Celebritards

Archive for the ‘Get him to Fffffrance’ Category

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.

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.

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

So the whole Mel Gibson thing is pretty horrific. A ranting, profanity-happy, racist drunk. Earth to Mel- Braveheart was fifteen years ago sweetie, you can’t call it Scots method acting.

I made the mistake of listening to the now-famous tapes released by his baby-mama Oksana Grigorieva in the middle of the night, home alone. Now I have an irrational fear of 90s global megastars. I burst into tears when I see Nicolas Cage, and don’t even get me started on Bruce Willis. I can’t even go in a lift with a man in a white tank top.

So, if you have been in boot camp with Kerry Katona and haven’t had internet access, a safe route into the horrible ravings of a complete mad-man can be observed on Buzzfeed, using photos of kittens accompanying some of the more salacious gems:

http://www.buzzfeed.com/awesomer/the-13-worst-mel-gibson-rant-quotes-presented-by

SO, I have always admired Perez Hilton. He has made a career, books, celebrity friends, and probable fortune, out of what I sit and do for free with only cats for company. There are many celebrities who hate him. He claims to fact check his stories but sometimes it all seems a bit suspect – take for example his claims yesterday that Khloe Kardashian splashed her Lakers husband’s cash buying him a new car. She tweets in reply ‘People r so pathetic! Y would I give some1 a gift w/ their money? That’s lame. I actually make my own money. Shocking I know. Stop hating!’. So, my pretties, who to believe??

Anyway I digress. My point here is he is always fastest and furious…est (sp?) with the news, views, gossip and any old rhubarb. So why so quiet over the story that a tipsy Lady Gaga was asked to leave the NY Yankees stadium at the weekend? Apparently she was swaggling about drinking whisky in a half-buttoned up baseball shirt talking all kinds of nonsense. Now the whisky/nonsense part may or may not be true, but these pics confirm the bits and pieces were out. I want to remain healthily suspicious. This is the man who calls her ‘Lady GODga’, ‘wifey’, and many other rank pet names, and openly professes to pretty much ejaculating everytime she says/sings anything. I hope this means he would still publish stories which show her in a bad light? I’m not the only one to have been slightly perturbed by his sycophantic arse-kissing.

p.s. I reserve my right to become famous and never say anything bad about Russell Brand, my future husband.

The beautiful and damned Jonathan Rhys Meyers has been banned from flying with United Airlines in the US, after one too many 7am vodka/cokes on a flight to LA.

This is the THIRD incident of a drunken-departure-lounge flavour in as many years for the actor (yeah, I guess he is one of those once, twice, three times an arsehole types).

Allegedly (see, law revision was so worth it; no lawsuits for me!), he also dropped what our transatlantic cousins call the N-Bomb during  the tantrum when he was told he wouldn’t be taking to the skies.The rehabalicious star clearly attended the Naomi Campbell School of Aviation Relations.

I mean, with Colin Farrell doing Mermaid films and firmly strapped into the wagon there isn’t really much competition? He could have just had a pina colada and told staff they were ‘big smelly losers’ and still have retained the Irish Bad Boy title.

Fix up, look sharp J.R.M.

In a move that would have me leaping over her stripper pole to scratch that nasty-ass tattoo off her face, Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee (although I’m more inclined to call her Bombscare) has said SORRY to Sandra Bullock.

‘I want to give her a heartfelt apology. I feel like I was lied to just as much as she was. If Jesse was upfront with me in the beginning, we wouldn’t be in this situation’

The fact that Sandra is IN HIDING – when she should be basking in her post-Oscar bliss – while you sell your soul to 60 Minutes for a fraction of what a OSCAR-WINNING star could command means that you should be more than sorry. You should go crawl back under whatever rock you emerged from and leave husbands alone.

Although the men are the main problem, these moral-less, facilitating skanks are responsible too. Sort of like the men are the cavity, the skanks are the sugar- it’s just a shame for the teeth…