Acting Inappropriately

If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in marital his-and- her-story, December 27, 2012, that Titanic-waisted screen filler-upper Kate Winslet (pictured here, fresh out of the stylist’s chair) wed some wanker named Ned Rocknroll, and if you don’t believe me, you can look it up yourself. “I love Rocknroll,” said the thrice-wed Winslet, apparently unaware that rock runaway Joan “Jett” Larkin trademarked the bloody phrase years ago, whilst putting a dime in the jukebox, baby. Sources tell us that Master Rocknroll is a nephew of virginal spaceman Richard Branson, which may qualify the young relation for a lifetime of pre-boarding privileges, free in-flight movies and the family discount at Virgin Records but, the notion that the former Ned Abel Smith is the living embodiment of a musical genre that gave us The Animals, The Beetle Brothers and, yes, The Pollywoggs, is an affrontery beyond measure. If “rock is dead,” as posited by cue-balled pinball wizard—and deputy pornography patrolman—Peter Townsend, rock was surely rolling ‘round in its grave on the day the Winslet Rocknroll nuptials were chiseled into granite. On a side note, the station house has yet to receive word whether Master Rocknroll will ever host the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony in Cleveland or possibly Cincinnati, but methinks it unlikely, as rock would surely climb out of its grave and stomp on the proceedings, a not-altogether-undesirable notion, come to think of it.