I don’t like Mondays, particularly grey, rainy, cold Mondays. Loved the song, though, à la the Boomtown Rats. Absolute classic – and classic Bob Geldof or, should I say, Sir Bob Geldof. A title of which he is more than worthy – unlike some – I relish his rare appearances in the media now. Always his own person with his own opinions, there is no flannel to this man and I have always admired him for that. Intelligent, knowledgeable, one could never say he was devoid of ego; in fact, quite the opposite but vacuous narcissism is not part of his make-up. From the moment the Boomtown Rats exploded upon the world of pop – or punk, at the time – back in 1977, he was impossible to ignore, the curator of unforgettable songs which have stood the test of time. Of course, the musician was eclipsed by the saint, following Live Aid, while his personal life was to dominate for many years with his acrimonious split from Paula Yates and the ensuing tragedy. Proving, once more, to be a man with a huge heart, however, Sir Bob took the orphaned Tiger Lily – the child of his ex-wife and Hutchence, whom he must have hated – under his wing, fighting for her custody in order that she may grow up with her sisters. He would go on to adopt her, giving her the stability of a family and the security she never had. The man can do no wrong in my eyes.
Not so Paula Yates, though, his ex-wife who ran off with the revolting INXS frontman, Michael Hutchence in 1995 embarking on a downward spiral which ended with her death from a heroin overdose in September 2000. She was only 41, leaving four little girls motherless. A tragic, futile end for one whose flame had once burned so brightly. She was vivacious, engaging and beautiful but, moreover, she was extremely intelligent with a razor-sharp wit. No surprise at her pairing with Bob Geldof, then. It seemed a match made in heaven as their popularity soared, following Live Aid, but fame proves a bitter pill and the appetite of the media was insatiable when it came to this golden couple.
It was the Eighties and, ironically, Paula became a figurehead – nay, a champion – for motherhood and, moreover, stay-at-home ones! Ages with me, she had her first daughter in 1983 and her second of three with Bob, in 1989. Ostensibly, they were the perfect family and she, the perfect mother. It seemed she had found her role, claiming it her raison d’être, and, in 1990 – the year after Becca was born – she even wrote a manual on motherhood entitled ‘The Fun Starts Here‘. No word of a lie, it was a godsend to me and every other terrified, first-time, frazzled, sleep-deprived, neurotic mum in the land. Becca was a nightmare! Sleep? What was that?! I remember crying with exhaustion because I didn’t even have time to wash my hair! Then, I read in Paula’s book that babies who sleep all the time are, put it this way, not intellectually gifted; or, straight-to-the-point, Paula – ‘just thick’! Yes, I know, but it was exactly what I needed to hear, at the time, when, by all accounts, Becca’s peers were almost angelic! Another invaluable truth: new mothers lie, myself excluded, I hasten to add …
To the point. Having, no doubt, successfully alienated a great many of my peers with my forthright views on Jeremy Hunt’s recent proposed injection of £4 billion into the extended provision of free childcare to one and two-year-olds – and, breathe – it was Mother’s Day yesterday. Add to that, I watched the two-part documentary, Paula, on Channel 4 last week, expecting to feel sorry for her. I had liked Paula Yates; well, until she left Bob heartbroken, that is. Big mistake. Huge mistake! Huge tragedy. However, by the end, I had changed my mind. I lost any empathy for her. Yes, it was a tragic waste of a life but she was no mother to look up to. In fact, the complete opposite. Ultimately, she sacrificed the needs of four little girls for her own, choosing a life of hedonism fuelled by drugs and alcohol in a bid to tether the insatiable Hutchence. Not only did she shatter the mother myth but she ruined her life and very nearly those of her four children, leaving Sir Bob to pick up the pieces. Sadly, Peaches didn’t survive but Bob Geldof most definitely needs no knighthood to proclaim him a saint!
You know those days when you feel as though nothing’s going right? Well, I’ve just come across the embodiment of the perfect metaphor: a lone sock on the bedroom floor! Yes, the washing machine is all but finished and I come up here and there it is; that lone, dirty sock. Why? Symbolic. The car is on the blink, the young girl in Tesco gave me the wrong lottery tickets, my hair bears no resemblance to mine and I haven’t finished this! Glass of wine poured but not sure if even 19 Crimes can save this day. Stop moaning! Back to the Oscars …
Look, I didn’t watch the Oscars. Condensed, vacuous sycophancy. However, any idiot could have predicted the outcome given the furore following the BAFTAs: white people won – in Britain! Anyway, I deliberately ignored the American equivalent at the time, but, failing to switch off the radio, promptly, after Michael Ball on Sunday, I happened to catch EP’s (Elaine Paige) comments about certain recipients. Turns out she is a woman after my own heart! Apropos winning film – Everything Everywhere All at Once – which claimed not only Best Picture but six other awards, she said – and I quote: ‘Why? I lasted twenty minutes!’. Now, I have neither watched this film, nor do I have any desire to do so. Googling more information as to genre and synopsis, the following might explain why:
‘It follows Evelyn Wang, a Chinese-American immigrant who must connect with parallel universe versions of herself to prevent a powerful being from destroying the multiverse.’
Of course. Apparently, it’s quite funny, too … Seriously? This won Best Picture beating Elvis? Beating ‘Living’?! There are not enough exclamation marks anywhere to convey my disbelief; my anger; my disgust. Not enough words to rail against the injustice in the name of woke – and we just keep on allowing it. The Tyranny of Tolerance. Interestingly, Michelle Yeoh’s acceptance speech, winning the coveted Best Actress Oscar, began with,
‘For all the little boys and girls, who look like me, watching tonight, this is the beacon of hope and possibilities.’
… and that’s what it’s all about, now, in a world in which merit has no place.
Elaine Paige was, equally, unimpressed that the Best Actor Oscar went to Brendan Fraser (The Whale), rather than to Austin Butler for embodying Elvis in Elvis! ‘A man in a chair for the entire film? Why?’ (I thought she said ‘bath’ but presume it must be ‘chair’.) One gets the picture, pardon the pun … I wish I hadn’t Googled ‘The Whale’, although I should not be surprised at what I found:
‘Charlie has become morbidly obese following the suicide of his late partner, Alan … ‘
‘Another early scene, in which he almost dies from a heart attack while masturbating to gay porn, feels far more voyeuristic (and callous) than it needs to be.’
Who wants to see that? Rhetorical for we, now, live in a world in which children are denied their childhood, their innocence, while being force-fed gender ideology and sex in 3-D! Roald Dahl classics must be doctored by ‘Sensitivity Readers’ for fear of offence – words such as ‘fat’ and ‘ugly’ being removed – while the nation’s librarians spend their time scurrying around hiding the beloved Enid Blyton’s ‘Famous Five’ series and that of ‘Malory Towers’ in dark crevices, never to be found, for fear little Johnny might be upset at the thought of ‘lashings of ginger beer’! Little Johnny, meanwhile – aged 5 – is wearing a tutu and demanding that he, now, be referred to as Joanna while their mum gives not a jot as she awaits the start of Drag Queen Story Time. One couldn’t write it! Yes, Private Frazer (Dad’s Army), we truly are all doomed.
Thank God for the Government Emergency Alert due to usurp our phones on the 23rd April, that’s all I can say …
‘The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing.’
This is Trish, signing off and changing her phone settings.