Speedy Mistress Manager

Oh dear, enter the Mistress Manager, the Wheeler Dealer of the Shebug Shows…

Name: Gina Rodriguez.

Biggest claim to fame: Playboy Centrefold.

Past employment: Star of sixty X rated films.

Location: Los Angeles

Current line of work: Public Relations

Client roster: Former mistresses, benefit cheaters, escorts and Hollywood D list hopefuls

The forty-six year-old PR dynamo-from-the-dark-side was born, and will remain, a true Hustler (and probably did a shoot for one, too…) Ms Rodriguez handles the interests of Shebugs - and Hebugs, whose affairs with those in the spotlight catapulted them out of obscurity.  And gutters.

Remember when the Tiger got caught frolicking in the woods with a porn star? Well, the golden golfer’s career took a downturn, but Joslyn James, made out like a bandit thanks to her PR agent, Gina.

Ms Rodriguez expertly milks a Shebug’s fifteen minutes of fame while the iron is red hot. No doubt Gina must be related to Speedy Gonzales because scandals bubble up as reliably as British summer tube strikes.

Savvy, she also keeps her eyes on politicians’ dalliances. One of the women to whom the disgraced New York congressman, David Weiner, sent scandalous texts to, landed a movie deal thanks to Ms Rodriguez. The name of the film?  Weiner and Me – what else?

Charlie Sheen’s name was tousled about in the tabloids because of his, err, carnal addiction. But what Gina did was turn his stable of escorts into Charlie’s Angels. This coup increased her client list overnight.

Nadya Suleman, aka ‘Octomom’ is part of Gina’s posse. The unwed mother of six addicted to plastic surgery, popped out eight more babies all on the US tax payers’ money, of course. No doubt each child will require a lifetime of counselling;  I wouldn’t bet on Octomom footing her brood’s psychiatric bills no matter how much employment her agent can secure for her.

Gina’s celebrity mistresses hope to bag anything between $10,000 and $50,00 for their kiss-and-tell antics depending upon whom they’ve slept with.

If they cannot wed the targets they are bedding, the gold diggers can sting and cash in. Gina Rodriguez’s services are honey to Shebugs and Hebugs alike.

This reminded me a scandal that broke out in 1987 when former married senator Gary Hart announced the beginning of his second presidential campaign. Soon thereafter, the press published photographs of Hart with a twenty-nine year-old model, Donna Rice, on an island nobody had ever heard of, Bimini. The words Monkey Business were emblazoned on the tee shirt Mr. Hart was wearing. No surprise, Hart dropped out of the race; Donna Rice went on to shoot this advert:


Donna Rice No Excuses by phattaile

Nowadays, she presides as president and CEO of an American non-profit anti-pornography movement working hard to make the Internet safer for families and children. 

Eat your heart out, Ms Rodriguez!

The Super-Rich List

A revved up engine of a powerful sports car interrupted the easy-going feel the locals and tourists have been sharing on a mellow late Sunday morning on the Kings Road. Like them, I too, looked up from my post jog stretching to see who was desperately seeking attention.

To my surprise, the culprit was not alone, but rather, roared aggressively smack in the middle of a convoy. The make and colour of the two vehicles preceding and following him were evenly distributed. Amased, but not surprised, I counted a total of two armoured Range Rovers and a pair of Bentleys in the cortège. Whether or not the later were Phantoms, Ghosts or Wraiths, I couldn’t say. I friend of mine has one and I can assure you, as much as I love my faithful Volvo’s bum heater, nothing cradles your dérrière quite like a Rolls.

By regular standards, the convoy was un peu de trop. Well it would be anywhere else – bar the shifting Sand Lands ruled by oil barons where the word 'aesthetic' is spelled differently. But this is London we’re talking about, where somebody else’s Ferrari sits regularly at the southwestern corner of Harrods covered entirely in weatherproof black velvet. I give you my word: I have touched it. Twice.

But let’s get back to the bling…The Sunday Times publishes the Rich List annually. That one morning a year attracts every conniving Shebug & Hebug under the sun. Do not be surprised if they queue over-night to secure themselves a fresh copy and check out their competition: the breed is bbbbad to the bbbone.

This year, the Hinduja brothers rank as the wealthiest men in Britain, at a combined worth of £11.9billion.  From zero to hero, they now reside next door to the Queen. Bravo.

Kristy Bertarelli comes in as the wealthiest woman at £9.75billion. She hopes to make a big splash as a singer. Will Kristy and France's ex-First Lady, Carla Bruni team up for duets? Doubtful...

What else do the Super Rich spend on aside from ex-SAS hotties, royal boroughs, and galactic shuttles? Find out next week...

With more billionaires residing in this town than any other city on the planet, there are as many Shebugs & Hebugs as there are more mosquitoes on the coast of Belize. Not a comfortable thought for anyone, is it?  Neither of my two Fat Cats made the Rich List this year. Oh, they might have hissed about it for weeks, but I felt rather relieved…

Before The Winter Chill

I spent a rare sunny spring afternoon confined in the dark with a friend at the Cine Lumière. Despite the generous legroom and comfortable seats, and the frothy latte in my hand, our chilled mood took a sharp left turn onto Dread Street five minutes into the film.                       

Daniel Auteil, who plays the part of a very successful neurosurgeon, is married to the lovely Lucie, played by Kristen Scott Thomas, in the latest French release, Avant l’Hiver, Before the Winter Chill.

From the outside, all appears idyllic: the couple, their family, their magazine-spread home and prize-wining gardens she so lovingly tends to, day in and day out. (Okay, so a little too much gardening and not enough socialising outside the house…) All said and done, the couple’s home is an architectural feast; look as hard as you wish, but you will not catch so much as a streak on its many massive glass walls.

As the viewer, you and I get to stroll inside their exquisite home and admire everything about it, down to the Eames chair and appealing array of art, lamps and curio objects. His offices are equally easy on the eye - until a self-appointed ‘decorator’ of sorts proceeds to mar all the beauty and goodness of the visual canvas, petal by petal, stinking of a Shebug’s cloying odor.

Her name? Lou Vallé. Or so she tells him one afternoon when she chats up the respectable doctors in a café before he heads home after a long day of operating. She tells him that she remembers his removing her appendix as a child and has remained forever grateful to his tender care – the first of her cascading lies.

The neurosurgeon immediately corrects the too young and too chatty barmaid explaining that she must have him confused with another physician. But Lou insists on being right and casts her calculating murky eyes at him over her exposed shoulder.

A nonstop delivery of blood-red roses kicks off the very next day. He finds her calling card on his windscreen, in a vase at his reception, fanned about in his very office and being sent his own home… Does the shebug own up to being the culprit? That’ll be the day…

Meanwhile, Lucie’s perfectly arched right eyebrow hikes up to a 90° angle. Only because she is English-born is she able to maintain her commendable calm. She is respectable, caring, intelligent, elegant and very much a lady.

The Shebug’s persistent Mephistophelian machinations serve her well: soon unspoken heaviness and loose ends between the doctor and his wife shoot up like cracks on the surface of a frozen lake.

The doctor is a good man; you cannot help but like him. But watching an honourable, intelligent grandfather become entangled in a hooker’s dark web is not for the weak of heart.

The tale is twisted, chilly and downright unnerving. But we cannot shake him out of the Shebug’s carefully conceived bewitchment no matter how much our hands itch to. Equally, we cannot urge the enviably controlled Lucie to grab hold of the reins soon enough. We sat helplessly awaiting for zee  Jaques-in-the-Box to pop out in her true sordid colours before more damage occurs. 

But typical to French cinema style, the truth of Lou Valle’s motives drop onto the unraveling scene one drop at a time. Though the danger finally seems to have been averted, does it really? 

As the lights in the Lumière brightened and the curtains closed, my polyglot friend and I exited le cinéma agreeing on two things:

1)   There is no fool like an old fool;

2)   I get to pick the French films for the remainder of the year!