Dating Advice From . . . Gay Mexicans by Meghan Pleticha Q: My girlfriend laughs a lot during sex. What's her deal? A: Sex is like an Adam Sandler movie. Some people laugh and some people walk out of the theater and ask for their money back.
The British are classier than us. It's a simple rule of thumb, grudgingly accepted, by most Americans. Accordingly, the American idea of a British celebrity is of a notable whose inherent talent, integrity, and dedication to their craft, whatever that may be, lies unquestioned. For the most part, the Brits have obliged us. They've thrown open the hallowed gates of the RSC, sending countless Sirs and Dames and OBEs to our graceless shores, to sweep our Oscar nominations, litter our stages and portray our historical figures — FDR, Nixon, Dr. Greg House — with a gravitas no mere Yank could possess. Serious actors, serious about their place in the world, they will never be asked to describe their fitness regime or address plastic-surgery rumors in a magazine interview, nor will their genitalia be glimpsed, let alone photographed, as they alight from a limousine (I am, of course, excluding Kate Beckinsale from the former category, and Sienna Miller from the latter.)
Even when caught doing something unsavory,
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Her Majesty's subjects weather the storm with enviable panache. Hugh Grant is caught with a hooker and comes off like an adorably naughty schoolboy; Eddie Murphy simply tries to lend one a "helping hand"and is immediately branded a desperate, half-crazed tranny chaser. Kate Moss is videotaped doing blow in a recording studio; does she immediately commence a round of self-flagellating talk show appearances, culminating in a Vanity Fair exclusive detailing her emotionally traumatic childhood and ensuing lack of self-worth? No. She keeps her fucking mouth shut, makes more money than ever before, and after the compulsory stint in rehab, immediately resumes her place as one-half of the most cracked-out, co-dependent power couple since Bobby and Whitney. Such are the genes that rode out the Blitz.
But spend an hour or two browsing through the British tabloids, and a different story emerges. Unlike our own gossip rags, which keep the different types of celebrity respectfully separate (one will rarely see a Julianne Moore sharing cover space with the likes of Kevin Federline), the U.K. publications tend to chuck them all together in one irreverent, Gucci-covered heap. On one page, a color photo of Sir Ben Kingsley having a chuckle with the Countess of Wessex; on the other, a former
stripper wearing but three strategically placed belts, a reality-TV star who has expressed ignorance at the existence of asparagus, and an extremely tan woman of many talents, the greatest being the ability to remain upright despite having a pair of breasts equal in size to roughly four of Pamela Anderson's.
They are the Three Graces of the British tabloids, products of a country that has managed to yield both Dame Maggie Smith and Jack the Ripper. They are women so ferociously exhibitionist that Paris Hilton could post a film of her own pelvic exam on YouTube and seem positively demure in comparison. I am speaking, of course, of Jodie Marsh, Jade Goody, and the incomparable Jordan.
Jordan was once a simple Sussex girl, who on the suggestion of a friend, blundered into the world of "glamour modeling" — a charmingly genteel term for what we in the States call "titty mags" — and almost at once, skyrocketed to fame on "Page Three,", a feature in the U.K. tabloid The Sun. Jordan's notoriety quickly grew, along with her bra size (after a series of augmentations, she grew from an estimated 32B to a mind-boggling, 34 FF). When questioned, she was typically philosophical: "Some people may be famous for inventing the pencilsharpener. I'm famous for my tits." She entered into a series of surprisingly high-profile relationships with footballers and TV gladiators, and perhaps most famously singer Dane Bowers of the British boy-band Another Level. Their relationship ended with a highly publicized abortion, and a suicideattempt she later admitted to The Scotsman may have been just the teensiest bit self-serving: "It was probably just to get attention. Stupid. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone."Naturally, she blamed Victoria "Posh Spice" Beckham, who was recording a duet with Bowers at the time. Posh (who, in the interest of transparency, this writer must admit is her single favorite celebrity) was livid, and even more so when her husband David admitted sheepishly to the press that he had "a bit of a crush on Jordan."While he later insisted he was quoted out of context, many in the tabloid press wondered if Victoria's suddenly inflated cleavage didn't have the teensiest bit to do with Jordan.
But Jordan's image in the media began to recover. Her son Harvey, from her volatile relationship with footballer Dwight Yorke, was not only biracial, but blind and autistic (take that, Angelina!) She was diagnosed with finger cancer. She resumed using her given name, Katie Price. She married the Australian singer Peter Andre after they fell in love on the U.K. version of I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! (during which she also irreversibly alienated John Lydon, a.k.a. Johnny Rotten — ah, how the mighty have fallen!) She gave birth to their son, Junior, via televised C-section on their subsequent reality show, When Jordan Met Peter, and sure, while that sounds tacky, it was actually kind of sweet.
And lo, the mantle of England's Trashy Fame-Whore-in-Chief passed to Jordan's longtime rival, Jodie Marsh.
