Jennifer Aniston . . . dog days. Photograph: Barry Wetcher Smpsp Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world . . . Yes, take refuge in Yeats and bleach daiquiris, my darlinks, for something has upset the fragile equilibrium of the defining entertainment psychodrama of our age. To wit: Now magazine claims Jennifer Aniston's dog is depressed, seeing a therapist, and entertaining suicidal thoughts. I know what you're screaming, and you're right – there's no suicidal dog in this never-ending mystery play. There are only three characters: Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Their endless, presumably entirely confected interaction is perhaps the ultimate celebrity magazine formula: a cavalcade of imagined break-ups, make-ups and jealousies so die-hard it could survive a nuclear winter. Like I say, you knew where you were with that. Angelina was hot and transgressive and had Brad, and Jen was sad and childless and not on Ban Ki-moon's speed-dial. This carefully calibrated set of certainties was nothing less than the lodestar of modern life, the fixed point used by humanity to navigate every dilemma from how to cut defence spending to how to sell innumerable copies of meretricious celebrity magazines. And now what? Suddenly we're supposed to process a suicidal dog? Listen to me, Now magazine: you can't just throw in another character and expect anything other than meltdown. This is bigger and more ruinous even than the introduction of Scrappy Doo. You might as well just toss a suicidal dog into the Nativity story and affect surprise when Rome burns. But before we proceed, allow Lost in Showbiz to furnish you with the so-called facts, as reported by Now. It seems that Jen has a corgi-terrier cross – "the one steady male presence in her life", the magazine can't resist pointing out sympathetically – who was accompanying his mistress on the set of her film shoot in Atlanta when he went missing for a night. "When he was found," we learn, "all was not well. Now he rarely wants to go for long walks and he doesn't respond to Jen, 41, like he used to." Sweet Jesus. What in the hell happened to Norman during that dark Atlanta night? Had it been Utah or Nevada, you'd have made the obvious assumption that he had been abducted by aliens, then anally probed, and is now functioning as some kind of canine drone, gathering intelligence and beaming it back up ahead of an invasion. But this was Georgia. The Others have never shown the slightest interest in the Peach State. "He came back dazed and lacklustre," is all Now will say, "and often doesn't seem to recognise her." So according to the mag, Jen took Norman to a canine shrink, who diagnosed what Churchill called the black dog, and prescribed antidepressants. And what of Poor Jen? "She's concerned it could be it for him and she's devastated," says "a source close to the actress". "She's hoping to coax him out of it herself," adds "an insider". At this point, a word about the anonymous sources who populate second-tier celebrity magazines. Naturally, anyone over the age of four assumes these are simply made up by the publications, whose business is peddling ludicrous stories that stay just inside libel laws, and which – despite being openly disproven week after week – they never have the self-respect to retract, preferring instead to fart out the next string of "close pals" to make unsubstantiated claims in convenient tabloidese. Like I say, this is the assumption – but it really could not be further from the truth. In fact, the reporters of Now magazine, and all others like it, spend months, often years, cultivating a network of high-level whistleblowers, who are met bi-weekly in underground parking garages, where they dispense history-altering investigative advice such as "follow the money" and "Kerry begs Mark: take me back". So if we know anything about this story – and I think we know EVERYTHING about it – it's that Norman will be depressed for one of three reasons. 1. Because Jen can't keep a man. 2. Because Jen worries about whether she'll ever have a baby. 3. Because Jen is receiving late-night phone calls from Brad in which he begs: take me back. Then again, why should it be a vicarious thing? Maybe Norm himself can't get a bitch; maybe it is he who wonders if he'll ever have a puppy – maybe his former ladyfriend ran off with some studlike little chihuahua and this new glamour couple now have a vast rainbow mongrel litter which they parade around the world, at the same time as making showy mercy missions to places of great canine suffering, such as Helmand or unapologetic restaurants in downtown Seoul. All we can say for sure is that the eternal Jen/Brad/Angie story just went one-and-a-half dimensional. Consider the blood-dimmed tide officially loosed.
On a scale of one to 10, how bad has the last year been? 'Eleven,' Cole says instantly. The dressing-room door opens and a lapdog jumps off Cheryl Cole and scurries across the floor. "Hello, dog," I say. "How are you?" "Hello," says Cheryl Cole barely moving her lips, "my name is Blue and I'm very well, thank you." Blue jumps back on to Cole's knee, and before I know it they're swapping soppy, sloppy kisses and I feel as if I'm playing gooseberry. "He's not my dog," Cole says. "He's the son of one of mine." She looks into his eyes – great, dark, wet pools, not unlike her own. "He's a gorgeous boy. Very cute. He looks like his mam." She smiles her X Factor smile – warm, gentle, empathetic. Cole recently said, "I don't trust anybody in my life except my mother and my dogs." Not surprising, really. While she has enjoyed huge success as a solo singer and as part of Britain's most successful female pop group, Girls Aloud, and perhaps most of all as a judge on The X Factor, her private life has been hellish. Her split from footballer Ashley Cole was played out in the tabloids, with evidence of her husband's infidelity splashed across the front pages. When she didn't talk, the press speculated whether Our Cheryl was having a breakdown, was anorexic, had lost it as a judge, had fallen out with Simon Cowell, was seeing other men for revenge, was seeing lawyers for the ultimate revenge… Probably only Princess Diana and Posh Spice have obsessed the media as much. But even when it was announced Cheryl was divorcing Ashley still she didn't speak. Ten months on, she's sick of having words put into her mouth and has agreed to do one television interview (with Piers Morgan) and one newspaper interview, with the Guardian. After this, she says, that's it – she will never discuss her private life in public again. On a scale of one to 10, how bad has the last year been? "Eleven," she says instantly. She starts off with marriage, but mid-sentence changes to malaria. The disease, which she contracted three months ago while holidaying in Tanzania, is an easier place to begin. "It was the day after my birthday when the symptoms first started. I put it down to that I'd been drinking vodka the night before, because I'm not a regular drinker. I put it down to just a big hangover. It got gradually worse and worse." What were the symptoms like? "I was exhausted and having flushes, goosebumps one minute – blue lips, blue fingertips, blue toes – to then being boiling hot. My skin was wet. I couldn't breathe properly." She was diagnosed and admitted to intensive care at London's Hospital for Tropical Diseases. Is it true she thought she was dying? "Yeah," she says quietly. "You want to know the details? I had no liver function, no kidney function, I was swollen with the fluid, I had no oxygen in my blood, I literally had 24 hours to get fluid out of my body, otherwise my insides were going to pack in. You know how sometimes you feel ill and say, 'I feel like I'm dying'? Well, I actually felt like I was dying. I asked the nurse outright – was I going to die? She said, 'There's a possibility.' " She comes to a shocked stop. Was she terrified of dying? "No, I was too tired to be scared. Honestly. I can't even describe to you – I was just like, I wish it would hurry up." She asked if she could make her will, and was told that if she didn't improve in 24 hours she should. The critical state lasted 36 hours and she was in hospital for 10 days. She is still spooked by the illness, not least by the fact that the previous year she had climbed Kilimanjaro to raise money for malaria sufferers. "It is weird, isn't it?" she says, almost to herself. Today, she still looks a little fragile. I offer her some of my sweets. "I'll have a wine gum," she says. "What's wrong with jelly babies?" "I don't like the flour on them. It goes through us." ‘I know to a lot of people the headlines and the stories they read are like some soap opera, but it’s my life.’ With Ashley in Germany during the 2006 World Cup. Photograph: PA Cole is about to release her second solo album, Messy Little Raindrops. The subject of the album is lost love. More explicitly, it is about being cheated on, the desire for vengeance and the recovery of self-respect. It couldn't be more personal. The only thing missing is a namecheck for her former husband. The songs are so specific, I assume she must have written them, but they have been written for her. On Happy Tears, she sings, "I cried when I heard you were cheating, I cried when I said I was leaving, I cried when my heart stopped believing… I cried when I slashed all your tyres, I cried when your suit hit the fire, I cried cos I knew I'd never see you again… but those were happy tears." Let's talk about those lyrics, I say. She gives me a wary look, and stresses that she didn't write them. So she cried about the cheating? "You're not going to say obvious things, are you? That wouldn't be very fun." Did she slash his tyres? "No." Did she feel like slashing his tyres? "Yes, sometimes." And did she feel like setting his suits on fire? "Sometimes." "It's all so recent," I say. "You must still feel that anger?" "You know what? I've dealt with anger for two years now, so I'm on top of it." It was two years ago there were first allegations of Ashley Cole's cheating. At the time, Cheryl said it was just malicious gossip. Did she know then that he'd been unfaithful? "Yes." And she gave him another chance? "Yes." Did she already know the first time, or did she learn about it through newspapers? "I don't know. I'm a bit numb. I've dealt with a lot of it. A lot of it on my own," She's speaking faster and louder now, and you can hear the upset in her voice. "A lot of emotion and feeling. More than anger." Did she feel embarrassed? "Of course. I'm a human. I'm still a person, you know. I know to a lot of people the headlines and the stories they read are like some sick entertainment or soap opera, but it's my life and I'm really dealing with it, and it's really happening. It's my real life. Of course I was embarrassed." The strange thing is, she's so widely adored and loved by people who don't know her, and yet her husband just goes off with a stranger who means nothing to him. "I don't think either is the case," she says. "When you're going through stuff or turmoil, whatever, I don't wake up in the morning and think, 'The world loves me.' Nah!" She says even if she had, it wouldn't have helped. "Nothing is much comfort at times like that. Nothing." She pauses. "Maybe music." What was she listening to? "I had…" She stops. "God, that feels really personal to tell you that… no, I won't tell you that. I listened to an album." What kind? "Soulful. Music is a big healer." One thing that emerges strongly from the new album is that Cole does not regard herself as a victim. "I have met a lot of young girls, and they said they'd watched my actions and it had inspired them. It had helped them through a situation, and that's the best feeling ever." Can she trust men now? "You know what? I haven't had time to deal with everything yet – even to reach that point where I'm thinking like that. It's not like I'm talking to you about something that's in my past. It's very present. If it had happened five years ago, it might be easier to answer your question." Cole always hated being talked of as a football Wag – she made it clear she had her own successful career. "Footballers' wives are just as bad as benefit scroungers – it's just a higher class of scrounger," she said in 2006, soon after marrying. At The X Factor studios, we are a few yards from Wembley Stadium, where the wives and girlfriends would turn out to watch their partners represent England. It must be a relief that she no longer has to do that, I say. "I thought 'Wag' was a derogatory term. It put you in the position of not being a person, just being the wife of someone, and I'm very uncomfortable with that – not in terms of going to Wembley to support your husband, but in terms of what that tag means and how you're perceived." Cole is not the first woman whose footballer partner cheated on her. This year, it seems that half the England team have been on the front pages for the same thing. Why is what happened to her so common in the football world? "Mmm," she mutters. "Yet all the other women have stayed with their footballers," I persist. And now she really is upset – whether it's with me, or my wording, or everything we're talking about, I don't know. "I don't feel it happened to me. I hate that. 'It happened to you.' I just hate it. It didn't happen to me. It's someone else's actions. The malaria happened to me. I just hate it. Hate it. Hate the whole fucking thing." It's the only time in our conversation that she swears. She gulps, and chokes back a tear. "Hate this year." "Sorry," I say, pathetically. "It's all right, there's a new one coming." She smiles, and recovers her calm. Look, she says, the fact that Ashley Cole is a footballer isn't relevant. "It doesn't matter what occupation they've got. When your heart is breaking, your heart's breaking – it makes no difference what either of you do." She returns to the partners who have stayed with their straying footballers. "You can't judge somebody on their decision, because that's up to them. Just for me personally, that was my choice." Cole, now 27, always wanted to be a successful singer. Not famous, she stresses, just successful. She grew up on a rough council estate in Newcastle. So many kids drank and took drugs and ruined themselves before they'd even embarked on adulthood. Her parents separated when she was 11, she was suspended from school twice (for fighting, and for swearing) and her brother was in regular trouble with the law. But there was always something special about young Cheryl – she won Boots' bonniest baby competition, was named World Star Of Future Modelling at the age of six and appeared in TV commercials for British Gas. When she made her first appearance on Popstars: The Rivals, the show that created Girls Aloud, she looked like a pretty little street fighter. She had crooked teeth, a bit of a belly, and was at home in her tracky bottoms. I ask if she's seen the oft-repeated TV show documenting her transformation from "chav" to "people's princess". She smiles. "I still am very street – I just have nicer clothes. I'm not ashamed of that. I love that. You know what, a lot of people that don't have that are worse off because they're not street-smart." How did she become the people's princess? "I have no idea. I find it all a bit… weird." Of course, she says, she was different when she won – back then, she was a teenager; now, she's a woman. Has her character changed? "No, I was the same as I am now. I might have chilled out a bit and grown up a lot." Was she angry then? "I definitely had teenage syndrome." And some. Just after winning Popstars: The Rivals, she almost killed her embryonic career. In January 2003, Cole got involved in a fight with a nightclub toilet attendant and was charged with racially aggravated assault and assault occasioning actual bodily harm. The prosecution said she was "high on fame" while the judge described the attack as "an unpleasant piece of drunken violence". Cole pleaded self-defence. The jury cleared her of the racist element, but found her guilty of assault occasioning actual bodily harm. She was ordered to pay £500 to her victim, £3,000 in prosecution costs and sentenced to 120 hours' community service. Did getting into trouble back then strengthen her in the long run? "Yes, 100%. It wasn't just a little bit of trouble, it was a big thing." With the media storm, did she think, "God, my career's over"? "No, my career hadn't really started. It was a few weeks in, and I actually thought, 'This is the real ugly side to fame.' People say the street and whatever, but the beauty of the street is that people are really loyal and honest. Brutally so. And this was my first experience with the opposite." Did she think that if she'd been at home, nothing would have been made of it? "Nothing would have been made of it. That's how you're bought up – to stick up for yourself." This mix of the hard and soft is one of the most fascinating things about Cole. Often, depending on the context, she is described as one or the other. One day she might be the stoic saint coping with marital adversity or the Mother Teresa of The X Factor, smiling beatifically as her kids perform for her; the next she might be the hard-nosed bitch who lip-syncs her way through a "live" TV performance while her X Factor wannabes have to do it for real, and who is happy to advertise L'Oréal shampoo while wearing hair extensions. Both versions, she says, are a caricature. "I'm not saintly at all. I do have a toughness. That's what's embedded in us, to be tough." Can she live a normal life when she goes home? She laughs. "I can act normally, and I can go out, but people around you don't act normally. If it was normal, I'd go out and have my dinner and nobody would be video-phoning me eating my dinner." Has she heard that young girls have started stapling their cheeks together to recreate her dimples? She looks as if she could be sick. "Yeah, I heard. Oh God. What on Earth am I'm supposed to say about that?" Don't do it? "Yes. Don't. It's funny, because having dimples is something I always struggled with growing up." It's late afternoon. The dressing room is dimly lit and largely empty – no photos, no good luck cards, just huge tubs of Butterkist popcorn and bottled water, Diet Coke, a cigarette packet and a box of matches. She gives Blue a quick cuddle, stuffs some Butterkist in her mouth and I ask a series of random questions. "If Simon got down on his knees tomorrow and said, 'Marry me, baby,' what would you say to him?" "What's the punchline?" "There are rumours that you have fallen out recently." "I don't know where these came from. If anything, we're the closest we've ever been." "He's helped you when you've been down?" "Why has everything got to be gloom and doom? We have funny conversations. He checks I'm OK, he reads me really, really well. I can't hide anything from him." "Why did you hire a group of singing dwarves for his birthday present?" "That was great, wasn't it?" She laughs. "What d'you get Simon Cowell for his birthday? Singing musical dwarves! You want some popcorn?" "How will your beloved Newcastle be affected by the Tory cuts?" "I was brought up Labour and it is pretty shit times. But I also think pop music helps that. And that's what I'm going to focus on – being a pop star. I'm not a politician." "The perfect politician's answer," I say. "But you are still Labour in your heart?" "Yes, absolutely." She stands up to wash her hands. "Sorry, I'm all sticky." For the first time I notice how tiny and slight she is – skinny legs, virtually no bottom and a giant tattoo across her lower back. "What is that tattoo?" I shout a little too loudly. "It's just times in my life, I suppose. More specific times when you felt certain things or whatever…" How many tattoos has she got? "Three." Which is her favourite? "I like the one on my hand, the little one. Just an abstract thing… it's cold in here." She seems to have forgotten two of her other tattoos – one on her bottom and the other on the back of her neck saying Mrs Cole. Does she want to get rid of any of her tattoos? "No… I'm not ashamed of anything. I've got nothing to rub away." There have been stories of yet another tattoo, dedicated to the dancer Derek Hough. Soon after she and Ashley Cole separated, the rumour mill went into overdrive – Hough was her new boyfriend, Hough was a cover for her new boyfriend. I ask if she really is going out with him. She replies with a fabulous evasion. "I know one thing for sure. I have spoken about everything that's been written about just to put everything to bed, close the door on this year, close the door on this chapter of my life, and start afresh. And from now on in I will never talk about my personal life again." What is it she most wanted to say? "Not want to say. I had to say. I just wanted to say, right, this is from the horse's mouth. And then I can move on, and try to have as much sanity and normality as possible." Outside the studio, there are paparazzi perched on their ladders trying to peer in. Is she aware of them? "Yes, it's sick. You know the worst thing is, when I was in intensive care, they were outside the hospital. There's people in that hospital dying, there are families going up there to sit with people for the last hours of their lives and there are 30 photographers outside." Perhaps it's impossible to reconcile such a high-profile career with a desire for privacy. Does she ever think, "Sod this for a game of soldiers, I'm getting out?" "Yeah, I've thought that a few times, but I'm not going to let them ruin my dreams. I want to make music." I do think she is being sincere, and that she does want to get stuff off her chest. Yet I'm equally aware that she is promoting a new album, which focuses on the breakdown of a relationship. For what it's worth, there is certainly no sign of a boyfriend. My feeling is she's still trying to get her life back together. I tell her about a 10-year-old girl who insists on calling her Cheryl Tweedy because it is empowering and Tweedy is her true name. No, she says, she's staying as Cole, and that's the truly empowering thing to do. "I don't feel sentimental about the name. If I went back to being Cheryl Tweedy, I'd be… I'm not ashamed of my marriage, it's a period in my life. And I am Cheryl Cole. That's how I feel." Cheryl Tweedy is who she was as a little girl, she says, and that's a lifetime away. And Cheryl Cole is who she's been most successful as, and Cheryl Cole sounds a cool name, and Cheryl Cole is a great brand. Why shouldn't she keep hold of the positives from her marriage? If she's sticking as Cheryl Cole, does she think that one day she might get back together with Ashley? This time she opens her mouth and it just stays open in shock or maybe horror. "We've been divorced. That's a pretty big ending. Maybe we can be friends… one day." Does she think he regrets lousing up their marriage? "I can't speak for him. You'll have to ask him that." Then she grins. "Maybe ring his publicist." • Cheryl Cole's second solo album, Messy Little Raindrops, is released on 1 November.
Gordon Ramsay's blustery, loud-mouthed persona is not going down so well with the public these days. Photograph: Channel 4 Gordon Ramsay has been no stranger to bad news in the last couple of years. His restaurant empire has faltered; he has been accused of torrid sexual wrongdoings; former proteges have turned against him. Through it all, the two central relationships in his life have appeared to stand firm: that to his wife, Tana, and to his father-in-law and business partner, Chris Hutcheson. Last week, however, the second of these was shown to be less resilient than was thought when it was announced that Hutcheson had left his position as CEO of Gordon Ramsay Holdings Ltd. It isn't yet clear what caused the rupture (all we know is that it followed a blazing row) but the implications for Ramsay cannot be anything other than extremely worrying. More than any other setback to have befallen the Glasgow-born chef in recent times, this one surely casts severe doubts over his future. It isn't much of a secret that Hutcheson has been integral to Ramsay's meteoric rise over the last 12 years, acting as his adviser, role model and even surrogate father, and effectively overseeing the day-to-day running of the business while Ramsay was busy turning himself into a TV celebrity. It could be argued that Ramsay is now big enough (and rich enough) to flourish without his former mentor. After all, after a rocky patch following the credit crunch his business is no longer in the red financially (it posted impressive profits of £4.2m in the 11 months leading up to August) and he'll no doubt be able to find someone else to run it for him. Moreover, his fame won't disappear overnight. The truth, though, is a bit more complex. Ramsay's success has always rested on a delicate balance between three things: his reputation as a chef; his acumen (aided by Hutcheson) as a businessman; and his fame as a TV personality. The three have reinforced each other in a sort of virtuous circle; remove any one from the equation, and it's hard to see how the other two would survive. Ramsay's greatest current difficultly, arguably, is that, although he is still doing well in purely financial terms, the other two prongs of his success – his culinary reputation and fame – are beginning to look somewhat tarnished. The reputation of his restaurants is no longer what it was. Back in the early 2000s his flagship Royal Hospital Road restaurant was rightly seen as the most exciting place to eat in London, if not Britain. In the newly published 2011 Harden's guide to London's restaurants, it is ranked just 17th. In addition to his own (much neglected) skills in the kitchen, Ramsay's other great strength has always been his ability to discover and nurture talent. But his two most brilliant proteges – Marcus Waering and Angela Hartnett – are no longer with him. Restaurant empires are ultimately propped up by the chefs, and Ramsay's, these days, seems worryingly lacking in this respect. And while he remains very much a presence on our TV screens, there is evidence that here, too, the Ramsay shtick is starting to wear thin. People have grown tired of his all-swearing, tough-guy persona. But his attempts to convince us that, beneath the bluster, he is really a kind soul – the subtext of his voyage of discovery round India in Gordon's Great Escape this year – have so far proved unconvincing. Nor does his latest series, Ramsay's Best Restaurant, based on a segment from his magazine show The F-Word, seem set to revive his reputation: in both critical and audience terms, it has so far met with an unenthusiastic response.The one thing we can be certain of about Ramsay is that his will to succeed is incredible, and it is much too early to write him off. But without Hutcheson these will be severely testing times for him both professionally and personally. Those close to him may have to get used to a lot more swearing.
Katy Perry covers herself with a jacket as she arrives with Russell Brand at the airport in Mumbai. Photograph: Punit Paranjpe/AFP/Getty ImagesThe singer Katy Perry and entertainer Russell Brand were married on Saturday at a "private and spiritual ceremony" at a wildlife sanctuary in India. The wedding took place at the Aman-e-Khas luxury resort outside the Ranthambhore tiger sanctuary, 80 miles from the "pink city" of Jaipur. A spokesman for the couple said a friend of Perry's family conducted the service. A hotel official said Brand and Perry wore traditional Indian clothes, with the bride and female guests in saris. Brand's wedding procession from a nearby resort was said to include 21 camels plus elephants, horses, dancers and musicians. PA
A baby elephant marked Russell Brand's arrival. Photograph: Digital Zoo/Getty ImagesRussell Brand and Katy Perry tied the knot in India over the weekend at a luxury resort within a Rajasthani tiger reserve. The most extravagant wedding of the year reportedly featured: ▶ A Bollywood banquet with drummers, dancers, fire eaters and snake charmers. ▶ Camels, horses and a baby elephant for Brand's arrival, a tiger named Machli as a gift for his bride, and another that got into the wedding party to the horror of security staff. ▶ 1,380 cans of soft drinks and 4,800 bottles of mineral water. ▶ Celebrity attendees including P Diddy, David Walliams and Jonathan Ross. ▶ A fortune-telling parrot, who informed the newlyweds they would have a long marriage, children and, most importantly, successful careers. (William Hill is offering odds of 7-2 on a break-up before the end of 2011.)
Wayne Rooney. Photograph: Tom Jenkins Naturally enough, the first thing I did on hearing that Wayne Rooney had squeezed another £42m out of Manchester United was wonder what economists would make of such a jackpot. The second thing I did was read a bunch of monographs to find out. Yes, I'm serious. No, I can't help it. Stop shaking your head. Pug-faced footballers interest me about as much as conveyancing solicitors, who have had far more impact on my life. There was even a brief period at school when I thought this Man U everyone else was talking about was actually a Burmese military dictator. So if you want an in-depth discussion about whether Rooney just wanted to play alongside his mate Carlos Tevez, then my advice is to move on to the sports section, whose writers will take good care of you. What interests me is how a striker who has only scored one goal this season, who had a terrible World Cup, who is in what's widely described as the worst form of his career, can command a weekly wage reportedly between £200,000 and £250,000. And for that, economists have some answers. Even better, whether left or right, Chicago or Cornell, their arguments yield some common suggestions for what can be done about it. Best of all, in these austere times, those suggestions involve imposing higher taxes on the people who earn such huge amounts. We can even call it a Rooney tax, and demand that George Osborne introduces one in his next Budget. The first thing economists suggest about the explosion in players' wages is that there is little incentive for the clubs to stop paying out so much. Put bluntly, clubs pay top dollar for top talent because it keeps them at the top of the table. Studying the performance of 40 English clubs over two decades, the sports economist Stefan Szymanski found that their wage bills accounted for 92% of the variation in their league positions. In Italy, the link was a tad stronger at 93%. Set aside precise calculations of value for money, put out of your mind the (very real) prospect that a manager might overpay for a forward who then spends most of his time on the bench or in physio, and turn a blind eye to the recklessness that some clubs have shown in running their finances. The implication of this finding is clear: a club that wants to go places is under a huge amount of pressure to spend a lot on players. The same goes for directors hiring staff at investment banks and producers casting actors for a film. I'm lumping Cristiano Ronaldo together with Bob Diamond and Robert Pattinson for a reason: they're all examples of what economists sometimes refer to as superstars. And the second thing economics teaches us about superstar pay is that it is fruitless to work out whether Yaya Touré really is that much better than other midfielders. In The Economics of Superstars, published in 1981, the Chicago academic Sherwin Rosen argued that those generally agreed to be the best in their field generally scoop the vast majority of the rewards. "If a surgeon is 10% more successful in saving lives than his fellows, most people would be willing to pay more than a 10% premium for his services," Rosen wrote. The other point Rosen made was that when it became possible for more people to witness a brilliant performance, then the top performer would make even more money. And if you think about it, audiences from Nepal to Nebraska are better able than ever before to witness the same performances – through satellite TV, DVDs and iTunes. Rosen's work on superstars is probably the most widely quoted in the entire field – proof perhaps of his own theory. As a description of a process it is both ingenious and elegant. But it is less good for football and other team pursuits (banking, films) than solitary sportsmen and novelists. Still, here is the main point to take away from his argument: a significant sum of the wages paid to superstars is not merited solely by their talent, but by the simple fact that they are in pole position in their field. It is the rank that is being rewarded, not the person. Put that argument together with Moshe Adler's work on superstars. Adler believes that people are naturally attracted to what other people value – it gives them something to talk to others about, and a common culture. So it is that hordes of people will read the latest Dan Brown or teenage girls will all get into the Saturdays. Ranking, the spread of technology, and the development of a common culture: superstars benefit from all of these and yet have little to do with any of them. There is therefore no reason why film stars, footballers or financiers should hold on to so much of their earnings. The lesson from Rooney's negotiations, according to my economics monographs, is that we would be quite entitled to levy a higher rate of tax – call it the Rooney rate – on superstars. It's hard to see what harm it would do. RPattz is unlikely to throw in his job to work at Tesco. Tevez is unlikely to retrain as a corporate lawyer. As for Rooney, it might even encourage him to spend more nights indoors with Coleen.
Jedward obeying the 'Do not climb on luggage trolleys' rule at Heathrow airport. Photograph: Infphoto.com Airport security. A place where queuing is mandatory. Where answering, "Of course not, my people see to that" to the question "Did you pack that suitcase yourself, sir?" is not going to go down well. Where your stash of smack is considered neither creative nor cool. In short, one of the few places where celebs have to play by the same rules as the rest of us. No wonder so many come unstuck. The latest to fall foul of it are Jedward, who claim they are being repeatedly stopped for being famous – we're using that term loosely – rather than out of understandable curiosity to check whether they are, in fact, human. So on the off-chance you are a celebrity, here's a list of Don'ts to make your next flight easier: Don't look like an idiot If you really don't want to get held up, then don't backcomb your hair so it stands two feet in the air. Don't treat airport staff as if they were your own This one's for Diana Ross. Your minions might be grateful for the odd beating, but it goes down badly elsewhere. PS, the staff aren't trying to cop a feel, as you claimed in 1999: they are searching you for drugs and weapons. It's their job. Not that you know what a job is . . . Don't take any drugs with you As John Lennon memorably said when Paul McCartney was busted at Tokyo airport, "What the hell did he think he was doing? We've got people to do that sort of thing for us" (or words to that effect). Whitney Houston take note. Don't forget to count When a sign says "Only one piece of hand baggage allowed" it doesn't mean "Apart from Sharon Stone".
