In his sporadically obvious column, Russell Chubb enters the subconscious minds of celebs and steals their innermost thoughts. When the mood takes him, he will transcribe his carefully chosen target's darkest and strangest brainwaves to ameliorate the public's media-corrupted perception of this well-known person. This week: Ed Miliband.
Ugly. The 16th of October, 1980. That was the first day that word was thrust in my face. I remember it clearly because it was the day after Gentleman Jim Callaghan, my idol back then (and also the name of my first pet gerbil), was ousted as leader of the Labour Party. I was ten years old – or should I say ten years young, since I certainly wasn’t old, considering I was only ten – and, unable to suppress my anguish any longer, I sobbed uncontrollably throughout a 55-minute afterschool recorder lesson at Primrose Hill Primary School. Griselda Thirion was the culprit. “You look incredibly ugly, Edward,” she spat, as tears dripped down onto the sheet music for “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. David, standing by my side, didn’t prevent himself from chuckling at me, as he so often did back then, leading others to follow. Who’s laughing now, Dave?
Like Callaghan, I like to look on the bright side of life, so the words did little to me. However, I certainly wasn’t about to let the bastards away with such a callous public attack. I grabbed Griselda by her soft, warm arm, stared into her beautiful, ferret-like eyes and sternly replied: “I have a very strong inner belief that you are wrong. And although you may not see it now, I am convinced that one day you will come around to my way of thinking.”Turning to my left, I met David’s cold stare. “As you well know, David,” I barked, “mother has repeatedly told me that I am very handsome, and that is concrete evidence which proves I am not ugly.“ Throwing my instrument to the floor, I shouted, “Your laughter was therefore both reckless and provocative,” as I galloped out of the classroom to stand under my favourite tree, Caroline. She would be my closest companion throughout the myriad dark days that followed.
A vegetable-themed fancy dress party at Harriet Harman’s flat in 1993 was my most harrowing encounter with 'the U-word'. (I went as a leek, by the way. The frolics we had back then!) I knew the occasion would turn sour when David arrived, arm in arm with a brunette. He was obviously never a patch on Tony Benn in his prime, but the prettier half of our species tended to favour David, for whatever reason. This particular lady – Susannah – gave the outward impression she was quite taken with him, but I knew what would be best for her. After slipping three sleeping tablets into David’s Martini and apple juice, there was soon a snoring aubergine on the sofa.I wasted no time in making my feelings known to Susannah. I closed my eyes and stuck out my tongue, as I slowly moved across the kitchen towards her, just like the instructions on Teletext had said. “Get away from me, you hideously ugly creature,” she shrieked, slapping me around the face. “I’m alright… I’m alright… I’m alright,” I screamed back at her with a wide grin, mimicking Neil Kinnock’s disastrous General Election speech at a Sheffield rally the previous year, in the hope of evoking pathos from her cold heart. But it turned out she was not aware of the speech. She was definitely a Tory, I tried to tell David when he began speaking to me again 14 months later. “Blue Sue”, I referred to her as I wrote my diary entry in bed that evening. “Boo hoo for Blue Sue. I hope David gives you the flu. Moron!”
And it was boo-bloody-hoo for John Humphrys this week when he had the cheek to imply that I was not handsome enough to lead this country. That one really backfired. A “gaffe” the Mail called it. Here bloody here. I’ll have you know that I have since had dozens of letters – mostly from women – telling me how incredibly attractive I am. I will yet be John Major and I will yet have my Edwina Currie. Oh no sorry, I meant, er, er, John Prescott and Tracey Temple. Oh no, hang on…Previously: Russell Chubb's Celebrity Mind Raid - Hugh Grant
Like Callaghan, I like to look on the bright side of life, so the words did little to me. However, I certainly wasn’t about to let the bastards away with such a callous public attack. I grabbed Griselda by her soft, warm arm, stared into her beautiful, ferret-like eyes and sternly replied: “I have a very strong inner belief that you are wrong. And although you may not see it now, I am convinced that one day you will come around to my way of thinking.”Turning to my left, I met David’s cold stare. “As you well know, David,” I barked, “mother has repeatedly told me that I am very handsome, and that is concrete evidence which proves I am not ugly.“ Throwing my instrument to the floor, I shouted, “Your laughter was therefore both reckless and provocative,” as I galloped out of the classroom to stand under my favourite tree, Caroline. She would be my closest companion throughout the myriad dark days that followed.
A vegetable-themed fancy dress party at Harriet Harman’s flat in 1993 was my most harrowing encounter with 'the U-word'. (I went as a leek, by the way. The frolics we had back then!) I knew the occasion would turn sour when David arrived, arm in arm with a brunette. He was obviously never a patch on Tony Benn in his prime, but the prettier half of our species tended to favour David, for whatever reason. This particular lady – Susannah – gave the outward impression she was quite taken with him, but I knew what would be best for her. After slipping three sleeping tablets into David’s Martini and apple juice, there was soon a snoring aubergine on the sofa.I wasted no time in making my feelings known to Susannah. I closed my eyes and stuck out my tongue, as I slowly moved across the kitchen towards her, just like the instructions on Teletext had said. “Get away from me, you hideously ugly creature,” she shrieked, slapping me around the face. “I’m alright… I’m alright… I’m alright,” I screamed back at her with a wide grin, mimicking Neil Kinnock’s disastrous General Election speech at a Sheffield rally the previous year, in the hope of evoking pathos from her cold heart. But it turned out she was not aware of the speech. She was definitely a Tory, I tried to tell David when he began speaking to me again 14 months later. “Blue Sue”, I referred to her as I wrote my diary entry in bed that evening. “Boo hoo for Blue Sue. I hope David gives you the flu. Moron!”
And it was boo-bloody-hoo for John Humphrys this week when he had the cheek to imply that I was not handsome enough to lead this country. That one really backfired. A “gaffe” the Mail called it. Here bloody here. I’ll have you know that I have since had dozens of letters – mostly from women – telling me how incredibly attractive I am. I will yet be John Major and I will yet have my Edwina Currie. Oh no sorry, I meant, er, er, John Prescott and Tracey Temple. Oh no, hang on…Previously: Russell Chubb's Celebrity Mind Raid - Hugh Grant