LETTERS FROM LONDON
REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL
7 September 2014
The Naked Truth

With London Fashion Week (14-18 September) imminent, clothes haven’t really
been part of the media coverage. Unclothed has. Unclothed celebs. Not in the
spirit of fashion really is it? Dear me, what am I thinking here? Fashion is all
about nudity and overt sexuality in print, on the catwalk, on the red carpet.

Private naked photos now public naked photos. You’ve read about them
endlessly, you may have viewed them, everybody... everybody has an opinion,
a philosophical position, a cultural conviction: it’s sexist to view, to click or not to
click, the ‘victims’ shouldn’t have been so stupid, no men were photographed,
misogynist men publish private pics, it’s revenge porn, it’s vile trolls who
fantasize physical abuse against women, the thrill of exposure, etc, etc....
Surely you have your own view of the views. Tell me; when did a ‘celebrity’ find
(self-promoting or otherwise) publicity a bad thing? Never.

Regardless of how horrible the act of transgression, I’m not really getting the
irresistible need to share one’s physical attributes – and presumably actual
sexual acts – with either the public or with the other person involved. Why not
simply install a mirror over the bed like that grotesque Hugh Hefner? Haven’t we
seen actresses naked and having sex in films ad nauseum? No time to
daydream, trust me we have.

Narcissism? Exhibitionism? Insecurity? No, surely not that. In a porn-in-your-
face culture why anyone would want to take 60 images of themselves naked
(Jennifer Lawrence apparently, plus a video – oh dear)? Why a constantly
confessional celebrity would risk undermining their precious endlessly
manipulated envied brand. Hmmm. Possibly not. When was a moi, moi, moi
celebrity interesting for a single minute? Yawn. Can’t think of one can you?
Point made.

The identity of the 4chan user who hacked the pictures remains elusive. But
Apple6 available in less than a week with more security is promised. Just
saying....

                                   
  ***
Brad and Angelina finally wed. Now what limelight-seeking celebrity would
willingly throw herself in front of a bus to take even a nano-second of attention
away from the now legally paired? Who else: Jennifer Anniston.

The ‘actress’ (you know she can’t act and her films are embarrassingly
dreadful) has posed - you already know, don’t you - topless in a new campaign
for a Glaceau Smart water.

Airbrushed to the point of becoming a bluish blur, Jen followed the print ad with
an announcement to the world. Drum roll: "It’s no secret that I’m a huge fan of
Glacéau Smart water and I’m thrilled to be a part of the Great Britain launch."
No secret? Really? I didn’t know. Did you? "I’m always asked about how I keep
my focus when I’m on-the-go and there isn’t one simple answer… but keeping
hydrated is a pretty smart thing to do.”  Particularly just days after B&A tied the
knot that binds. Poor Jen. Shouldn’t her PR machine give her better advice –
and better copy – while on-the-go? A cringe-making effort.


                                       
 ***

In print this month you can view your favourite Kim Kardashian; naked,
seductively in satin sheets, in GQ. How thrilling is that?

Do men still read GQ? So it’s not defunct then. Evidently not as they gave out
dubious awards the other night at GQ’s Men of the Year Awards. Kim
Kardashian - Woman of the Year. Hmmm. Awarded at the Men of the Year
Awards. Now I am confused.

That seemingly endless stream of ‘K’ girls is a total mystery. One I never want
to be solved as the very thought of them makes me want to throw myself off a
bridge at low tide or at the very least to never use the letter ‘k’ again.

The question raised by the media at the event was: who is more talentless,
pointless, Kim Kardashian or Pippa Middleton? All right. Not exactly. But the
press was dress-obsessed. So boring.

Who won? PM playing the ‘class’ card – ha – now that is a stretch. PM wore a
frumpy 30’s granny frock and KK went for – wait! Oh my god! What was that?
Leather + armour = homage to knights? Are those actual – h-i-p-s? No really.
Homage to the Venus of Willendorf surely. An icon of fecundity? Now we know
why KK splashed out a mere $827,000 on gold-plated toilets for her new
mansion. Bespoke surely to accommodate that – oh dear – enormous bum.

The Kanye West & Kim Kardashian act included ‘nuzzling’ – ew – and locking
themselves in the disabled toilets minutes before KK picked up her ‘award’.
Yawn...yawn...yawn. Oh dear. I’ve gone unconscious. And the idea of their
alleged sex-tape is not waking me up.

I do apologise for subjecting you to the announcement KK made to the world: “I
want to thank GQ for making me Woman of the Year and my husband for
making me feel like woman of the year every day.” Pass the sickbag. She goes
on about their kinky sex life, which I am ignoring. Gagging here.  

Dylan Jones had introduced the reality star with the following words: “She is
simply one of the most famous women in the world. The queen of social media
and the queen of TV. And since marrying Kanye West in May she has become
part of the world's most famous couple. She's Cocoa Cola famous... it's Kim
Kardashian.” So GQ is now a humour mag. Right?

A few highlights you surely haven’t missed: Rita Ora changed into an Elvis
imitator tasselled jumpsuit to get the party started. Truly laughable. Jessie J
managed strategically placed swags of fabric. London Fashion Week is almost
upon us. Just saying. Cara Delevingne chose underpants, lace and a major
tumble on the pavement covered by Jonathan Saunders while sycophant Jools
Holland was seen flailing his little legs lying on the red carpet like an overturned
beetle, incoherent Iggy Pop is now an icon award winner possibly with the best
(but I’m only guessing here) and last line of the night: “What is this? What’s
happening?” Where was KK when he needed her droll explanation.

And surely you could have seen this one coming: Tony Blair – Philanthropist of
the Year? Yes. Really. Pippa was seated next to Condé Nast International
President Nicholas Coleridge, bien sûr, and presented the Innovator of the
Year award to Fortnum & Mason Chief Executive Ewan Venters, continuing her
social climb up the slippery pole of respectability. Plus ça change....

GQ. Clearly passed its sell-by date.


                                
  ***
A shawl shows the solution. According to an article in the Daily Mail (I know...
yet) quite convincingly divulges through the DNA on the blood-soaked shawl of
victim Catherine Eddowes, the identity of Jack the Ripper - and no, it wasn’t
Prince Albert Victor or the Duke of Clarence.

The elusive revelation was made after businessman Russell Edwards bought the
shawl at auction. With the aid of Dr Jari Louhelainen who is a world-renowned
expert in analysing genetic evidence from historical crime scenes.

Using cutting-edge techniques, Dr Louhelainen was able to extract 126-year-old
DNA from the material and compare it to DNA from descendants of Eddowes
and the suspect, with both proving a perfect match. Astounded? Dying (oops)
to know the identity of the murderer?

It was Aaron Kosminski, a Polish Jew who had fled to London with his family in
the early 1880s escaping the Russian pogroms.

Kosminski has always been one of the three most credible suspects. He has
been described as having been a hairdresser in Whitechapel based on his
admission papers to the workhouse in 1890. The serial killer is now held
responsible for at least five ghastly murders in East London’s Whitechapel
during the autumn of 1888.

What is irrefutable is that he was seriously mentally ill, probably a paranoid
schizophrenic who suffered auditory hallucinations, described as a misogynist
prone to ‘self-abuse’ – apparently a euphemism for masturbation.

At the time the police did not have enough evidence to convict Kosminski,
despite identification by a witness, but kept him under 24-hour surveillance until
he was committed to mental asylums for the rest of his life.

He died in Leavesden Asylum from gangrene at the age of 53 weighing just 7st.
Gripping mystery solved. Clue: there’s a book:
Naming Jack The Ripper by
Russell Edwards
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