In the past, Piers Morgan would’ve been beheaded & Sharon Osbourne burnt at the stake – things aren’t much better now
ONCE upon a time, meddling women were burned at the stake and quarrelsome men beheaded.
“Cancellation” in the Middle Ages was brutal.
Six centuries on, things aren’t much better. A little less bloody, maybe, but every bit as messy.
Take Piers Morgan and Sharon Osbourne.
One after the other, the pair, who happen to be pals, have been cancelled.
Good Morning Britain’s Piers was forced to quit after deigning to criticise Meghan’s less-than-watertight Oprah revelations, while Sharon has been taken off air for defending her mate.
And why?
So that fat-cat execs, sitting in their ergonomic swivel chairs and reading a few hysterical tweets from snowflakes, can tell The Board (who ultimately decide their six-figure bonuses) that they are listening to The People. That they are moving with the times.
In reality, viewers are deserting GMB in their masses, ITV has lost more than £200million in market value and shares are plummeting.
Surely it won’t be long before advertisers, the lifeblood of commercial broad-casting, pull the plug too?
On the day Piers flounced off set following a row with the weather-man, Good Morning Britain overtook long-standing rivals BBC Breakfast in the ratings for the first time. At this rate, the last.
So how do you solve a problem like Piers? Not by replacing the combative, mercurial and brilliant presenter with . . . Ben Shephard.
If punchy Piers is Marmite — loved or loathed — then bland Ben, while very nice by all accounts, is margarine. Smooth, inoffensive and versatile, but, let’s face it, no one’s first choice of condiment.
For her part, naturally, Mrs O has also come out swinging.
Vehemently denying she is racist, she has told pals she won’t leave CBS without an eight-figure pay-off.
No network chief wants that many zeroes on a spreadsheet, and that is before factoring in the cost of hiring a replace-ment.
In other words: Go woke, go broke.
I live in fear
Cancel culture is becoming increasingly more toxic — and it needs to be addressed.
According to Google — the lazy woman’s Oxford English dictionary — to be “woke” means to be “alert to injustice in society, particularly racism”.
What it has actually become is democratised shaming.
Thanks to social media, any Tom, Dick (and that they usually are) or Harry can now have his say, frothing at the mouth, and bashing out some bile from behind a grubby little keyboard.
Today, there’s a perma-nent paper trail of shame.
I live in fear that a rogue “joke” or remark over WhatsApp will find its way on to the internet, leaving me lampooned, fired or a social pariah.
It’s not a healthy way to live. It’s also not a million miles off communist Russia at its paranoid height, or McCarthyism in America, with “friends” and neighbours encouraged to dob one another in.
Less sinister, but no less mortifying, is the visceral HORROR of sending a screenshot to the person being discussed — a guaranteed friendship game over.
(I still relive the day I accidentally texted my ex the screenshot of our break-up conversation, alongside the words “God, what a t**t”, three aubergine emojis and a green vomit face. There is no coming back from that.)
Cancellation is all too immediate. Last week, newly appointed Teen Vogue editor Alexi McCammond was fired after offensive tweets she posted as a teen surfaced.
Once the snarling Twitter mob had their say no amount of apologising could get her job back, despite the fact she was just a child (17 years old) when she cocked up.
Yet, as children, we are told that by making mistakes, and apolo-gising, we learn.
The baying pack mentality is terrifying. If we are not all to lose our jobs, and sanity, something needs to change.
Upping my weekly units
AS more and more pubs unveil plans to extend their outdoor seating capacity, so that more and more of us can get rat-a**ed from April 12, the more I fear for livers up and down the country.
While millions of Brits have turned to booze to ease lockdown boredom, many have gone the other way and turned largely teetotal.
Surprisingly, I’ve been one of the latter. And I worry that if I do not return to boozing beforehand, I’ll be in A&E by April 13.
So from now until the reopening of beer gardens I’ll be heroically upping my weekly units to ensure there will be no shock to the system
Paltrow's porn mission
AS a vegan, clean-eating, macrobiotic-loving, intermittent fasting, alkaline water-guzzling, vagina-steaming mum of two, Gwyneth Paltrow continues her mission to prove how edgy she is.
Her latest endorsement comes, so to speak, in the form of ethical porn.
Apparently it is reinventing the genre. Or, as Gwyneth explains: “The first time you watch porn that genuinely and deeply arouses you is akin to the moment you have sex with another person and experience an elation that makes you think, ‘Oh, so this is what sex can be’.’’ Cool.
But the once wholesome Gwyneth’s never-ending obsession with sex toys, Agent Provocateur-style whips and vagina-scented things is wearing thin.
She was married to Coldplay’s Chris Martin, for God’s sake. And appeared in an adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma.
Behind closed doors Gwyneth’s welcome to watch all the (ethical) porn she wants.
But isn’t it about time she stopped banging on about banging and went back to acting?
Failing that, I hear there are some ethical movies looking for a leading lady...
Got to hand it to Ella
FOR the past 12 months we’ve all been elbow-bumping or awkwardly grinning and nodding from two metres apart.
The fear now is that, post-Covid, we will never go back to greeting people with a handshake.
Happily, a British paleoanthroplogist called Ella Al-Shamahi reckons shaking hands is embedded in our DNA, and isn’t going anywhere.
Which will come as a relief to my friends and celeb interviewees alike.
Nothing gives greater social anxiety than being faced with a human to greet.
Will it be a handshake, hug, one kiss, two kisses or – TOTAL HORROR – three air kisses? It is a minefield I forever get wrong.
Like the time, going in for two, I kissed singer Leona Lewis square on the nose.
I loved Line of Duty
ALONG with almost ten million others on Sunday night, I eagerly tuned into Line Of Duty.
I loved it.
Do I have a clue what actually happened?
No.
Staring vacantly at the screen, gaping mouth like a grouper fish, the acronyms, plot-line and character recaps went over my head.
While I consider myself a relatively smart, sentient individual, 60 minutes of LoD makes me think otherwise.
Still, next week there I’ll be, excitedly watching. Bless me.
Bloom's lost it
DO you, like Orlando Bloom, “earn your breakfast” with a strenuous hike, fuelled only by brain oil and collagen powder?
And do you eat a diet that is “90 per cent plant- based” because when you “look at a cow” you think “it’s the most beautiful thing ever”. (Poor Katy Perry)
Also, as with Orlando, does your daily Buddhist practice ensure you are the “driver of your own train”, capable of “setting it alight but getting the fire crew to put it out”?
Probably not.
Unsurprisingly, The Pirates Of The Caribbean star’s daily routine has been widely mocked.
Of course, the actor’s earnest lifestyle is all very Hollywood.
Except Orlando was born in Canterbury, Kent
Flight relief
FOR anyone after a spot of light televisual relief, try glossy new Sky One comedy The Flight Attendant.
Starring The Big Bang Theory’s Kaley Cuoco, it is dark, witty and brilliant.
Even better, it is possible to aimlessly phone-scroll while keeping up with the plot.
Craig's voice is broken
ACCORDING to a breathless press release, Scotsman Craig Eddie, 23, was the winner of “iconic” singing contest The Voice this weekend.
Can anyone name a single other winner of the ITV show over the past ten series?
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Still, hopefully Craig will be different, a life of superstardom beckoning.
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The name of his debut single? Come Waste My Time.
Oh.
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