UpsideClown and Out in Hollywood
22 April 2002
ITEM! Wednesday night in Tinseltown, and a rare treat in store for the snappers - a public appearance by troubled legend Judy Koelith. Long-remembered for her role in "The Snakeskin Pump", Koelith had been hidden from the public eye amid rumours of heroic drug and alcohol abuse, but looked well and healthy as she teetered on her balcony, naked and clutching a small holdall.
Pinned by the protruding zoom lenses of a hundred hand-picked paparazzi, all here from the same anonymous tip-off, the soi-disant Butterfly of Broadway produced from her bag a steak knife and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Pausing to take a hefty swig from the bottle before hurling it into the crowd (braining Hot Topic shutterbug Dan O'Hanlon, who, rumour has it, is being tended by one of the stars of Charmed), Judy, who last graced our screens in a cameo role in Diagnosis Murder, took a moment to scream "It's true, it's all true, you fucking liars!" before digging the knife into the flesh of her upper arm.
As you can imagine, gentle readers, it wasn't just me who wanted more, but the troubled former starlet refused to address our questions as she rained down gobbets of her own flesh with an increasingly unsteady hand. Some of the assembled press were masturbating rhythmically, like a Multiple Sclerosis Mexican wave. Her movements were slow and erratic, and her left arm about as thick as a schnitzel, by the time the EMTs finally got up to take her back into the house, slipping on a thin sheen of Judy Juice the while.
So, which hunky doctor do you think got to stitch Judy back together again?
ITEM! Remember Samedi Jones, autopederastic child star of hits like The Mighty Ducks go Vegas? Well, until last Thursday neither did we. Times have been hard for little Miss Jones ever since she stopped being quite so little. A ten-year marriage to enfant terrible and part-time director Willem van Kanst fell apart when she reached legal age and turned out to be (according to his deposition) "a really lousy lay".
However, it looks like there's a twist or two left in the Samedi Jones story - after a decade of winsome, quasi-pornographic roles as exploited moppets, tailing off to soap ads and infomercials, our girl Saturday is ready to relaunch her career. Looking hollow-cheeked and wan, she spoke to your humble columnist while sipping a glass of heavily salted water at Lee Cho's Famous Chinese Eaterie.
"I've been using laxatives and emetics extensively for the last three months," she lisped in her trademark baby-doll voice, "my teeth rotted through last month, but the falsies are even better, and I think smooth gums can really help a career."
Asked to clarify what new roles she was hoping would propel her into the hearts of a nation once more, she began to rock excitedly back and forth, a thin trail of drool escaping the left side of her mouth and pooling on her unicorn-print dungarees.
"I'm guest referee between the Undertaker and Hulk Hogan for the WWF title. That's why I have to be so slim, you see. 'Taker is going to put me through a table, except that I'm going to snap in half instead of the table. Then I'm going to become Hogan's manager in a full-body cast, and if it all works out OK I'll meet Callista Flockhart for the Hardcore championship next June. They're trying to persuade us to do some lesbian stuff - you know, nothing tasteless, Callista's a classy girl, just some subtext in some of the suplexes. Maybe a bra-and-panties match."
"So...do you know Callista?"
"Oh, we lunch, you know? Rarely. But she's a great actress. I really respect her hunger. To be a successful actress in this town, you've got to be hungry. Callista's hungry. All the time."
It was about then that she started to sing "Hunger" from the soundtrack to Transformers the Movie and the drool started to go pink. I left her to it.
ITEM! At four o'clock this afternoon, Hollywood gossip will eat itself! Yes, you heard it here first! Because at four o'clock, in the lobby of Geoffrey Nicholson's revitalised hotel and restaurant complex AU, your intrepid reporter will catch sight of his wife of twelve years, still-beautiful former model Georgina Berg (who you may recall when she tore up the catwalk as Destinie) disappearing into the elevator. Keen journalistic instincts will send your humble servant sprinting for the doors, only to find himself on his ass on the polished marble-effect floor as a result of a sneaky straight-arm from Los Angeles Lothario Ben Perot. The no-relation-to-the-self-made-billionaire self-made millionaire will then follow the twice-wed adulteress into the elevator, where thanks to the glass-fronted detailing he will be seen nibbling the faded prima donna's neck in a frankly obscene fashion. Berg, who attends AA meetings on Wednesdays under the false name Vanda Howard, will not be available for comment.
DON'T MISS! High jinks and derring-do next Wednesday at the Saigon Surprise cocktail bar, where a certain coke-fucked cuckold and Upsideclown gossip columnist will be shoving a .38 pistol right into the suddenly unsmugged fuckmug of philandering shit Ben Perot, screaming unintelligible words into his face through a mask of tears and snot before blowing his brains across Liza Minelli, tucking into a calorie-conscious lunch at table 11. Although unwilling to spill all the beans, I will say that maintaining eye contact with my lovely wife as I send my own grey matter after Fucko's and onto the sweet trolley, to the accompaniment of screaming diners throwing themselves to the floor, could well be a feature of a glitz-packed murder-suicide.
America's sweethearts Christina Ricci and Natalie Portman are expected to attend.