What is the fascination that TV talent shows have with letting us know that those who look like they hit every branch of the ugly tree shortly after plummeting from its peak, all have some for of inner beauty that we’re supposed to admire and warm our cold, black hearts with?
Jonathan Antoine is the latest uggo to drop his trousers and have the ungreased fist of ITV’s Lord and Saviour, Simon Cowell, operating those gorgeous vocal chords, located somewhere beneath that 3rd or 4th chin.
Following in the very deep footsteps of Susan Boyle, Michelle McManus and, yes, even Rick Waller, Jonathan and, to a lesser extent, his singing partner, Charlotte something, have burst onto our screens and will, for the 4th or 5th year running, remind us that REAL beauty, the kind of beauty you SHOULD care about, is on the inside.
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If you watched Channel 4’s titillating documentary, “My Phone Sex Secrets,” then somewhere, in the back of your mind will undoubtedly be the notion that maybe you could breathe heavily down a phone at some random wanking pervert whilst being paid by the minute.
Well that’s what ex Everton goalkeeper Neville Southall thought, as he’s opened up his own premium rate phone line, there’ll probably be marginally less wanking but, given Neville’s rather robust frame, there is sure to be a lot of heavy breathing.
Curious fans or a very niche subset of the pervert community can now log on to asknevillesouthall.com and pay to receive either an email, costing £49, or a one hour long call from the great man, for a recession busting £99.
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Ladies and Gentlemen, there is one rule that is to be strictly adhered to by the breakfast news watching masses. Susanna Reid’s breasts are not to be criticised, for they have done nothing wrong.
Reid has recently been criticised for showing too much cleavage whilst presenting flagship morning show, BBC Breakfast. Many an hour has been spent by perverted men nationwide staring down at her chest instead of up at her face where important facts are delivered directly to camera in an ever so playful manor.
The Buxom Breakfast host is to take over as the show’s main presenter, following its move from London to the BBC’s Media City studios in Salford, which we’ve reliably been informed lies somewhere outside of the M25. Read More >>>
It’s a cold, dark night, the air is still and silent and an eerie calm falls across the leafy street you see before you. Suddenly, you hear a crackle, then a spark of light. Your heart skips a beat; the adrenaline starts to kick in, what was that?
A deafening crash of thunder fills your ears as a bright light emerges from the ground. What’s happening? You’re heart is racing. Is that a… phone box? WHAT IS GOING ON!
Before you know it, a figure emerges, are they going to kill you, or just probe you? You try to run, but you’re too paralysed with fear to move. The figure lurches into the light as you’re heart prepares to explode in your chest.
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If you were regarded as the smartest man on the planet, with a mind that had single handedly advanced scientific knowledge in countless ways, what would you do with your free time?
Would you potter about your house theorising how the Universe came into being? Maybe you’d hold a dinner party with your peers, discussing what lies in store for the rest of us mere mortals? Or would you get freaky with a harem of naked beach babes in a California swingers club?
Well, if you’re Stephen Hawking, the answer is to roll yourself on down to the meat market and perform your own version of the Big Bang. Read More >>>
The Brits was on the telly last night, as you may have noticed. A celebration of all the best musical talent that Britain, well… the Brit school, has to offer. American’s just wouldn’t get it, if it were up to them they’d just take the essence of our poncey awards bash, throw in some no name to front it and rename it the Grammys or something.
Because that’s just what America does, isn’t it? Look at what the World is doing, buy it up, butcher it to high heaven and stick on a laughter track they found down the back of the Married With Children sofa.
So it will come as no surprise that, now that pilot season is fast approaching Stateside, some of our favourite British shows are getting a very American kick in the jacobs. Read More >>>
Are you the sort of person that slows down on the road when you see an accident up ahead, contorting your neck into all sorts of positions that were hitherto reserved for those that practiced the Karma Sutra, in the hope that you may catch a glimpse of what was once a person, just like you, but is now nothing more than an empty bag of bones spread across a dashboard?
Then, my morbidly curious friend, you’re going to LOVE this!
Whitney Houston tragically died at the age of 48 this weekend, allegedly whilst on drugs, in the bathtub of her hotel room.
And now YOU can see the very bathtub she died in.
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Piers Morgan, the ever lovable former Daily Mirror editor and man for whom the word smarmy was invented, certainly has gotten his large, soiled knickers in a twist of late.
We’re not even half way through the week and he’s already attempted to take some cheap shots at 2 people who are infinitely more famous and loved than him.
It’s the equivalent of the school weed slagging off the popular kids because they won’t invite him to their fancy pool parties when their parents go to Tuscany for the weekend. Read More >>>
