delve a little deeper....
Once upon a time there was a lovely young woman who lived in the deepest darkest part of Essex. Not content with her dreary suburban life she went on an adventure to find fame and fortune. She arrived in the Big City of London and started her quest to find her place in the world at a brightly lit cavern of twinkly lights and sparkly thongs. This place was called Stringfellows and was run by a wizened old man with golden locks.
One day the lovely young woman met a TV producer who offered her a chance to embrace the public's love she so desperately craved and she appeared on the telly box in Essex Wives. Our media princess had finally found her place in life and all of a sudden she was inundated with offers from the scrolls of the red top to appear betwixt their pages with her boobies out! Our heroine revelled in her fortune and like Mr Benn the shopkeeper kept appearing as if from nowhere all over the telly boxes, scrolls of the red tops and other esteemed tomes such as Zoo and Nuts. So loved by the public, she was given the esteemed title of The Poor Man's Jordan.
But what was our fair maiden missing? What does every young girl desire with all her heart? A prince of course! Luckily a wise spirit known as MTV cast a magic spell upon her, enabling her to choose the man of her dreams. They named this deep, spiritual process leading to a sacred marriage Who'll Take Her Up the Aisle?
As the years went by our princess fell slightly into obscurity, however the plucky lass worked hard to keep the public from forgetting her. She was not deterred by being kicked out of The Celebrity Big Brother House first, even before Michel Barrymore and Maggot from Goldie Looking Chain and forged on to make the public love her. In 2004 she opened her heart to News of The World for a pot of golden coins about an enchanting tryst she had with a football player. You go girl!
Of course, we mere mortals should not mock. We all make bad decisions and life sometimes leads us down a path full of nettles and brambles and ultimately we all need to find a way to pay the bills. So, let us not judge her. She wasn't the first to trade on her looks or her tits and she sure won't be the last.
Moving on to the present day (dear reader, I do not have the wherewithal to come up with fairy tale puns for Trust Me - I'm A Holiday Rep, The Games, E4's Fool Around... with Jodie Marsh, Back to Reality, Come Dine With Me and The Weakest Link, to name a few!) Our princess had now grown older, wiser; more muscley and realised that getting her baps out and shouting at people was not her way anymore. She was destined for better things. She wanted to help people. Now who would need my help she thought; who is already marginalised, stigmatised, living under dangerous laws and guaranteed to provide salacious viewing?
Our princess thought for a while but really couldn't think of anyone... Blessed with great destiny, The wraith of Great Fortune appeared in a puff of purple smoke! He was a producer of a small mysterious telly box channel, so tiny and special noone had heard of it, but he had a job for our heroine!
Off out into the big wide world did our intrepid adventurer go! She followed the path weaved by the great Louis Theroux, she searched for rare breeds in the manner of Sir David Attenborough and forded steams like Arwen and found herself some super specimens to dissect and sneer at. She had found some hookers and made some telly!
The world of the Twitter was stirred, not since the time of Ladeez on bank notes had twitter been so frothed and divided! What had our heroine uncovered? What had she shared with the world?!
Well, I couldn't do it justice myself so I'll let you read a few quotes... (taken from here)
The truth is that no-one could honestly love that job. There's nothing empowering about it - it's demoralising, degrading, dirty, and loveless.
How many times during filming did I hate a man? 500.
...mostly because the women I met had been dragged kicking and screaming and forced into it. And also forced into doing drugs, like heroin, which they then became addicted to. All of these women - every single one of them - shared one thing in common: it was a man who forced them into it. I became a real man hater during this. I could not believe what these men are doing to these women.
these girls do want to speak out and they do want it to be known what is happening, because one way or another it needs to be stopped. They knew that my mission was to tell the truth.
The men I spoke to were horrible. D***heads. They thought it was funny and to them it was a game. They felt powerful because they were paying to be in control and they were sadistic.
The trolls and goblins of Twitter world came out of their holes! They pointed at the women and called them ugly, they said that NO women could possibly want to be paid for sex, they jeered, they bullied, they made sweeping generalisations, they got confused over legalities, they had sad feelz, they were disgusted, outraged, they wanted to save ALL the hookers or maybe just ban them.
So what does this tell us? Maybe our princess didn't like hookers very much to start with. Maybe she had forgotten that much of her fortune was made in the sex industry? Did she never realise that while Nuts or Zoo made her their darling, other women were exploited by promises of careers in glamour? Should the bad experiences of some mean all nude photography should be banned? What moral should be at the end of this story?
Does our media princess live happily ever after having experiencing the horrors of sex work (well five minutes in an Amsterdam window), will she go on to become St Jodie who saved the whores or slip back into z list, reality show status?
Of course, the real heroines are the whores, harlots, stumpets and floosies, but does their story ever really get told? Or as the lovely Amelie Delacroix on Twitter put it- Why do hookers always have to have 'a story'? "Person wants money so begins well paid job". It's really fucking easy, there's *my* story.
What I did learn is that there must be a magical quality in the number 70, because apparently 70% of prostitutes in Amsterdam are trafficked and 70% of lap dancers are lesbians.