Can I just say: I couldn’t care less about bloody Leo Blair? The only amazing thing is thinking that Tony has now had sex with the nightmarish Cherie four times: that is not an image upon which I care to dwell. So, moving rapidly on: you could have been forgiven for missing one news item of the past fortnight in all the fuss. For your information, I repeat it:

British censor fails to ban porn videos

LONDON, May 16 (Reuters) – British film censors failed on Tuesday in a battle to ban the sale of explicit pornographic videos in sex shops. The High Court in London rejected a challenge by the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC) against a decision by its own Video Appeals Committee to permit seven explicit films to go on sale at British sex shops. The BBFC said before the ruling that if its legal bid failed then virtually all hard-core porn videos could be classified for sale in sex shops for home use.

The titles at the centre of the case included “Horny Catbabe”, “Nympho Nurse Nancy”, “TV Sex”, “Office Tart” and “Wet Nurses 2”. Mr Justice Hooper ruled that the Appeals Committee had been entitled to take the view that the risk of children viewing the videos if sold in sex shops was “insignificant”. He took the view that the attitude of the Appeals Committee was one “a reasonable decision maker could reach. I have no doubt that the conclusion ‘that the risk of the videos in question being viewed by and causing harm to children or young persons is, on present evidence, insignificant,’ is one that a reasonable decision maker could reach,” he said.

The judge accepted there had been inconsistencies in the Appeals Committee’s reasoning in reaching its decision but said: “Any inconsistencies do not invalidate that central finding.” Leave to appeal against Tuesday’s decision was refused but it is still open to the BBFC to apply direct to the Appeal Court for leave to mount a challenge to the ruling.

Hooray! Ah, but the bad news is that Jack ‘War On Drugs – Except When My Son’s Caught Selling Them’ Straw is contemplating amending the law as a result of this legal decision. How childish can you get? “If you won’t let me win, I’m going to change the rules.” Will civilization as we know it collapse into anarchy in chaos as a result? Is this threatening the fabric of the British way of life? Haven’t the government got better things to do?

Enough already. A return to that ever-popular subject of TC Editorialising, Britney Spears, which is not perhaps so far a jump as it sounds [you’ll see…eventually]. Further communications on the subject have arrived at TC Towers:

Probably the last word on the Britster for now: I was shocked to find out a good friend of mine who should have known better had swallowed the covered-up boob job story hook, line and sinker. Even pointing out that a) little girls grow up into big girls (there was one sorry specimen at school with me who went up three inches and two cup sizes in under a year; it’s not that rare), and b) it’s amazing what a different set of supports and some good shading will do (you only have to compare and contrast Ms. Weaver in `Alien’ and `Galaxy Quest’…) did little to dissuade him. So it goes.

However, as a mature l\e\c\h\e\r\ connoisseur of the female form, I prefer infinitely the charms of SMG. The pout, the hairstyle, the fact that she can kick several shades of shit; all these are contributing factors. I’ve found a helluvalot of slash fiction, though; there are far too many people out there with not nearly enough to do.

I think the implant stories fit in rather better with the “dumb, talentless bimbo” stereotype which we’ve previously seen expressed, and puts Britney in the same category as the like of the late, lamented Lolo Ferrari [RIP – I wonder if her coffin had…no, let’s not go there] Heaven forbid she might be merely using her Supreme Deity-given assets. Wonderbras can do very nice things, it’s true — but you need something to work with to start with, as my Japanese ex-girlfriend found out. Hehehe. These days, I prefer proper women.

As for Britney the Vam…ah, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, erotic fan fiction is no surprise, it seeps out of virtually every TV series with more than one character. Recent events in Sunnydale, with Willow putting from the other side of the green, are only likely to provoke a tidal wave more. This is true even though they have been handled with a level of common sense and subtlety (I don’t think they’ve even used the L-word), not commonly seen on network TV. You could compare and contrast the rabid frenzy around Ellen, except that it was a) shit, and b) a loud statement of sexual politics. Keep all politics out of television, and the world will be a better place; better yet would be keeping politics – babies and all – off of television. Which is precisely where I came in…

Lightning flickers across the sky. Thunder rumbles around like the complaints of a slightly-peeved demonic entity. Rain pours down from a lead-coloured sky. It must be the cricket season…

At this very moment, I should, in theory have been relaxing at Lords’ (Cricket Ground rather than Traci’s, though the latter might have some entertainment value too), pint in hand, basking in the summer sunshine and watching the highest level of cricket being played live, for the first time ever. I’ve written elsewhere about the joys to be had, playing the sport, but must confess that watching it pales considerably in contrast to football, baseball, or Japanese barbed-wire death matches. My only experience of spectating at a professional game was an afternoon spent at a county game between Middlesex and Kent on one of my very earliest trips to London, back in the mid-80s.

However, when a work colleague suggested a trip to one of the days in the England vs. Zimbabwe test match, I was seduced by the idyllic vision of leather on willow – not to be confused with the vision of leather on Willow, which is a sordid, Buffy-related thought with which I will, of course, have no truck. None at all. No, sirree… Er, where was I? Ah, yes: this fantasy (that’s the cricket one, not the Buffy sidekick one) failed to take into account two things: the weather, and Zimbabwe’s woeful ineptness.

The former should really have been no surprise; English weather makes the planning of outdoor events a bigger lottery than the National one, with slightly more chance of winning the jackpot than of getting a dry day. This is why Test Matches are allocated five days to complete: foreigners find it impossible to understand how ANY sport can take that long, and still have a good chance of ending in an incomplete draw, but it’s simply because the odds are good that you’ll spend two or more of them sitting in the pavillion. The problem with cricket is that it so dependent on the ground conditions; baseball is largely an air-based game in comparison, with the ball only hitting the ground a couple of dozen times a game. [Mind you, they still have nifty stadia with retractable roofs; I’ve been round the one in Phoenix, and it’s the ninth wonder of the world, holds 40,000 and is air-conditioned]

Zimbabwe’s extraordinary failure to perform was a bit more unexpected, given they are actually ranked above England in the unofficial league table. But, blimey: England score 415 in their first innings; Zimbabwe managed 83, and will be doing well to get even to that in their second attempt. You have to allow for some dubious umpiring decisions, and the conditions being a little different from Zimbabwe (no black militants squatting the cricket pitches, for example), but to an amateur cricketer like myself, there’s something strangely gratifying about seeing internationals playing such crap. I’m toying with the idea of affecting a slightly nasal accent and phoning up to offer my services.

However, it’s too late to save them this time round, and so I am left in a dry, warm house, watching the TV coverage as Channel 4 attempt desperately to find something to occupy the time until the rain stops. They will probably soon be reduced to interviewing the producer’s cat — though I would not be at all surprised to find it purring with a slightly nasal accent, and offering its services as an opener for Zimbabwe… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go watch some Buffy.

Well, I did have a fabulous, hard-hitting critique for this editorial, about the election for London mayor, and also Ken Livingstone’s first week in office. But, hell, I find myself sitting enthralled in front of a long-haired singer from Croatia, blasting out a song about…well, I dunno…while something lurks under a cloak in the background, for reasons which are currentlu obscure. Yes, it’s once again time for perhaps the most eagerly-awaited trash event of the year, the Eurovision song contest.

It’s now a Swede, dressed as a Red Indian — er, make that “native American”, though anyone liable to be offended by such terms would have a heart attack at what I’m watching, which has the cultural sensistivity of General Custer. Oh, but it just gets better; the Macedonian entry consists of four girlies, one blonde, a brunette, a red-haired one, and a raven-haired one. The blonde looks strikingly like Buffy. Though having caught up with three eps of that today – including the “Willow goes drinking from the furry cup” episode – perhaps it’s just me.

Ah, for something which is so far separated from my normal musical tastes, it’s amusing how much entertainment value can be extracted from this. The Latvian entry actually sounds pretty good (almost like R.E.M. but rather better), but was ruined by a performance like a Thunderbird puppet on speed. Bloody hell, Ofra Hazi’s dead. Not that this has anything to do with the Eurovision Song Contest, but our conversation is drifting a bit, ‘cos the Turkish entry wasn’t really up to much. But it is at least better than the Irish, who have clearly had enough of winning, and are playing to lose this year.

Bloody hell. I missed Estonia, the Britney Spears look-alike. Never mind, they’re about to get to the voting, which is always the best bit – I used to fill in charts when I was young, and analyse the results. Which usually consisted of Greece pointedly not voting for Turkey, and vice versa. Two years ago, I watched the voting in a bar just off the Reeperbahn in Hamburg, shouting “It’s a bloke!” every time Dana International showed up. Ah, MEH-mo-REEES… At least I’m now getting a quick review of all the songs (including the ones I missed while I was down the pub), which saves a great deal of time, and allows me to decide that my vote this year goes to Buff…er, Macedonia. That’s them cursed for all eternity.

Though I do have to say that the mid-show entertainment was actually remarkably cool, diverse and yet unified. Unfortunately, things went rapidly downhill once voting started, and the dreadfully dull Danes started racking up the points. Things were enlivened only slightly by news of a disaster in the Netherlands which stopped them from having a phone poll. Still, I found myself getting utterly absorbed by the whole process: “if Russia gives twelve points to Denmark, that’s a real killer”. They did.

And that was it. Denmark’s dire dirge duly delivered victory, and the massed bunch of TC’ers filed away, disappointed for another year: to quote one, “This has just confirmed everything I ever thought about the Eurovision Song Contest. It’s a load of bollocks.” Ah, Macedonia were robbed…

I am always glad to receive intelligent and thoughtful criticism and comment from people who have visited the TC Site. However, I also get stuff like the following, which I reproduce exactly as received, though I feel I should really be cutting letters out of newspapers in order to put over the full effect:

Subject: tom jones

i? see you playing 
 shaking tat pooh 
dont touch me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!poof city
what courage what game your fans have
the IDEA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
you can,t play jus WW2 YOU LOSTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!....

Answers on a postcard please, to the usual address. Put “What the hell is he talking about Competition” in the corner. I think he may be trying to be insulting, but the level of coherence there left too much to be desired. Mind you, even communications from my (slightly) less certifiable friends are not immune to containing the odd subtle innuendo:

Hi, Jim

So there I was in Hamley’s on Friday, and there she was in all her glory: the Britney Spears doll, in the schoolgirl fetish outfit, and the slogan “born to make you happy” proudly plastered on the cardboard case.

And I thought, exactly who is this aimed at?

Does he mean me? Even if my reputation exceeds me, I fear he does — and he’s not the only one, since I know someone else seriously toyed with the idea of buying me said doll for my birthday. There’s clearly something in the air — not that I’d have minded, since I quite like the idea of subverting the doll, by dressing it in PVC and piercing its most intimate regions (not the first time cheerful pop icons have suffered at my hands, but that’s a whole other editorial). Nor do I have any aversion to Ms. Spears, since she knocks the (short, white) socks off most of the rest of the current wave of barely legal pop-tarts. There’s probably not a heterosexual male around who will not be brought to a standstill by that video – which also happens to be one of the catchiest toons of the past few years. Plus you also have to admire anyone who can piss off The Guardian newspaper. The same source sent a follow-up message shortly after, which he found therein:

“Britney Spears is successful simply because she’s an attractive piece of ass. It’s as simple as that. She’s got the youth, the schoolgirl knickers, she’s a living fantasy – but, let’s face it, she’s got the personality of a log.”

It looks as if some journo has been so busy snorting coke with his pals down the Groucho, that he (or she — for this reeks of the sort of dreck Julie Burchill used to write) has lost track of the basic concept. Since when has being a music star required any kind of personality at all? It’s an irrelevance at best, and can be a dangerous distraction — this is perhaps why Ringo Starr is alive today, and John Lennon isn’t. Unless you confuse “personality” with taking copious volumes of drugs, and lobbing TVs out of hotel windows, you might as well criticise Britney because she’s no good at playing cricket.

The problem with pop stars who try to show depth, is that it often backfires horribly. Too often, all they do is latch onto some shallow social concern — I’m thinking Sting & Chumbawumba here — and look like prats or hypocrites, by dressing up as Amazonian Indians, or signing to the same multinational they railed against before they had any hits. It may provide a cheap laugh, but give me the cheerful (if paedophilic) blandness of Britney any day. The best pop music glories in shallowness, because to be popular, it has to pander to the lowest common denominator. Condemning its creators and practitioners for doing so, is really missing the entire point.