There's No Business...

There's loads of Serious Stuff I should be worrying and/or writing about, but I'm working on the basis that as Parliament's in recess at the moment (which means that the disgusting unscrupulous toadies we sarcastically refer to as Our Elected Representatives have all slimed off, leaving little silvery trails, to their Tuscan villas for a month) so obviously the Serious Stuff isn't as Serious as I thought.

So I'd rather talk about the death threats received by the appalling Catherine Zeta Jones. I must say that I felt the threat to murder and dismember the little Welsh minx was a bit harsh; I've been quite irritated by La Zeta in the past, but I've never once felt moved to commit horrible violence upon her person, nor indeed have I wished that someone else would do it, except maybe once or twice. I've always felt that marriage to little wrinkled old Michael Douglas was punishment enough, and, let's face it it must have been scary for the poor girl.

"I've never in my life had anything or had anyone say anything to me so satanic," said Zeta Jones, 35, ably demonstrating why they won't let her write her own lines. Douglas commented, "She was hysterical... she was fainting. She could not get any air. She showed all the signs of having a nervous breakdown." Mike was taking it seriously, obviously having forgotten that CZJ went into a similar mental and emotional crisis over a set of wedding photos not long ago.

Ah, showbiz, that wacky world where a bottle of wine arriving at the wrong temperature can result in a year-long lawsuit and two months recuperating in an expensive clinic.