Celebrities

A red carpet in Los Angeles. March 7, 2010: A handsome yet self-conscious Australian actor, who happens to have recently starred in the highest-grossing film of all time, is stopped for an interview while walking the red carpet at the Academy Awards.

When asked the mandatory question put to all Oscar attendees: “Your clothing, please discuss”, he replies “Payless Shoes and a friggin’ kick ass suit.” 
Quizzed as to the suit’s designer (it’s all about the labels, darling, hence the “who” and not “what” are you wearing) he shrugs “some bloke”.

Right on cue, the media in the actor’s homeland conclude this response to be proof of his down-to-earth appeal and marvel over his grounded, humble attitude amid a sea of Hollywood shallowness.

Continue reading "Wacko the diddle oh it’s a dead-set dinki di Avatar" »

I can’t remember who said it, but when Sally McLellan won silver in the 100m hurdles at the Bejiing Olympics, someone described her joyful reaction as what sports stars sound like when they haven’t had any media training.

There was none of that tedium about taking it one hurdle at a time, about sticking to the strategy, no irritating thank-yous for her sponsors (if indeed she had any), no psychobabble about self-belief and running the mental race. Rather we saw pure, unadorned joy, with the odd expletive thrown in for extra colour.

“Oh my God, is this real? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” McLellan said. “Did you see me? Did you see how pumped I was? I was more pumped than I’ve ever been in my life. Shit, I could see a girl passing me but kept running my own race. Amazing. I can’t believe it.”

Continue reading "Gone with the spin: Tiger and the insincerity industry" »

Talk about a grand marketing plan!

Last weekend, Love magazine, run by former Pop! Magazine Editor (and fashion industry icon) Katie Grand, started releasing their Issue #3 covers. The nude shots of Lara Stone, Kristen McMenamy, Daria Werbowy and Jeneil Williams were let loose on the internet, and didn’t the bloggers have a field day.

I blogged about it. I got emails from friends to blog about it. I saw it on at least three other websites all marvelling over how we were getting to see these girls practically in their birthday suits. Fashion blogging land was in an excitable hoo hah. Naked supermodel? You’ve got to be kidding me! I’ve never seen that before.

Continue reading "The logical end of fashion - naked clothes horses" »

Gosh, I wish Lady GaGa had gone to the Golden Globes, then at least there would have been something to look at.

The red-carpet at this year’s ceremony was beige, botoxed and booooring. Now, I love a fabulous couture frock more than most. Tulle, corsets and vintage diamonds are enough to make me swoon but after a decade of vanilla, almost earnest choices in award-show dressing, I’m nostalgic for some of the fashion mavericks of old.

Who can forget Bjork wearing a taxidermied swan as a dress? Or Celine Dion in a white tuxedo worn backwards. With a hat. Demi Moore in a bedspread complete with built-in bike shorts.

Continue reading "Golden Globes glamour, glitz, but no guts" »

Whenever I tell British friends, old and new, that I’m from Murwillumbah, the closest town to the jungle that is I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here!, I get the sort of response that I imagine Rolf Harris received when he introduced the wobbleboard to the Poms.

For the past three years I’ve been in the Old Dart, I’ve been bombarded with questions such as “so… have you eaten kangaroo testicles?” whenever the latest instalment of the annual reality show rolls around.

It’s my second draw card, my first one being my ocker twang. I have used them both to get a story, a drink, even a date in the Motherland. Last year I used the I’m a Celebrity factor to impress a potential Brummie suitor.

Continue reading "The one story the English actually give a rat’s about" »

I felt nothing when Michael Jackson died. It’s not like I didn’t try to summon a tear but in the end the only emotion I could rustle up was ambivalence. This was surprising because usually when a celebrity dies, I do feel sad. Often extremely so.

When Natasha Richardson died, for example, I was deeply affected, even though I couldn’t name a single film she was in. When John Lennon died, I was terribly sad, even though I was only vaguely aware of The Beatles and I was only nine.

But when one of the world’s biggest pop stars died back in June, someone whose music had been the soundtrack to decades of my life, I was oddly unmoved. As much as I tried, I simply couldn’t connect to any great sense of loss or tap into that massive international out-pouring of grief.

Continue reading "This is an excellent piece of Michael Jackson propaganda" »

It’s Halloween this Saturday, and though we’ve never quite gotten into the whole ghoul thing in Australia, people do attempt to celebrate.

There’s the odd, weak-themed club night, annoying neighbourhood kids who to trick or treat until they get to a door behind which a grouch refuses to give them anything (is there a name for the Halloween scrooge?) and those people whose birthdays fall on Halloween, instantly bestowing a lifetime pass for dress-up parties.

In the States, they go a bit nuts at this time of year. The amount of pics I’ve seen in the last week of celebrities shopping for a pumpkin outnumbers those carrying a Starbucks - and that’s saying something in La La Land.

Continue reading "Halloween: Because Hollywood needs an excuse" »

It’s that time of year, isn’t it? When the intention to eat healthily just doesn’t result in the same. Puritanical thoughts of eating only soup for dinner somehow morph into soup plus half a loaf of buttery toast. Steamed fish and vegies ends up as steak with cheesy potato bake.

A roast with all the trimmings is a regular occurrence and apple crumble is, somehow, always okay. Yes, the winter weather is dictating my diet and I have no choice, do I? It’s rather impossible not to put on the “winter two”. Or three, or four.

And as we reach August, this means I’m stuck wearing what fits. One, my fat jeans, or two, my leggings - marvellous creations with lots of stretch. But of course, I’m sick of both. (See boys, when we say “I don’t have anything to wear”, we often mean “I can’t fit into anything in my wardrobe”). I’m afraid that looking great in winter is only achievable if you’re Gwyneth Paltrow. Aka, Wonder Woman.

Continue reading "“Detox” the new code word for dangerous dieting" »

Philip Klein is a big talking Texan—a cowboy, in every sense of the word—with a tongue as sharp as his investigative skills.

“Now it’s up to Patrick (McDermott) and his people to either make peace with me, or make war,” Klein has told Woman’s Day, as part of our investigation into Olivia Newton-John’s ex - missing, presumed dead following a 2005 fishing trip.

“If they make war, I will hunt him down like a dog. But if they make peace with me, I will go and have beer with him.”

Continue reading "The investigator hopelessly devoted to finding Olivia’s ex" »

Last week’s on-air rape-fuelled Hindenberg disaster piloted by 2Day FM’s Kyle Sandilands and Jackie O has raised so many issues it’s like the Big Day Out of blame, where every act’s a red-hot headliner.

The national festival of finger-pointing opened with shots at the bumbling Sandilands, followed closely by jabs at the mother’s parenting skills, finishing up with blasts at the station for allowing such a suspect segment to air in the first place. All great acts and definitely worth a good moshing over.

But there’s one elusive and hard-to-pin party who haven’t had the lynch mob wield a flaming torch in their faces yet. They are the hardcore listeners who actively pander to the untouchable antics of Kyle and Jackie O by religiously setting the dial in their direction.

Continue reading "Kyle’s listeners the forgotten villains in this scandal" »

It’s a good thing the Aussies have their wives and girlfriends along for the Ashes tour.

Had they not been there, it’s quite probable we would have gone down to county side Northamptonshire because we’ve all been assured by Cricket Australia that the boys play better if the WAGs are in attendance.

Seeing as we have managed to win just one of the seven tour games so far, I tremor at the thought of what would have happened if CA hadn’t had the foresight to support the significant others/B-grade celebrities and female wannabes to stay with the cricketers for the first part of the Ashes.

Continue reading "WAGs aren’t about team happiness, but marketing" »

Rumour has it that if Katherine Jackson is granted permanent custody of Michael Jackson’s children, the brood could be raised by her eldest—and private—daughter Rebbie.

What a relief, when one considers the frightening prospect of Joseph Jackson playing a more permanent role in their upbringing.

Here is a man who has long been accused of ruling the famous clan with an iron fist and who, according to Michael, sat in a chair with a belt in his hand as the Jackson Five rehearsed.

Continue reading "Even in death Michael still a cash-cow to Jackson Snr" »

There was a time, not so long ago, when critics predicted the end of reality television.

Big Brother had the infamous ‘turkey slap,’ incident, Extreme Makeover and The Swan filmed people surgically mutilating themselves in order to look like Barbie and Ken dolls, while programs like Survivor, The Bachelor, Boot Camp and even the Biggest Loser, not only revealed the depths to which human nature would sink, but invited competitors and viewers to revel in displays of excess: flesh, emotions, psychological reactions and banality.

Cheap to produce, it seemed that ‘actuality’ programming had reached its nadir. Lately, however, there is a rebirth of the genre.

Continue reading "The tasteful TV show that saved a toxic genre" »

Cake schmake. Just shut up and pass the eggs!

Dave Penberthy’s musings about Rosemary Stanton’s rant on the evil of packet cake mixture being pushed by Bindi Irwin and her family on televisions across Australia is off the mark.

The point that worries me doesn’t involve cakes, but Bindi’s “childhood”. Bindi Irwin and her brother spend much of their lives being home schooled, they mix and play with the children of employees of Australia Zoo, not children of diverse backgrounds through exposure to the usual forms of community education and socialisation. 

Continue reading "Cakes are the least of poor Bindi’s worries" »

The King of Pop may be dead, but the controversy surrounding his untimely exit is far from buried.

The dust has barely settled since his globally-televised public memorial service last week, yet every day more pieces seem to be missing in the Jacko jigsaw about his life, his death, his final resting place and those he left behind.

The case has transcended from the mysterious to the macabre, with reports that his ghost has been seen walking the halls of his Neverland ranch to questions over who has possession of his brain. 

Continue reading "The web is alive with wacko theories on Jacko" »

NO Billie Jean. No Beat It. No-one was starting something, not even a moonwalk. Of all the unlikely things, it was often quiet.

Whatever your life had been, you’d probably want it mourned this way: solemn, plenty sad, and plenty of slow songs. But this was Michael Jackson, and no one expected it be as normal as that. So it was time to put aside your thoughts about the life being recognised and be surprised.
And perhaps nothing could have surprised a viewer more than a farewell that flipped the coin from crazy heads to solemn tales - the telling of gentle and kind stories that somehow did not leave you feeling conned, despite all we think we know about the man.

Continue reading "The quiet, dignified end to Michael Jackson’s mad life" »

My grandmother is 92 years old and lives in public housing in Adelaide’s southern suburbs. She is a custodian of wonderful old Australian expressions and a woman of firm and earthy convictions. One of her convictions is that Sydney is basically a dump, “a den of iniquity” as she puts it, its harbour wasted on spivs, tarts, crooks and hookers. A morally-bankrupt dive which has never really shaken off its uncouth convict past, and where no-one of sound mind would choose to live.

I’m starting to think she might be on to something.

This might sound odd given that it’s barely a month since I penned a sweetheart’s letter to my adoptive home of 10 years by listing the 40 things I love about Sydney.

This column is about the one thing I really hate, and am hating more with each passing day. It’s not the roads, it’s not the cost of living, heaven forbid it’s not even the State Government. It’s Sydney’s out-of-control gangster culture, which in the past few months has gone from a relatively controlled background phenomenon to a full-blown cult of violence and vanity, where the authorities have been made to look like fools as the lawless increasingly act as they wish, egged on - most alarmingly - by apparently sane people who come over all giggly and start twirling their hair in the presence of drug-dealers, bikie leaders and stand-over men.

Continue reading "Crims and their clique turn Sydney into an open sewer" »