Jade Goody, an ordinary young woman, catapulted to fame for her lively personality, charming lack of intelligence, and ungraspable mass appeal for so many Heat magazine readers, was born on reality TV and has died in front of the media’s binoculars. Many say the public’s interest in watching Jade’s life fall apart, ending in an agonising death, is due to a nationwide desire to become pathologists. One member of the morbidly inclined public, said, ‘Watching her hair fall out was satisfying, but the money shot was seeing her eyes go cold and her body stiffen from rigor mortis.’
Heat magazine and some broad sheets paid tribute to Jade by publishing photos of her two sons clambering on to Jade’s hospital bed and shaking her to wake up. Lengthy articles beneath the photo pointed out the sons’ ignorance, and that Jade was dead, the wallys.
The Dail Mail came into its own during Jade’s rapid decline from a virulent, though very commercial form of cancer. It chewed her up from the inside and provoked a pain even the finest gossip journalist could not describe. Many tried though. Some of the descriptions were, ‘She felt like she’d been punched on the arm by her little brother, but worse.’ Another moaned, ‘It was as if she’d forgotten her keys, but worse.’ Another honest journalist emoted, ‘She was very profitable and it’s sad.’
Journalists’ ability to capture the mood of the nation, by publishing slow-motion videos of her physical deterioration were criticized about not securing a live feed for the autopsy. Reporters hit back by saying they gave vivid descriptions of what her guts would look like; black and mossy green, and three reporters were killed by being fired from a cannon at jade's hospital-room window, each clutching a microphone, notepad and plastic penny bag for tissue samples.
The public’s fervour for pictures of Jade’s tampons, pregnancy tests and French symbolist poetry archive was a new phenomenon in the media. There are rumours that when Jade was castigated and ignored by the press for alleged racism, many in the media realised the only way they could achieve another big payday was for her to die or be forgiven.
Therefore Ok magazine employed a crack team of ex-CIA agents to, in the nicest possible way, assassinate her. One ploy was to line her wet-suit with bird flu. Another was to rig a small bomb to her favourite Cuban cigars. It is also rumoured an ex-KGB hit man walked up to her in Sloane Square and placed a gun to her head. He fired, missed and killed an already dying Jodie Kidd.
None of these money-making schemes worked out, but fortunately Jade had developed a terrible, incurable cancer that would go on to mush up her guts, eventually making two children motherless and her husband a widow. A spokesman for the group mind that is media, said, ‘Thank god nature’s so cruel,’ as he violently cackled, causing his office to turn their heads and stare, and then snorted a line of coke from his secretaries forehead.
In a touchingly contrived wedding ceremony, journalists were able to stuff themselves with canapés and drink chilled red wine from paper cups and feel as if something wonderful was happening. Many said the canapés were for Jade as they were wheat-free and she is highly allergic. Journalists denied this then added defensively, ‘whatever, it’s all bollocks anyway.’
Jade will live on in the hearts of the nation and will continue to make money for the media from rehashed photographs of her vomiting and losing her fingernails. Yet many will forget Jade and are now waiting for Amy Whinehouse and Kerry Katona to die.
No comments:
Post a Comment