J.Lo

Big it up for Teh West: superb Lopez coverage today. The gel who sings Jenny On The Block is on our block! It’s all in Teh West. Tomorrow: R.Bro with Jenny On The Chopping Block (Those Secret Celeb Recipes in Full). Saturday: Z.Ko with Bloc on The Block: Isn’t English a Funny Language. All next week: P.Mu with At First Blush: How Jenny Romanced Me On My Allen Park Block.
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To add to your post Outrage, Cainsy claims a discrepancy between West print and West online over arse size. Hints at photoshopping.
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Thanks maaaate. And Teh West keeps on giving. Has the big event happened yet?

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This entry was posted in Uncategorisable Worsts, worst newspaper, worst of perth and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to J.Lo

  1. Snuff says:

    Cash cow ? Harsh.

    Like

  2. rottobloggo says:

    “Confidentially agreement”…

    Like

  3. My Ning says:

    Success cums after flailing
    By the Worst’s latest token resident woman

    Failure is not my friend, but I’ve got used to its company over the years.

    Just as I’ve gotten used to the stigma of being a woman and having to deal with all of those women issues like marriage, the rigours of child birth, balancing work with being a mother, housework, shopping, sexual discrimination in the work place and, well, just being a woman.

    Being a girl can be risky. But as they say: no risk – no reward.

    This mantra was weighing heavily in the back of my mind when I agreed to write this column.

    I can remember the day succinctly when the editor said to me: “Your brief is to write about what it’s like to be an ordinary woman holding down an ordinary job, driving an ordinary car, eating ordinary food, listening to ordinary music, watching ordinary TV, reading ordinary books and living in an ordinary house with an ordinary family. Furthermore, write it so men would want to read it.”

    My goodness – where was I meant to start? And what if I failed? What if men turned out to be the truly unempathetic (is there such a word – ed?) bastards that they are. How could I relate my experiences as a woman and working mum to a demographic that thinks of nothing but their stomachs and dicks? Would I have to revert to writing randy stories about looking for my g-spot, my husband’s alternative uses for lipstick and how my nipples get erect when I bathe in goat’s milk?

    Maybe, but I wasn’t sure I could do that – I had already read some of hubbie’s back issues of Penthouse that he had left lying around our ordinary loungeroom and even tried starting copy with: “I never thought this would happen to an ordinary girl like me, but…..” before giving up and returning to abandonment issues.

    Plus there was the fact I now had to fill the large shoes left behind by Pam Casalles, who for years addressed important women issues for this paper. How was I, for example, meant to highlight the whacky differences between boys and girls while being totally original? How could I approach this subject without making whacky comparisons between cats and dogs, black and white, apples and oranges or Fords and Holdens?

    Plus, how could I start my column without using Pam’s trademark “Hello Dearies”? I asked my boss, who suggested I be more austere, but in an ordinary way.

    A challenging brief indeed, but one I was ready for as I already had experience with failure and abondment issues.

    I recall the years it took me to get into journalism, knocking on doors in the 1980s long before there was a university degree of the same name to carry under my arm to job interviews – my failure here, of course, being the inability to realise that at the time some tertiary institutions were offering free journalism majors as part of their free arts degrees.

    At the time I refused to trade favours on my absent father’s pedigree (he’s a journalist too, if you don’t already know) – understanding full well that nepatism (or Croninism) simply does not exist at the Worst. Another disadvantage I had when it came to this paper was I wasn’t from the Western Suburbs.

    No, I had to go out and fail, even allowing my dignity to be crushed when I was shafted while on maternity leave by a bunch of TV wankers who purported that I just didn’t have what it took to be a successful talking head on the tube.

    So devasating this was, particularly being post natal, that nothing could lift my spirits – not even the payout I got after sueing those pricks for sexual discrimination.

    That, however is a thing of the past.

    Now, with this column, I can not only write about being an ordinary woman, but I can be self reflective and inform you, my darling readers, about my insecurities and my secret hope that I, like Paul Murray before me, will be fearless and honest.

    Yes, I’m now a veteran of failure and abandonment – something I’m sure I’ll remind you of repeatedly until the powers that be get sick of me and give me a golf column to spit out (like they did with Len Findlay after they got sick of him banging on about shower nozzles).

    And I’ll continue to take a risk on your tolerenace.

    But for now I only have one thing left to say – being an ordinary woman with abandonment issues may be tough, but thank God I wasn’t adopted.

    Like

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