Kim Kardashian: The Truth!


I don’t really follow celebrity news, since it seems to me that, as a general rule, popularity is directly proportional to lack of talent.

And as far as I can tell, Kim Kardashian is up there – or down there – with Her Royal Lowness Paris Hilton in the list of nominations for Leading a Life With Little or No Obvious Talent or Purpose.

Usually I would’ve heard about her divorce a week after everyone else and offered an indifferent shrug. But I heard it on the breakfast news in Sydney while most of the western world were asleep (I’ve never been ahead of gossip, so this is a world-first for me), and couldn’t help but feel a range of emotions.

Mainly: What a fucking twat.

The reason she gave for her splitting up with Kris Humphries (what’s with all the K’s?) after only 10 weeks of marriage was ‘Irreconcilable Differences’. I can’t for the life of me imagine how a couple could appear so happily in love, make those solemn vows, and then over the stretch of 70 days discover that they have conflicts of interest, differences of opinion, that are so distressingly agonising that they can’t possibly work them out, and then decide that the best option is to break up.

You consider that at least a week – 10% – of that period was spent boffing in luxuriousness on an Italian honeymoon, that leaves 8 or 9 weeks to get on each other’s nerves so much that not even the $18m they got for their nuptials could make the future together seem tolerable.

This reeks of bullshit more than the Captain of the Rena saying “Oh yeah I was paying attention”.

What could there possibly be to argue about in those first few weeks of marriage? Which position to fuck in? Seriously, I’m out of suggestions. I can understand maybe divorcing after 10 years, but 10 weeks??

Her excuse is a deliberately vague one, one that suggests troubles but doesn’t go into detail. A politician would be proud of that vagueness. Let’s apply her excuse to other prematurely-ended relationship scenarios and see what such a proclamation might mean:

“My new puppy and I parted after Irreconcilable Differences” – It shat on the suede futon so I had it put down.
“Yeah the new girlfriend had to go, Irreconcilable Differences” – She was frigid/her clunge smelt funny.
“I sent my new tablet back cos of Irreconcilable Differences” – It was an iPad.

Considering all of the above, and doing some clever interpolative analysis in the vast quantum calculator that is my brain, I have produced the following translation of Kim’s explanation:

“Kris and I have decided to divorce after Irreconcilable Differences” – I’m a money-grabbing piece-of-shit morally-void pointless fuckbag

Ah. Plausible.

Now, I’m not exactly the biggest fan of marriage. I’m not entirely great at relationships, the closest I’ve ever come to a soul-mate being an Airedale Terrier. I think marriage is a rather out-dated institution, that promising yourself to one single other person for the rest of your life is a bit weird because, yes, people do change after time, leading to differences.

But not over the course of 70 days, Kim.

I could understand if her and Kris were both actors, spending 12 hours a day together for 3 months, intensely pouring out some badly-written, badly-acted lines whilst staring into each other’s eyes. It’s this on-set chemistry that is mistaken for real feelings, and why actors tend to get hitched after 10 days of meeting. (See Jennifer Lopez. Although how she mistook her acting for genuine emotion I can’t imagine.)

But no, you’re not an actor, Kim, although you did a pretty good job of convincing the world that you were genuinely in love with Mr Humphries. Perhaps you should receive an Oscar for that performance. Preferably delivered by an industrial nail-gun, straight into your over-made-up face.

You may have noticed, Kim, that I dislike you. I know you’re not too bright, but I’m confident you will have picked up on that. I dislike you partly because you’re talentless. I dislike you partly because you’ve made a mockery of marriage and set a bad example to millions around the globe, partly because you’re a greedy bitch, and partly because you have a face like an Arabian mare.

But mostly, I dislike you because you’re a dick.


Bleeding Cool!

I was fortunate enough to meet Rich Johnston a week or two ago, the man behind the comic and film site, and I’m proud to announce that as of this Friday he’s going to be running a regular-ish column by myself, kissing and telling (mostly telling, really) all about my work as an Extra in films and TV.

Expect gossip.

Expect glam.

Expect drama.

Expect ranting.

Expect arrows.

Expect you’ll enjoy it.

Part 1 goes into gory detail of last year’s ‘Robin Hood’. Warts, wenches ‘n’ all.

That’s this Friday 19th, at

Be ye there or be ye a rectangular shape.

Property Ladder

I used to like this show.

Partly because I had an interest in property development, partly because it was amusing watching amateurs who thought they knew better than the pro, Sarah Beeny, and mostly because it was fun ogling Sarah’s ever-changing bust.

In fact I have a theory that the reason most of the Donald Trump wannabes didn’t absorb a single word that Beeny said is that they were hypnotised by her ample chest. (Ample’s such a great word.) Thus she would give them sound advice, leave them to it, come back 4 weeks later and discover they’d done things totally different. The resulting conversation might go like this:

Do you think a two-bedroom flat in
Wandsworth really needs a heli-pad?

Yeah I really think it’ll add value to
the place.

You’re a fucking moron.

But of course they’ll ignore her, the heli-pad will stay, and the various estate agents will look as bemused as Sarah and value the place much lower than the auteur developer expected.

And I’ll laugh, heartily and haughtily.

But now it’s all getting a bit formulaic. The investor will either listen carefully to Ms Beeny, having figured out that this is the wise thing to do (and free expert advice), or they’ll ignore her as usual, but the resulting mess is no longer a surprise and not as much fun. Just like ‘Come Dine With Me’ must have contestants that conflict with eachother (the vegetarian bra-burner and the meat-eating chauvinist), just like ‘Grand Designs’ must involve people who can’t really afford to rebuild a barn in Suffolk but mortgage their souls and somehow manage. It all gets a bit tedious.

But I did notice an unusual parallel: The wannabe developer is a lot like the wannabe screenwriter. 

In both industries, there are standards. Expected guidelines that newbies should adhere to. When you’re Donald Trump, then you can put heli-pads on two-bed flats; likewise when you’re Aaron Sorkin, then you can do your own thing, because you’ve already made it.

I was recently reading a screenplay which someone called ‘Gary’ had submitted to The Nicholl Fellowship screenwriting contest. He was furious that he hadn’t made the cut for the second round, and threw his toys from his pram in all directions, crying that his ‘brilliant’ script with ‘amazing amazing characters’ was the ‘best that Nicholl had ever received’.

So, naturally, I had to read it. And, long story short, it wasn’t brilliant. I didn’t even realise it was meant to be a comedy until page 8. (Oops.) It did all the things that you shouldn’t do that would put a professional reader off. All the basics that you should stick to because that’s what the industry expects of you, because you’re a nobody, and if you don’t know the basics then you red-flag yourself as unprofessional. And your script – no matter how many months you spent on honing the dialogue – will end up in the recycling bin.

Likewise property developing. If the market wants open-plan living areas, give it that. Don’t try and be a smart-arse, you’ll ultimately only fall on that arse. That arse that is not so smart.

So, to sum up: Peel your eyes away from Sarah Beeny’s tits and look at the bigger picture.