follow enough people to actually get some fairly good nuggets of time wasted on there now, it kind of keeps me occupied. I'm not sure anyone really knows what to do with Twitter when they first sign up, but eventually it's like this little unicorn of impulsion takes you and suddenly, you must tell SOMEONE...nay... 66 people... what you just did.

I'm pretty sure half the population of Twitter have just signed up to feel a bit special about having a private line to celebrities though. Personally, MC Hammer was only good for that "HEY! HAMMER TIME! NAH NAH NAH NAH...Can't touch this!!!!" tweet which I couldn't help send him, but the rest of the time I never really know what he's on about. Every man and his dog's wife now follows Stephen Fry, you can't bloody get a word in edge ways.

In fact if you click on the username of anyone who has got a reply from a Twitter schelebrity, you will discover that they do indeed spend most of the day trying to elicit a response from their new famous friends. It's like seriously, chill out - stop trying to be Stephen Fry's Best British Friend, this ain't facebook, toots. Take this guy for example, whose current fascination is getting Jonathan Ross to admit to having two distant friends called Tommy and Alan. To the stalker's credit, he got a response in the end, but I can only imagine it was accompanied by a distant, spoken message of "Bloody hell, there are some right weirdos on here, Jane" which our guy will never hear. He's moved on to badgering Stan Collymore now, anyway.

So in conclusion, yes, it does make me feel all down with the kids and cooler than The Times (which did a '100 best blogs' in the Culture section this Sunday. Cringe). And yes, sometimes I do like to pretend that when I used my new found connection with Russell Brand to say "ooh you're on twitter. I think a little bit of wee just came out" that he put my name down on his "to do" list. Yes, I do think it's a wonderful little way to pass the time and keep in touch with bloggers which give me belly tingles.

But bloody hell - these schelebrities and their followers don't half take up a lot of space on the screen. Pipe down.

Actually, just before I press send, Stephen Fry actually said something half interesting:

stephenfry :
Did interviews with Sunday Times and PA (both British) before filming scene. Journos more interested in Twitter than Bones.

stephenfry :
Worry that talking about Twitter too much will somehow spoil it. But hard when asked all the time.Don't want to become a bore on the subject

It's not you that'll make it boring, Mr Fry. It's your famous-friend-hungry followers.


PS. Is Fearne Cotton on Twitter? I'd bloody love that. Please say she is? I'll be good, I promise.

Cold

I've been trying to think of inventive, entertaining and witty ways to tell you about my cold.

Unfortunately for you, this is all I can come up with.

I have a cold.

I'm tired, snotty and would rather be at home in bed.

My grand plan was to come in, check emails etc, then upon realising I am not needed, go home from work early and not come in tomorrow (my boss is away for the next two weeks anyway) but the minute I left my house this morning, I realised that I'd forgotten my keys.

For the last two minutes I've been prodding and twisting the blue squishy wrist rest in front of my keyboard, contemplating what the blue thing's made of.

Oh yeah. Last night I spotted Nicky Hambleton-Jones off the Channel 4 programme 10 Years Younger on South Bank. She walks funny. But then I walk funny too, my heels got trapped in the gaps between the slabs on Waterloo Bridge 3 times then twice again in the cobbles once I got to the other side. I'd like to blame the pavement or my choice of high heels, but I think I'll just blame Fearne Cotton for that and my cold, because I haven't blamed her for much lately.

Oh wait, hang on.....yep, I think I just bored myself.

I'm definitely more tired and bored than when I started this post about 45 mins ago.

I'll go now.

An hour at Annabel's

“Won’t Annabel mind us all turning up at hers?” asked my boyfriend on hearing the location of the after-party of his mother’s 50th birthday in Mayfair, which 40 of us were currently heading down the road towards.

It wasn’t until we reached a stairwell with two doormen outside, both dressed in green suits and hats, that he realized that Annabel’s was not his sister’s friend’s house, but actually an exclusive members' club in nearby Berkeley Square.

From 6:30pm I’d eaten only canapés and drunk champagne; so although things were already beginning to get a little bit hazy, there are parts of our short visit to Annabel’s that remain very clear indeed.

Annabel’s is one of those places where unless you’ve got a bloody good reason, you’re not getting in. And by reason, I mean either membership, status or money. And lots of it. Preferably all of the above, actually. We were in there because a favour had been pulled and even though they knew we were coming and there was plenty of room for our party, in true snotty club fashion, the staff were being difficult and rude. Eventually we were allowed down the opulently lit corridor where suited, balding men stood sipping whisky in bars either side, eyeing the females in our group. We went into the main room, an area packed with dark brown mahogany tables full of more suited, mostly unattractive middle aged men and their invariably blond, significantly more attractive partners, and I quickly realized exactly what sort of a place this was going to be. Very, very expensive.

As I followed some people down the middle of the low lit room, between the tables where people were tucking into food and wine on china plates and crystal glasses, I came to the empty dancefloor; an area about 5 ft by 5 ft with stars above and below, and little alcoves and sofas around the edge. Realising it wasn’t dancey dancey time yet, I headed back, passing about 4 waiters who glared at me as I walked past; not returning my polite smiles in their direction. The women at the tables were equally stony faced, looking me up and down when I met their eyes.

I felt out of place.

My boyfriend ordered some drinks, as we’d decided that even though it was bound to be pricey, this was undoubtedly a once in a lifetime place, so we’d have a drink then see what happened. After a minute, he turned around. “Guys, I think I might need some help with these drinks”; and he didn’t mean carrying them. A round of five drinks came to over £70.

After a while at the cramped bar area, we headed back down to the dance floor and joined the 20 or so others in our group who were dancing in front of the two grumpiest DJs I have ever seen; their job seemed to be to supervise the dance floor rather than entertain it, but nevertheless everyone was having a laugh and trying not to spill their equally expensive drinks.

It’s worth mentioning at this point that I was itching to take some photos; especially as it became more apparent that most of the other women in there were Russian high class call girls who were none too subtle in their dress sense or intentions. However, it was then I realised why there were never any photos of the A-list celebrity shenanigans that you read about in the gossip papers, as signs on the way in warned that anyone taking photographs would be removed from the club.

Whether it was the champagne or the surroundings, the next day it all seemed a bit surreal. A few of us had ended up leaving after about an hour because we fancied another drink but couldn’t afford one, so we left and, on the advice of the only friendly staff member I’d met, the green-clad doorman, we went over the road to Babble where the same round of drinks cost a much more welcoming £17.50.

Annabel's was a strange place. Maybe you have to be super rich, impossibly famous or a £500 a year member to understand the appeal and afford a smile from the staff, and since I am neither of those, it's hard for me to comprehend the lure of a darkened room that charges £30 for a glass of whisky, £5000 for a bottle of champagne, or £15 for a gin and tonic.

They say you can always judge a place by the state of the toilets, so here it goes: Small, dim, unfriendly, but perfectly furnished; and a great place to piss your money away.