Next On Jan Moir’s Hit List: Chav Celebrities

Jan Moir in the ‘Daily Fail’ asks ‘What kind of girl wants to sleep with Jack Tweed?’. Doesn’t she realise that the recent court case has shown us exactly what sort of girl wants to sleep with him?

Outside a London courtroom, bathed in the lemony sunshine of early spring, a young man punches the air in a victory salute.

Jack Tweed has just been cleared of raping a teenage girl at his Essex home and his callow triumphalism, before the cameras and news crews, is awful to behold.

Really..?

Is that because this was an utterly needless waste of public money, perhaps?

In his position, some men might have had the good sense to behave with a little more decorum.

I think he can be forgiven a bit of totally justified relief, Jan.

No matter what one thinks of chav celebrities and the way they behave, bringing in the full might of the legal system to regulate their rutting is a bit of a sledgehammer/nut interface, don’t you think?

To have the grace and wit to understand that this victory, if that is indeed what it is, is not just a hollow one, but one that reflects badly upon his lifestyle, his choices, his very existence.

Only on his? A bit one sided, maybe…

Since the 22-year-old first crawled into the public arena as the jailbird bridegroom of dying reality television star Jade Goody, he has become the absolute distillation of everything that is rotten and sordid about modern celebrity.

He has no talent, no marketable specialty, no gifts, no nothing. Following Goody’s death from cervical cancer a year ago, all he has to peddle is the sulphuric allure of his rackety, low grade fame-by-proxy.

Yes, yes, today’s no-talent celebrity culture is tedious beyond belief. But you write for the ‘Fail’, Jan. It does it’s own fair share of promoting such culture, doesn’t it?

Jack Tweed may have walked from court an innocent man, yet there is something unmistakably craven about him; he is somehow both shifty and puerile, a man for ever on the make and always looking for an angle.

Ah. It’s all the man’s fault. God, this is like reading a Cath Elliot ‘CiF’ piece…

… her identity hidden by the anonymity of the rape laws, a teenage girl slinks home to a life fractured by this sordid case.

No, not by the case. Not just by the case. And how fractured can her life be? As you point out, her identity is protected, while his is disclosed. He is not on the DNA database, while she will not be.

So what of Tweed? Is his life not also affected? Or doesn’t that draw on your sympathies?

It is truly a wretched story, a moral black hole with no place for tenderness or decency.

So I see, Jan. You haven’t shown much, after all.

A true journalist might rue the fact that we’ve come to such a pass – driven by Harriet Harman’s coterie of harpies – that we expend vast sums of money of cases that should never even cross the CPS desk in the first place.

A true journalist might stop to think that maybe, just maybe, no matter what one thinks of Tweed and his lifestyle, he didn't deserve that.