There’s something rather amazing about Nicolas Cage films. It’s not that he can’t act – although, seriously, we’re not sure that he can – it’s more that you simply don’t know whether you’re going to spend the last few moments of the credits shouting furiously at the screen and simulating over-the-top air rabbit punches, or hugging everyone else in the cinema, because you’ve just shared a moment together. A wonderful wonderful moment. A moment that could end in sex.

High points in his career include: Con Air, Wild at Heart, Leaving Las Vegas, The Rock, Vampire’s Kiss, and Adaptation. Whilst crippling, “let’s brick up this picture house!”, low points can be found after watching Snake Eyes, World Trade Centre, Ghost Rider, or, especially, The Wicker Man – a film which must surely rank as the worst remake of all time. There isn’t another actor on the planet capable of such a movie-going lottery. He’s either excellent, or shit. There is nothing in between.

Well, the good news filtering through the grapevine is that he’s magnificent in the upcoming remake of Bad Lieutenant – which, remember, was a 1992 film, starring Harvey Keitel, about a really bad lieutenant. He was a horrible lieutenant in fact. They should really have called it Horrible Lieutenant.

Anyway, with this great news singing in our ears, we thought we’d celebrate a cluster of remakes that were definitely better than the originals…

Ocean’s Eleven

The first outing for this movie featured all of the big stars of 1960 – Sinatra, Martin, Davis Jnr, some other people. And, for the most part, it’s shockingly bad. Hence, it came as no real surprise that Clooney and his goons did a much better job of it in 2001, even with Don Cheadle on board, doing everything he could to bollocks the whole thing up with a preposterous “British” accent. On the downside, every sequel since has been steadily worse than the one before, which probably means that Oceans Sixteen will actually cause an outbreak of hysterical cinema suicides. Stop now.

Scarface

It’s actually a close call, this. The first one – made in 1932, about a mobster called Tony Camonte – is a gripping tale of a man rising up the criminal ladder. It’s pretty good. But, Pacino totally blows the thing out of the water in the Florida-based 1983 remake, in which he plays Tony Montana – a street smart Cuban, who shouts obscenities throughout the film, then shoots people up whilst magnificently high on cocaine. It’s Pacino’s tour du force, and it basically introduced the world to his brand new acting technique, which we like to call “shouting”.

Twelve Monkeys

Bruce Willis isn’t a million miles away from Cage in his ability to pick horrendous films, but one that was anything but rubbish was Twelve Monkeys, which found ex-Python freak Terry Gilliam on extremely weird form as the director. It’s a strange tale of time travel, world wars, freaky visions, mad scientists, and not really any monkeys whatsoever. Interestingly, it adapted much of the plot from a 1962, short French film called La Jetée, which featured only still images, a pretentious voice over, and was probably much enjoyed only by pipe smoking women who liked to wear gentlemen’s trousers. In that case, a man travels through time, meets a beautiful woman, then realises that his childhood memory of watching a man get shot was actually him witnessing his own death as an adult. Sounds very familiar, that.

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Oh yeah, everyone’s gone crazy bananas ever since Simon Cowell allowed the public to cast Lucie Jones back to her dreary Welsh village, where she can forever plat people’s hair, and regale them with tales about the time she wore razor-cut denim, and sung a song that no one had ever heard of.

“I’m sorry, but who the hell are you?” they will ask. “I’m Lucie Jones,” she will declare, standing up from her seat, imagining the warmth of a spotlight once again caressing her stupid Welsh face. “Lucie Jones, the lonely girl from Wales, who went on to national fame and stardom… for about a month.” She’ll then either start frenziedly hacking at her own arms, or take up board and lodgings in whichever dumpster Shane Ward and Leon Jackson have now decided to call home.

The point being that it doesn’t matter one jot that Cowell saved those turdish Irish twins at the weekend. Like the rest of them, fast forward a few months, and they will be touching themselves for coins in some rancid little corner of the internet. This is an early-evening variety show – Leona Lewis and JLS aside, it doesn’t produce actual stars. So everyone should just shut up.

Plus it’s not the first time that the important X Factor judges/general public have cocked things up anyway. Read on, and we’ll tell you some more…

1. Rowetta didn’t win the first series

Rowetta, to jog your memory, was the Madchester casualty who spoke like someone had removed her voice box and replaced it with a Moog keyboard set to “random”. And yet, the woman could sing like she was splodged on planet Earth for the sole purpose of interpreting songs in the style of Shirley Bassey with ‘roid rage. Yes, she was that amazing. But was she good enough for the demanding X Factor audience? Hell no, sister. They liked Steve Brookstein much more, mainly because he occasionally pointed to his girlfriend when he sang, and then once whimpered like a great big flannel when Sharon Osbourne told him off in front of the entire country. We’d love to say that Rowetta had the last laugh, but, really, she didn’t.

2. They kept Chico in for about two months too long

Forget the gurning Irish idiots, Chico was like a nation of pillocks rolled into one. He even had a catchphrase, which we shouted along to – What time is it? Chico time! – which makes us hate him even more. He made us look like total twats. The judges had the chance to get rid of the lurching, tone deaf imbecile in week one, then again in weeks three, and seven, but they didn’t. But did we complain, as Addictiv Ladies, Phillip Magee and The Conway Sisters slumped into the metaphorical roadside ditch? No, we couldn’t give a shit.

3. The show validated the existence of Journey South and The McDonald Brothers

Of particular horror were Journey South, a set of dead-eyed brothers who sang U2 songs, whilst staring gormlessly into the middle-distance. Each time the judges cast their verdicts, it was like they were talking to a couple of discarded puppets, draped on stage, unaware of what was going on. A nightmare scenario would be to attend a dinner party hosted by the brothers, mainly because the highlight of the evening would be explaining in detail your exact route from your house to theirs. Ditto all of the above for the McDonald Brothers, with the only defining difference being that they were Scottish.

4. The judges kicked out Laura White

Forget Alexandra Burke, the real star of last year’s X Factor was Laura White, who dominated the early weeks with her amazing jazz/soul voice. She was head and shoulders above the rest. But then, for some ungodly reason, she was kicked off by the judges just halfway through the show – missing out in the sing-off to Ruth Lorenzo, who, admittedly, had startling breasts. Even so, it was a travesty. A total travesty.

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Chris Brown, the R&B singer, is unsure of how he is perceived by his fans. We know this, because that’s what he said in an interview.

Do they still love him for his music? Or have his tender sex songs lost a little bit of their appeal since he decided to practice Kung Fu on his ex-girlfriend Rihanna’s beautiful face? Yeah, it’s a concern, isn’t it Chris?

Unfortunately, sensual declarations of love to a backing track do tend to sound a bit watery, once you know that beneath the gargantuan teeth, and the promises of a better future, beats the thumping heart of a maniac just seconds away from a red mist. Sneeze at the wrong moment, and he might come at you with a brick. Still, all is not lost for Chris Brown. Using some templates from other famous people who have been unmasked for dodgy wrong-doings, here are a few paths that he could choose to tread…

1. Make a joke out of it

When Hugh Grant was caught having his gentlemanly penis attended to by a street-side prostitute in his car, it could have spelt curtains for the actor. Yet, Hugh turned the whole thing to his advantage by upping the ‘bumbling aristocrat’ setting on his personality, and doing the talk show rounds making stuttered apologies, and quips about not wanting to blow his own trumpet. George Michael was equally light-hearted when he was arrested for his penis-related misdemeanour in a local toilet. Hence, one option for Chris would be to hilariously send-up his violent outburst in a music video, or laugh hysterically and start clapping his hands whenever the incident is brought up in an interview. “Yeah, what a crazy night that was – you should’ve seen the other guy!” laughs Chris. Silence.

2. Divert attention by becoming increasingly weird

Phil Spector killed a woman. Seriously, actually killed one. With a gun. You were probably aware of that fact for about a second, before becoming distracted by the wild manner in which he wore his hair. During the murder trial, he became so odd looking that most people completely forgot that he once placed a pistol into a lady’s mouth, then pulled the trigger, because they were too busy wondering how he managed to achieve so much frizz without getting an actual perm done. Taking a similar line in distraction, Chris could perhaps fashion an interesting beard, or take to wearing a dress? Then will they be talking about the time he punched Rihanna in the face? No, they’ll be asking why Chris Brown appears to be wearing a woman’s frock. Bingo!

3. Deny everything

Yes, everyone seems pretty sure that they know the truth, but OJ Simpson has spent years denying any wrong doing on the night that Nicole Simpson and Ronald Goldman were stabbed to death, even though he was then chased by the police, before providing a case that Columbo would probably crack in seven seconds – including a five second break to scratch his nose. Still, the constant denial worked for OJ as he was declared not guilty, and went back to his old life. Only with considerably less friends, money, or prospects. This could work for Chris. Simply backtrack, then deny everything. Yes, you won’t work again, but at least you wouldn’t spend long nights awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, regretting what you did…  Oh, you still would? Fine!

This was a guest post by Josh Burt from Interestment, who rules

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Ahhh, is there any greater feeling than cuddling up to the woman/man that you love, watching a frightening movie on DVD, then spending the rest of the evening in a cold sweat, convinced that if you fall asleep – even for a second – they will start surgically taking you apart with a razor blade?

This weekend it’s Halloween, which means that a large portion of young people will dress up like dicks, and go around the streets badgering people for sweets, whilst others will go to parties dressed as orcs, and a very small percentage will kill for the first time. If you don’t fit into any of those categories, perhaps you should spend the night in watching one of these six chillers?

(we were going to do 666, but decided that six would just about cover it).

Don’t Look Now, 1973

A couple head off to Venice to get over the death of their drowned daughter, then things start to get really bloody eerie. It features weird premonitions, a woman who looks like a disgusting troll, and Donald Sutherland pleasuring Julie Christie in a very sensual manner. It’s psychological.

The Shining, 1980

Oh jeepers, when those twins appeared in that hallway, we damn near yelped. And how about the sexy naked lady who suddenly morphs into a decrepit old crone. Not to mention the blood in the lifts, and Jack Nicholson’s screen wife, with the face that could make for a two hour horror film if you just filmed her sleeping. Not to be viewed alone in a mansion.

The Vanishing, 1988

There are two versions of this film, one Dutch, the other American, starring Kiefer Sutherland – the second one is a big bag of rubbish. The first, however, is a wonderfully chilling tale of a man attempting to figure out exactly what happened to his lovely girlfriend, who went missing at a petrol station, whilst presumably stocking up on Ginsters pies and a copy of Razzle. Cue strange revelations, and a rather uncomfortable end.

The Wicker Man, 1973

The Equaliser goes to a remote Scottish island, where everyone is a total pagan, which makes him sick to the insides, because he is all about Jesus. Then things get really creepy. Britt Ekland is in it, but even her naked dance can’t quite erase the chilling visions of local people wearing fox heads, rabbit hands and duck beaks, whilst hunting down our hero, who finally goes berserk religious in a big blazing wicker man. The Nicolas Cage version is also scary, but only in that it’s totally shit.

The Haunting, 1963

Possibly the best haunted house film ever, this features a small group of people stupidly going to stay in a massive creepy house to see if anything paranormal might happen. And guess what? It does, everyone gets really freaked out, and because it’s one of those old black and white films, it’s double-scary.

Halloween, 1978

The film that spawned about a million sequels, most of which are dross. But this outing, about a psychopath in a scary mask tormenting and killing people, is genuinely chilling. It also marks the beginning of an upward curve in Jamie Lee Curtis’ movie career, which went on to peak in Trading Places, then suddenly slump to the ground with a thud when she chose to put on an up-the-bum leotard in Perfect, starring John Travolta.

This was a guest post by Josh Burt from Interestment. Him ace.

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For those who don’t know what Panto is, it’s like a really rowdy play at the theatre, where babies are allowed to weep hysterically throughout, old men have permission to shout racist slurs at the soap opera actors, most of whom casually blurt out crudely masked sexual references in front of an auditorium mainly comprising eight-year-olds.

As is befitting such a glorious show, Panto season coincides with Christmas.

The big news this year is that Pamela Anderson will be taking part in a production of Aladdin – she’s playing the genie. The results of this have been twofold. Firstly, the audience will feel a shift in the child-to-adult ratio, with a slew of horny fathers wiping sweat from their top lips, as Pammie makes some clumsy reference to her tits. And secondly, it could mark the beginning of a Hollywood Panto season takeover. In years to come we might have De Niro playing Buttons in whichever panto it is that features Buttons. We also think that Ed Norton could really shine as Dick Whittington. But, until then, let’s bask in some of the big names from over the pond who have already lit up these so-called Pantomimes…

Henry Winkler

Ahh, we loved Henry Winkler when he played The Fonz. We particularly adored it when he used to adopt the two-thumbs-up pose and go “ehhh”, because something really cool had just happened. We also found him rather wonderful to watch in Arrested Development. However, Fonzie fans might be surprised to know that Henry counteracted his rather flaccid attempts at cracking the movie business by sneaking over to England to play Captain Hook in Milton Keynes a couple of years ago. “We don’t have panto in America,” he said, “and it sounds unbelievably fun.” It’s definitely unbelievably something, Henry.

Paul Michael Glaser

Like Henry, Paul Michael Glaser spent most of the 1970s being superhip. In his case, it was playing a cop in cardigans called Starsky. As in Starsky and Hutch. Since then, he’s stamped his mark as a director, being at the helm of one of Arnie’s finest hours, Running Man, but then slowly he descended into career hell, which culminated in him guffawing on stage for a gaggle of angry Sunderland kids, when he did a turn in Aladdin. That was during his SECOND year of panto.

Steve Guttenberg

Who didn’t love Guttenberg in the 1980s? No one, that’s who. He was the wise cracking hero in Police Academy, he did that film about aliens that make old people want to have sex, and then he dicked around with the great Tom Selleck, and the even better Ted Danson. For a time, he looked set fair to become one of the all time greats. So what happened? A very limp 1990s, that’s what. So limp that he never quite recovered, leaving his trolleyed self-esteem to disappear down the plug hole as he tottered around on a swishy US dancing show, then degraded himself further in Cinderella in Bromley. As in Kent.

Who wrote this? Why it was marvellous Josh Burt from sterling Interestment.

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Some of you might have noticed that over the course of the Rocky films, the gravel-voiced trainer with the face like a seriously chewed piece of gum never got into the ring. He’d happily bark at Sly Stallone, calling him a loser, telling him what to do, but that was it. And the reason was simple – if he’d stepped up to Apollo Creed himself, the old man would have be dead before he hit the floor. It’s a story that now echoes the life of Cheryl Cole.

Everyone seems to have been going bananas over the last few days, as Cole has wriggled and wormed her way out of performing her new solo song live on Saturday night’s X Factor, even though she mentors a gaggle of live singers week in week out. And we all know why. She knows why. Literally everyone knows why. Yet, no one seems comfortable acknowledging that it’s the right move.

Put simply, if she went live, she’d be totally rubbish. She’s not a very good singer, she’s about third in line for lead vocals in Girls Aloud – and that’s only because no one appears to like the transparent ginger one taking up too much of the spotlight, and the other one (Kimberley?) sings like she’s doing an impression of a trumpet. Hence, it would be the live X Factor equivalent of watching Rolf Harris showing Van Gogh how to paint. Then how would her little singing monkeys ever respect her again?

At least this way, she gets to dangle a few “what ifs” in the air, which will surely all be forgotten the minute Dannii Minogue opens her mouth to out another could-be-homosexual. Or Louis stumbles mouth first into an accidental racism.

Apparently Cole told an “unnamed friend” of hers:

“I really don’t see the problem. I will be singing live. I just won’t have time to get changed and get prepared for the performance, and be a judge on the show. It would be too hectic.”

We would suggest taking a small plastic bag of clothes to the judging seat with her, which she could quickly slip into during the adverts, but we know how to read between the lines. If she was genuinely worried about everything being too hectic, she should possibly spare a thought for the contestants during sing-off time. Within seconds of being told that the public doesn’t much like them, they’re shoved back into the spotlight to be jeered all over again. If you look very closely, you can actually make out their souls dying.

In other X Factor news, Leona got chinned by a mentalist.

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As we all know, it’s rude to insult the dead. They’re dead. They can’t hear what you’re saying, and they can’t be rude back. Plus, it’s probably quite disrespectful, because, you know, they’re dead. Come on. What kind of person are you?

Anyway, the point is that we’re not going to say anything rude about Heath Ledger’s English accent in The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus, because he’s dead, and it would be a cheap shot. Instead, we’re going to list some other attempted accents, that may or may not be worse than Heath’s, whilst kind of hinting that perhaps they were better. What we’re not going to do is come out and say that his accent was totally rubbish. We’re not that cruel. We would never say that. Ever.

The man’s dead.

Here are some other appalling stabs at sounding English…

1. Forest Whitaker, The Crying Game

For those who haven’t seen it, The Crying Game is mainly remembered for the scene where that couple start snogging. He’s feeling her boobs, she’s groaning like a lady does in those situations, it’s all getting pretty sexy. Then an unexpected penis falls from her knickers, everyone starts dry puking, and your friends start screaming and shouting at you to turn it off. It’s kind of an event movie in that sense. But before all of that, you do get the chance to hear Forest Whitaker chew his way through a London accent, like a chimney sweep eating a toffee. Not great.

2. Mischa Barton, St Trinian’s

Not the hardest working actress on the circuit, Mischa Barton actually claims to be English. And yet, when cast as an English girl in St Trinian’s, her portrayal appears to involve speaking in perfect American for nine words out of ten, before attempting something that sounds part-English/part-racist for exactly one word. It’s the equivalent of an Englishman’s ‘American’ consisting of no accent whatsoever, but the word “shucks” bookending every sentence. Lazy.

3. Keanu Reeves, Dracula

It never feels quite right, mocking Keanu Reeves. It’s a bit like poking a fat kid in the stomach, and repeatedly going “hey tubby” with every prod. It’s like bullying. His life is probably hard enough already, what with him being an atrocious actor and everything. So we’re not going to say too much about his attempts at the Queen’s English, beyond JESUS MAN! WTF?? Someone PAID you for this? That’s it, we’re all going to kill ourselves.

4. Marlon Brando, Mutiny on The Bounty

Such a wonderful actor, that Marlon Brando. No one will ever forget him buttering up that woman’s less mainstream orifice in the movie about France, nor the time he came in and out of pools of light in Apocalypse Now, looking really rather creepy. And neither, sadly, shall we ever forget the time he clumsily attempted to sound like an educated Englishman, but came across rather more as a wealthy landowner who was about to rape you, whether you liked it or not, in Mutiny on The Bounty.

This was a guest post by Josh Burt from lovely lovely Interestment

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Everyone knows that, in movies, it’s tough being a woman.

The roles on offer tend to only be those of kindly nuns, tearful wives silently rinsing cups in the sink, or unbelievable ball breakers. There is no real middle ground. Of course, one other role that we haven’t mentioned yet is that of a wonderful prostitute.

Everyone’s played one, from Jane Fonda to Charlize Theron. So with that in mind, we thought it best to highlight the greatest on-screen hookers of them all.

Julia Roberts, Pretty Woman

Yeah, that’s right, you probably thought that to become a prostitute, a woman needed to be a toothless, cackling, drug addict. And it’s a forgiveable misconception, because up until Pretty Woman came out, that’s what we all thought. Plus, gentlemen who used hookers to satisfy their seedy wants were often characterised as sweaty fat men who wouldn’t be able to correctly smear sensual handfuls of soft margarine into a lady’s buttocks for the life of them. Then Julia Roberts and Richard Gere made every single one of us THINK AGAIN. Him a sexy lothario adept at love makes, her just a girl, standing in a room, demanding money for intercourse. What a wonderful whore.

Patricia Arquette, True Romance

After Roberts threw everyone into a spin by scrubbing up well for a street walker, Patricia Arquette brought us all thundering back down to Earth with her portrayal of a call girl dressed in a Barbie doll’s slutty cast-offs. The film begins with Arquette giving Christian Slater some birthday sex as a freebie, then ends up with her strolling into the sunset with her “Trick”. But not before she’s emotionally blackmailed him into murdering her pimp. Clever girl.

Jamie Lee Curtis, Trading Places

As with the two previous prostitutes, Jamie Lee Curtis ends up coming off the game, thanks to true love, and a lot of money. It’s no secret that Jamie Lee Curtis splits consensus, with her rather harsh, angular face. But she also owned one of those 1980s figures that could almost pull off a daring up-the-bum leotard – as worn in a John Travolta film that we can’t remember. Plus, she used one scene in Trading Places to unleash her big juicy bosoms – a moment etched on the minds of a generation. In many ways, she was the perfect brass.

Rebecca De Mornay, Risky Business

Hookers, as is probably well documented, sometimes have to make sacrifices for their work. None more so than Rebecca De Mornay in Risky Business, who was forced to endure full-length body-licks from Tom Cruise’s slobbering walrus-like tongue. Eventually, having stolen a precious egg from the mantelpiece, the pair strike up an unlikely friendship, and it’s not long before her girls are turning tricks and doling out special offer h-jobs from the comfort of Cruise’s family home. This makes the fiercely macho actor appear part-pimp/part-madam, depending on your point of view. And De Mornay a proz with a brain for business, and a body… for business.

Elisabeth Shue, Leaving Las Vegas

Whilst the above prostitutes had the time of their lives servicing their johns, Elisabeth Shue issues a chilling warning that sometimes it’s not all great breakfasts and suitcases of cocaine. Sometimes, it’s Nicolas Cage drinking himself to death, while your downtrodden hooker damn well falls in love with him. Great money, tragic outcome. This film suggests that becoming a prostitute might actually be a bad thing.

This was a guest post by Josh Burt from Interestment. If you like him so much, why don’t you marry him?

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There is a book coming out called The Michael Jackson Tapes, and it looks set to send a few jaws hurtling towards the floor, then shattering, whilst eyes pop out on stalks, then go back in again. Kind of like in cartoons. Because, in the book, the crazy melty-clownface, during an interview with a learned Oxford University rabbi, thought he’d explain his admiration for Adolf Hitler, list a few women he could probably have done it with had he felt like it, and, at one point, he thought it would be wise to give a pair of child murderers a great big hug.

Oh dear, Michael. Oh dear.

It was all going so well, with the new single coming out, then the film of the build up to his big comeback tour. But now, it looks like a big turd is about to be smudged on the Jackson memories.

Talking to Rabbi Shmuley Boteach, Jackson declared:

“Hitler was a genius orator. To make that many people turn and change and hate, he had to be a showman.”

In the very same interview – conducted about eight years ago, with view to being aired/publicised – Jackson also talked about women, claiming that Cindy Crawford had flirted pretty heavily with him, he would possibly have considered going out with Liz Taylor, but didn’t want the whole world to look at them with arched eyebrows, calling them an “odd couple”. And he seemed convinced that Madonna was totally in love with him, but unfortunately, she wasn’t to Jacko’s tastes:

“She is not sexy at all”

He would, he insisted, have rather dated Princess Diana, but he never had the guts to ask her out.

In another strange segment of proceedings – featured in the Daily Mail Online – the King of Pop referred to the Jamie Bulger killers, Robert Thompson and Jon Venables, seemingly convinced that the pair of them just needed a good cuddle.

“I bet if you trace their life you can find they didn’t have parents around, didn’t have any love, nobody there to hold them, look in their eyes and say I love you. They deserve that, even though they’re going to get life. I want to say I love you and hold them.”

As posthumous interviews go, this one looks set to further split the consensus regarding the King of Pop, who, really, in hindsight, should have probably turned down any interview opportunities that came his way. It never seemed to go particularly swimmingly.

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For anyone who hasn’t seen the original 1980 version of Fame, it’s not exactly what you’d expect. Because you were expecting a grinning mob of leotard whores prancing around, squealing “feel the music!” to one another, whilst occasionally breaking rank to march silently towards a mirror, caressing their bodies, growling like tigers, weren’t you? Weren’t you? Go on, admit it. You were. And, for the most part, you’d be right.

But, the original film was so much more than that. It was bleak. It was brilliant. And the new one, apparently, is a big sack of turds. So says the Boston Herald and LA Times anyway, and they’ve SEEN it.

In the first outing, a cross section of New York “talent” is thrown together in a strict school for special people, who like singing, dancing and acting. The kids sometimes take time to play a cello in the canteen, or dash into the streets because a man in a taxi left his stereo on, and it’s playing loud music.

But, apart from that, it’s no walk in the park for these students – some of whom have been punched in the face by the ugly fist, yet still see their career in the limelight. By which we may or may not be referring to Bruno and Ralph. One student almost gets raped by a horny photographer, one is battling with gayness, one considers suicide, there’s a ballerina abortion, there are drugs flying around. Leroy destroys things. It’s heavy going.

Of the latest version, which looks a bit like High School Musical, but with slightly more pubes, James Verniere of the Boston Herald says:

“… for the most part, the conflicts are canned, the dance scenes lifted from “Flashdance” and “All That Jazz,” the dialogue banal and the chemistry lacking. Believe in yourself, hold on to your dreams, we are told. I get better advice in fortune cookies.”

He even hilariously awards the movie about school a C+.

It’s gets an equally frosty reception from the LA Times:

“Fame, it turns out, is not going to live forever… gone is almost every shred of the gutsy, gritty script that Christopher Gore wrote.”

This time around, there’s a talented songstress who needs to show her dad that she can sing, a rapper of some sort, and a sexy dancer called Kherington Payne, who has previously starred in a TV show about dancing. Plus Frasier teaches everyone music.

Yep, sounds pretty rubbish.

Fame, 1980

Fame, 2009

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9 - Like Flight of The Conchords? Then you’ll love this! – Mychemicaltoilet

8 - Kirsten Dunst smiles all the way to court, the maniac – Popsugar

7 – Who wants to see some singy and dancey stuff? – Best Week Ever

6 – Good career advice for Megan Fox – Popeater

5 – Porn actresses try their hand at Shakespeare – Watchwithmothers

4 - Hey girls, fancy a really stupid pair of shoes? – Geekologie

3 – Lady GaGa’s got them out again. For arty reasons – Amy Grindhouse

2 - Say hello to some seriously cool guys – Dork Yearbook

And finally, look! It’s a baby dancing! That is insaniac!

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It must be International Fibbing Week or something, because it seems like untruths are spilling from celebrities, like soup from bearded tramp’s inebriated spluttering mouth. Yesterday Posh Spice said something about not being remotely thin. And today, it turns out that Angelina Jolie has been insisting to OK! Magazine –  the UK’s least discerning showbusiness pamphlet – that she’s completely normal. Not totally weird at all.

Only, she is totally weird. We know that.

Discussing her new role as mother to children with intriguing names – Maddox, Pax, Shiloh, Zahara, Knox, Vivienne – she breezily pointed out that she’s “just a dedicated mother, really quite normal.” Whilst obviously stretching the boundaries of what “normal” might be with a single sentence.

Some people would argue that dedicated, normal mothers probably didn’t marry their first husband – let’s call him Johnny Lee Miller - wearing a pair of tight rubber trousers, and a white shirt with his name scrawled on it in blood. Her blood. To hammer home the point – Jolie, normal, spent a good few minutes before her first wedding day cutting herself, then romantically spattering the groom’s name all over a crisp white blouse. Possibly cackling loudly as she went. Most girls would probably settle for a nice white dress, with a zany veil attached. Or, if they’re feeling unusual and wacky, something wild – like a cream dress.

Also rather less than normal was the time the actress married Billy Bob Thornton – her second three-named groom – and thought it best that they both carried a vial of one another’s blood around their necks. The woman, it seems, equates blood with romance. Again, this could be considered rather less than usual behaviour. 

Yes, quite a few mums do have tatts these days. Normally something classy, like a butterfly at the small of their back – which, it has been pointed out, might as well be a bull’s eye – or a small dolphin happily swimming around on their stomach. But Jolie has taken tatts on mothers to another level, with bits of Buddhist Sanskrit, latin proverbs, roman numerals, entire history lectures, sculptures, numerous paintings, and a small donations box. The woman is like a big fleshy museum, who could probably home school her children with just the contents of the artwork on her back.

And, rounding off the list of things that make Angelina Jolie considerably less normal than the rest of the world is that she’s a regular bed partner to Brad Pitt. Him a lusted after screen hunk, her seemingly popular in a sexual sense with both men and women. So please, Jolie, don’t say you’re “normal”. If you’re normal, the rest of us are screwed.

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Being the stylish woman that she is, professional fashion designer, Victoria Beckham, graced London Fashion Week, as she had done with the New York version a couple of weeks ago. But, while in New York she was noticeable for her whorish orange get up, plus thigh high boots – as though she was trying to take the LA call girl look to the Big Apple – at the London one, she made everyone really cross by looking quite thin.

This has not gone down very well at all with the former pop star, now clothing range guru, and high class perfumiere. Hence, she has taken it upon herself to lash out at the critics, who appear to find something rather disturbing about her protruding bone structure, big fish-eye lens face, and hollow, pip cleaner arms.

She told the Daily Mirror: 

“I have a healthy diet, a healthy lifestyle and plenty of energy to run after my three energetic boys and travel the world managing my fashion business.”

Thankfully for the footballer’s wife, before the knives could really come out, she was already back on a comfortable jet plane, heading back to LA – where, presumably, she’s probably considered to be about the normal size – to tuck into a low carb plate of tiny little leaves and miniscule beans that look like pellets. All washed down with transparent low-fat water from the fountains of the gods. Or something. Her withered, hungry presence at London Fashion Week was only felt for a couple of days.

She’s never exactly been far away from scrutiny, that Victoria Beckham, whether it’s her decision to humiliate her sexual life partner by dressing him up in a skirt, or the mystery of her remarkable growing breasts. And now, her place in British hearts as a role model for young girls – girls who simply yearn to escape their boring lives, get a nice tan and marry a footballer who looks great in the flesh, but talks like a frightened mouse stuck in a lift – appears to be a star that might be waning somewhat.

On this she said:

“I appreciate there are young girls and women who look at me as a role model and it is untrue to say I do not eat and I am unhealthy.”

A quote that will come as a blessed relief to the scores of Victoria Beckham fans who have been flirting with the idea of throwing up after meals. It’s not the done thing, girls. Don’t do it.

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Hey, remember Michael Jackson? He was such a hip guy, with those zany dance moves, that massive afro, the pet monkey, and the video about the zombies. That’s how we like to remember him anyway. The latter version of the King of Pop rather resembled a melting clown. No one needs that image tattooed on their mind’s eye. 

The great news for weeping Jackson fans around the world, with their “We Love You Michael” t-shirts, and their wonderfully forgiving nature, is that before he drifted into a long, silent slumber, he had left behind some pop records for those around him to cash in on. The first of which shall be a single, called – rather appropriately – “This Is It”.

It will be hurtling into a vinyl record shop near you on October 12th. Or, if you’re one of those futuristic people who prefer gadgets and gizmos to a good old fashioned crackle, you could probably just download the thing.

The single, of course, will be followed shortly afterwards by an album, crammed with new interpretations of old songs, a few remastered classics, and backing vocals here and there provided by the star’s brothers – once The Jackson Five, latterly The Jacksons. Plus, there will be a film – also conveniently called “This Is It” – dedicated to Jacko’s final days, going through dance routines, and mentally preparing himself for those big comeback concerts.  The concerts that never happened, damn it. That’s coming out on October 28th.

Of course, all of this is nothing new. Following the lead of Elvis, Tupac, and Biggie Smalls, chances are that MJ will enjoy a sudden upsurge in output, now that he’s not around to dictate what does and what doesn’t seem fit for release. So we can probably expect a few “discovered” tracks over the next few years. Pretty much all of which remained undiscovered for so long, because Jackson decided that they were rubbish, even to his poorly withering ears.

But, slight cynicism aside, the melty-face one never did receive the send off that his musical output warranted, and a hunch suggests that a Michael Jackson cast-off could conceivably challenge the greatest hits of a lesser artist, so we shall await the new material with tentatively open ears. The album – coming out on October 26th – for those of you who are interested, is going to be a two-disc affair. That’s a lot of music for a dead man.

Here he is back in the good old days, the genius…

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Of course, in these paranoid, suspicious times, the once revered Bomberman now carries rather more political connotations. Is he a terrorist? Is he working for Osama Bin Laden? Why exactly is he bombing stuff? Time was when we wouldn’t be so damning of this cheerfully destructive chap. Look! He’s blowing stuff up! Funny little maniac.

And the great news is that fans of Bomberman can now play online. All you need are arrow keys on your keyboard, and a sharp mind, capable of solving puzzles. Just try not to get yourself stuck behind one of your own bombs. We can categorically state that your little pixelated hero won’t find himself pleasuring a mob of vestal virgins.

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