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OK, so these are just gratuitous Christina Hendricks pics.
Apparently, it was one of most controversial episodes in Mad Men’s explosive season. Red-headed bombshell Joan Holloway slept with a Jaguar dealer in exchange for a partnership stake in advertising firm Sterling Cooper Draper Price. And now Christina Hendricks, the 37-year-old actress who plays Joan, has admitted she felt “conflicted” about her character’s actions in the series.
“The question is, what would you do to protect your family? Joan is raising her son all on her own. She has no help from anybody,” Hendricks says when asked about her character’s actions in a new interview with The Hollywood Reporter.
In a photo shoot accompanying the interview, which appears in the July issue of THR, Hendrix stays in character with a classically sultry look.
For the magazine cover, the actress shows off her now famous hour-glass figure in a form-fitting black dress. A classical scoop neck reveals Hendricks’s much admired cleavage. She wears her red hair loose, with silver wedding and engagement rings the only jewellery visible.
In another shot, Hendricks is photographed sitting in a 1966 E-Type Jaguar, wearing a black lace top with white lace flowers.
MR D.J.S. MITCHELL AND MISS V.E. COREN. The engagement is announced between David, son of Mr and Mrs Ian Mitchell, of Oxford, and Victoria, daughter of Dr Anne Coren and the late Mr Alan Coren, of London.
Curvaceous yummy top-heavy writer and poker champion Victoria Coren is to marry television “personality” cult comedian and writer David Mitchell.
Ms Coren, 38, announced the engagement in The Times’s social and personal pages. The daughter of journalist and broadcaster Alan Coren, she is also the sister of Giles Coren, a columnist for The Times.
In 2006, she won the main event on the European Poker Tour, pocketing £500,000. She has a first-class degree from Oxford University and regularly contributes to the Observer and the BBC.
Mr Mitchell, best known as half of the duo Mitchell and Webb, was first rumoured to be involved with Ms Coren by the Telegraph’s Mandrake column last March. But the couple have largely kept their relationship a secret until now.
I had always fondly believed that “V.C.” and I shared an unspoken understanding, from the days when we would play in her father’s cherry orchard in leafy Cricklewood, north London, that one day she would become Mrs Stainforth.
Alas, she has succumbed to the superficial charm of this Mitchell bloke, forgetting the joy we had in those halcyon days when we flung us on the windy hill and kissed the lovely grass.
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . .” “And when we die
All’s over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips,” said I,
“Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!”
“We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!” we said;
“We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!” . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
(Rupert Brooke, The Hill)
Before my obsession with Christina Hendricks takes over this blog, I have decided to give her a page to herself.
We love your body. If we’re in love with you, we love your body. Your potbelly, everything. Even if you’re insecure about something, we love your body. You feel like you’re not this or that? We love your body. We embrace everything. Because it’s you.
Speaking of your body, you don’t understand the power of your own smell. Any woman who is currently with a man is with him partly because she loves the way he smells. And if we haven’t smelled you for a day or two and then we suddenly are within inches of you, we swoon. We get light-headed. It’s intoxicating. It’s heady.
We remember forever what you say about the bodies of other women. When you mention in passing that a certain woman is attractive — could be someone in the office, a woman on the street, a celebrity, any woman in the world, really — your comment goes into a steel box and it stays there forever. We will file the comment under “Women He Finds Attractive.” It’s not about whether or not we approve of the comment. It’s about learning what you think is sexy and how we might be able to convey it. It’s about keeping our man by knowing what he likes.
We also remember everything you say about our bodies, be it good or bad. Doesn’t matter if it’s a compliment. Could be just a comment. Those things you say are stored away in the steel box, and we remember these things verbatim. We remember what you were wearing and the street corner you were standing on when you said it.
Never complain about our friends — even if we do. No matter how many times we say a friend of ours is driving us crazy, you are not to pile on. Not because it offends us. But because it adds to the weight that we carry around about her.
Remember what we like. When I first started dating my husband, I had this weird fascination with the circus and clowns and old carnival things and sideshow freaks and all that. About a month after we started dating, he bought me this amazing black-and-white photo book on the circus in the 1930s, and I started sobbing. Which freaked him out. I thought, Oh, my God, I mentioned this three or four weeks ago and talked about it briefly, but he was really listening to me. And he actually went out and researched and found this thing for me. It was amazing.
We want you to order Scotch. It’s the most impressive drink order. It’s classic. It’s sexy. Such a rich color. The glass, the smell. It’s not watered down with fruit juice. It’s Scotch. And you ordered it.
Stand up, open a door, offer a jacket. We talk about it with our friends after you do it. We say, “Can you believe he stood up when I approached the table?” It makes us feel important. And it makes you important because we talk about it.
No shorts that go below the knee. The ones almost like capri pants, the ones that hover somewhere between the kneecap and the calf? Enough with those shorts. They are the most embarrassing pants in the world. They should never be worn. No woman likes those.
Also, no tank tops. In public at least. A tank top is underwear. You’re walking around in your underwear. Too much.
No man should be on Facebook. It’s an invasion of everyone’s privacy. I really cannot stand it.
You don’t know this, but when we come back from a date, we feel awkward about that transition from our cute outfit into sexy lingerie. We don’t know how to do this gracefully. It’s embarrassing. We have to find a way to slip into another room, put on the outfit as if it all happened very easily, and then come out and it’s: Look at me! Look at the sexy thing I’ve done! For you, it’s the blink of an eye. It’s all very embarrassing. Just so you know.
Panties is a wonderful word. When did you stop saying “panties”? It’s sexy. It’s girlie. It’s naughty. Say it more.
About ogling: The men who look, they really look. It doesn’t insult us. It doesn’t faze us, really. It’s just — well, it’s a little infantile. Which is ironic, isn’t it? The men who constantly stare at our breasts are never the men we’re attracted to.
There are better words than beautiful. Radiant, for instance. It’s an underused word. It’s a very special word. “You are radiant.” Also, enchanting, smoldering, intoxicating, charming, fetching.
Marriage changes very little. The only things that will get a married man laid that won’t get a single man laid are adultery and whores. Intelligence and humor (and your smell) are what get you laid. That’s what got you laid when you were single. That’s what gets you laid when you’re married. Everything still works in marriage: especially intelligence and humor. Because the sexiest thing is to know you.
Christina Hendricks is at the centre of a picture scandal after saucy snaps were stolen from her phone.
The Mad Men star is snapped in a variety of sexy poses which have been posted on the internet, with one appearing to be of her topless. Christina is insisting that the X-rated photo of a woman pulling her top down is in fact a fake. The image of the chest in question appears without a head or body on it, so could be anyone’s. But there is no denying that the other barely-dressed pics of Hendricks gazing into the camera are actually her own.
In the open market nude photographs can fetch up to $1 million if they retain the cache of novelty and are properly distributed. Each time we view one of these leaked or hacked photographs we are contributing to the decline in value of a potential future asset. The individual leaking the photos is exploiting a possible future revenue stream for the celebrity without their permission. Because a market exists for nudity, the leak is akin to someone stealing and releasing an early copy of a musician’s single.
(Jo Piazza, Wall Street Journal)
Here are the breasts which Hendricks says are not hers. My question is, whose are they then?
I recently spent a drunken evening and night with a linguistics professor who informed me that “pure zero-grade English” is spoken not in England, but over in Ohio and specifically in the posh suburbs of Cleveland (e.g. Shaker Heights), Columbus (e.g. Upper Arlington), Dayton (e.g. Oakwood and Kettering), Toledo (e.g. Sylvania and Ottawa Hills) and northern Cincinnati (e.g. West Chester).
I do not recommend spending an evening or night with a linguistics professor.
The actor John Thaw had quite an interesting accent. In the Inspector Morse TV detective series based on Colin Dexter’s novels he adopted a sort of posh accent with something of a drawl and long vowels. I assume this was so the character could seemingly deal with Oxford dons and luminaries as supposed equals. However, an underlying Northern accent kept creeping in. I always thought this was inadvertent and that he simply was unable to sustain the accent he was adopting.
John Thaw is (or was) from the north of England.
Show-business history records that the American actor Peter Falk, who has died aged 83, made his stage debut the year before he left high school, presciently cast as a detective. Despite the 17-year-old’s fleeting success, he had no thoughts of pursuing acting as a career – if only because tough kids from the Bronx considered it an unsuitable job for a man. Just 24 years later, Falk made his first television appearance as the scruffy detective, Columbo, not only becoming the highest paid actor on television – commanding $500,000 an episode during the 1970s – but also the most famous.
-Absolutely, Sir. Thank you very much, Sir.
(Walks to the door, then turns around)
-Er … Just one more question, Sir.
This became a cliché, and as much as I loved his anti-hero persona when Columbo was originally broadcast, it is equally annoying when I watch the repeats now.
And why did they call for Columbo in the first place – before they even knew it was a murder?
He also knew who the killer was after talking to him once …
This is no criticism of Peter Falk as an actor, just an observation of blemishes that I didn’t think about when I first saw Columbo back in the 1970s.
Peter Falk had been suffering from dementia for the last few years. It appeared to have come on suddenly after a series of dental surgeries in 2007. When someone asked if he’d ever reprise his role as Columbo again, his reps said, “He can’t even remember who Columbo is.”
Not long before he fell ill, he denied that his raincoat had been donated to a museum, saying that it was still part of his wardrobe.
R.I.P. Peter Michael Falk, actor, born 16 September 1927; died 23 June 2011
Specifically, he murders the beautiful David Gates song If. (David Gates was the lead singer of 1970s group Bread.)
I’m glad Telly went to Birmingham, my home town.
But we all remember him as Kojak. Here’s a classic episode.
This post is dedicated to Tess Kincaid @ Willow Manor.
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