Why is the media so anxious about phone tapping? I would love if someone as powerful as Rupert Murdoch gave a shit about what I say. I wouldn't mind having his wife as a bodyguard too, that bitch can kick, but obviously she's busy changing Rupert's diapers and grinding infant bones into her protein shakes.
The only career Hugh Grant has now is testifying. I wouldn't be aware of how useless his stylist is if I didn't see him traipsing into court, disheveled hair and baggy suit, almost daily. He's got a story to tell, and frankly no one cares as much as Rupert did several years ago.
Where Hugh is concerned, people only really want to know if Divine Brown was a fella. 'She' spoke about 'her'self in third person. Remember? "Ms Brown thinks" and "Ms Brown says", as if she was mocking or mimicking her own female title. Ok, maybe most people have moved on, but I want to know if Hugh picked up that black babe hoping she was packing, or did he really believe anyone with a name like Divine Brown was, well, to coin a political phrase many use to describe the Coalition, dickless.
Celebs lined up to testify at the Leveson Inquiry in the summer, but I can only imagine it's because they felt forgotten. Tony Blair's been assigned a desk job in Lebanon, so he was happy to return in May to smile and kill national pride. Theresa May in June took a break destroying families to wonder, in court, if she would ever really be liked. Sorry, what I mean is, she cuts herself.
Andy Coulson said stuff, and that red head that might be bound for the clinker pouted and waited for someone to tell her she was good. But what the public really wanted to know was, did that socialite really say she was glad when Diana died, because she, the socialite, looked good in 1997? Does Harry have a Dad? Is the Queen dead inside as well? Did they tap Simon Cowell and if so, can anyone explain his hair? His grimace? And the way Olly Murs swept him off his brick sized feet? Was Olly's phone tapped, or is he too stupid to dial?
Which Olympic divers are straight? Which footballer isn't a cunt? Why are we alive?
Leveson is another reality show I'm not on, and I'm waving from my bedroom window, yelling, "Pour maggots on my crotch! Starve me! Elect me then send me thousands of miles away so I can be hated and sent home!"
I need to pick up my phone and hear someone other than my sister Liz breathing. That's what success sounds like - invasive, third party aerobics. When Lizzie and I speak, I can get crazy on her ass and start accusing the Jews of conspiracies and Mel Gibson of being Jewish and my TV of talking back to me. I can imply very subtly that my nose fell off before the Royal Wedding, then sing my new hit single, LOUD, after which I drunkenly claim my heart belongs to Chechnya. I'm fretful over the BAFTAS and frighteningly accurate when predicting weather. I'm cagey and calculating and incredibly insightful as Julie Roberts confides her breasts are uneven. I can spout my most truthful fantasies and blur everything with my painkiller-sucking lack of tact; and the next day, BAM! My words will be on the front page of something, somewhere, with a picture of me jogging to the local shops to buy the rags that cover my every move.
My publicist, also known as Twitter, tells me this is the kind of hype required to sell tickets in Crewe. I mean, if I'm not worthy of Murdoch's attention, why pay to see me when a C-Lister's cocaine addiction boosts her record sales and the public's ego as one more peg drops off the ever-spinning show reel we call culture.
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