Paris & Britney - a friendship in search of a precipice
Ever since Thelma and Louise drove their blue '66 Thunderbird over a bunch of no-good men and into the Grand Canyon, Lost in Showbiz has prayed hard for a real-life feminist buddy story, a spiritual journey it could watch without being distressed by visions of unhighlighted ginger hair, bleach-washed denim, and a rising panic that some agonisingly right-on Susan Sarandon award ceremony speech could be lurking at the end of all this.
The wait is over. Last weekend, Paris Hilton hooked up with Britney Spears and began an odyssey designed to avenge every wrong that every sex-tape-making boyfriend/househusband has ever visited upon them, in the best way they know how: by getting totally wasted, dancing just this side of a lewd behaviour arrest, and relieving themselves of, respectively, a pair of trousers and the contents of a stomach.
Tragically, of course, just like in the movie, you sense the crazy journey to empowerment is going to end in tears. At some unspecified point on the Arizona dirt road of their friendship, Paris and Britney will turn to each other and whisper the immortal words, "Let's not get caught. Let's keep going," before linking hands and driving their Swarovski-encrusted Cadillac Escalade over some metaphorical precipice, such as taking one lychee martini too many and, in the resultant botched nightclub exit, fatally impaling themselves on the telefoto lenses of paparazzi attempting to capture an upskirt shot.
But God, what a ride.
Cast your mind back to a time when these two weren't new best friends - like last Wednesday - and remind yourself of their situations. Britney, of course, had just filed for divorce from her backing-dancer husband Kevin Federline, and was passing anguished days rifling through the Malibu yellow pages for tow-truck firms to assist her in the repossession of the various customised vehicles she bestowed upon Kevin, back when the brief spike that constitutes his story arc was still in its ascent phase.
Paris, the Hilton hotel heiress who Guardian readers will remember from the night-vision classic One Night in Paris, but who also has a non-amateur-porn-based existence, was partying aimlessly in the wake of her recent announcement that she was taking a year-long vow of celibacy. How's she doing with that one? Well, you know ... Baby steps.
In a sense, you felt the showbiz gods had always conspired to keep our two heroines apart, mindful of the potential cataclysm that might result. But you can't fight two forces of nature - if you regard nature as an essentially malevolent construct that seeks to visit untold psychological damage on its innocent, non-famous drones - and on Friday they collided in Las Vegas, the only earth town believed to have sufficient facilities to withstand the impact.
A reported 48 hours of drinking ensued. Highlights include Britney feeling so encumbered by her satin trousers that she made an early decision to remove them and pass the rest of the rampage in a pair of fishnet tights and a blouse. Later, in a nightclub, Paris vomited on stage while attempting to sing her recent single, reflecting a growing commitment among celebrities to provide their own punchlines.
Where will it all end? Will this witchy female energy spill over into unintentional crime as the ladies pursue their need to find themselves at all costs? Will some Brad Pitt-style hustler - perhaps Brad himself - provide Britney with the post-marital sexual release a celestial scriptwriter would decree she needs? Is police officer Harvey Keitel really trying to prevent their inevitable, spectacular demise, or does he kind of understand it's the only way? As usual, this column has more questions than answers.
Tom, Katie, and that very big icebreaker ...
Making an almost convincing case for Headline of the Week is the celebrated magazine Index on Censorship, with: "Hidden Shame of Tom & Katie Cruise's Honeymoon Haven." Seriously, people, if the logical end of free expression is shoehorning a celebrity angle into a rumination on human rights in the Maldives, then you finally have our attention on this whole issue.
It is, of course, six days and counting since Katie drifted glassy-eyed down the aisle into Tom's unashamedly too-tight embrace. Details of the subsequent wedding reception emerge daily, with yesterday's most intriguing being a claim that Tom recreated the famous scene in Top Gun in which he serenades Kelly McGillis's character with the Righteous Brothers' You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling. And yet, was this really appropriate for the occasion? The casting of McGillis's oddly mumsy-ish flying instructor always seemed to be Hollywood cover for exploring the real sexual tension in the movie: that between Cruise's Maverick character and Val Kilmer's Iceman.
Anyways ... Scientology's holy family are currently moored somewhere off the Indian Ocean atolls, honeymooning on a boat loaned to them by Tom's friend Jamie Packer, son of Kerry. The craft was a former icebreaker - literally, as opposed to having been a seafaring conversational fillip - and has obviously been chosen for its excellent security. No one's getting off this one in a hurry.
No one, that is, who hasn't seen Sleeping With the Enemy. God forbid any of us should put ideas into Katie's befuddled mind, but in that 1991 film, Julia Roberts plays the wife of an obsessively controlling husband, who escapes a nightmare marriage by casting herself overboard from their yacht during a storm and swimming desperately to shore. Clearly, there are lessons to be learned. Julia accidentally leaves tell-tale evidence of her getaway resulting in this lunatic pursuing her with malicious intent, so when Katie reaches dry land, she must be very careful to dispose of her animatronic "Suri" doll in an utterly untraceable spot.
Geri Halliwell, UN goodwill ambassador
"... and I was like, in that case I want out of this band, and Victoria and Mel B were like, fine, if you think you can make it solo, which you so can't. And then I spent some very spiritual time with Robbie Williams - do you like Robbie? - and then when I was 30 I wrote my second autobiography, which I dedicated 'to the walking wounded', and then I fascinated people with my yoga, and weirdly, actually, speaking of Victoria, we're cool with each other now, and maybe it's to do with us both being mums these days, but it took time, y'know?"
Geri Halliwell, UN goodwill ambassador - and just typing those words feels like a defeat for the whole planet - visited Our Lady's Hospice for Aids sufferers in Lusaka this week, where the former Spice Girl declared: "I would like to give the women of Zambia a voice of hope."
Naturally, no one wants to bring up Scream If You Wanna Go Faster, but if that voice is Geri's, the women of Zambia may wish to make alternative hope arrangements.
· Incidentally, the actual headline of the week is the Los Angeles-based Jewish Journal's attempt to correct a misunderstanding about a certain racist-epithet-spewing former Seinfeld cast member. Do doff your hats to the thunderous: "Michael Richards: Not a Jew."
