You’ve all heard. The queen of boobs and Ferrari bonnet kisses has turned her attention to boos and hisses this Christmas. That’s right. Pamela Anderson, I repeat, P-a-m-e-l-a A-n-d-e-r-s-o-n, is doing panto in South London.
But why? Because all her diehard Baywatch fans are now balding fathers? Because she’s spiralling into debt? Because she’s harboured a secret passion between her breasts for theatre all these years? Or maybe she just wants to relate to her kids. Wishful thinking?
From panting on a televised beach to pants off in the Playboy studio, Pammy has led (followed? been dragged down?) an exciting and arguably admirable career, if not a little degrading to women and predictable. An unusual pop icon, high-end fashion photographers were surprised when David La Chapelle took her on as his muse, but reassuringly to critics her extraordinary breasts and double-take lips have always had a lot to do with it.
I guess Jordan is our own Woolworths Tammy doll home-grown comparison site. But are these sickly pseudo-feminists actually role-models for manipulating the media to get rich? Or are their bra-packed volatile lives just, well, tacky and vile?
Pammy at least offsets some of her superficiality with charity work (*checks nails*) and activism. She supports HIV research and she refuses to turn the other cheek to unethical cosmetic brands. As a mega veggie too, Pammy also hates KFC, opposes images of the late Colonel Sanders and generally loathes anyone who eats anything that once moved.
Sadly I cannot get tickets to see Pammy in panto, but I have to say, I genuinely like her. I find her beautiful somehow and as Patsy said to Saffy on the morning in Serge's room - “It’s not degrading. She’s the one with the whip.”
I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest. My flat, un-inflated, inexpensive (but satisfyingly level) chest. Go Pammy! I like you, even though I'm not sure why. Am I behind you? Yes I am.