Naomi Campbell’s gone crazy as a box of hair on someone’s ass again and is on the run as a result.
How exciting is that?
Apparently she slapped and punched – or punched and slapped – her chauffer whilst cruising the streets of London’s glittering New York for shits and giggles.
The alleged 27-year-old victim (we’ll be the judge of that) claims Naorobi Campbell was sitting in the back of his black Cadillac Escalade when she threw a temper tantrum and punched him.
Black Cadillac Escalades will do that to you.
New York police yesterday issued a ‘harassment report’, which doesn’t carry a penalty. Because there are no witnesses. Which basically means a ‘harassment report’ means fuck all. It’s rather redundant. Meaningless. Ineffectual. Impotent. Of no import. It’s like the PCC.
*looks at title; pauses for thought. Looks at title; pauses for thought. Looks at title; thinks*
Like, oooh. New TV show! ‘Naomi On The Run’! It could be Challenge Anneka meets America’s Next Top Model meets Pineapple Dance Studios meets Last of the Summer Wine.
Each week, four (male) criminals fight it out in lily-white shorty shorts using only the ends of their fingers – in front of a celebrity panel made up of Judith Chalmers, Rupert Everett, Sir Dame Joan Collins, the late, great Les Dawson, Bananarama’s Karen Woodward and someone off The Bill – to become Naomi’s sacrificial miscreant of the week. Naomi Bait, if you will. Then, the studio doors fling open into the night, and 1 minute appears on a very large clock. The countdown begins, and with a little help from a baying live audience, Naomi’s bait is unleashed into the mean streets of the Southbank just outside those ITV studios where they do This Morning and An Audience With….
Naomi, meanwhile, is caged and frothing stage left, arms flailing between the bars, weave getting caught in god knows what, eyes dilated, mascara all clumped, a fucked up twitch every 20 seconds or so for dramatic effect, flies buzzing around her head. Three… two… one… And Naorobi’s off!
With only her heightened sense justic and smell to guide her, everyone’s favourite supermodel apart from Kate Moss is sent schizo-style-ee (think Sigourney Weaver when she gets posessed by Zuul in Ghostbusters) into the Big London night in a race against the clock – half an hour, let’s say – to find, capture, and slap to death the Sacrificial Miscreant of the Week.
It’s a sure-fire hit and we’ll be rich beyond our wildest dreams.
And it’s a damn site better than any of the bollocks dirty Ant ‘n’ Dec have ever arse-vomited on the tellybox.