I swore I'd never do this . . . but I'm going to . . .

blog about Katie (did you know her first name is Katrina?) Price and Peter Andre - but before you switch over to something more interesting like the shipping forecast - hang fire. I'll make it quick, honest.

The only reason I'm doing this is cos I'm fed up with people telling me, "you're a lesbian - so you're bound to take her side," (words to that effect.) Huh! What? Me? Blinded by my Sapphic tendencies? Okay, so it wouldn't be the first time.

I'm just surprised the marriage lasted three and a half years - I can barely put up with the bad-mannered mare's shenanigans for half an hour on TV. Pete, mate, you're made of sterner stuff than you think. So, yes, I support you. And salute you.

Message to the designers of this year's Wimbledon officials' outfits . . .

-2/10. Truly piss-poor, 'wouldn't be seen dead in it,' dreadful.

Sorry, Laura Robson (and good effort earlier by the way), but I couldn't give my full attention to cheering you on, love, because of having my eyes continually drawn to some lump of a woman line judge, squeezed - yes, squeezed, into some naff get-up that you'd expect to see at a Working Men's bowls club of a Sunday afternoon. Did someone think the addition of the white cap would make the whole ghastly striped-shirt charade look somehow trendy? Well all it does is make everybody look like they're eight months' gone. Even the men. And as for those House of Elliott reject skirts, don't even get me started. (We're back on the women now, in case there's any doubt.)

Why can't our annual tennis fest be like the other Grand Slam events and we can have our officials decked out in cool polo shirts, or tees, rather than this poncy 'bankers on a cruise' stuffed shirts brigade. Better still, get Vivienne Westwood to knock something up. Course it won't happen. Because this, my dears, is Wimbledon, blah, blah . . . years of tradition, blah, blah, crap.

Honestly, 2009's faux pas must be the least flattering officials' kit ever. If I'd been signed up as a line judge, I'd have started an all-out rebellion, trashed the gear and walked out, which would surely have been something of a comfort to the players, as I have enough trouble seeing whether the ball was in or out on the action replays, let alone in real time.

Hang on a sec. What with my dodgy eyesight, maybe I've done those outfits a disservice. Perhaps with my glasses on . . . up close . . . they'll look . . .

Nah, hideous.

Shameless appeal to commissioning editors - oi YOU - gis a column!

Are you the commissioning editor of a national or regional publication? Come on out of the woodwork and reveal yourself to us. You know precisely who you are, so stop hiding. I can see you. I'm talking to you. Yes, YOU. No don't navigate to another page you spineless sh . . . lovely person, you.

As you're reading this blog, aren't you thinking, this woman is exactly what we need to spice up our magazine/ newspaper/ website/ blog/ cereal packet/ church choir/ Neighbourhood Watch newsletter? No? You're thinking you left the sausages at the checkout at Sainsbury's - well, frankly, I don't believe you. And if you did, it damn well serves you right for taking your eye off the ball, while trying to chat up Mel on till five. (See how clever I've been there. It matters not what your gender or sexual persuasion, "Mel" fulfils everybody's sexual fantasy.) Or maybe not.

You see, dear readers, what I've always hankered after is, well quite a few things actually, now you come to mention it, but mainly . . . My Own Column . . . in a national (though I'd consider regional/ local - we all have to start somewhere) publication. Ahhh (lingering sigh.) And this blog sort of is that, isn't it? Like a column. Albeit, starting in a very small way with the kind of readership that makes Richard and Judy's defunct viewerless disaster look like the sort of thing that would cause a massive power surge and blow up the National Grid.

Subject matter/ content: Anything under the sun. I can do empathy/ sympathy/ misery/ droll/ funny/ gut-wrenchingly funny/ zany/ self-deprecating (not all at the same time). And if it's an opinion piece you're after, you won't catch me sitting on the fence then suing at a rate of 20,000 bucks per splinter lodged in my posterior (though right now it sounds like a viable career option.)

Having recently done a travel guide review for a book magazine, I find I've developed a touch of wanderlust. So if you just happen to be the CE of a publication which features travel pieces and your regular writer's gone AWOL - or you can't find someone to trawl to those less popular out of the way dives, like Bermuda or Dubai - just give us a shout. Tough gig, but somebody's gotta do it.

I'm off to get the packing case on standby.

This ain't no Budden romance, Jackiey, love. Ditch this 'ugly' tosser before you get seriously hurt

Jackiey Budden's unsavoury behaviour on Celebrity Big Brother 2007 was nothing short of appalling. I said at the time I thought she was the main instigator of the bullying of Shilpa Shetty and I stand by that. Jackiey was the one that kicked the whole sorry episode off by constantly referring to the Bollywood actress as "Princess" and "The Indian," because, apparently she couldn't pronounce "Shilpa."

By no means was she the only one who disgraced herself. Danielle Lloyd, Jo O'Meara, Jack Tweed and Jade Goody acted like pack animals, baying at their defenceless, though remarkably dignified prey, at every given opportunity. As far as I an aware, Jade, was the only one to accept the blame for the disgraceful way she behaved in the house. She duly apologised to Shilpa and all was forgiven.

When Jade's cancer became inoperable, it would have taken a very hard person indeed not to feel desperately sorry for Jade and those closest to her - for her sons and Jack and Jackiey. Jackiey, in particular, was forced into showing her vulnerable side under the persistent glare of media intrusion, albeit, this was the way Jade chose to end her life.

Following Jade's death, somewhere in the stark recesses of Jackiey's grief, I imagine, there must have existed a terrible emptiness and a longing for someone to shoulder the burden alongside her. Or perhaps the opposite: for someone to transport her to some fantasy island away from it all.

Enter ex-squaddie-turned-chef, Jason Cooper, who Jackiey met in the resort of Los Cristianos, Tenerife.

Ten minutes into the relationship (okay, six weeks, but still), courtesy of his ex-wife and ex-lover's newspaper revelations, Cooper is already emerging as something of a prize love rat, whose motto in snaring the 'desperate' women he has a reputation for pursuing, according to local Elvis impersonator, John Dresser, is to 'go ugly early.' What a charmer, eh? While Jackiey maintains: 'I know I've found someone I can grow old with.' Talk about love being blind.

Jackiey, darlin', I may have been your fiercest critic one time, but you deserve far better than this grabbing slimeball. Now I'm not remotely trying to woo you back 'on-side' as it were. (Doesn't it make you hoot when the press describe somebody as a 'former lesbian' like it's a bloody career change!) I'm quite sure it doesn't matter a fig to those who care about you, whether you find your future happiness with a man or a woman, just as long as that person loves you for you . . . and not what he or she can get out of you.

Fiddler in the Roof

Aishatu Ishaku, the Holloway inmate on remand for fraud, who was thought to have escaped by tagging on the back of a visiting church group, has been discovered hiding in the roof space of the prison's pottery classroom.

Not sure what's more embarrassing for the jail - for her to have actually legged it - or the umpteen staff checks, employment of sniffer dogs and scrambling of a helicopter, which occurred following Ishaku's vanishing act.

Clearly the sniffer dogs warrant further investigation. They can't all claim to have been overcome by a bout of hay fever, surely.

I should learn to quit while you're ahead, love . . .

Debbie Stallard, 47, from Paignton, has got off doing community service because probation staff say her four-inch heels are a work hazard. And you see, Debbie, poor love, can't wear 'sensible' shoes cos her Achilles' tendon has shortened (through wearing stilettos for so blooming long, one presumes). Which, roughly translated, means the woman can't wear flatties cos they cause her too much pain. This is all backed up by medical evidence naturally. (It begs me to ask the question: how much money do we waste on these ridiculous proceedings?)

So the magistrates, in their questionable wisdom, relented and gave her six-month curfew order - and is the woman happy? Of course not. She thinks having to wear an electronic tag is: "a bit harsh." No, nothing to do with swollen ankles, or any other medical condition as far as I am aware.

Anyway, she's considering an appeal. No surprise there.

Meanwhile, if anyone knows of any 'community service' jobs that are suitable for women in high heels please send them to me at this blog and I'll forward them on to the relevant authorities for future reference.

CRB checks: of course be thorough . . . but come on . . .

In 2002, when I applied to work in an organisation which looked after elderly and vulnerable people, I was required to undergo a CRB check with enhanced disclosure. With the forms duly completed, partly by me and partly by my employer (in no time at all - well almost), we sat back and waited . . .

and waited . . .

but was I concerned? No. Because, being the morally (some might say, boringly) upright citizen I am - I've never had any contact with officers of the law, except for the purposes of researching a novel, once or twice. I don't have any points on my driving licence - and for the cynical amongst you, it's not because I've paid someone to take the rap for me - what do think I am, a footballer?

OK, I did once get a parking ticket for stopping on a double-yellow stripy thing once in Brighton, when I got caught short. It turned out to be the most expensive bloody 'penny' I ever spent. Then there was that time on the one-way system in Wimbledon (and if you're at all familiar with the area you'll know exactly what I'm talking about). Through the post I received this grainy image, resembling an old Polaroid (supposedly me hunched over the wheel of my rusty yet trusty Mondeo) together with a demand for a hundred quid for DRIVING IN A BUS LANE.

BUS LANE? CALL THAT A BUS LANE? What, for a Dinky toy, or what? Honestly, it's about ten feet long, with absolutely no advance warning until you're on top of the thing. What do they expect you to do? Swerve into the other lane of traffic and cause an eight vehicle pile-up? I was livid, of course. But, being the upright citizen I am (did I mention that already?) I paid up, meek as a lamb. And moaned about it incessantly for years to come. See, I'm still doing it now.

None of which has anything to do with my eagerly awaited 'enhanced disclosure'.

So anyway we waited. We waited three months. Then six. Nothing. Zilch. F--- all. Then the lovely lady who'd agreed to take me on, chased it up with those in 'the know.' Supposedly. There had been a bit of a backlog evidently. We were told we needed to be patient. (Of that there was no doubt. 'Patience' became my middle name, by default.) On the stroke of seven months, said lovely lady told me she couldn't wait any longer for me - and hired somebody else. Boo, hiss. I could hardly blame her. Meantime, I was doing another job. One that didn't require an ED: delivering flowers. I'd waited so long to adopt my 'caring' tag I wasn't sure it was my thing after all.

In fact, I forgot all about it, until one day an envelope containing my CRB certificate popped through my door - a mere 13 months after I'd applied. Yes, THIRTEEN months, almost to the day. My application had even celebrated its first birthday as I'd remained blissfully unaware . . .

I couldn't resist phoning the CRB people up to find out what had gone wrong.
'Ah, they said, 'it's because you moved addresses recently.'
'So?' I said.
'Between one county and another.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Well, er . . . it means we had to check with Kent police . . .'
'Mmm.'
'. . . and with Surrey.'
'And that takes 13 months?'
'There was a backlog, Madam.'

How frightfully reassuring.

(How to) Get out of jail FREE . . .

This week's Bad Girls' award for initiative goes to . . .

the woman, as yet unnamed (is that because they don't know who they're looking for?) formerly on remand for fraud in Holloway and now on the run, thanks to a visiting church group. When they left the prison, she tagged on the back of the party. It wasn't until they did a roll-call later in the day, they discovered they were one resident short. I assume the authorities have checked out Hope Springs?

Now if you wrote that scenario in a book, people would say it was too far fetched. Unless Lynda la Plante wrote it . . .

Still reeling from last night's Apprentice shock!

Were you one of the 10 million viewers who tuned in to last night's episode of The Apprentice to witness the climax of the 12 week 'interview from hell?'

If so, are you as shocked as me? Frankly, I'm inconsolable.

Not at Kate falling at the last hurdle - inevitable, I'm afraid, once she started canoodling with Pantsman prat, Phillip. It was an axing by association for robotic Kate and restaurateur, Yasmina proved a fair and worthy winner in the end.

No, what's bothering me, is the departure of eagle-eyed, acid-tongued right-hand woman, Margaret Mountford, who is off to pursue her PhD in papyrology - you wot? The study of documents found in Egypt and written in ancient Greek. Whatever floats your boat, I suppose. In her online column Margaret says: 'I want to finish my degree before I need a Zimmer frame to get up on the platform to receive it.' Stay another year, love, and I'll carry you up there myself. I'll start training for it now.

MM, you'll be sorely missed. Whoever will they get to replace you? Suggestions please.

Never too late to leave an abusive relationship

So Gillian Taylforth has left her violent partner, Geoff Knights, after 23 years. That takes one hell of a lot of courage, because - leaving the physical damage aside for one moment - when you are living in a regime where there is a constant atmosphere of mental abuse - and when you are conditioned to believe that you are in part responsible for the abuser behaving this way - your self-esteem can be drained to the point where you can't find the inner strength to take even the smallest step towards changing your situation.

Reading through the comments on the News of the World's website, I was pleased to see the messages of support for Gillian. Though not everyone was supportive. A minority of respondents vented fury that she had stuck by Knights all this time and a couple of the replies were downright offensive.

Yes, Gillian has endured a sickening catalogue of abuse for far too long. We all agree on that. But so do many, many women. And I fully recognise that it's not just women who are affected by domestic violence, but they do make up the vast majority of victims. Actually I'm not that keen on the use of the word, 'domestic', because in my opinion, it weakens the emphasis on the word 'violence.' It's outright violence, isn't it? Pure and simple. Yet the courts repeatedly deliver lesser sentences to perpetrators of this type of crime, than if they'd set about a stranger in the street. This is equally as bad, if not worse, because the partners these deviants systematically inflict harm on, they claim to love.

Some of you reading now this will be in Gill Taylforth's former situation. Or perhaps you know someone who is. I do.

Annie has been married to Richard (not their real names) for around the same time Gillian was with Geoff Knights. They have three kids. We only found out he'd been knocking her about when she threw him out of the house for punching their 14-year-old daughter. The CPS decided to prosecute. Richard pleaded guilty and received a suspended sentence. Meanwhile, four weeks before Christmas, Annie went to court and got an injunction against Richard, to prevent him coming near the family. In theory, that is. In reality, it's just a scrap of paper.

So how did Richard wheedle his way back into their lives? He had one thing going for him. Richard held the family's purse strings. He told Annie the kids wouldn't have a Christmas unless she took him back. No presents. No celebrations. How bad would that make her feel? Did she really want to be responsible for their kids not having a Christmas? He played on her emotions - her vulnerability - and he won. She relented. For now . . .

It is totally unacceptable to me that Clearcast, the ad-approving body, censored Keira Knightley's ad for the charity Women's Aid, in which she portrays a victim who falls prey to her boyfriend's unleashed rage, deeming it to be too brutal to be shown even after the watershed. What planet are these people on?

Two women a week in England and Wales are killed by partners or former partners. It's an absolutely shocking statistic. As I write this, a woman's body has been discovered in a wheelie bin in Cobham, Surrey. Police are hunting a 33-year-old man in connection with the woman's death - a former occupant of the house.

I'm not pretending to have the answers here. But I know there are people out there who can help. If you need someone to talk to, or help with getting out of an abusive relationship, you can contact the National Domestic Violence 24-hour helpline (run in partnership between Women's Aid and Refuge) on (freephone) 0808 2000 247. In cases of emergency dial 999.

It's never too late to change your life for the better.

Who you calling a lemon-sucker, Julie Burchill?

I don't intend spending long on this because I can't always tell whether Ms Burchill is being serious, or seriously tongue-in-cheek, so I don't want to be seen to be taking her seriously in case she isn't (being serious), if you know what I mean.

In yesterday's Sun, La Burchill made a spirited defence in the case for watching Big Brother 10. She called people like me who don't watch it, "half-witted freaks" and said we BB-haters: "hate the young, the working-class, gays and trannies" and (wait for it), "people who have sex more than once a fortnight."

As a lesbian, brought up in a working-class family, who did once fall into the "young" category and who has consistently maintained connections with the g&t scene (not the drink, dearies), and furthermore, as someone who voted Nadia to win with a frequency that caused BT to increase my monthly direct debit payment substantially, I take issue with Ms Burchill's assessment of your average BB-basher.

Yes, I'll admit I enjoyed the bloody thing back in the heady days of Nasty Nick, Brian Dowling, Anna the nun and of course the irrepressible Jade Goody, when BB was in its infancy. But now the contestants are so-o-o patently obvious in their strivings for their fifteen minutes of fame, in their efforts to set themselves apart from everybody else, these desperate wannabes have made tuning in to their non-antics as bland and boring an experience as a three month vacation spent queuing in the Mont Blanc tunnel.

So then, Julie Burchill. Perhaps the real reason we choose not to indulge ourselves in this dreadful spectacle has nothing to do with the reasons you suggest. The point is, love, we have better things to do with our time. Or maybe some of us are trying to improve our sex quotient ratio.

No doubt, dear readers, you'll let me know where you stand on this issue.


PS. I'm addicted to The Apprentice - less so since Debra got the boot. But that's a whole other posting. Nick and Margaret for Parliament anyone?

Latest

There appears to be a problem with the 'comments' section of this blog, which I will try to resolve. I have tried to leave my own comment for Clare just now, to say thanks for those thoughtful words, so I'll do it here. Meantime, if anyone wants to add anything, do please keep trying, or you can contact me via my website: www.kazjordyn.com

Best, Kaz

Tributes to 'Mr Westbourne'

This poem to Ralph's memory is poignant. It's not a great quality image - blurred somewhat by weathering unfortunately, but it captures perfectly the mood here and the essence of what many of us are feeling.

I only wish I knew who wrote it.

Ralph's Birthday

June 1st.


Today Ralph Millward would be 42.

He should be 42.


Except, three weeks ago, sometime in the early hours of May 8th, Ralph's life was taken as he lay in his sleeping bag outside the M&S food store in Westbourne, just around the corner from the pitch where he had sold The Big Issue for eight years.

Westbourne has a villagey feel to it, living as it does in the shadows of its buzzier, brassier near-neighbour, Bournemouth. It boasts an elegant Victorian arcade, a vibrant cafe culture, an eclectic mix of restaurants, art galleries and chic boutiques where a simple day frock can set you back a hundred-and-fifty quid.

To say that the residents here are openly shocked by Ralph's murder would be an understatement. Those who dare can only speculate on the extent of the savage brutality which ended Ralph's life - accounts of his injuries are well documented on news sites throughout the Internet. Many of us, who knew Ralph would prefer not to dwell on thoughts of his suffering.

Since moving here from Surrey last year, I saw Ralph on virtually a daily basis. And I know it's against the policies of the people who run The Big Issue to give their vendors supplementary money, over and above the price of the magazine (currently £1.50), but I did on a regular basis. We all did. Ralph Millward was such a popular guy here you couldn't help but want to do more for him.

That fateful Friday morning, the events of which I can recall as clearly as if it were yesterday, as I emerged from the car park behind the Hogshead pub, I was confronted by six police squad cars, three lined either side of Seamoor Road. My first thought was that a robbery had occurred. Then I spotted the forensic tents assembled against the wall at the side of M&S, flanked by resident shrubbery. In the newsagents, an assistant told me that Ralph had been discovered dead earlier that morning, and that the circumstances were suspicious. Then she said with a shrug: "He chose that way of life," and went back to her stock take. I walked out without buying anything. My momentary sadness had been swallowed up by anger. I had wanted to say to her, he chose it over what? What was the bloody alternative?

In the few short weeks following Ralph's death, "alternatives" have emerged. At Ralph's memorial service the Wednesday before last, for which several hundred locals turned out, a woman told John Bird (Big Issue's founder) that she had offered Ralph a room in her house, which he had declined.

Then there is the hostel for the homeless in nearby St Pauls Road, which Ralph had expressed an intense dislike of on the one occasion I tackled him about his sleeping arrangements. He said, in typical Ralph understated fashion, they weren't his kind of people. Other Big Issue sellers I spoke to in Bournemouth this week were more forthright, citing instances of bullying and violence. Talking to me about Ralph's sudden demise, another vendor, a woman in her 30s said: "It could have been any one of us."

Here in Westbourne, it seems the initial outrage has been overtaken by a sense of guilt. A sense that whatever we did for Ralph individually and collectively it wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

The growing number of tributes adorning the pavement alongside Ralph's pitch bear testament to the popularity of the man who always had his head in a book. He once told me he could read Patricia Cornwell and Bernard Cornwell alongside one another - rare indeed - though from those who knew him best, it seems sci-fi was his favourite genre.

Judging by the ever-increasing bunches of flowers, cuddly toys, Aston Villa memorabilia, cards and poems dedicated to Ralph's memory, it seems Ralph Millward was Mr Westbourne. As a group of us gathered to view the latest additions, one man passed comment: "Gawd, there's more flowers here for our bloke than for Princess Di."

That says it all.

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