Peaches and scream.
Peaches Geldof. Peaches fucking Geldof. Or, to give her full name, Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof. The name itself could stop a suicide bomber in his tracks. Why blow yourself up on the public transportation system when just a epithet can inspire similar dread of the downfall of civilised society?For some reason known only to the editors at the Grauniad, they love every so often to wind the readers' up. The latest example of this is giving over the G2 column slot usually filled by Alexander Chancellor to the aforementioned fruit/plant/celestial being.
It gets worse. She's here to tell us all about her obsession with MurdochSpace:
One night, after watching Hollyoaks (the king of soaps), I browsed other people's comments. Logging on to my friend Jessica's profile (slyly noting that my profile picture was way better than hers in terms of creativity - I was dressed as a clown for a fancy-dress party), I noticed that another of my friends had been cyber-galactically conversing with her. But wait . . . they were talking about me! "Peaches is so annoying," Chloe had written. "She's uploaded about seven pictures of herself posing, then about 10 of Fred [my beloved boyfriend] and then all the rest are of her stupid rat-dog and her dressed as some kind of scary clown. She really needs to stop being such an exhibitionist all the time." WHAT?
How then does our intrepid MurdochSpace user respond to this insult against her honour?
I furiously left a scathing comment about privacy, integrity, respect, etc and then added some abusive picture comments on Chloe's page. Ah, sweet revenge.
Oh, so you're a cunt. Well, that's not exactly much of a surprise, is it? Your father's a cunt who urged the poor to give all their money to charity while he takes all the credit and your mother was a worthless, talentless cunt right up until she finally she did the one thing she'll be remembered for, i.e. killing herself. You couldn't help being given that horrendous name, but you could have at least tried not to live up to it. Instead you and all your vapid, attention-seeking, fame-loving, brain-dead but rich buddies fill up the pages of the newspapers with your miserable, banal and boring antics and then expect that people will care about your fatuous MurdochSpace addiction.
One night, while staring at the flickering screen, surfing my only link to the outside world, I realised I was trapped in a cyber-microcosm of isolation. It was time to come clean or be trapped for ever. I cut myself off MySpace. Cold turkey. I occasionally go back on, just to check messages and show my old haunt I'm still there, in spirit. But for all those starting on MySpace, or Bebo or Facebook, or any of these other so-called "communities" - be warned. Once you log in, you might never log off.
Why couldn't you stay forever logged in? Why is God punishing us by giving you space to write this trite crap? Why can't you just be another MurdochSpace whore, involved in your own little circle-jerk without bothering the rest of humankind and hopefully dying in a somewhat entertaining manner? Why can someone with nothing to say be given a column in a national newspaper? Can't you take Russell Brand and fuck off and die in a corner?
Still it goes on:
I recently turned 18, and instead of feeling a huge change as the tide of adulthood washed over me, cleansing me of my youth and dirtying me with (gasp!) old age, I felt nothing. I had been led to believe that when I reached adulthood, all of sudden I would have to take responsibility for all my actions, that grey hairs would appear, that I would acquire an innate sense of self I had previously lacked. Instead I acquired a dog.
You didn't "acquire" this dog though did you? You didn't just find one in an alley and take pity on it. No, being 18, infatuated with becoming famous yet loaded with money, you had to copy the biggest, most-well known and least talented person on the planet:
Snowy is a teacup chihuahua (insert Paris Hilton jokes here)
Jesus tap-dancing fucking Christ. First we hear about your squabbles with your lame friends, now we're treated to a story about your exclusive, pedigree excuse for a dog.
How can such a tiny dog make such a huge muck?
How can one witless daughter of a half-wit make you lose so much faith in humanity? How can such a tiny woman leave such a great big printed turd in the middle of a newspaper? Why have I not shot myself yet? Still, I have to hand it to her: she's managed in 947 words to mention her boyfriend 5 times, and even plug his fucking atrocious band, which manages to out-pseud even the most pretentious post-rock/prog-rock group:
Every generation has a legend.
Every saga has a beginning.
Every journey has a first step.
Yeah, it's called the saga of the journey to the Jobcentre. Enjoy it. Hopefully Peaches will eventually join you there.
Labels: argh, Grauniad bollocks, MurdochSpace, Peaches Geldof
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That article did annoy me today. It was dire to say the least. Badly written dirge, bit like that song her daddy did (actually, bit like all the songs daddy did). Although, I am with her on one thing, Hollyoaks is the King of Soaps.
Posted by
korova |
Friday, March 30, 2007 11:55:00 PM
Neighbours is the one I can stand the most, and that's only in small doses. Hollyoaks is just utter trash, which can be enjoyable if you like that sort of thing.
Posted by
septicisle. |
Friday, March 30, 2007 11:59:00 PM
I started reading Peaches column, without realising who had written it. I have never wasted two minutes in such a pointless way.
Like the rest of the shit that those people do it was about fuck all.
Oh, and I'm a complete soap-dodger.
Posted by
Sim-O |
Saturday, March 31, 2007 9:39:00 PM
Would you honestly give a newspaper column to some six-former who's just eagerly bought a dictionary and has never done anything of note in their life? Can anyone explain how she got a column in the first place? It's not like her dad is...oh, wait...
Posted by
Mark Buckland |
Wednesday, December 03, 2008 9:37:00 PM