I see with interest that Naomi Campbell has come out in public support of Kate Moss. I am glad someone has, even though I am not sure whether the beleaguered supermodel will benefit from her problem being shared by one of fashion’s least liked ambassadors.

It would be great if we could do a quick headcount of models who indulge in the odd chop and sniff, and perhaps then expand that to find out about the industry in general. Your Diors and Mulberrys who have dropped the model – wouldn’t it be wonderful to pull back a curtain onto their world, to see if, as I suspect, many of them insist on the unnatural, unsustainable thinness of the models – which is surely a by-product of the drug welcomed by the industry? Wouldn’t you like to see if any of the people from the client themselves indulge backstage with the models? I would be surprised if they all came out whiter than white.

And more importantly, if we are doing an expose, would it not be of interest to investigate these purveyors of so-called ‘role-model’ morals, the complacent hacks of the press, who so long ago forgot the enthusiasm with which they joined the ranks of the Fourth Estate, and now just churn out meaningless drivel instead of trying to write thoughtful pieces which will change the way we think. Now, perhaps I am generalising here, but it was my impression that the occasional toot at a Fleet Street shindig is not unheard of. (I am reminded of the time when the BBC revealed that such and such a percentage of bank notes, when tested, could be found to have traces of cocaine. And then it was revealed that they had got the notes from their staff. Apocryphal, perhaps, but it illustrates my point humorously. And hey – if the paid up members of the journalistic world can be slapdash in their opinion making, then why can’t I?)

The thing is, the press are not even consistent in their anti-drug outrage. Last year, when Mutu was fired from Chelsea for his drug use, I recall reading several articles which questioned why Mourinho hadn’t put him into rehab or given him counselling, as they recognised that he is suffering from an illness, and should be supported, not censured.

But the difference is, of course, that Kate Moss has refused to bow to tabloid pressure to ditch the beast to whom she, in their view, played beauty. The press’ treatment of Pete Doherty, no easily PR’ed, fresh-faced popstrel, is another story and another rant entirely, but when Moss stuck by her man, showing a loyalty and strength of character not common in celebrity couples, they clearly felt snubbed that she hadn’t taken their persistent advice to get out of the relationship.

Kate Moss has, of course, apologised. She had to – to stop the ‘melt-down’ of her career which Max Clifford was predicting this time last week. It was probably the right thing to do. But I can’t help wishing that she had blown the lid on the whole lot of them. To me, hypocrisy of that order in the press is a far better indicator of the moral decay of society, than someone (trying very hard to do so in private) getting off their head.

Grumpy is jetting off on Monday, to treat Petulant to a birthday treat in Istanbul, and we managed to get some time to ourselves last night for the first time in a long while. Kicking off with a spot of shopping (I missed the second part of the weather report which said that it was going to be sunny and cold, and had to buy an autumn jacket – a very nice beige suede waist-length number; Grumpy had to further spoil Petulant with presents), we then went on to Bodeans to indulge my occassional and irrepressible desire for ribs, and thence to Leicester Square, for a good old multiplex experience.

It has been a while since I saw a film which made me scared. The last time I remember experiencing that utter paralysis at something I had just viewed was when (nolonger)Drunk and I were still a couple, a year and a half ago, and we watched ‘The 100 scariest movie moments of all time’, and sometime before we even reached the number one spot ‘Here’s Johnny!’, I was begging him to accompany me to the toilet as I could not envisage going half way up the stairs by myself… The original version of ‘The Ring’? Good, classy, brooding. Didn’t make me catch my breath. Recently ‘The Grudge’, the Americanised version, gave me a couple of sleepless moments. The last film I saw which really caught my imagination in this way was ‘Jeepers Creepers’, and that must have been four or five years ago now. And the second half of the film was so laughable that by the time you left the cinema the atmosphere built up so expertly in the initial driving scenes is completely dissipated.

So I was looking forward to ‘Wolf Creek’, hoping that finally something would disturb my imagination and invade my dreams at night. And, to make short work of my response, it did not disappoint. At the end of it (despite a few moments of genuine flinching), Grumpy affected an insouciance and proclaimed that he liked his horrors more psychological, and by that I took him to mean more stylised, brooding, intense. In the way that all Hollywood thrillers have become. I couldn’t disagree more. To me, Wolf Creek is a movie which puts the viewer in the picture, allows us to imagine we could be there and that could be happening to us. And the where and the what are painted so expertly that we really don’t want to be thinking like that.

It follows three young backpackers – two English girls and an Australian boy – on their road trip to see a crater formed by a meteorite hitting the earth. The opening scenes of the film are lengthy and naturalistic – we get a feel for the every day nature of what’s happening, and the observations, down to the girls both clearly wanting to take a crack at the boy, Ben, but affecting not to care, are painted in a straightforward way. Everything is there for the viewer to observe; nothing – unlike the American equivalents, and like the vast outback which they are travelling – is signposted. When they climb down from the crater, they observe that the two watches which they carry between them both stopped at the same time. When they get in their car, it fails to start. These are the only two supernatural elements to the film (apart from Ben’s obsession with talking about UFO sightings), another marked difference from so many of those Hollywood blockbusters, and again, something which makes us able to suspend our disbelief to the extent that we can envisage ourselves in the scenes to follow.

I won’t say what these are. If you have read any of the reviews, you will know that the group encounter their very own version of ‘Crocodile Dundee’ who offers to fix their car, takes them from this isolated place further and further into the outback, in a journey that takes hours and sees our travellers getting increasingly restless and concerned. You will know that he turns out to be not so much a Paul Hogan character as an amalgam of outback serial killers, most notably Ivan Milat, whose remarkable history I have been reading about today.

I recommended to Bloke and Blonde that they go and watch this film. I wouldn’t tell them what happened next either. But I would recommend that you don’t do as Grumpy and I did, and go for ribs first.

Recidivist spent this Monday in the company of Brother, Sister-in-Law and (nolonger)Drunk at the Oval. After a summer of following the spectacular series, even spending much of my time during the Leeds festival huddled round a small radio with Grumpy outside our tent, it was with immense joy and trepidation that I travelled to the ground on Monday morning, laughing as the tube pulled in at Oval station and the driver announced ‘change here for the ashes’.

The morning passed in a tormented blur. Hardly a word was exchanged between the four of us, as the three of us able to imbibe did so and took in the mini collapse which preceded Pieterson’s innings.

The afternoon saw the dispersal of all the tension and a slow hope that we were going to make it. By tea time Brother was wondering why we didn’t declare and try and bowl the Aussies out, and shortly after, when rain stopped play, we knew that we were witnessing a bit of cricket history.

But it’s the antics since which have amused me enough to move me to write this. The lovely news of the joyous partying of the players has been widely reported on the front as well as the back pages of tabloid and broadsheet alike. I heard this morning on the radio that for Pieterson, the two day celebration is so much of a blur that “I don’t remember anything about going to No 10. I don’t even remember shaking the hand of the prime minister. ”

Back in his home of South Africa, I have been told by members of the family who live there, the billboards are proudly proclaiming ‘South African wins the ashes.’

The Paula Yates joke doing the rounds is perhaps inevitable, but most of the celebrations have been good natured and have shown that we can be gracious as a nation. Even on the day, Warne was the player who got the largest cheer from the crowd, no doubt delighted to have had the opportunity to see such a phenomenal sportsman playing, and the Australians in the crowd took no abuse whatsoever.

My favourite display of subtle gloating, though, is the fact that the Royal Mail is creating an Ashes commemorative stamp design – which will adorn the first class stamp as well as the 68p one required to post a letter to Australia.

Received this email this week. Lovely idea, and some lovely answers:

The Washington Post’s Mensa Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year’s winners:

• Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time. • Ignoranus: A person who’s both stupid and an a-hole. • Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realise it was your money to start with. • Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly. • Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future. • Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid. • Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high. • Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it. • Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late. • Hipatitis: Terminal coolness. • Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.) • Karmageddon: It’s like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it’s like, a serious bummer. • Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you. • Glibido: All talk and no action. • Dopeler effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly. • Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you’ve accidentally walked through a spider web. • Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out. • Caterpallor (n.): The colour you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you’re eating.

The internet has, since its inception, harboured enough dark corners for every weird little idea to hide itself. And amongst all the banal and useless nonsense out there there are still some genuinely bizarre manifestations of individual oddities. Most recently there are many sites which are based on user contributions – photos, video clips or comments along a stipulated theme. These all too often get taken over by people whose contributions are less than good, who can’t spell or write English with any nod to grammar, whose sense of humour can, at best, be described as ‘lowest common denominator’. The site which has the excellent idea of putting things on your cat and then taking pictures of them has been hijacked by people the calibre of whom can be deducted from the following comment on this picture: “LOL!!!!! Oh man, that’s funny! At first I thought that the head and paws were on the box, but then I realised there was a cat in there! This is an awesome pic! : )”

However, there is one site I found recently which truly satisfied my most sordid internet requirements. Crying, while eating not only raises the obvious issue of our oh-so-unhealthy modern relationship with food, it also contains some genuinely uncomfortable clips. It has the odd silly piece depicting people who look like their crying wouldn’t be convincing if someone poked their eye in the school playground, but mainly, even when it is obvious they are acting, the clips are genuinely entertaining. The accompanying explanation of why they are crying really makes the site. Visit if you feel like feeling dirty.