The Peter Andre Guide To Wooing

Hey everyone, you massive pile of galahs! Pandre Peter Pandre Andre here, and I’ve been given just enough time by the scummy hoardes at hecklerspray to give something back to you, the people.

That’s what I’m all about now. Giving something back. You may have seen my new show on ITV2, that I don’t like to talk about, Here 2 Help? That’s all about me giving something back as well, to people who are so pathetic and downtrodden that just me giving them one of my special Pandre hugs and lobbing half a ballad at them makes them rise up and walk like Lazarus.

But I don’t like to talk about that show, that’s on every other hour on ITV2. Or talk about how much I love my kids, because I really love my kids. I just want to give some more things back… like tell you how to get a woman to date you!

Film Review: Bad Teacher

Let’s get one thing straight. No-one, but no-one, likes a worthy teacher film. Nothing brings up the traditional blogger’s lunch of White Lightning and pocket fluff into a hecklersprayer’s gullet quicker than watching some earnest nonsense where some skinny blonde chick like Mickey Piffler changes the lives of a gang of murderous children simply through wearing jeans and riddling Shakespearean sonnets with F-bombs.

Oh Captain, My Captain? Oh Come on, My Chuffin’ arse, more like.

So you’d think a film like Bad Teacher – a film that takes that concept and shoves a Molotov cocktail up its fundament – would be something appraoching perfection. But unfortunately, the filmmakers have not entertainingly flipped their Dangerous Minds. Instead, they’ve got the DVDs of charming Jack Black softy-comedy School Of Rock and not-so-charming little-person-abuse-comedy Bad Santa, ground them together into carcinogenic dust, and sprinkled it all over Cameron Diaz’s cougar mum.

Film Review: Attack The Block

Britain’s had a rum old time when it comes to fictional alien invasions. They started early, with steampunk martians getting all up in our Victorian grills before idiotically sneezing themselves to their constituent pieces in War Of The Worlds.

We had a bit of respite in the ’50s as the fashion in the alien travel supplements was to take in the fabulous corn-filled vistas of mid-west America, do some light abducting, maybe probe a farmhand anus or two.

But then that Doctor fellow with the ever-changing, always-irritating face and voice and body and talking popped onto Saturday teatimes and suddenly Britain can’t move for psychopathic pepper grinders and shaggable supermodel siren doctorbots.

The Apprentice Candidates 2011: The 16 Horsepeople Of The Apocalypse

Despite the fact that it’s only been a scant few months since The Good Lord clamped the FinanceBot 3000 Stella to his ample Amstrad man-bosom, he’s off on the hunt for a new Apprentice. Another one? What is he, Fagin? Lord Sugar goes through more nubile young business flesh than the lead sword in Slutty Secretary VII.

And if there’s one thing we’ve learned from the many, many years that The Good Lord has been teaching us about business, it’s that to do well in the dog-eat-blaady-dog world of modern commerce, you have to know how to flog a real load of old toot from a market stall in Epping even when it’s drenched with the stink of desperation and Diesel For Men.

Oh, and that first impressions count, which is why we here at hecklerspray have put on our best George at Asda pencil skirts – even the women – and are all ready to judge this year’s yappity-twats before they’ve even opened their mouths to let the bullshit pour freely, just from their press pack quotes and bizarrely-filtered headshots.

TV Review: Britain’s Got Talent – But No More Elnett (Thanks, Holden)

Britain’s Got Talent, and by God, that’s got to be sifted out somehow. They’ve got to be taken off these streets, these talented people. They’re a damn liability. They can’t keep flinging their tiny urban dancing children around like that without consequence. At some point, a poor defenceless granny is going to be trundling her week’s supply of gin and Rothmans out of the Tesco Metro and an Adidas-clad five-year-old limb will flail wildly out of a headspin and knock her eyeball right through the back of her skull.

So hooray for Britain’s Got Talent. Soon all of this year’s supply of talent will be tucked away nicely in a SyCo dungeon, out of harm’s way, where they can be safely milked for pennies until dead or demented. But it’s all change for 2011, as the AntDec chirrup in the typically bombastic opening, showcasing the success of previous winners “Carphone Warehouse Pavarotti”, “Urban Dance Troupe 1.0″, “Naked Ballet Weird”, “Er…”, and “the Wicked Witch Su-bo”; Britain’s Got Talent but America’s Got Piers Morgan and Simon Cowell’s Got Advanced Syphyllitic Insanity (he hasn’t, obviously, he hasn’t at all – he’s got hideous diarrheoa).

So We’ve Got New Judges joining Amanda “Armpits” Holden behind their big red fun-buttons – Michael McIntyre and David Hasselhoff.

Suri Cruise Performs Anarcho-Punk Act Of Guerilla Satire With A Bag Of Penises

Life’s got to be pretty damn dull when you’re a celebrity spawn. Once you’ve got used to the endless procession of uncles with big flashy cameras that Mummy is so fond of twirling about in front of, and the endless procession of nannies that Daddy keeps disappearing to the toilet with and making squeak like your Upsy Daisy doll, there can’t be much to hold your attention through those tender pre-school years before you can develop enough vocabulary to do your own reality show pitch.

So kudos to cute little Hubbard Reincarnated/utterly normal child Suri Cruise for making her own entertainment, by cleverly satirising the media whirlwind surrounding her mega-famous family unit through the medium of sweeties!

Yes, sweeties. Shut up and bear with us.

TV Review: Red Nose Day 2011

Let’s get one thing straight right here and now. Comic Relief this year raised £74 million for charity, a large proportion of that money given by ordinary people like you, and that fit girl who works at Costa, and the oaf who sits opposite you at work that reeks of Lynx Africa and once gave you a conspiritorial wink as he came out of the toilets, rearranging his scrotum, with a satisfied grin on his face and FHM’s High Street Honies pull-out tucked under his arm.

We even had a degrading rummage in the nest we’ve made from shredded pictures of Lee Ryan in the corner of the hecklerspray bedsit and came up with a few coins that were unpleasantly sticky, but we donated them anyway. And we’re monsters.

So people will have given their cash because they were entertained by Red Nose Day, or because they felt guilty, or because they are aroused by beans, baths and bake sales; they will have given whatever the hell we think of the televisual event itself, and that is obviously a good thing. And just because we slag off, say, Karl Pilkington for thinking that a sly glance at the camera and Ricky Gervais barking like a blown seal in the background means that every word that falls from his face is worthy of worshipping like he’s some post-modern deity, that doesn’t mean we also want to kick an African child in the face.

Beth Ditto Has Original Opinion, Or Maybe Just Looked It Up On Wikipedia

It’s difficult to imagine, but the life of Beth Ditto – who, because we’re such hideously clever dicks at hecklerspray, we will hereafter refer to as Beth Beth – is not just one long procession of standing in the way of Kate Moss, ripping all her clothes off whenever a glance is thrown in her direction, and sitting atop winged horses, helmet-horns glinting in the furious fires of Valhalla, scattering mortals with the power of her demonic screams.

Sometimes she finds room in that busy schedule for kicking back, relaxing, chucking on her neon-pink skintight onesie leisurewear, curling up with a classic of gothic literature, and squeezing her brain tightly until opinions form like diamonds in a bleak mountainside.

And even better, she then tells us about it! She really is the honking gift that just keeps honking, and won’t stop till our ears actually start bleeding!

TwitRelief Lets You Buy Celebs But Not For That Kind Of Relief

God, what a laugh we all have on Twitter! Don’t we? Isn’t it a total laugh? All those people we’ve met! OK, not met, most of them. But we follow them, and we feel we know them all intimately, because we now know when they tried Marmite cereal bars for the first time, what song they’ve got in their head, and the exact moment that they finally plunge into the churning black sea of despair that lurks threateningly beneath all of us, all the time.

No, don’t look down. Don’t look down. Just close your eyes and feel the chill rising from it. It’s there all right.

But what’s the best laugh of all on Twitter? No, it’s not looking at the @hecklerspray feed and trying to weed out the hilarious and pertinent comments from the vast majority of our sexy and well-informed readership from the deluge of mania from the Jacko/Muse axis of insanity. The best thing about Twitter – the most important thing, the very reason for its existence, more than that whole “bringing down oppressive regimes” stuff which is just a bit of a bummer on a Thursday morning, frankly – is the celebrities!

TV Review: OMG! With Peaches Geldof

So, the worst has happened. You’ve woken up and realised you are Peaches Geldof. Now, the most important thing is not to panic. You are perfectly fine. You do not have to do a thing. You don’t have to dig deep inside yourself and work out where your true talents lie. It’d take too long, and you’d only get disheartened with the lack of results.

Short answer – you emerged from a celebrity uterus, and 22 entirely fatuous years later, here we all are. No, don’t cry. We’ve only just started!

Remember when those nice people from ITV2 turned up with that human hamster with dead eyes called Fern or Bush or something, who kept shouting about how everything was amazing? And you got to talk about being a Scientologist and everyone nodded and smiled and you felt like you were being a really clever sausage? Those nice people are back, and they’ve given you your own show. It’s called OMG. OMG! Hang on! That’s, like, totally what you say! OMG! And in it, you can, like, totally discuss the important and shocking issues of the day and everyone will, like, totally respect you and stuff.