4.23am - Nothing Except The Sound Of The Ocean

It’s about 4.30 am here and pitch black. Silent except for the waves crashing. 

I love it here. I’m staying at my girlfriend Isobelle’s place which is on the Great Ocean Road. I can lay in bed and watch the waves pound the shore through the day. At night, I watch a million twinkling stars and can’t believe that we are unable to see them at home; we’ll not without a faint glow from the city behind it. 

I’ve another week of this bliss. 

My blogs will be somewhat spar odic over the next week, shorter definitely… I’m doing it by hand on the phone!

I think I will go back to sleep! And that shouldn't be too hard...

When Celebrity Becomes a Licence to Do Whatever the Hell You Like

Well, well, well.

Another famous man. Another collection of disturbing allegations. Another entertainment industry scandal that leaves us wondering what the hell has been going on behind the velvet curtains.

This time it’s David Walliams.

Yes, THAT David Walliams.

The comedian, former Britain’s Got Talent judge, Little Britain star and enormously successful children’s author.

The man who has sold more than 60 million children’s books.

And now British police are investigating allegations of serious sexual offences involving him.

Let me be absolutely clear. Walliams denies the allegations. He has not been convicted of anything, and an investigation is not proof of guilt.

But the allegations themselves deserve to be taken seriously.

According to investigations by The Guardian and ITV News, several women have accused Walliams of inappropriate sexual behaviour, including allegations that he groomed girls as young as 15.

FIFTEEN.

An age when most kids are worrying about school, friendships and whether somebody fancies them.

Not whether a famous adult is taking advantage of their admiration.

And here’s what really gets up my nose.

The extraordinary power we hand to celebrities.

We put them on television. We applaud them. We buy their books. We laugh at their jokes. We make them rich beyond most people’s wildest dreams.

And somewhere along the way, some famous people seem to forget that celebrity doesn’t place them above ordinary standards of behaviour.

Walliams has acknowledged that he sometimes behaved thoughtlessly in past casual relationships, while firmly denying that he abused his fame or broke the law.

But this raises a much bigger question.

When a famous man approaches a teenage fan, how equal is that relationship?

He’s got the fame, the money, the connections and the influence.

She’s got a bedroom full of posters and the excitement of being noticed by somebody she’s admired.

That’s hardly a level playing field, is it?

And where the hell are the people surrounding these celebrities?

The managers. The agents. The television executives. The publishers. The people whose livelihoods depend on keeping the celebrity gravy train rolling.

Do they genuinely know nothing when concerns arise?

Sometimes perhaps they don’t.

But when complaints are made, surely the responsibility is to investigate them properly, rather than worry about protecting a valuable brand.

Walliams’ publisher, HarperCollins UK, stopped publishing new books by him in 2025 following reports about alleged inappropriate behaviour involving junior female employees. He denied those allegations too.

Now his literary agency has reportedly dropped him, and the BBC has begun removing some of his programmes.

Funny how quickly the machinery can move when a scandal becomes public.

Where was all that urgency before?

And there’s another thing.

Why does it so often take women years to speak publicly about alleged sexual misconduct?

Perhaps because accusing a powerful celebrity is terrifying.

Imagine being a young woman confronting somebody with money, lawyers, influence and an army of devoted fans.

Imagine knowing that strangers might dissect your private life, question your motives and accuse you of wanting attention.

I’d imagine keeping quiet might seem considerably easier.

Which is precisely why allegations deserve a proper, independent investigation.

Not a trial by social media.

Not a public relations exercise.

An actual investigation.

And if allegations are substantiated, there should be consequences, regardless of how many television awards somebody has won or how many books they’ve sold.

If they’re not substantiated, that matters too.

Justice has to work both ways.

But what I find particularly disturbing about stories like this is the possibility that fame itself can become a tool for exploiting vulnerable people.

Because being funny doesn’t make somebody decent.

Being charming doesn’t make somebody trustworthy.

And writing children’s books certainly doesn’t make somebody incapable of behaving badly.

I don’t know whether David Walliams committed any offence. That’s for the police and, if charges follow, the courts to determine.

What I do know is that no celebrity should be so valuable that allegations against them become somebody else’s inconvenience.

Fame is not a character reference.

And it sure as hell isn’t a licence to do whatever you like.

Perhaps it’s time we stopped treating celebrities as gods and remembered that they’re just people.

Some wonderful.

Some ordinary.

And some, potentially, with a great deal to answer for.

Let’s see what the investigation uncovers.

Home Life Versus Reality

The funny thing is that I could quite easily not leave the house... For weeks on end. If there is one thing this back thing has done, it has shown me that I don't really need to go anywhere or see anyone.

Company, I have the Squeeze who parades in and out of the bedroom, usually to some song in his head. He does this little weirdo dance which isn't a dance at all, but some sort of epilepsy thing that he believes looks cool. And the really weird part is that he makes it cool.

I have Sharpie, my little rescue dog who is as faithful as can be and has been for eleven years. Always ready for a cuddle, or licking my hand or stealing food; which I feed him while I'm feeding. It's one for me, a bit for him and so on. I look at his grey face and think bloody hell; he was a puppy what seems like yesterday. Then I look in the mirror and think, Fuck! I was young once too.

Shadow, the Queen. She is always at my side. I feel like I want to say sitting there, protecting me. I imagine she would scratch anyone's eyes out if they dared come towards me. But in reality, she thinks she is the queen so looks down on everyone, me included.

Shupac and Sherbert - well suffice to say they could be the wait staff, they are a couple of long-haired Persians; one black, one white.

And Sherif, the ginger Main Coone; well suffice to say he doesn't give a shit about anyone or anything. He looks at me when I touch him and I can almost see his shudder, his skin crawling... Unless I'm feeding him. Then he is very loveable.

This motley crew of people and animals I love and wouldn't want to be anywhere else!

# NEWS FLASH, YOU ARROGANT FUCKWITS: FAME IS NOT A GET-OUT-OF-JAIL-FREE CARD

Well, well, well. Russell Brand.

The long-haired, fast-talking, self-important celebrity who apparently thought being famous meant the normal rules of human decency didn’t apply to him.

Ten years and six months in prison.

Convicted of rape and three sexual assaults.

And about bloody time someone reminded these overinflated celebrity egos that the world doesn’t revolve around their dicks.

What the hell is wrong with these people Seriously. 

At what point does a man become so intoxicated by fame, money and his own reflection that he starts believing women are simply there for his entertainment?

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Some celebrities become so accustomed to people laughing at their jokes, applauding their performances and kissing their arses that they develop the extraordinary belief that nobody is ever allowed to tell them NO.

NEWS FLASH, YOU IDIOTS. THEY CAN.

And here’s another revolutionary concept. Being famous doesn’t make you irresistible. Being rich doesn’t make you entitled. And having millions of followers doesn’t mean you get to do whatever the fuck you want with another human being.

Brand spent years cultivating an image as some sort of eccentric, enlightened intellectual. All that philosophical rambling, spiritual awakening and self-improvement rubbish.

Apparently, somewhere between discovering the meaning of life and admiring his own brilliance, he missed the chapter on consent. Or consequence!

It’s not particularly complicated, Russell.

NO MEANS NO.

Not maybe.

Not persuade me.

Not I’m famous, so you’ll get over it.

NO.

And what really pisses me off is the arrogance.

The belief that celebrity somehow places these people above the rest of us. That consequences are for ordinary mortals who don’t have publicists, lawyers and adoring fans ready to defend every disgusting thing they do.

Meanwhile, the women are left carrying the consequences for years.

Their lives don’t magically return to normal when the cameras disappear. They have to live with what happened while the famous bastard gets on with his career.

Until, occasionally, justice finally catches up.

And in this case, it has.

Brand is in prison. His victims have been heard. And the celebrity bubble has burst spectacularly.

Perhaps there’s a lesson here for every other powerful, entitled prick who thinks money and fame provide immunity from basic human decency.

You are not special. You are not untouchable. And you are certainly not above the law.

Ten years and six months.

Enjoy the enlightenment, Russell. You’ve finally got plenty of time to reflect on yourself.

And for once, nobody has to listen to you.

The Dictator of Our Household

In the grand castle of domesticity, there sits a feline monarch named Queen Shadow. Her coat is midnight, her stare is deadly, and her tolerance for stupidity is approximately zero.

She doesn’t own the house. She IS the house.

The rest of us merely occupy space in it, subject to her approval.

Queen Shadow rules over four unfortunate male subjects, all of whom have accepted their places in the royal hierarchy.

First, there’s Sharpie, the dog. Poor bastard. He probably started life believing dogs were supposed to be in charge. Chase cats, bark at strangers, protect the family. All that heroic canine bullshit.

Then he met Shadow.

Now he’s essentially a four-legged servant with a wagging tail. One disapproving look from Her Majesty and he remembers exactly who’s running the show.

Then we have the three male cats: Shupack, Sherbet and Sheriff.

You’d think three male cats might stage a rebellion. Form a union. Demand equal rights. Perhaps negotiate better sleeping arrangements.

Not a bloody chance.

Shupack, Sherbet and Sheriff know the rules. Shadow gets the best spot, the right of way, and whatever else she bloody well wants.

Sheriff might have a name suggesting authority, but let’s be clear. He’s not the sheriff of anything. At best, he’s an unpaid security guard who reports directly to the Queen.

And Sherbet? Well, with a name like Sherbet, he was never going to lead a revolution. He is the largest, a black ball of fluff; but shy  

Shupack could perhaps organise an uprising, but he’d probably have to ask Shadow’s permission first.

The extraordinary thing is that Shadow doesn’t actually have to do much.

She doesn’t need to shout, bark, chase or throw a tantrum. She simply looks.

And the boys scatter.

It’s a dictatorship maintained entirely through psychological warfare and the occasional strategically placed paw.

Even the human males in the household know their place. The Squeeze might think he has some authority, but Shadow has never acknowledged his leadership, and I doubt she’s about to start.

As for me, I provide food, accommodation, cleaning services and the occasional royal massage. Apparently, this makes me staff rather than family.

I don’t remember applying for the position.

There’s no salary, no annual leave and certainly no bloody superannuation.

But watching one little female cat maintain absolute control over three male cats, a dog and the human occupants of an entire house is rather impressive.

No elections. No opposition. No parliamentary debates.

Just Queen Shadow, reigning supreme.

And frankly, she’s doing a better job than most politicians.