Well we had the world’s first pregnant man, so it was only a matter of time before we had the world’s first impregnating woman… it’s just been revealed everyone’s favourite lesbian JustinE Bieber is the subject of a lawsuit where a 20 year-old woman is claiming he fathered her 3 month-old baby.

Now if the thought of that little squirt procreating doesn’t have you reaching for your office bin to be sick, her account of their ‘brief’ encounter will help you on your way to parting with your lunch.

‘Immediately, it was obvious that we were mutually attracted to one another, and we began to kiss. Shortly thereafter, Justin Bieber suggested that I go with him to a private place where we could be alone.

‘I agreed to go with him and on the walk to a private area, he told me he wanted to make love to me and this was going to be his first time.

He then told her he wanted to ‘fuck the shit’ out her. Which sounds like a verbal copy and paste from creepy pornos favoured by sleazy teenage boys with crusty spots and even crustier socks (sounds about right, he just has the money to bin the sock after use and a good dermatologist).  He also refused to wear a condom, which is how you know if someone really loves you. Especially if you’ve just met them, that means it’s love at first sight!

Possibly the worst part of this sordid episode is the fact that last October, when the alleged incident took place, J-Biebz was only 16, which in the state of California makes him underage, and as the woman was 19, she would be guilty of statutory rape. Imagine being the woman in jail for raping Justin Bieber? In saying that, they don’t tend to have many 9-13 year-olds in jail, so it’s unlikely anyone would give a french fancy.

OH, and you think I was trying to be funny when I said ‘brief’ encounter? Her sworn statement (like the one she is willing to go to jail for if she’s lying) said the whole caboodle lasted 30 seconds. Which sounds fair, I think I would only last around 30 seconds with Justin Bieber panting and sobbing like a little girl before I called it quits.

Justin had this to say this morning on twitter: ‘all the rumors…the gossip….Im gonna focus on the positives….the music.”

A pop star with a penchant for unsafe sex with promiscuous psychopaths? I say give it 6-8 weeks and he may have another positive to focus on.

So this morning Grace Dent (Guardian journalist) tweeted this observation about Holly Willoughby: 


‘Holly is the girl who spent from Freshers Week till Christmas crying on a pay phone in Halls hugging a hypoallergenic pillow.’
And this got me a-thinking what other celebrities are already in our lives under different guises….
Louie Spence is your boyfriend from primary school that always wanted to borrow your Mark Owen doll and wanted to dress up in your Baby Spice costume ‘just for a laugh’.

Kerry Katona is the woman in your office who flashed the boss on the work night out after bringing her own plastic bottle of Irn Bru full of Glen’s vodka and downing it on the bus there.

Jeremy Clarkston is your dad’s friend that always exclaims you’ve grown up while staring down your top.

Fearne Cotton is the girl that was really good at netball in high school and was rarely late. She got slagged for being the last girl in the class to get a bra and stole her Auntie Mabel’s 38G bra and wore it and everyone seen it at PE.

David Walliams is your friend that you always presume is gay, therefore get changed in front of him, but little do you know he is actually straight and furiously pleasures himself to this image. He is patiently waiting for the day you have two many Breezers and then he is going to give you the most unsatisfying four and a half minutes of your adult life.

Amy Childs might have been in your science class with in first year but you’re not sure, she had mousey hair and a flat chest and she got A’s for everything due to her exceptionally high IQ. She was friends with the girl that used to talk to her schoolbag.

Gary Barlow is middle management at your work, and used to sit and eat Gregg’s yum-yums all day until he started at Scottish Slimmers (which he never shuts up about), and constantly uses corporate jargon like ‘blue-sky thinking’ and ‘pushing the envelope’. He has been passed for promotion a record 5 times.

Nadine Coyle is the girl at uni who whined non-stop about being fat and ugly, normally while you were struggling to zip up a size 14 dress and would get drunk and get off with your boyfriend and then deny it happened.

The list is endless…..

Cheryl, wherever you are: holed up in an LA mansion, underneath the Tyne Bridge, or that celebrity blackhole where Katie Price’s dignity, John Travolta’s boyfriends and Natalie Portman’s baby weight have all disappeared to, please read this cautionary tale.

I fell asleep after watching 14 straight hours of the Bachelor the other night and had a haunting premonition. It was what will happen 30 years from now if Cheryl reunites with the A-Chole.

Picture the scene: a working man’s club in South Shields where beaded curtains are the height of sophistication and a long vodka is the most exotic drink on the menu. Their relationship had gained as many years as she had inches and they were celebrating renewing their vows, with an 8-page spread in Love It! magazine. She was singing ‘It’s all coming back to me now’, her voice ravaged by age and 30-a-day Mayfair since their initial split. He was out the back,  post-Chelsea pot-belly exposed as his Newcastle Brown Ale stained-shirt was being unbuttoned by Sarah from Girls Aloud, who had ended up one of those old, tanned women that look like a Birkin Handbag with a face, and whose love of peroxide is only rivaled by their love of gold.

HE WILL NEVER CHANGE. The man thinks fidelity has just been signed by Tottenham. He thinks monogamy is what he had to take those antibiotics for after Faliraki. He thinks committment is the Calvin Klein fragrance he dowses himself in after a night of fingering up China Whites.

Chezza, at least Simon Cowell had the good grace to replace you with someone of equal beauty, instead of whoever happens to be in slevvering distance.

Courtesy of Mr Paparazzi

Sooo David Beckham is pleased to announce that he’s still the hottest thing to be around babies since Kerry Katona dropped one of her cigs into a pram. Despite a very suspect name choice (Harper Seven? Sounds like a planet in a post-apocolyptic sci-fi series from the Nineties where women have three boobs and nothing interesting to say) most women would still rip off their baby toes with rusty hanger to be near, let alone procreate with him

Everyone is speculating on how long it will take Victoria to get her figure back. Me? I’m not fussed. I don’t think it will be hard when a good scran consists of three Quavers and one of Karl Lagerfield’s used tissues. And she must burn so many calories throwing all those darts at pictures of Mel B (‘Damn you, you common pillock for moving to LA and reminding everyone that behind the sunglasses and spring/summer 11 collection I was once in a cheesy pop band and thought the peace sign and a crochet dress was the height of sophistication’). She won’t be missing all the throwing up in the morning, although now she’s got her trademark circus-stilts platforms back on she will go straight back to regular bouts of altitude sickness, as well as having to duck planes and try to not let the clouds mess with her extensions.

The coming weeks will see their celeb pals popping round with their baby gifts: Snoop Dogg with ‘Baby’s First Bunt’, Eva Longoria with a teeny-tiny sombrero and Tom Cruise swinging by with a nice set of reins (with Katie swearing by them for trips to Tesco because Tom always wants to run away to the toy department).

But, joking aside, I’m genuinely happy for them finally getting the girl they must have been longing for. Victoria now has someone to pass on her vast collection of designer clothes to, and once she turns three and no longer fits in to them then they can be preserved for future generations.

So I get adulterous sexting, don’t do it, but I get it. Private text messages sent from one phone to another. You even get an app called Tiger Text, a nod to Tiger Woods’ many mistakes, where messages will erase themselves from the recipient and senders phone with in a specified time scale –

‘this sext will self destruct in 5…4…3…2…1’

But why did Jason Manford decide to demand sexy pics and swap flirty messages with one ‘lady’ on Twitter? It’s hardly the most private of social networking sites.

Well, that was my story originally. But then I got a Twitter crash course and realised there is such a thing as a private message. Jason Manford: 1, Sugarfreebitch: 0.

UNTIL… I googled the original story. The girl, Debra McNamee (which sounds like some daydreaming sub-editor nipped out for a cig just as they were going to press and didn’t have the heart to tell everyone ‘McNamee’ is a totally stupid made up name) sold her story to the Sun.

The ‘busty’ and ‘curvy’ lass – which, when not talking about Holly Willoughby or Kim Kardashian is really just a tabloid’s way of saying you aren’t shy of a pie or a pint of dry – is sight for sore eyes. A sight for botched Lasik with a vinegar chaser even.

Don’t believe me?

Look here…

Now, I’ve never seen his missus, but I think Adrian Chiles in a Lily-Savage-on-a-comedown costume is more sexually attractive.

Feather earrings. Abundance of necklaces. Dress that was once a staple part of the Adams’ family dining room set? Hair that looks ‘crispy’ to the touch?

Ke$ha right? WRONG!

It’s a Disney child star more famous for infuriating America’s parents with her transition to raunchy popstar. She can often be seen out and about in LA in white tank top and denim hotpants because deep at heart, she is still a good ol’ Southern gal.

Oh it’s Britney? WRONG AGAIN.

Miley Cyrus, it’s ok that you want to be a big girl. Just stop trying to be other big girls.

In a completely UNRELATED turn of events, Peeedar has been mouthing off about his sex life, mere hours before his new single was released.

His new song Defender seems to be getting a good reception – well, I say that, most gossip blogs are saying that they don’t hate it, which is a major coup for the Aussie singer. And whether you are Team Pete or Team Katie, you can’t deny it is better than Mrs Reid’s recent effort Free To Love Again, which is straight out a drag cabaret from the depths of hell.

But did we really need to know that he had been down under in down under with a woman called Angela Mogridge, who worked with the former-couple when they appeared on I’m a Celebrity in a Sunday tabloid this week?

I find it REALLY hard to digest his ‘keeping-my-dignity-for-the-sake-of-my kids-holier-than-thou-and-by-thou-I-mean-you-Katie-Price-you-heathen’ act, especially when you look at the equation ‘single x publicity ÷ waning interest in constant assaults on the charts = start talking about Little Pete’s adventures?’

Nice try Pete

  • None
  • TheChelsea: There are some people who have earned their right to be a little cocky and not have to sensor themselves quite as much as others. In my opinion, (much
  • David: I don't get what your problem is James, if you don't like what you are reading then jog on. If you had looked at the blog name, you might have guessed
  • Sugar Free Bitch: Hey James, Thanks for stopping by and taking the time to read my post. I'm sorry to hear you think I'm everything that's wrong with the world, and