One thing George Orwell never said about the Two Minutes Hate is how much fun it is. All London is revelling in the deep, deep tissue massage of loathing Heather Mills McCartney, following a bizarre breakfast TV interview in which she announced that she had papers secretly stashed away which would be released in the event of her suspicious death.

God knows it would be the first McCartney release in years to be of interest, and the woman is clearly unbalanced, unbalanced geddit, and doesn’t have a leg to sta-… and so on. It’s all so very ugly, and so very irresistible.

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Mills-McM must have achieved one of the great anti-triumphs of modern times – no-one but no-one will defend her.

Journos hate her for rat-pack reasons – there is an Observer scribe named Heather Mills, who Mills-McM pretended to be for years in order to get into A-list events, score freebies etc – to the point where Mills proper would be left at the velvet rope, getting “yeah course you are luv”.

Liberal feminists hate her, because her attempt to grab a half-share of Macca’s money – she’s knocked back a £50m offer – is making laws of property division look ridiculous. Plus, it seems pretty likely she used to be a high-price hooker, which makes the four year marriage look like a carefully planned operation.

Boomers hate her for putting McCartney through hell and souring their 60s memories and making Linda look good.

And Gen-X hate her for making them feel sympathy for the composer of “Mull of Kyntire”.

In fact, so great is the hate that there was collateral damage – part of the suspicion that descended on Kate McCann was because she increasingly looked like a creepy bottle-blonde media addict in the Mills mould.

It’s a measure of how singularly loathable is that you begin to hate how much you hate her. When she talks of the 4,400 negative articles that have made her suicidal – these 4,400 articles she’s clipped out and kept in a scrapbook that she brought into the interview – only the hardest hearted could refrain from giggling over cornflakes.

And only a saint could refrain from pointing out that her preferred charity is “adopt-a-minefield”.

In other Beatles news Ringo is still not dead.

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Peter Fray
Peter Fray
Editor-in-chief of Crikey
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