Then suddenly, certain scions of the UK media, aware that what happens in the Met Bar may actually be of no interest at all, realised that a bona fide pop legend was on our turf, so decided to milk her presence for all its worth. "Madonna’s move to the UK proves the vibrancy and relevance of our Brit-popular culture," was the gist of these mastories, and The Face (whose editor Jonny Davis is a scummy little tosser, making a previously-good magazine unbuyable), the Big Issue and other mags were all as guilty as the obvious tabloid showbiz columns and OK/Hello suspects.

In fairness, the ageing pop tart is probably loving every story she sees as she tucks into her porridge. "Gee, they’re so accommodating, aren’t they." Her gift for self-publicity (the Sex book) was always well known, but she scarcely needs to do any promoting anymore, as an awe-struck media fawns over her every move.

And the media berzircus went into overdrive at the end of the last year as she not only <<<<WOW>>> had her kid’s christening in Scotland, but also <<<GASP>> married that posh twat Guy Ritchie, whose pitful output so far isn’t even worth a mention. By me. See below. ITN and BBC News carrying leader items about the pistening/bed-wetting was the fucking limit. There was no escape from the spent yank tart. PLEASE REALISE THAT ENDLESSLY IONISING HAS-BEENS FROM TWO DECADES AGO ACTUALLY ISN’T GOING TO DO OUR ALREADY-TERMINAL POP CULTURE ANY GOOD AT ALL.

And she’s also responsible for those 70s-style t-shirt craze that showbiz whores of any profession wear, sporting the name of a icon in their field: Thus, Madonna wore a ‘Kylie Minogue’ at Brixton Academy, Nigella ‘My hubby dies why I sup wine’ Lawson wore a ‘Delia Smith’ and Zoe Ballshit wore a ‘Dave Lee Travis’: the last one may not be true, but I’d forgotten my last one as evidence of this execrable media in-joke wank fest.

So Madonna, please return to courting trendy NYC producers like Junior Vazquez. I realise you probably have an inherent psychological weakness that stipulates you must constantly generate attention, but just fuck off and don’t give our pisspoor media any more excuses to do so.

Guy Ritchie: Absolute fraud. Neither cockney nor talented. Through the charlatan’s absorption into cockney/crafty/crappy/crook culture, he clearly subscribes to the casual fascism that characterises tossers of the calibre of Vinnie ‘heart of gold’ Jones and a million other cretins hitching a ride on the strangely authentic coat tails of Mr. Shropshire 1987.

His laughable films illustrate his complete lack of originality. Hot, Cock and Two Smoking Arseholes managed to make drinking games look like a mildly amusing distraction, rather than a tiresome exploit. Wow. Oh yes, and ripping off the outstanding formulaic practitioner in modern film makes the prick parasitic to these rheumy eyes. If Tarantino owes a debt to several film directors, then Shitie owes him his life, wife and addiction to Extra chewing gum.
When a soundtrack is touted with equal gusto as the film itself, it’s not likely to do anything other than irritate the viewer. Of course, there will be millions waiting to laud the pseudo-laird every time he releases his adverts for himself, sorry, films. But the desire for escapism has long since overridden any concern about content, so people are actually putting their already embattled sub-consciousnesses in the hands of this self-serving fuckhead, who has exploited the basic English prejudices of the pikey/gypo/muncher for cheap laughs and to gain access to the incredibly kudos-bursting briefs of Bald Clit, sorry, Brian Pitt. "Did you see how amazing Brad Pitt was in Snatch?" Nope. All I saw was an American wanker taking advantage of a prejudice that receives no attention in this country as it is so implicitly ingrained in the culture, to show that he could give good accent.
The cunt’s films look like a series of adverts featuring the same characters in different bars (to over emphasise the pub would be to alienate the All Bra Bum crew). All designed to illustrate the director’s ability to hawk products stylishly, smoothly and succinctly. If it’s possible for the direction in a film to convey the unction of the director himself (still a 95% male occupied job), then this class voyeur/parasite has surely achieved it.

He is the logical progression of the Loaded mentality: middle-class twat loses interest in the ‘House Rules’ after the clamour for assimilation withers around the age of 15; feeling resentful, he’s attracted to working class culture and it’s call-a-spade-a-spade morality (as the class tourists see it); has a fight with a stranger he’s never played rugger against; alters his vocal cadence and he’s off into the self-imprisoning world of self, social and sexual abuse that is the pained chase of some working class lives masquerading as insouciance. Except that the tourist can always return home at any time, taking away the selective elements that appeal: honesty (only with the lads, never with your missus), cynicism, advanced ability to ridicule anything and ‘having a temper’.

Wilfully complacent and self-interested shitehawks like cunty-bollocks Ritchie end up shutting off another avenue of legitimate dissent, with their duality of commercial primacy and tunnel vision. Ken Loach gets sacked by the BBC, while Ritchie continues to walk the streets with his collection of ‘nuttahs’ from villains’ museums in the East End.