Media whores

From time to time, us Hotpress scribes are given the opportunity to make a bit of extra cash moonlighting for other people in the entertainment industry. In recent months, for example, I’ve been on RTE radio a few times chatting about my inability to get a date with a beautiful woman, reviewing a book about ageing rock stars, making fun of Robbie Williams’ attempts to ape the Rat Pack and discussing Prince Harry’s fondness for alcohol and drugs.

None of it is too high-browed, it’s all a bit of crack and while you get an always welcome few bob in the post soon afterwards by way of a stipend, you certainly wouldn’t go too mad on it once its been changed from Euros into Sterling. At a push, the money might keep a smoker in cigarettes for a fortnight.

Indeed, while I’m always loathe to talk about the countless good works and sacrifices I’ve done and made in the name of “charidee”, I can recall several occasions in the past when I’ve actually given of my, em, precious time for free: pontificating about this and that on local radio, or helping particularly good looking communications or journalism students with their dissertations on the publishing industry or stand-up comedy.

Then there was the time my colleague Stuart Clark and I took a Belgian rock journalist under our wing for a weekend and showed him the rock ‘n’ roll sights of Dublin. If anything, we were out of pocket after that particular expedition, but it was well worth it just to satisfy our long-held curiosity about Belgian rock journalists. Yes, such creatures do exist and yes, they do have mullets.

Lately, however, I’ve decided to stop letting people take advantage of me and have restructured my price list. If Britney Spears can negotiate a package worth £100,000 to plug her own single on the Frank Skinner Show, I don’t see why this columnist should even consider getting out of bed for less. After all, name one thing she has that I haven’t. Oh, alright then, name another.

Yes, £100,000. According to a recent edition of the Sunday Telegraph, Britney’s appearance on Frank’s ITV show “was seen as the channel’s riposte to the BBC, which is understood to have spent a similar sum meeting the demands of Jennifer Lopez, the American singer, when she appeared on Parkinson and Top Of The Pops two months ago.”

The same report had it on good authority that Ann Widdecombe got a mere £1,000 for her appearance on Parkinson, which means that for the price of one Britney, a chat show host could converse with 100 Ann Widdecombes simultaneously. Personally, I think that would make for far more interesting viewing. Alternatively, you could get yourself 500 Michael Palins, five Dolly Partons, two Posh and Becks or 12-and-a-bit Michael Winners. Now there’s a thought.

But no matter what way you look at it, the sums just don’t add up. Like Britney, Ann Widdecombe is famous for professing to be a virgin. Unlike Britney, nobody in their right mind doubts her claims. On the other hand, Ann Widdecombe is a lot older than Britney and is also the Shadow Home Secretary Of Great Britain. You could be forgiven, then, for assuming that she would have far more to talk about on a chat show and would therefore cost more to have on as a guest.

But she doesn’t. So you’d think a clever producer would overlook the world’s most famous no-sex goddess and get Ann Widdecombe on to dance with a snake a la Britney instead. It would make for arguably the most gruesome and talked - about television spectacle of all time for little more than the price of a clapped-out second-hand car. I imagine Pat Kenny’s people are probably reaching for the telephone already: “Hello, is that Directory Enquiries? Can I have the number for the British Houses of Parliament and Dublin Zoo’s reptile house please?”

Jamie Theakston isn’t likely to be appearing on too many chat shows in the near future. The inoffensive BBC presenter is lying low, limiting the damage after it emerged that, while drunk, he had accidentally visited a burlesque house where some opportunistic prostitutes took a photograph as one of their colleagues performed a “sex act” on him. It has never been revealed what the “sex act” in question was, but I think that deep down, we all know. Because of that, I for one am loathe to criticise him for his stupidity. There but for the grace of God and all that.

What did disappoint me about Jamie was the way he handled his misfortune. Here is a fellow who is already the envy of every red-blooded male in Britain. Without being particularly handsome or charming, he has stepped out with women we have all lusted after on occasion and boasts a job most of us would kill for. In short, he is The King.

How disappointing, then, to see him whimpering apologetically like a big girl on the front page of the News Of The Screws at the first sign of trouble. What Jamie should have realised is that we, his public, couldn’t care less what he gets up to in his spare time. But if the tabloids insist on telling us about sex acts he has paid for, we would much rather see him on the front page sporting a big melon-slice grin, holding both thumbs aloft while confessing: “Yes, I got stung, but it was worth it. I was drunk as a lord, I paid £40 for a sex act from a high-class hooker who could suck the chrome off a tow-bar and I couldn’t walk properly for a week afterwards. In fact, it was so great that next week, I hope it happens again.”

I don’t know about the rest of you, but it would certainly make me feel better about my own countless shortcomings.