As the sound of riotous laughter at Charlie Sheen’s kerraazy antics begins to quieten, and morph into more of an embarrassed chuckle, we must ask ourselves what the tragic actor’s manic spree of self-delusionary word vomiting has left us with.

Has he changed the world somehow, perhaps by using his “warlock brain” to unlock the secret of ending Third World poverty? Or has he unleashed a new narcotic plague on us all, with the unveiling of a new drug “called Charlie Sheen“?

Nah. Neither of those, because they are merely the sparkings of an electrically unbalanced brain. The one thing Charlie Sheen has left us with is the knowledge that celebrities are different to us, in that they each use the blood of animals to carry oxygen round their bodies and that. Charlie Sheen of course, has “tiger blood“. But what do other celebrities have running through their veins? Come and leap over the jump to find out…

Welcome to the world’s first scientifically validated description of celebrity blood types. No, there will be no talk of A, AB and O negative here. What we’re after is getting at the specific species of animal whose blood supplies essential nutrients to celebs’ bodies. Charlie Sheen’s is famously the tiger, but what about……

Snooki: Star of reality horror show Jersey Shore and the woman who has fucked more Italians than Silvio Berlusconi. The thimble of blood required to keep this little lady alive is 100% squirrel: experts decided she was a perfect match for the tiny, sun-loving nut addicts.

Steven Tyler: Rock ‘n’ roll hero and latterly star of American Idol. His leathery grannyface and sandpapered throat obviously require severely restricted flow of thick, molasses-like blood. And Steven’s haematological choice? The komodo dragon. Yes, Steven Tyler’s veins are filled with komodo dragon blood.

Ashton Kutcher: Galactically annoying star of a couple of terrible movies, and current plougher of Demi Moore‘s dried-up fields, Ashton is the very embodiment of the phrase “that fella who twats about on Twitter and makes me want to chainsaw me own head off“. You might not be be surprised to learn that Kutcher’s circulatory system is filled to the brim with the blood of wasps. Annoying, picnic-seeking, enjoyment-banishing wasps.

Robert Pattinson: Waifish star of some vampire movies, pasty Pattinson would appear at first glance to not contain a single blood cell. In fact, this is because his has been replaced with that of the giant isopod, shrimplike creatures which infest the deep, cold Atlantic waters. Experts believe it is this blood which gives him his impenetrable air of “casual indifference“, sometimes also referred to as “shitawful acting ability“.

Simon Cowell: This thickly haired celebrity badman is famous for his snide comments and cutting asides. Yet he is kept alive by the circulation of nothing less than the blood of those beautiful, sensitive creatures known as unicorns. Oh, but there is this: the blood is extracted by tying unicorns to tree stumps in the middle of a swamp, into which jars full of leeches are emptied which mercilessly and painfully drain the unicorns of their magical blood. Then, just as the horny horses are about to pass out from lack of oxygen, Cowell walks up to them and whispers a really bitchy comment into their ears about how dreadful their manes look or something.

We hope that all of these true facts give you something to think about the next time you see a celebrity dicking around on telly. It may not be their fault; perhaps their minds have just become temporarily consumed by the instincts within their haemoglobin.

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In news which prompted the Metropolitan Police to issue the statement “Thank fuck for that, now he’s someone else’s problem”, George Michael has ‘announced’ a new tour.

Okay, so this isn’t your actual press conference announcement, but he did post something on Twitter that made it sound like he’ll drag his flabby carcass out on a tour.

And to hecklerspray, a Tweet is just about as good as a court-certified affadavit, witnessed by God and the baby Jesus, and guaranteed by powdered unicorn horn and rainbow juice.

So: George Michael is definitely going to do another tour. Yippee!

Here’s the twat’s tweet :

Face it paps, hacks and haters… the album will sell great, the tour will sell out, and the fans remain some of the loyalest in the world.

Now let’s face it: if you were applying for a spiffy job and had to provide a character witness, you probably wouldn’t choose George Michael. Firstly because you’ve never met George Michael, and his inflated sense of self-importance means you never will. But also because he’s a headcharged weedfreak, who can’t seem to go a month at a time without pissing off the Plod and ending up in jail, like he was pretending to be from Liverpool or something.

But this tweet (“…the tour will sell out…”) does seem to hint that George Michael is ready to get back on the circuit. Which is great news for the weedsellers and dopedanglers in Cardiff, Manchester, Newcastle and Edinburgh. Also (assuming his popularity may have somewhat dropped off) those in Aberdeen, Chester, Wolverhampton and Buckton-Upon-Lees Community Centre.

So. Do we believe this chong-bonging music maestro’s angry little tweet or not? Oh, we would love to.

If only so we get to write headlines like “Club Bongicana”, “Careless Waster” and “George Michael Falls Asleep Live On Stage Because He Was Chonged Off His Head On Moroccan Black”.

Happy days.

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You may have heard that Chris Moyles – Radio 1′s captive beluga whale – has just finished doing something dead exciting.

Something more braver than what a soldier’s ever done. Something Andy McNabb would run away from, screaming like a pepper-sprayed toddler. Yes, last week Radio 1′s hot (like a panful of boiling lard) property stayed awake for longer than is comfortable. What a hero. A stalwart. A charitable chap.

Oh, and a pervert, as his last on-air wish was to have a bikini-clad Fearne Cottton enter his sweaty radio pit merely to spike his fatigue-laden libido.

And you filthy perverts loved it.

So, here we are. Living in a post-Moyles world where everything seems kind of inconsequential, given the fatman’s selfless sacrifice. We’ve had the weekend to recover from, and reflect upon, his huge personal penance paid for humanity and we have decided: he is, frankly, a physically enormous, insultingly overpaid, self-regarding oil spill.

Who somehow persuaded Fearne Cotton to get her bikini on for the cameras. That’s important.

You may have listened to some of the 52 hours of radio hijacked by the fat moron and his clucking sidekick, Comedy Dave. If so, you have our sympathies. Personally, we would struggle to think of anything – wars, plagues, standing on an upturned drawing pin – worse than listening to the corpulent DJ chatting with Scott Mills about how sweaty his crack was getting after his 37th hour on air.

So, we skipped to the end of this whole charade. Which was wise, as it meant we got a little glimpse of Fearne Cotton’s buttocks. Why? What did this have to do with a 52-hour radio marathon?

Ah, well, you have to remember that this was Chris Moyles’s 52-hour radio marathon. And what does Chris Moyles spend half of every one of his tedious shows talking about?

Food, yes, okay. And the other half?

How much he’d like to make sweet, slobbering love to Fearne Cotton, of course. And so the poor girl was made to wear a bikini and parade in front of the weary eyes of Chris Moyles and approximately 50 other people who had crammed into the studio hoping for a nip-slip.

So, after all the money raised and the good times had by all, our cynical minds were left with but one thought: if they’d attached a length of chain to Fearne Cotton in her bikini, it would have been a perfect reenactment of that bit in Return Of The Jedi when Princess Leia gets brought before Jabba The Hutt.

Boonowa tweepi, ha, ha!

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The Grammys have witnessed a fair amount of crazy popstar shenanigans over the years: think of Chris Brown blatting then-girlfriend Rihanna’s face in with his tiny fists (2009); and Jennifer Lopez shooting to fame by wearing a boob-enhancing dress in 2000.

But this year’s Grammy ceremony has delivered surely the maddest nonsense ever, with pop minstrel Lady Gaga showing up to the awards inside a giant egg. Unconfirmed reports claim she poached the idea from Madonna.

Yes, it’s her again. Just days after releasing her controversially Madonnaesque new single, the lunatic “lady”  has now delivered unto us a quite astonishing display of eggcentric behaviour.

Known for her showstopping entrances, Gaga arrived at the Grammys yesterday stuffed inside a giant plastic egg, sat atop a wooden plinth which was being lugged around on the shoulders of several barely-dressed buff men.

The eggshibitionist Gaga was then placed on stage – still trapped within the synthetic ovum – before bursting free to the catchy disco sounds of her new single ‘Born This Way’.  At this point, we suspect, Graham Norton‘s head blew open, showering those around him in glitter and rainbows.

So, another media-grabbing victory for the eggocentric Lady Gaga. We were a little disappointed that she didn’t emerge from the egg dripping with albumen, but still: good job. But how to top this spectacular eggstravaganza? What can she do next to shock us all? We have three ideas for how her next appearance should play out:

1) At the next Lady Gaga concert, fans are puzzled when an elephant walks ponderously onto the stage. Then they cheer wildly as – caught in the beams of a thousand spotlights -  the elephant coughs slightly, gags a little, and eventually pukes out Lady Gaga, dressed as a giant banana.

2) At the next Lady Gaga concert, fans are puzzled when an elephant walks ponderously onto the stage. Then they cheer wildly as – caught in the beams of a thousand spotlights – the elephant raises its tail and shits out Lady Gaga, dressed as a giant, partially digested banana.

3) At the next Lady Gaga concert, she strides onstage confidently naked. The audience gasp as she births a slightly smaller Lady Gaga from out of her ladypipe. And then the smaller Lady Gaga births an even tinier Lady Gaga. And so on and so on, like Russian dolls, until the stage is filled with a hundred Gagas.

You, Miss Gaga, are welcome.

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For many people, their  interest in John Travolta began and ended with his starring role in the disco-dancing, parent-upsetting, tight-panted 1970s movie Saturday Night Fever.

These people have no desire to learn more about The Trav’s later career as a man looking after a talking baby, or a man who carries around a briefcase full of Christmas lights, or a man who swaps faces with the wooden-faced Jodie Foster impersonator Nicholas Cage.

But we can’t all be rational adults with problem-strewn lives of our own and no time for monitoring the affairs of yesteryear’s celebrities.

Which is good news for hecklerspray, as today we report that John Travolta’s wife, Kelly Preston, may or may not be about to squeeze out a Scientologically-enriched sprogling. Oh, the excitement/slight interest/almost painful need to escape this bullshit.

Here’s the deal: earlier this week, reputable British gossip magazine The Daily Mail broke the news that John Travolta was flying his enormous penis-shaped plane out of Australia earlier than expected. The reason? Because, they explained, his wife – Kelly Preston – had gone into labour.

While the Mail were explicitly told at the time by a spokesman that this wasn’t true, they decided to run with it anyway. After all: who gives a monkeys about the the veracity of a story concerning the fourth most important actor in Get Shorty?

Well, now it turns out that the whole thing was a sack of balls: Kelly Preston is still pregnant, the Scientology lovechild is still hanging in there, and John Travolta flew home from Australia because…well, we don’t know. Because he grew sick of drinking awful beer?

Let’s see if the Mail can help out:

Mr Travolta had been due to arrive in Perth as the main celebrity at a charity event, at which he was to receive the key to the city from Lord Mayor Lisa Scaffidi.

The world of celebrity is not unused to certain members of its population doing odd things.

Take Danny Dyer for instance, suggesting that a woman deciding against a long-term relationship with a man is a legitimate excuse for face-murder. Or Lindsay Lohan, whose crazed mind believed that she would curry favour with a judge by writing swears on her fingernails. Or Alan Bloody Davies, who bloody well once bit the bloody ear off of a bloody tramp.

Maniacs all. But none of them has ever travelled quite so close to the Mountains of Madness as today’s celebrigimp: Spencer Pratt (who used to stick his bookies’ biro penis into Heidi Montag) has been arrested at Costa Rica’s airport while trying to board a plane with guns. Guns he had used during the previous few days to kill some food during a spirit-cleansing exercise.

The colossal dickrod.

Welcome to Monday, hecklerspray people. Yes, it’s probably raining. Yes, it’s undoubtedly depressing. But cheer up: at least you ain’t Spencer Pratt.

As TMZ reported and then confirmed, part-time Stuart Heritage lookalike and full-time cock-dribble Spencer Pratt was arrested over the weekend. His crime? Oh, only that he was trying to board a plane while carrying armfuls of hunting rifles and ammo.

But what the hell was this bearded reality TV show lunatic doing in Central America with a load of guns? Was he bringing freedom from oppression to the locals? Starting up a militia which one day would sweep northwards and take over the USA? Indulging in a tediously self-absorbed “personal journey”?

We just don’t know which it might have been. No, hang on: we know painfully well which it was:

As part of my spiritual cleansing I’ve spent the last week living alone in the jungle, reflecting on my past transgressions, and working to become a better person. I had to live off the land, and hunt to survive.

Oh, Spencer Pratt. There really is no-one better than you at coming up with this relentless bullshit, is there?

You’re like Madonna and her Kabbalah nonsense multiplied by Tom Cruise and his Scientology donkeywank and then raised to the power of Isaac Hayes and his…well, his Scientology donkeywank.

Sadly, the Costa Rican border guards did not tear Spencer Pratt apart, joint by joint. Seems they didn’t even bother to look for more weapons hidden within his large bowel.

Sad.

They did, however, say that he was no longer welcome in their country, so there was something in all this for other nations to learn from. Spencer Pratt bleated:

On an unrelated note, I’m not allowed in the country anymore — but that’s because of the chicken incident.

As usual, hecklerspray beats all other websites to the good stuff. And so we present real, genuine, actual footage of Spencer Pratt and his Costa Rican “chicken incident”:

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of upcoming major label releases.

Another very diverse week, stretching from ludicrous pomp-metal, through hardcore country, to bagpipe-rock.

You heard us: bagpipe-rock.

Music this week works its way from Zakk Wylde‘s anarcho nonsense rockers Black Label Society, through lynching aficionado Charlie Daniels, all the way out to madcap bagpipers Red Hot Chilli Pipers.

Enjoy, won’t you?

Firstly, Order Of The Black, Black Label Society. Now, we have to begin this review with a warning about Order Of The Black, by Black Label Society. Seriously, this band are SERIOUSLY NAUGHTY PEOPLE. Here’s what their PR says about them:

BLS has turned the notion of what a rock band should be upside down by inspiring legions of fans (known as Berserkers) all over the world to follow the mantra: Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever (SDMF for short).

Wylde and his Berserkers have established a heavy metal institution true to the vision of uncompromising, unfiltered and unrestrained rock n’ roll.

Yeah? Are you getting that? They not only have a band acronym, but also one for a frankly unworkable worldview. AND, they have an army of “berserkers” standing ready to inflict SDMF on the world. (Oh, and as secondary goals: free blue denim for everybody, mandatory patches on all leather jackets, and no more laughing at 35-year-old men who wish to try and deny their quite obvious Male Pattern Baldness by growing their hair long at the back and then always wearing a baseball cap. Thanks.)

Look: if this was 1993, we would be giving this album a huge, leatherclad thumbs up. But, boys, it is 2010. This has all been done before. Song titles like Parade Of The Dead, Godspeed Hellbound and Riders Of The Damned sound like rejects from the Powerslave sessions. And the music is just as old-fashioned.

Seriously, save your money and go buy anything by Ozzy or Iron Maiden. Here’s the thought:

*Into cupped hand* Huuuuuuh. Ah, perfect: my breath smells of Hobgoblin beer, boiled cabbage and blue denim crotch. Time to head out, meet some ladies, and head back to their place for some serious D&D action.

Ozzy and Maiden? Dude, I am so there. Take me, my blue denim bodysuit and my offensively ugly girlfriend to Order of the Black right now.

Secondly, Land That I Love, Charlie Daniels. Charlie is the scariest man in music. Oh yes, you can keep your Marilyn Manson, your Slipknot and your Lady Gaga.

Because your Mango once saw Charlie Daniels perform live at The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, Tennessee. During the introduction to his most famous song, The Devil Went Down To Georgia, Charlie quoted from another song (Simple Man) to make a political point:

I’ve got a message for all the judges out there. The next time you get a pedophile or a terrorist up in front of you, you order that rascal be taken off into the Florida swamps and tied to a tree stump. AND LET THE ‘GATORS DO THE REST!

Cue violent violins, whooping from the audience, and a request for new pants from your Mango.

So: Charlie Daniels is a maniac. His latest album, Land That I Love, is a handpicked collection of his favorite patriotic songs. To be honest, this review can probably be summed up as: No. Do not even listen to this album because if you do, you will – this is not a joke – be subliminally obliged to rush to your closest American Embassy and demand citizenship.

Just go and buy one of his proper albums instead.

If you’re not quite clued in yet, here are a couple of other song titles: America I Believe In You and This Ain’t No Rag It’s A Flag.

Conclusion: it’s a patriotic best of album by Charlie Daniels, which means an album packed with songs designed to put a tear in the Heartland’s eyes, while leaving the rest of us wishing for another of his straightout country albums with that trademark maniacal violin. Here’s its thought:

They should play this here durn album to all o’ those Al Kidda turrists. This dang thang’d have ‘em all Amurrcan cit’zens ‘fore two hours done gone.

Suh, Ah am an honest straightforward Amurrcan. And you, mah friend, will take me to Land That I Love afore Ah kick yur ass from here to next Toosdee.

Thirdly, Blast: Live, Red Hot Chilli Pipers. The Red Hot Chilli PIPERS! Do you see?!

Of course you do, you are a Mangon and therefore of reasonable intelligence.

Okay, the band name is a little bit cheesy, but the music? Hhhmmmm…

Some people just flatout hate bagpipes: no matter how sweet the music, all they can hear is the sound of Janet Street-Porter torturing some kittens with a dental drill.

But the rest of us can see some beauty – some majesty – within the mournful wailing of this ancient instrument. What the Red Hot Chilli Pipers do is take that and transplant it onto modern music. So, Blast: Live features Caledonian mashups of We Will Rock You with Eye Of The Tiger, and Smoke On The Water with Thunderstruck.

Alongside those modern interpretations are some old classics, such as Hills Of Argyll and Little Drummer Boy, and some new works by the Pipers themselves: please, if anyone can tell us why Jazz Badger (The Lochaber Badger) seems so familiar, we’ll give you absolutely no money but lots and lots of kudos. Leave your messages below.

Okay, here’s the thoughts for Blast: Live by the Red Hot Chilli Pipers:

Aye, tha noo ’tis a grand day when the young Piper boys get tae be written aboot on such a webpaper as Hecklerspray. Mah garanny, Old Ma McShetland o’ the clan McWeegie would be propah bosted tae read such a thing. Though she couldnae read o’ course, readin’ bein’ a curse put upon us by tha Unglish *mental spit*.

Hey, laddie: Ah’d layk tae gan tae the Red HOt Chilli Pipers meself. Would yae tak me o’er there tae this Blast: Live record, ba chance?

Okay, dear Mangons. ‘Tis over for another week. Though if you know of music which should be exploited into many, many ears, then do drop us a line: thegibbo[at]gmail.com

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We know, you’ve had an anxious couple of weeks fretting about how Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston have been getting on with their engagement.

Such anxious feelings are only to be expected when one of the couple is the daughter of America’s stupidest and most wholesomely religious person, and the other is famous only for not properly whapping his cock out in Playgirl magazine.

That is the dictionary definition of ‘mismatch’.

Well, your fears have been realised today, as Bristol Palin announces that her engagement to Levi Johnston is OVER. With a capital O. And then a capital V. And then a… see you after the jump, eh?

…pital E. And then a capital R.

To be honest, we thought that our lives had descended into the basement when we began lamenting the fact that a chubby Alaskan redneck refused to show his cock in Playgirl. But now we find ourselves sunk even lower: we are bringing you the news that the dickless fatboy has once again been rebuffed by his longtime girlfriend, Bristol Palin.

Who would have seen this coming?

(Apart from anyone who’s ever read a single thing about the hapless pair of morons. Or anyone who knows that she is the daughter of a Christian Presidential hopeful and he is an enormous, irresponsible dicktool. Or anyone who scrapes dung from the walls of a remote, rural Indian cattle station for a living and has never heard of either of them but just somehow has a hunch that Levi Johnston is a great big flabby bag of bollocks.)

Okay, so we all saw this coming. Apart from Bristol Palin, who has only just realised that her fiancée, Levi Johnston, is perhaps the most enormous piece of arse gristle the world has ever seen.

According to People she’s called the engagement off and gone back to live with her parents (Sarah Palin and Sarah Palin’s Husband). Here’s how it all played out, in the words of the privileged whingebag:

I’ve only seen him once in the past three weeks. The final straw was him flying to Hollywood for what he told me was to see some hunting show but come to find out it was that music video mocking my family.

I got played.

Oh yes, Bristol Palin, you got played.

Played by one of the most devious and cunning players out there right now. By a boy who had virtually no coherent reason for marrying you other than the fact you could enhance his pair of careers (which are, by the way, a) advertising pistachio nuts and b) categorically not schlopping out his schlong for a girly porn mag).

Ah, well. It’s the end of a an era.

A beautiful era.

An era which has provided us with innumerable chances to mock the relationship between two backwoods country children from what is basically the Arctic, one of whose parents has overcome congenital stupidity to become a contender for having her finger on the nuclear button which could kill us all.

Not to worry: it won’t be two weeks before they’re having sex on top of Mount Rushmore. And that, people, would probably make her President by default.

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Badvertising brings you the world’s worst TV commercials. Which is basically why the internet was created, right?

This one – a TV commercial advertising Denim Diapers (sorry: nappies) made by Huggies – is particularly egregious. Because just when you thought that America could stoop no lower than openly sexualising the tweenaged Miley Cyrus, good old Uncle States of Sam poops this monstrosity into your eyes.

Video after the jump, weirdos…

Okay, the premise is this: diapers (sorry: nappies) are boring. They’re all the same: white (well, when they’re new they are) with some sticky bits and some padded bits.

Huggies decided that babies are people too, and what do people like more than soiling themselves in public? That’s right: they like being admired by the opposite sex more than soiling themselves in public. Although, we have seen some German video evidence that the two are not mutually exclusive.

Anyway, here’s the despicable ad:

Alright now: wipe the flecks of vomit from your mouth. Maybe go and gargle some mouthwash. If you are reading this in a future where there is real, actual mindbleach then perhaps you’ll want to flush a pint or two through your cortex.

See, what Huggies have done here – and all in order to sell some diapers (sorry: nappies), don’t forget – is to produce a piece of film which treats a one-year-old as some kind of sex symbol.

That needs repeating: Huggies thinks that its denim diapers (sorry: nappies) can make a one-year old sexually attractive to women and – by the look of this screen grab – gay boobwobbler Gok Wan.

But the worst thing is those terrible, back-of-a-beermat straplines which the ad company came up with over a hurried lunchtime meeting, and which now Mr Throatyvoice intones over the ad in a supposedly sexual way:

I poo in blue.

When it’s a number two, I look like number one.

And our favourite of all the kiddyfiddling innuendos:

My diaper is full. Full of chic.

Haha. HAHA! HAAHAAHAAHAA!!!!!! LOLZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Chic almost sounds like shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HAAARRRHAAARRRHAAARRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey, Huggies: listen to our ideas and you could have the next big advertising hit on your hands:

1) Young people love vampires. Babies are young people. So have the Huggies Denim baby be a vampire, and as he’s passing Gok Wan he suddenly leaps onto the moped and bites Gok Wan’s neck and there’s blood and Gok Wan dies and the Huggies Denim baby becomes a massive wolf and oh christ, we don’t know. Unicorns fly out of his arsehole?

2) Huggies Denim baby reveals himself to be not just a fine piece of ass, but also somewhat of an intellectual giant. In the next ad, he is seen doing really hard Sudoku puzzles and crosswords and chatting with Stephen Hawking about stars and galaxies and shit. Literally: shit.

3) Your next commercial is co-directed by Roman Polanski and Woody Allen, and shows the Huggies Denim baby dancing in a stripclub as one of Gary Glitter‘s hits plays in the background.

Just stop pretending to have any kind of moral compass whatsoever is basically what we’re saying.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of upcoming major label releases.

We think that we’ve picked out a nicely diverse collection of albums this week. We’re not overly fond of all of them, but, hey: we call things as we hear them and then allow you to decide (except for the new one from Communist hippies Arcade Fire, because you simply must like that. Oh yes: YOU MUST).

That aside, we have songs from Radio 2 emoto-princess Katie Melua, and some wonderfully jaunty Irish nonsense from Gaelic Storm.

Welcome please, come and see, enjoy our wares.

Firstly, The House, Katie Melua. Harmless charmless acoustic nonsense from Terry Wogan‘s favourite curly-haired cutey.

Katie Melua tears us apart. On the one hand, she quite obviously has a lovely, jazzy voice which is well-trained and capable of tackling (and mastering) a massive range of styles.

On the other hand, she was brought to fame by the bewigged Irishman as a one-trick wonder, singing gently a soppy ballad in which every sappy lady in the country could find some emotional resonance.

Oh, Katie Melua, you could have done so much good with that voice. Instead, you chose to continue with the “Music For Fluffy Kittens” thing, instead of going with a “Songs Which Can Stimulate Real Human Emotions” vibe.

Look, it’s a Katie Melua album. So obviously a quite NICE album, filled with NICE songs sung in a NICE voice and NICEly arranged. But if that is your thing, then you almost certainly are a NICE person with a NICE house and NICE beige furnishings. In which case, you aren’t even reading this hecklerspray review, so we can happily tell you to piss off back to NICEthings.com.

Here’s the thought for The House by Katie Melua:

I wonder what would be the ultimate music for relaxing my hypnotherapy clients into sleep. Something completely bland and inoffensive, which allows one to listen while making absolutely no emotional investment…

Well escuse me, Mister Reviewer. I am a rather NICE person, who has a NICE life which I live in the NICE county of Poshcestershire (town of NICE-upon-Beige). I would be most grateful if you would take me to The House by Katie Melua. With NICEst wishes, Col. William NICEington-NICE (Ret’d).

Secondly, The Suburbs, Arcade Fire. Third album from the Canadian hippy rockers, and it’s a beauty.

The band’s musical influences are clear, but developed here into something unique rather than just used as easy stylistic references to avoid the listener having to think.

From the piano-led ragtime of opener The Suburbs (John Lennon meets The Cure), through Empty Room and We Used To Wait (Heroes-era Bowie re-imagined by ABBA), to Suburban War and Deep Blue (unmistakably The Byrds), Arcade Fire have successfully incorporated other bands’ sounds into something very much their own.

Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs is a cracking album, and one you should rush out and buy right now. It has a thought and here it is:

Hmm. This is a seriously great album. Who knew The Byrds could be improved upon?

Alright, you’ve got me. This album is good, yadda yadda yadda. Take me to The Suburbs and let me decide for myself.

Thirdly, Cabbage, Gaelic Storm. Your Mango loves the occasional bit of Irish tomfoolery. There’s just something very liberating about throwing your booze-sodden body around a dancefloor to the sound of fiddles, bodhrans and mandolins.

And Gaelic Storm’s latest album is a great example of the genre. From the opening stomper Raised On Black And Tans, you know that you’re in for an album of serious daftness.

Just Ran Out Of Whiskey is a strangely jaunty lament about…well, take a guess. Cecilia is a good, gently Gaelicified version of the Simon And Garfunkel song, and The Buzzards Of Bourbon Street is a wonderful bringing together of crashing drums and jubilant bagpipes.

Our favourite track, though, has to the closer, Chucky Timm, in which we’re exhorted to “Brush off your smoking jacket. Take off your thinking cap. Put on a pair of big boy’s pants and button up your flap. Here comes Chucky Timm, so get your drinking boots on.”

Sounds like a chap we would love to get to know, that Chucky Timm. Here’s the thought for Gaelic Storm’s Cabbage:

This may be my favouritest dancing album of all the year long. Must thank the Mango for bringing it to my attention.

Oh, to be sure, ’tis a grand old album so ’tis. Now take me to Cabbage by them there Gaelic Storm boys afore I knock your bonce off wit me old Shillelagh. To be sure.

Farewell for another week, faithful Mangons. In the meantime, do send us your latest musical masterpieces. Get in touch at: thegibbo[at]gmail.com.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of upcoming major label releases.

Another busy week for music. This time: we have some lovely, dreamy Indie tunes (from Menomena and from Sky Sailing); a tribute album to Ronnie James Dio (you read that right, and it’s from Jorn); and a Brazilian man makes your Mango consider swinging the other way (the dreeeeamy Seu Jorge).

So come on in, and let’s have ourselves a party*.

*Party does not infer fun, or enjoyment of any kind. Light hors d’œuvre will be served. BYOB. Smart/casual.

Firstly, Mines, Menomena and An Airplane Carried Me To Bed, Sky Sailing.

Menomena’s first album since Friend And Foe, three years ago. And the latest from this vocal-rotating, instrument-swapping tri-membered band is a little mellower than last time. A little.

They’re still in thrall to The Flaming Lips, but this time round they’ve obviously also been listening to The Beatles and that band’s component parts (Intil is clearly John Lennon-influenced).

A nice album of varied music, with a central “something” holding the sound together despite the band members’ instrumental promiscuity. This one will bear repeated listens.

Sky Sailing is the previous incarnation of Adam Young, best known now for his work with Owl City and their ubiquitous single Fireflies.

Hey, wait, come back here. Okay, just calm down. Only one of the songs here dives into the Sea Of Twee (Tennis Elbow). The rest of the album really does comes across as a pleasantly listenable set of songs written with genuine emotion. Oh, and Sky Sailing also really, really love The Flaming Lips.

The Flaming Lips, you say? I’ll have a bit of that. Take me to either Mines or An Airplane Carried Me to Bed.

Secondly, Dio, Jorn. Oh, Norway, how you do amuse us.

With your preposterous admiration of blue denim, crunching metal guitars, and music the rest of the world left behind 20 years ago. What is it with you, Norway, you penis of Europe, you?

Jorn, the self-proclaimed “Norwegian God of Metal” (that’s like calling yourself “The Nigerian God of Ginger Hair“), intended this album to be released before the death this year from stomach cancer of legendary metal powerhouse Ronnie James Dio.

And this album is surely just what the mighty Dio would have loved: overblown, pompous, fist-pumping metal songs with titles like Lord Of The Last Day and Night People.

Look, you’re going to either hate this or love it. There is nothing we can do to change your mind: it is what it is. Blech.

Well I for øne løve me søme Nørwegian death metal røck music. Sø take me nøw please to Diø.

Thirdly, Seu Jorge And Almaz, Seu Jorge. Wowza! From opening track Errare Humanum Est (which we think is Latin for “Look, love she was throwing herself at me. I’m sorry, okay?“) Seu Jorge had us hooked.

With a voice smoother than Justin Bieber‘s chin, and sweeter than a Kylie Minogue milkshake topped with flakes of Jonas Brothers, Seu Jorge is a sexual missile aimed straight towards our heart.

Oh, Seu Jorge, won’t you use your sexy Brazilian voice to build a bridge between us? A bridge made of rainbows, and samba, and well-muscled thi…

Sorry, Mangons, he got to us again there.

It is not physically possible to listen to Seu Jorge’s music without experiencing a little flutter of longing deep within the loins. Honestly. You may scoff, but we suggest getting a friend to strap you into a chair before listening. Otherwise, the next thing you know you’ll be coming to on a flight to Rio De Janeiro.

And that will be followed by an extremely awkward phonecall to the girlfriend.

I have been tied to a 3-ton concrete block. My credit cards and passport have been secured in a bank vault. I am now ready: take me to Seu Jorge And Almaz, and may god have mercy on my soul.

Do you have new music? Do you want an improbably large number of people to hear it? Get in touch with us then, you silly: thegibbo[at]gmail.com

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of upcoming major label releases.

This week, your Mango has something for everybody.

Are your life goals summed up by the phrase “All I wanna do is have some fun“? We’ve got Sheryl Crow.

Are you disturbed by rock music, but find it kind of enticing when performed on a violin? Check out the new release by David Garrett. You weirdo.

Are you, or do you wish to be, a black man? Well, there’s Rick Ross for you, sunshine.

Are you a 7-year old, or the state-assigned carer thereof? Why, we have just what you need, from the Kidz Bop Kids.

See? That covers everybody. You hear us? EVERYBODY.

Firstly, 100 Miles From Memphis, Sheryl Crow. It seems that albums about the sweaty, smelly city of Memphis are just like hiccups: when you hear one, you know that more are one their way pretty soon.

So, a couple of weeks ago we had Memphis Blues by Cyndi Lauper. And now we have Sheryl Crow’s latest album, a collection of songs allegedly inspired by her upbringing in proximity to that city (actually, 100 miles away: remember, this is America, where in some of the flyover states folk think that a drive 250 miles to get to their neighbour’s and back is a kind of luxury).

‘How about the music?‘ we can hear you cry. Well, we can only suggest you go and check it out. See, we are not fans of Sheryl Crow’s distinctive voice. To be more specific, we are not fans of Sheryl Crow’s whiny, nasal, I’m-trying-to-pass-a-briefcase-out-through-my-sphincter-and-it’s-kind-of-painful, voice.

The songs are good. Great melodies, lyrics with some meaning, and well-arranged with nice, tastefully used horns and whatnot. But over it all is the voice of Sheryl Crow. Think of it this way: Carl Orff‘s Carmina Burana is a wonderful, stirring piece of choral music. Now imagine it being sung by a choir consisting of Janet Street-Porter, Yoko Ono, and Gilbert Gottfried. Yes? You with us?

Here’s the album’s thought:

Okay, Sheryl Crow has an album out themed around Memphis. That means blues and such, right? Let’s stick it on and…Hey, hang on a moment. Have I bought one of her old albums just repackaged as a new one?

I dislike change. What worked once will always work again. Where is 100 Miles From Memphis, please.

Secondly, Rock Symphonies, David Garrett. Oh, it would be so easy to mock David Garrett and his latest album of rock-with-some-violins nonsense.

Which is a bit like if we were writing for a new-Jewish-music website and wrote “Oh, it would be so easy to mock Adolf Hitler and his slightly out-there views on certain ethnic groups“.

And that is our – perhaps religiously offensive – way of saying that David Garrett’s music is a very bad thing which requires a coalition of the willing to man-up and destroy it. Wipe it out. Make sure that our children, and our children’s children, will not grow up in a world where they can hear Walk This Way performed pretty much as the original but with a violin squawking the vocal parts.

In a world where they believe that Smells Like Teen Spirit is an attempt at writing a piece of music for the bit in an action movie where the muscular hero is jogging to a mailbox to post an almost-late tax return form.

In a world where Master Of Puppets has mutated from an emotional, metal-driven diatribe about the effects of drugs into the soundtrack to that part of an episode of The Bill where they’re chasing a shoplifter through a shopping mall.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of upcoming major label releases.

It’s a very busy week for music. Maybe the record companies have had the corporate poop scared out of them by Prince‘s declaration that all electronic media is dead, and have thus thrown out everything with a chance at making profit in this one week.

Or perhaps Beyonce, or Lady Gaga, or Bloody Glee have got a new album out next week and they’re releasing all the second-tier stuff now to avoid chartular humiliation.

Either way: it’s a feast. And how better to digest it all than with a lovely slice of cool, refreshing Mango. Mmmm.

Firstly, Hard Rock.

See? No space this week for individual band breakdowns. Get over it. This week, we are going by genre.

Firstly firstly, Stampede, Hellyeah. Self-proclaimed ‘supergroup’ Hellyeah boast ex-members of Pantera and several other, less famous bands.

This ‘supergroup’ produce copies of Metallica‘s music but with little of that mighty band’s passion, talent or originality. From musical content (Stampede could have been on Master Of Puppets) to song titles (surely Debt That All Men Pay was considered for Metallica:Metallica), Hellyeah are just a facsimile of their masters.

Which is fine, if you’re waiting for the originals to hit their stride again. Think of Hellyeah’s Stampede as a stopgap until the next Metallica album.

Firstly secondly, A Star-Crossed Wasteland, In This Moment. Heavy metal, thrash, deathcore: call it what you like, but it does seem to be a set of genres which displays an extremely slow evolution. We’ve just had Metallica copyists Hellyeah, and now we are faced with In This Moment, who are seemingly in thrall to – of all things – Evanescence, a band who virtually copyrighted this kind of thing nine years ago.

The music is pretty good; everybody’s got the technical skills and all. It’s just… it’s just pub-band copycatting, really. It’s as if the fans of these bands hear a great album from Artist X, refuse to listen to anything slightly different, and that leads to Artists Y and Z coming along and releasing the same album twice more.

Oh, I’m sooooooo sorry that you have a problem with tributes, Mr Reviewer. Whatever, just take me to Stampede or A Star-Crossed Wasteland.

Secondly, Country/Bluesgrass/Folk.

Secondly firstly, Judge Jerrod And The Hung Jury, Jerrod Nieman. His name suggests a conflict between the twanging Telocaster sounds of Nashville and the twanging mouth harp sounds of Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

Fortunately for you – if such is your buzz – Jerrod Nieman chose Tennessee over New York. So what has he delivered on this, his first album? Well, 20 tracks of extremely well-written, performed and produced country music. That’s not 20 songs, though: about five of these tracks are not songs, but brief little amuse-bouches such as recordings of Jerrod Nieman pretending to drunkenly slur “Hey, that ain’t no country music” (Drunken Complaint). That’s fine; great bands’ histories are littered with this kind of early-career self-indulgence. This is enjoyable country with a mildly rocking edge.

Secondly secondly, The House You’re Building, Audrey Assad. Another artist this week with a non-standard country surname who has embarked upon a country (ish, in this case) musical journey.

In Audrey Assad’s case, this journey has been chosen by GOD. But don’t worry, this isn’t 20 Contemporary Christian Classics. Yes, there’s a message behind the music, but it is distinguishable only if you’ve been told it’s there.

Which, on reflection, you now have been. Soz.

Audrey Assad has a beautiful, pure voice, and she or her producers really know which instruments and arrangements complement it best. Go listen to this album if you like a simple, unadorned female voice singing nicely constructed, mostly acoustic songs.

And forget the whole God thing: honestly, it’s about as noticeable as a sheet of toilet paper in a hurricane.

Secondly thirdly, Safe Upon The Shore, Great Big Sea. Oh, now this is really what floats our boat. What breaks our biscuit. What crumbles our cookie.

Hmm. Anyway, Safe Upon The Shore, the 10th album from American folk gods Great Big Sea, is one of those releases we’ve been waiting a long time to hear.

And it’s  everything we wanted: the Americanised version of Fairport Convention (Good People, Yankee Sailor), the Americanised version of Saw Doctors (Over The Hills, Road To Ruin). There’s even a cover of Gallows Pole, author unknown but made a classic by Leadbelly and Led Zeppelin.

This album by The Great Big Sea is a wonderful thing. It will be on rotation for a while with us, and we hope that you’ll enjoy it too.

As a real-ale quaffer, I of course love a bit of folk music. Take me if you would to Judge Jerrod and the Hung Jury, The House You’re Building, or Safe Upon the Shore.

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When YOU think of Jennifer Lopez, all you see is a massive, ridiculously engorged bottom.

This is because you are a pervert.

When WE think of Jennifer Lopez, we see an angelic figure promoting world harmony, a Churchillian presence preaching peace between nations, and a colossus bestriding the world’s political hotspots like some kind of gargantuan Henry Kissinger. And then, admittedly, a ginormous arse.

Well, we’re right and you’re wrong, because Jennifer Lopez has just cancelled – for political reasons – a planned gig in the part of Cyprus illegally occupied by Turkish forces since 1974. But don’t fret: we hear that North Cyprus has booked Susan Boyle as a replacement to come in and shake her sexy booty for the citizens. Huzzah!
Here’s the background: Jennifer Lopez, the international agent of peace and celebrated shaker of trunkjunk, had agreed to a $3 million contract to sing her songs and fling her buttcheeks around the stage at the opening of a new luxury hotel in Northern Cyprus this month.

However – and we have no idea how this escaped the attention of the American Ambassador For Astronomical Asses – it turns out that Northern Cyprus is a bit of a political hotspot. The place was invaded by Turks in 1974 and rather than bringing that country’s traditional gift of delight, they actually turned up with guns, grenades and a desire to stay here for quite some time, thanks very much.

A Facebook campaign was – with terrifying inevitability – launched, and pretty soon Jennifer Lopez’s publicity people decided to cancel her appearance within the disputed land. Her PR folk chirped:

“Jennifer Lopez would never knowingly support any state, country, institution or regime that was associated with any form of human rights abuse.”

Well good for you, Jennifer Lopez. Though of course, it does mean an end to your lucrative tours of the USA. What’s that? Why?

Er, Jennifer Lopez, have you not heard about the USA’s stockpiling of nuclear weapons? About its invasion of foreign countries which pose no realistic threat to their own? About its sequestering of suspected POWs in conditions which would shame an Alabama puppy farm? About the very bedrock document of its country declaring that black people are less than human? Oh, you have heard all that, Jennifer Lopez? But you believe that the USA is infallible, and that only foreigns can be genuinely bad people?

Fair play then, love. You get out there and shake that bootay all across your glorious nation, you flirtatious advocate for international accord, you.

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Who can honestly say that they don’t dream nightly about Robert Pattinson making creaky, lustless love to Kristen Stewart?

Oh come on, we know you do. And it’s fine: there’s absolutely no shame in subconsciously picturing what is basically a skeleton wrapped in bleached parchment paper humping on a girl whose O-face is almost certainly the same as all of her other faces (that is: “This is my first dump in five days, and it feels like it’s doing some irreparable damage to my nipsy“.)

Well listen up, you lucky perverts: the Twilight screenwriter has only come out and claimed that the next film will be a horrifically sexualised version of the book, with boobs and bums and everything.

Maybe even a glimpse of Taylor Lautner‘s nipples, if you’re lucky.

Ah, yes, the tricky issue of the last Twilight book is upon us. Assuming you’re not a 13-year-old girl with a weak bladder, or a 35-year-old woman with two thousand cats and a weak bladder, let us enlighten you about this conundrum.

You see, the first three of Stephenie Meyer‘s books about pretty vampires were entirely sexless. That’s not how Hollywood works though, so the movie versions hired Taylor Lautner’s nipples to provide some sex electrons. Luckily for Hollywood – and for tweenaged girls – by the time she got to the fourth book, Stephenie Meyer had grown so weary of writing about clothes shop mannequins getting all emo with each other that she was compelled to introduce a saucy little sex scene between the two main characters.

And that brings us to the news: Melissa Rosenberg, the screenwriter working on the last installment (Twilight: Breaking Dawn), has been quoted by E! Online as saying that the next movie…

“…will be sexier….I think we can get awfully sexy with a PG-13. I think it’s going to be pretty hot. Way hot!”

Yeah, baby! An awfully sexy PG-13 film is exactly what we want the next Twilight movie to be! In fact, we’ve thought long and hard (titter) about this, and have some ideas for Melissa Rosenberg:

Idea 1. Twilight: Breaking Dawn shows the passion which Robert Pattinson genuinely feels for his co-star Kristen Stewart. To maintain the movie’s PG-13 rating, sex scenes between RoPa and KriStew are body-doubled by one of the Easter Island statues and a pony with colic. Taylor Lautner’s nipples are positioned slightly out of camera shot, whispering dirty phrases like “fill her fanny“, “bum spigot“, and “yeah, fart in his face, that is so hot“.

Idea 2: Twilight: Breaking Dawn is re-imagined as a full-on wank flick, wherein Kristen Stewart plays Dawn, a recently-divorced woman who is seduced by her plumber (Robert Pattinson) into doing filthy sexthings while Taylor Lautner’s nipples hide in the spice cupboard, watching.

Idea 3: Twilight:Breaking Dawn is filmed as an homage to Taylor Lautner’s nipples. The film consists of three hours of closeup, hi-definition video of Taylor Lautner’s nipples while he does some extreme chest exercises. Watch as every push-up is captured in exquisite detail, allowing the viewer to witness each individual bead of sweat forming around the areolae, engorging until it finally reaches critical mass and drops – in delicious slow motion – to the gym bench beneath.

You’re welcome, Twilight: Breaking Dawn producers. Just be sure to credit us, and do let us know when the filthflick will be available in Dirty Mick’s Scuzz Emporium.

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