On Belle de Jour...
I know I'm being obtuse, but I'm really not getting the whole Belle De Jour obsessiveness that's spiralling its way across the web and into the print media. The latest incarnation of this particular ludicrousness comes from the Independent newspaper (Who is the real Belle de Jour, the internet's best-read whore?), in which the woman in question is variously identified as Sarah Champion, Michel Faber or - of all people - long-time plasticbag.org favourite Andrew Orlowski. The latter has certain perverse logic to it - his journalism has a tendency to roam near the outer edges of the barely-plausible and uses such blatantly evocative rabble-rousing language and vitriol that you can't help but view everything he says as being heavily coloured by his own spitting phobias and/or desire for attention. Certainly I wouldn't put it past him to take that final leap into fantasy in order to make a point. Assuming of course it would be fantasy and that The Register haven't just run out of money...
But who cares?! I know I'm missing something here, but how can we really be so shocked and startled by the idea that one of the enormous number of prostitutes in the world has decided to write a weblog? Certainly it's worth a read. She seems like a nice, sorted, intelligent person. And yes - she can write reasonably compelling posts in good quality English. Certainly it'll get more people going to it than some site about a granny and her cats. But realistically, does it warrant this level of media attention? It's not like sex is something that only the terribly rich and the morally repugnant can get away with! It's not like she's in the middle of Iraq having sex on top of Saddam Hussein's palace! It's not like she's fellating moon-chimps on CNN or inventing orgasm-generating laser beams! So she reads a few books! What's the big deal? My theory: England has too many sexually-frustrated journalists without book deals. If we want a better press, getting them laid would be a really good start.
