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24 May 2013



yes. yes. yes.

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I lost my phone earlier this week and there was a gps on it or as far as i know. is it possible to track it to wherever it is and if someone stole it can it be found?


锘縅AN MOIR: Can this Cruella de Chav sink any lower?
Proust again? Jilly Cooper? Dependable Faulks? Something challenging from the classical canon or perhaps a gripping autobiography? As you head off to the beach with your tasteful selection of summer paperbacks, be afraid聽 -聽 be very afraid聽 -聽 that back home, something terrible is happening. For this is turning into the long, hot summer of Jordan. Yes, we must return once more to Katie Price, the revolting former topless model, author and reality television star. This week, Sapphire, the latest 'novel' from Price聽 -聽 a bonkbuster ghost written by someone else, of course聽 -聽 shot to the top of the bestseller lists, while Price's sleazy attempts to gain publicity for herself plumbed new depths of public depravity.聽
Sleazy: Jordan is desperately trying to keep the public titillated
First, who could fail to be depressed by the news that Sapphire has outsold wholesome mass market stalwarts such as Sophie Kinsella, Danielle Steel and John Grisham? It's enough to cast a positive light on the literary genius of Jeffrey Archer and the Beano. Of course, feminists have long praised Price's sexual audacity聽 -聽 on the pages of her books and in life聽 -聽 as the sign of a liberated woman, enjoying her own body and wanton appetites. Yet some of the salacious detail contained in her autobiographies and novels always seems engineered to encourage the crusty mac brigade to pore over her books in the way that they once pored over her topless pictures. Her mastery of the sordid and the cynical puts a pimp to shame. This week, a stunt cooked up for tabloid newspapers saw the near-naked glamour model being fondled by her new cage-fighter boyfriend in the grounds of a Marbella golf hotel. Holy Chavarama! Can life get any classier than that? Yes, it can, I am afraid. Later, Price climbed into a groaning basque-cum-tutu to go nightclubbing with fighter Alex 'The Detonator' Reid. Then she and the big D were seen blearily having a 5am kebab together to round off the perfect romantic evening. Isn't it sad that thousands of little girls (and their mums) want nothing more from life than to Be Like Her? Of course, Jordan the model has gone to great pains to rebrand herself as kind Katie Price, the author, struggling mum and pony lover. Sure. This is a bit like Cruella de Vil insisting that she has gone vegan, loves puppies and that everyone should henceforth call her Ella. We all know that a Dalmatian, a leopard or a Jordan can never change their spots, although I keep wondering how much more of the knicker-flashing, sex-mad, balloon-breasted, drunk and disorderly, great She-Chav mother-of-three can the public take? A lot, it seems. Everything she can throw at them and more. Price has gone into turbo-drive since the meltdown of her reality television marriage to nice but dim Peter Andre. In a reversal of roles, he is the one who has been left holding the children and complaining about being faithful, while she has hit the town like an out-of-control tank. It's a kind of equality, I suppose. Even if it is unlikely to lead to any long-term happiness or stability for her poor, troubled kids. As the carnage of her social life continues, surely even her most blinded and ardent fans must be beginning to see the light? Which is that Price is a pantomime villainess of the old school. Her laughable fig leaf of respectability聽 -聽 that she is a good mother聽 -聽 looks more tattered with each passing vodka shot and bloke grope. Her life gets sleazier with every passing week. It is not just her best-selling book or the X-rated publicity stunts. It is more that the promise of easy sex throbs through everything Price does, like the reek of cheap perfume in the whorehouse of modern celebrity. She represents everything tawdry and regrettable about what stardom has become, and it can only get worse from here on. That is the problem with being a reality star. When your life is your job, you have to keep on inventing more ludicrous and desperate scenarios to keep the public titillated. How I fear for her lost tribe of little children.
Makeover: Susan Boyle
Maybe there is hope for us all... Ulrika got a fabulous new body. Susan Boyle got a lovely makeover. So there is hope for us all! And I mean that in the nicest possible way. This proves that real professionals can work wonders with the most unprepossessing material. Unlike lunatics such as Gok Wan. Or those scary women in the cosmetics departments of large stores. Indeed, business there is so dreadful at the moment, that you can hardly walk past a lipstick counter on the way to the tights stand without being rugby tackled by beauticians offering free makeovers. I confess I often acquiesce, if only to get the weight off my feet for five minutes. To be honest, a tiny part of my heart always lives in hope of an amazing transformation聽 -聽 only to be crushed ten minutes later, when I emerge from a cloud of powder looking like a cross between Heath Ledger as the Joker and an exploded doughnut. Never again. Until the next promise of a free sample. What's funny about this gross assault? Many people seem to be amused by the unfaithful married man who was humiliated by his wife and three putative lovers. The four scorned women plotted together to lure him to a Wisconsin motel to exact some revenge for his philandering ways. There, the poor sap was blindfolded, taunted and tortured by having intimate parts of his body glued to his stomach. The women are now on bail and face charges of false imprisonment and sexual assault. No doubt the truth will come out at the trial, but what is most unsavoury is how the tawdry events to date have been reported with a barely concealed air of glee. Imagine if the genders had been reversed, and four men had done this to a woman? No one would be laughing about it then. This is not a triumph for feminism or another show of empowerment. These sisters doing it for themselves showed a cruel and bullying steak. If guilty, they deserve to go to jail. Not to be applauded. Hattie's in charge. We're all doomed! Did anyone notice that Gordon Brown went off on holiday this week, leaving Harriet Harman in charge? Of course they did! The old girl made sure they did. Cannonballed fresh from her weekly Woman's Rage Workshop, Harman rose to the task with the zeal of Corporal Jones temporarily being appointed leader of the Walmington- on-Sea platoon. Don't panic, Captain Mainwaring! Hattie's in charge! New Government initiatives announced this week include Boys Are Rubbish, Kill Bill (any Bill), Me For Leader and Down With Chaps. She is loving every spotlight-soaked moment. Even if it is becoming obvious that her loyalty to the PM is crimped by her terrible secret聽 -聽 Hattie can never forgive Gordon for committing the unforgiveable sin of being a man. And her short tenure in power reveals that she is even more of a mono-maniac聽 -聽 obsessed with only one topic聽 -聽 than we could have imagined. Doomed. Doomed. We are all, of course, doomed.
Beaming: Bill Clinton and released journalist Laura Ling
Bill, a picture of selfless heroism How amusing to see Bill Clinton recast as a hero on the world stage this week. The former president was instrumental in securing the freedom of two American journalists imprisoned in North Korea. Euna Lee and Laura Ling had been serving 12-year sentences for 'hostile acts' after being arrested there in March. As they sobbed when they met their families back in America, Clinton looked fit to burst. What did that expression on his face say? 'Come on girlies,' is my guess. 'Surely that deserves a nice, big kiss and cuddle for your Uncle Bill?' Regarding聽 the suspected E.coli outbreak at a Wrexham fish and chip shop. If a food outlet is given a zero hygiene rating, as the Llay Fish Bar was last year, why is it allowed to continue trading? Even more astounding, why do people continue to buy food there? Stage school brats vs the real children in need Following the breakdown of ten-year-old Hollie Steel on the finals of Britain's Got Talent, the Government has just launched a review into whether children on television talent shows need better protection. You know, there are lots of children in this country who do need better protection. Some of them desperately so. But you won't find them performing for Simon, Piers and Amanda and a watching audience of millions. You will find them on sink estates and in failing schools, not capering for applause on prime-time telly. Indeed, the kind of stage school brats who haunt these talent shows are usually flinty mini-pros more than capable of looking after themselves, thanks all the same. I always felt that Hollie was crying with frustration because she thought she was being denied the chance to sing again, not because of any evil, showbiz pressure levied upon her. And she certainly recovered her poise and equanimity at top speed. So why can't the Government just let these kids get on with it? There are already strict rules and regulations in place on how frequently and when children can perform. No one is sending them up chimneys or forcing them to listen to Piers Morgan's jokes during rehearsal. Yet Labour is absolutely obsessed with trying to legislate against disappointment or failure or risk. Where it least matters, of course. Both winning and losing are important life lessons for all of us. As the Government might discover at the next election.The Ryan O'Neal guide to funeral etiquette Let us pause for a moment to reflect upon death. Yours and mine. Most of us would, I feel, secretly hope that mourners at our funerals will be too heartbroken to do anything other than ululate with grief and chew the carpet at the unfairness of it all. Personally, I won't be happy unless the entire congregation is shaking their fists at the black sky and wailing: 'When will we ever see such beauty and genius again?'聽
Easily forgotten? Ryan O'Neal and Farrah Fawcett
And at the front of the church, chief mourner George Clooney is prostrate over my slim, attractive coffin shouting: 'It was her! Only her. Oh God, it was her I loved all along!' Where was I? Oh yes. Dearly beloved, what none of us wants is someone asking if they can get the money back on the get-well-soon card they sent the previous week. Or the vicar, towards the end of the address, uttering a sentence that begins with the words: 'But seriously. . .' Most of all, what we really, really don't want is Ryan O'Neal there. Attending the funeral of his long-term partner Farrah Fawcett, the 68-year-old actor attempted to chat up a friendly young blonde woman who appeared to know him. It was only when he proposed meeting up for a cheeky cocktail that the woman pointed out that she was his daughter, Tatum O'Neal. The estranged pair had not met for several years, but still! Perhaps Ryan should chuck the truss, rip up his Viagra prescriptions and get one for a new pair of contact lenses instead. And despite the rather obvious and worrying incest issues that cloud this particular incident, can it ever be right to chat up someone at a funeral? Somehow I doubt it. Any plans to publish Ryan O'Neal's Guide To Funeral Etiquette should be quietly cremated.

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