Hooker  Most British men have always been scared stupid of prostitutes. Over the centuries men have invented a thousand derogatory names to call women who have more sex than they can possibly imagine and are better at sex as a result. Men pay money to have sex with prostitutes. It is not a science. Prostitutes are a constant reminder to the idiot buffoons who snigger in bars that little men are inadequate. No wonder most prostitutes are murdered by feeble men with beards. Even politicians are scared of prostitutes. They know there are no votes to be won and little kudos to be gained by championing the rights of sex workers in this country. At the end of the day, when it comes down to the ballot box, no one really cares. Similarly a prostitute found under the bed is worth no more than tabloid ridicule and political exile. Prostitutes have always been seen by the general public as a corrupt and haggard underclass operating alone behind closed doors. Prostitutes are always someone else’s problem. Despite decades of political tinkering and blithering, however, it took a precocious media blogger and a failed pop Lolita to re-invent prostitution as the new rock ‘n’ roll. Sort of. Welcome to a new world order of Hooker Chic and Piper Porn.

    Belle De Jour was the pseudonym adopted by the anonymous author of an internet blog which claimed to chronicle the exploits of an upper-income call girl working in London during the Noughties. Belle De Jour was fabulous. She went to fabulous parties and met fabulous men with fabulous money who paid her to suck them off in fabulous cars and talk about art. Belle was not a slapper. She absolutely did not stagger around the East End streets on ketamine and cheap cider. Belle was practically a saint. It was all a little too fabulous to be true. The author of these blogs remains anonymous to this day. Speculation about her identity is still rife. Belle is certainly not Sarah Champion, an ex-pat British writer living in LA who was finger-pointed by a handwriting expert hired by the Times. She is not the author Isabel Wolff or Toby Young or even an entire consortium of freelance writers working for the Erotic Review including Lisa Hilton and Rowan Pelling. All these names and more have been put forward by various newspapers over the years. The mystery, however, only served to titillate an ever-growing audience. It was a savvy and simple Blair Witch campaign.

    In 2003 Belle won the Guardian’s Best Written Blog award. In 2004 she secured an agent and a publishing deal for a book entitled The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl. Belle became both iconic and invisible. She was also undoubtedly pushy and ambitious. Belle was the most perfect literary celebrity for this most vacuous decade. Not everyone was a fan. Dear old Cynthia Payne was wheeled out to explain that Belle could not be a genuine call girl because she quoted Martin Amis during foreplay. Other writers and bloggers were just jealous. All this kept the chattering classes amused and Belle De Jour absolutely minted.

    Belle was supposed to be an unremarkable posh girl from the shires. Having sold her blog rights to Silverapples Media in 2007, she was heading for the small screen and a TV series. It didn’t take a marketing genius to cast Billie Piper as the central heroine. Not only was Billie Piper an unremarkable posh girl from Wiltshire but she had also been consistently voted one of the most beautiful women in the world by FHM. At the age of 25 Billie had re-risen to fame as Dr Who’s assistant after relatively obscure years spent married to Chris Evans and spazzing royalties from two No 1 hit singles in 1998 up the wall. Secret Diary of a Call Girl was a modest ratings success for ITV2. An average audience of 1.2 million tuned in for 8 weeks to watch Billie Piper get naked in her pursuit of money, new lingerie and the perfect latte. No one really cared exactly why Billie was masturbating over a mirror in a hotel room or taking lessons as a dominatrix but they all persevered nonetheless. Secret Diary…was froth but it was stylish and well-made froth. It was filmed as soft-porn for MTV with snappy edits, vivid colours and panoramic London vistas. Using Amy Winehouse’s ‘You Know I’m No Good’ as a theme tune completed a thoroughly modern package. It was also incredibly rubbish.

    Not only did Billie Piper deliver her lines like a spoilt stage-school toddler but it also quickly became clear that the sex scenes were being used to spice up Belle De Jour’s very dull existence. Belle’s greed, smugness, narcissism and vanity are obvious. It’s no wonder she hasn’t any friends except for the soppy Token Straight Male whom she will probably end up marrying in the second series. Secret Diary…is just Bridget Jones with tits and a whip. None of this seemed to bother either the Sunday tabloids or the trashy supermarket media. The fact that Billie Piper was prepared to frequently strip for the role sparked a rat-race to find the real Belle De Jour. Having rather unwisely stuck her head above the trenches Belle was now public property and the papers were fascinated with this snappy, modern take on the world’s oldest profession. Silverapples and ITV2 could not have bought better pre-publicity. As a result of failing to find Belle De Jour anywhere on earth, the media instead turned their spotlight on the real thing. It wasn’t long before several genuine call girls were lured out of their west London boudoirs to explain their lifestyles and choices. All remained remarkably upbeat and mostly anonymous. For a while it seemed as if everyone’s best friend was a hooker

    As a result of the media blitzkrieg, however, there are now more hopeful hookers than ever before. Having watched about 3 minutes of Secret Diary…most are convinced that working as a call girl is the next most lucrative option after marrying a premiership footballer. This in itself is a sad indictment of a shallow, stupid society which demands the maximum cash for the minimum effort. It is bone-idle greed. Most have seen Billie Piper pouting around a gorgeous live-work development in Docklands and considered very little else. They have not considered, for example, whether they are prepared to offer anal sex as a service or let a punter cum in their mouth. They have not considered the impact on partners, work colleagues, friends or family. They have not considered a call girl’s shelf life, the hours of boredom spent in the company of men they loathe or even the price of pride itself. It can be a rude awakening. These are all aspects of the sex industry which Secret Diary…singularly failed to address. Instead we now have Hooker Chic.

    Even the Women’s Institute has voiced its concerns about Hooker Chic’s dubious allure. 62 year old Jean Johnson recently told the Times: “Images of beautiful actresses lounging around in pretty lingerie paints an unrealistic image of prostitution, which is very dangerous.”

    Ignoring the grimmer aspects of sex work in favour of merely celebrating the superficial rewards is crass and dumb beyond belief. Not all prostitutes are saints. Some are unreliable, selfish and dim. Most, however, work incredibly hard to nurture an independent client base. It should come as absolutely no surprise to anyone that a second series of Secret Diary… has already been commissioned by ITV with Billie Piper once again leading the headlong charge towards the celebration of an often banal and frequently castigated industry. Our vain hope is that Belle becomes damaged, desperate and crack-addicted. The soppy Token Male Friend will explode with jealousy, the handsome yet creepy serial overlord will go bankrupt, and an unremarkable posh girl from the shires will cease to enthral the dumb supermarket media. Undoubtedly Belle De Jour exists. Yet Piper Porn and Hooker Chic are cheap illusions. Please don’t be so sure there is no other point of view.