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Frankie Cocozza

27 Sep

Frankie Cocozza

“I want to get lots of girls” the pug-faced cheeky chappy from Brighton (by way of Malia! WAHEY!) tells the judges. Then he gets his bum out to show the panel, the whooping crowd and the whole bloody country the tattooed names of all the girls he’d presumably boned while in Malia. The names are still visible, but the hairy bumcrack is blurred out. This was to save The X Factor’s producers’ skin – they were given a wrap on the knuckles by Ofcom after broadcasting Rihanna and Christina Aguilera’s raunchy performances in last year’s finale. It was also, I like to think, blurred out so that not one young girl’s notion of smooth, groomed heartthrobbery could be thwarted by the appearance of wiry curled hair on a Syco darling’s bumhole.

But that’s not the hair I want to discuss. The only hair that makes Frankie Cocozza of any worth to anyone – his eyebrows, though not as offensive as many of his fellow contestants’, appear to be slugging their way around his face – is his head hair. His voice lacks the pizzazz of his surname – Gary said the 18-year-old scamp has “Rod Stewart vocals”. But the fist of pure emotionlessness forgot to mention that the vocals he meant were the yelps he’d imagine the feather-haired troll emitted when he discovered Benicio Del Toro had got his daughter up the duff and finally had a taste of his own salty medicine.

Frankie’s similarity to Rod Stewart starts and ends with his inability to keep his pants on. Not only did he drop trow in front of the bloody nation, but with rumours flying – doubtless greenlit by the show’s PR officers – that he bonked a female contestant on the bootcamp round, it appears the lad is just as quick to get his end away as he is to hit a flat note.

Arguably, Frankie’s got some charisma. The type of Olly Murs/Robbie Williams ITV1 Saturday evening charisma which is so anemic it must be subsidised with either trousers so tight you can tell he’s not circumcised or monthly injections of testosterone. The type of charisma that also needs a hat or a quiff to really work.

Or, in Frankie’s case, a thick, lustrous head of hair. He’s done the Shane from The L Word look with the same audacity that only the most feckless of lesbians in the mid-2000’s could do. It’s a great cut. We, as lesbians, like to distance ourselves from it because it’s all a bit cliché to mooch around like Shane, and trends tell us that hair’s to be swept up off of our foreheads unless arranged in a neat bowl. Our own micro-society tells us to hold back from The Shane.

But Frankie probably hasn’t done like his namesake on Lip Service (shit, remember Lip Service) and borrowed his hair from Shane. He’s just let a Justin Bieber ‘do grow out and all of that time rolling about in bed (or his natural Italian curl) has done the rest. The Shane is a brilliant haircut and we shouldn’t relegate it to a ‘don’t’ ‘do simply because it was at the height of lesbian cool years ago. I am 110% anti-Frankie, and would rather see Kendro perform sex acts on one another than him rasp his way through The X Factor’s final . But his one redeeming quality, perhaps his only redeeming quality, is absolutely classic lesbian hair.

Ben Whishaw in The Hour

18 Aug

British weather is a joke. But in the summer, as the clouds draw over, festivals and fairs get pissed on, and al of a sudden you’re wearing a coat and shivering whilst inside, at least these grumbles are allayed by ‘the silly season’. When giant rats are found in an estate oop north, or when a whale is found halfway up the Thames, or a donkey is parachuted into the air. Silly season is essentially when parliamentary recess happens and every newspaper’s front 20 pages resemble Metro’s page 3.

However, in this disgusting summer, the whole concept of a silly season lasted for about as long as that 31 degree heatwave. What kicked it off was the convergence of evil journalists, evil politicians, evil police officers in the hacking scandal, sending the world into some sort of tailspin, making everything happen reallyfuckingquickly and giving actual purpose to 24 hour news channels’ ‘BREAKING’ tickers. Bar the recent riots, which were a whole new level of WTF, this persistence of stuff just happening all over the place has been eerily echoed by The Hour. The newsroom thriller about the corrupt triumvirate of police, government and journalists, had The Times columnist Giles Coren musing on Twitter: “wow. journalists, police and politicians all interconnected in a terrible naughty mess. who would have thought?”

The programme had been tipped as the ‘British Mad Men’, but the plaudit fell by the wayside; although The Hour’s costumes seem to be spot on, it lacks Mad Men’s glamour and gloss. All for good reason – the BBC’s budget is a mere splash to HBO’s ocean, and postwar Britain was penniless in comparison to postwar America. But at points it feels as if the grubbiness is not down to a purposeful move away from glamour, but down to unintentional faults. There are some serious continuity howlers as the camera angle switches. Look! There’s Dominic West pouring a bottle of wine. And look! It’s disappeared again.

Almost as fleeting as Dominic West’s bottle of wine was my friend Noo’s turn in the first episode. She had a tough task, playing the nervy society girl who dismantled the story’s equilibrium by coming in and mumbling paranoid tales about ‘them’ and ‘they’. But she did very well, and you can see her this Christmas in the BBC’s adaptation of Great Expectations. Let’s hope she gets given a better fringe this time.

But we’re not here to talk about her fringe. We’re here to talk about Ben Whishaw’s lesbian hair. Lots of people have said that his suit looks far too contemporary, that it could’ve fallen out of a Hedi Slimane collection. The same could be said for his hair, which seems to have been scalped from east London’s finest lesbians. It’s all floppy, like what happens when a girl has a crew cut then it grows out and she can’t be bothered to cut it because it’s still pretty low maintenance and besides she’s sleeping with the ex of the girl who cuts her hair for free and why pay anyway? Yeah, that.

Boris Johnson

3 Apr
Boris Johnson

Boris Johnson

This week, Boris Johnson was on BBC Question Time to talk about how the world is going to shit. Each week on QT, there’s someone sitting in the ‘cunt chair’. The chair moves, but essentially, there’s always a cunt on the show. Be it Danny Alexander, Nick Griffin or Kelvin MacKenzie. This week, it seemed as if Boris was in the cunt chair (he was the only Conservative who didn’t look like a mouse there).

But, as much as his party’s policies are as comfortable as a lemon-juice enema, his rhetoric is astounding. He’s quick witted without trying and can dig himself out of the stickiest situations. I saw him at People’s Question Time in Camden last year and he was hilarious. The fair Mayor of London didn’t know his microphone was on throughout the meeting, so the whole hall was treated to his blustering insults, (mostly aimed at RMT union members) ‘poppycock’ ‘tosh’ ‘oh grow up’. His hair had just been cut, especially for the event – another GLA member actually mentioned this – and he kept on burying his bonce in his hands. If any other politician was seen with their head in their hands, it would be front-page news, indicative of some sort of breakdown. But when Bozza does it, it’s just him being his idiosyncratic self.

This messy style would look great lesbians’ heads. We’ve seen an intense specificity in hairstyles over the past 7 years – Emos, you have a lot to answer for. But really, what’s sexier, the person who spends hours carefully straightening, gelling, bouffing, back-combing their hair, or the person with shaggy, imperfect bed-head? The hair makes a scarily powerful buffoon look approachable. It could work for you, too.