The cult of Pippa Middleton’s bum

Don’t get angry at magazines for writing about Philippa’s bottom – we’re the ones who read the stuff

"So bot's happened to perky Pippa?" chortled the Daily Star this morning, next to a photo of the most famous bottom in the world. Just the bottom. On its own. We don't need a face, or eyes, or a person attached to it. This is the arse that rules the world – or our popular culture, anyway.

It seems that P-Middy's derrière has achieved iconic status after appearing at the royal wedding – so much so, that the lady, the human being with a soul, to whom it belongs is becoming somewhat dehumanised. Pippa Middleton, a person most of us hadn't heard of before 29 April, has skyrocketed into the celebrity stratosphere – then nosedived into obscurity, with only her rear end remaining visible. It's strange how the cult of the Middleton rump has come about, but there it is; we don't get to choose these things.

"Fans fear Her Royal Hotness Pippa Middleton is in danger of losing her biggest ass-et," burbles Nigel Pauley in the Star, accompanied by two enormous photos of the buttocks belonging to the sister of the Duchess of Cambridge. Apparently, "the posh totty is losing her famous botty", much to the chagrin of her (or its) fans. Horrors!

I know, I know. This is just the Daily Star. Why am I bothering? It's like fisking the Beano. Except I think it would be wrong to think this iconification of an arse is confined to the "male gaze" of tabloid papers.

"It's all about PIPPA," gurgles Heat magazine. "She's naughty, she's a man magnet and she's got THAT bum! DRESSES IN LOO ROLL! BOOZY PARTIES! CLOSET CHAV!" Inside, we learn that "P-Middy" loves her VODKA and she dances in her BRA. Breathless stuff. And then there's what seems to me a slightly stalkery turn at the end of the four-page article: "We think we're in love with you. Welcome to Heat." Oh. Welcome to the Hotel California, P-Middy.

Grazia has also developed a bit of a girl-crush on Pippa M, it would seem. "May we just take the opportunity to congratulate you on your unparalleled hotness," it warbles this week, accompanied by 20 (twenty) pictures of Prince William's sister-in-law. It's like looking at a teenager's bedroom. By the time I'd wearily trawled through Now magazine, it was becoming a fairly familiar tale.

In whispers, "a close pal" was conveniently sharing secrets about her private life, and there were pictures of people called Jecca and Kitty, about whom we are supposed to care. Look magazine splutters on about how she is "torn between two men", according to a "source", and gives tips on how to "get Pippa's buns". Good God. Is this what it's come to? A whole person's life boiled down to their bum?

But they're doing this for a reason. As I've said before, it's easy and wrong to dismiss this kind of celebrity candyfloss as being worthless, or somehow deserving of scorn or contempt, as being beneath us. It isn't – because it's what we want to read about. Time was when you had to guess what your readers wanted: now web searches will tell you what they want, and what you've got to give them. The SEO expert Malcolm Coles shows how the Daily Mail, inter alia, has hoovered up web searches for the phrase "Pippa Middleton's arse" without telling their readers their naughty little secret.**

I don't know whether to laugh or cry sometimes. I think let's laugh. Laugh at the madness. Laugh at the way in which a bum at a wedding has turned us all into drooling Neanderthals. Laugh at the scampering among the newspapers and celebrity mags to capture this interest while it's still fresh.

And laugh, too, at how soon it will all fade away, I suppose. In the meantime, just marvel at the madness.

** Needless to say, I know my readers, you bright things. You're one step ahead of me already and have worked out that I am a disgusting hypocrite. I can sense the fingers shuffling over the keyboards already. "Aha!" you type, with an assiduous flourish. "You're just doing the same yourself, Baxter, you knavish cueball. The only reason you've written this piece yourself is to get a bit of the Middleton bum love, hoping to attract frenzied onanists to your outpourings."

** May I defend myself? I am aware that this may potentially be an unfortunate and unwelcome side effect of this discussion, but I can hardly talk about the Cult of Pippa's Arse without, well, talking about what it is I'm talking about, can I? I anticipate your valid criticism and take it very much on board, but it really does give me no pleasure to be the beneficiary of such searches. If anything, it makes my already heavy heart just a little heavier.

** And there: with one bound, I am free.

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
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An alternative Trainspotting script for John Humphrys’ Radio 4 “Choose Life” tribute

Born chippy.

Your mole often has Radio 4’s Today programme babbling away comfortingly in the background while emerging blinking from the burrow. So imagine its horror this morning, when the BBC decided to sully this listening experience with John Humphrys doing the “Choose Life” monologue from Trainspotting.

“I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got Radio 4?” he concluded, as a nation cringed.

Introduced as someone who has “taken issue with modernity”, Humphrys launched into the film character Renton’s iconic rant against the banality of modern life.

But Humphrys’ role as in-studio curmudgeon is neither endearing nor amusing to this mole. Often tasked with stories about modern technology and digital culture by supposedly mischievous editors, Humphrys sounds increasingly cranky and ill-informed. It doesn’t exactly make for enlightening interviews. So your mole has tampered with the script. Here’s what he should have said:

“Choose life. Choose a job and then never retire, ever. Choose a career defined by growling and scoffing. Choose crashing the pips three mornings out of five. Choose a fucking long contract. Choose interrupting your co-hosts, politicians, religious leaders and children. Choose sitting across the desk from Justin Webb at 7.20 wondering what you’re doing with your life. Choose confusion about why Thought for the Day is still a thing. Choose hogging political interviews. Choose anxiety about whether Jim Naughtie’s departure means there’s dwindling demand for grouchy old men on flagship political radio shows. Choose a staunch commitment to misunderstanding stories about video games and emoji. Choose doing those stories anyway. Choose turning on the radio and wondering why the fuck you aren’t on on a Sunday morning as well. Choose sitting on that black leather chair hosting mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows (Mastermind). Choose going over time at the end of it all, pishing your last few seconds on needlessly combative questions, nothing more than an obstacle to that day’s editors being credited. Choose your future. Choose life . . .”

I'm a mole, innit.