Sweary’s Jaw

Surreptitiously fretting over Zach Braff death rumours, so you don’t have to.

Y’know, it’s rare you’ll have a slow news day in the sphere of celebrity silliness. There are so many stars out there, and with the paparazzi/their PR people on their backs twentyfourseven, you’re bound to get an instant update whenever an A-lister falls over, or says something daft in an interview, or buys crack in a schoolyard, or whatever. Then you’ve got the B and C list celebrities getting snubbed by guestlist Nazis, the mid-alphabet types falling out with one another on Dancing With The Stars … all the way down to some tragic Z-lister losing her implants on a drunken night in. It’s a full and cutthroat world out there - if you want to be in the news, you’ve got to do something newsworthy. Maybe embarrassingly so, maybe something so seedy it trades your whole life for those 15 minutes, but newsworthy nevertheless.

Or so I thought until I read this on breakingnews.ie.

Yasmin Le Bon colour codes her clothes.

The 44-year-old model stores all her pieces in tissue paper and with appropriate shades to ensure they last as long as possible.

And that’s the only time you’ll ever hear me admit to pining for the simple-minded antics of Paris Hilton. Yasmin Le Bon, everyone, the only person capable of giving more pointless lifestyle tips than Gwyneth Paltrow!

Someone who certainly doesn’t need further fashion guidance is Roisin Murphy, who has stated that the inspiration for her trademark bonkers look is… her Mammy.

“She was a great clotheshorse in her day,” said Arklow’s favourite oddity, of Ma Murph. “I remember watching her when she was getting ready to go out. There is something in the narrative of women transforming themselves that’s so special and magical.” I’ve often wondered about the narrative for Roisin’s kooky ensembles. Ponder, if you dare, the cover of her album Overpowered…

I had always presumed the narrative was that of the voices in her head, when all along it was that of her mother’s collection of tea cosies, paint-stained Marigold gloves, and passion for juggling. Let that be a lesson to you all; judge not, lest you be inadvertently disrespecting an Irish Mammy. And Roisin’s Irish Mammy is more Mammy than any of us could handle, I suspect.

Not quite an Irish Mammy, but a godmammy, which is nearly as good, is professional oddball Amy Winehouse. Amy appeared supporting her goddaughter, singer Dionne Bromfield on Strictly Come Dancing, but seemed rather distracted. Nothing new there, but this time Amy’s woes were attributed to the fact that she’d just had a boob job and was still in considerable pain. The rate of Amy’s shrinking was hardly what you’d call unnoticeable; from gorgeous, curvy starlet to beehived, pterodactyl diva, Amy’s rarely been out of the news since the release of second album Back To Black. And rather than going Back To Snack, Amy’s allegedly compensating for her lack of chestage with some strategic surgery. More power to her? Personally, I like my skeletons without comedy melons, and seeing as Amy’s funniest and bitchiest song “Fuck Me Pumps” features the sneering lyric, “At least your breasts cost more than hers”, I can’t help feeling all let down and weepy. Like Amy’s new chest. Zing!

Another surgery fan making a bit of a tit of themselves (sorry) is Courtney Love … yes, again. Courtney’s had her Twitter account shut down, disappointing everyone from Perez Hilton to her local drugs taskforce. It’s been said that the account was closed, pending court proceedings, after Courtney focused her rant-acular powers on designer Dawn Simorangkir, who she described as a “nasty lying hosebag thief”. Give Courtney back her hosebag, for Jaysus sake! She needs it for her hose! Courtney supposedly implied that Ms. Simorangkir was also racist, homophobic, a drug dealer, a prostitute, a fugitive, and an unfit mother. All very serious allegations indeed, had they come from someone not as batshit bonkers as Ms. Lurve, whose words carry as much weight as a crane fly on the Atkins.

Following in her footsteps is daughter Frances Bean Cobain, pictured. The pictured part is important for two reasons. Firstly, because of Frances Bean’s hilarious open letter (earlier this week) to Lindsay’s wee sister Ali Lohan, in which she blasted Ali for trying to become famous for the sake of being famous, and stated that “notariety for who you are and notaritey for the work you produce are two completely differnt things” [sic sicity sic]. I just wanted to remind everyone that she’s Courtney Love’s daughter (see the picture), so whinging on about artistic integrity possibly isn’t the best method of making people certify her sanity and shower her with paid gigs. Secondly, she’s the spit of that Chucky doll, and it is nearly Hallowe’en. And in a related note, can someone gift that household with a dose of Getting Over Yourself and a spell checker? Ah, do.

Anyway, fear not, fashion fiends! Should Courtney Love’s tirade against Dawn Simorangkir prove justified, we’ve lined up another talented artiste to fill the hole in the beautifying ranks. Yes, it’s … Liam Gallagher!

Our kid’s own label, Pretty Green, which includes a lovely jumper in four colours, was influenced by his days as a teenage breakdancer. No, not breakwindowser, breakdancer. Liam’s all about the style, see.

“You want to look good if girls are involved. I was into the old tracksuits,” he’s said, which should tell you all you need to know, and simultaneously, nothing new at all, considering Liam’s not changed his pants stance since 1995. Wearing parkas and strides - your local skanger is more with the catwalk than you think. Give a guv a break, like.

I can’t quite say that I’m going to end this week’s column on a light note, seeing as absolutely none of it can be taken all that seriously, but if there’s anyone even less substantial than a loaded teen having a hissy fit or an unemployed John Lennon impersonator, it’s whoever was first fecked out of the X-Factor live shows. And this year it was “sexy, sassy” slappers, Kandy Rain! News reports that all four met whilst working as a lapdancing club may have damaged their chances of doing well in the competition, but not half as much as the fact that three of them sounded like donkeys being shod and the fourth never sang at all.

“We lost the contest before it had even started. Viewers never got to know our personalities, all they got was snippets of our performance and chats about stripping,” said Vicky “Coco” Lloyd, the one who only found her vocals after being voted off the show. What a terrible thing that four broads can’t get a break in the biz just coz we’ve all seen their mammaries! It’s discrim… oh, hold on. There is this little band called the Pussycat Dolls, isn’t there?

Must have been the flight-simulator-howlings after all, girls.