Festivals are ace, aren’t they? They’re like proper gigs, but you have to spend a weekend in a smelly tent and buy beer for £4 a can from a crusty trust fund hippy in order to see your favourite band perform their popular hits from half a mile away while you hold in eight pints of urine because you don’t want to go to the horrible, horrible toilets.
Anyway, Leeds/Reading have had their lineups ‘leaked’ to the press, which has had the unfortunate side effect of making it ‘news’.
So yay! We can find out which bands we’re going to see as unremarkable dots in the distance this year. Would it surprise you to note that most of them are awful? No? In that case, read on.
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Despite technically being her biological father, Billy-Ray has always seemed to have been a sort of peripheral figure in the life of Miley Cyrus. We, like most people, just assumed that this squealing, garishly coloured infant that was thrust onto our screens/music charts/cinemas/nightmares a few years ago was grown organically in one of Disney’s many factories, like all teen stars. Possibly incubated in pork render, agar, MSG, and ‘fairy dust’ (which is the trademarked term they use for the last remaining precious spoonfuls of Uncle Walts ejaculate, apparently).
So imagine our surprise when we learnt that it was none other than the combination of the by product of a faux cowboy’s testicles and a genuine human woman’s warm embracing vagina that were contracted out to design and produce her. Under the aegis of the Disney corporation, obviously (probably).
Because of this embarrassing start to life, Miley has tried to distance herself from the biological process that marks her out from the rest of Disney and shown almost no emotional response to her ‘parents’. Until now.
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Not that we’d ever say this to his face, but Alex Reid seems like a wee bit of a head case. The primary evidence for that is obviously the marriage to Jordankatieprice and becoming a de-facto stand-in for his body double and mental equal, Peter Andre.
Further than this damning evidence is pretty much every other titbit of information that drips out of the media about his personal life (that is, if a titbit can drip. One assumes it can).
There’s his made up names, ‘Roxanne’ for the cross-dressing, the ‘Reidinator’ for the fighting, ‘Rocky’ when he’s in the Big Brother house, ‘Peter’ when Katiejordanprice would get confused in bed and mix him up with his exact doppleganger. He gets his nutrition before a big fight from ‘reabsorbing’ his sperm to take on the nutrients (apparently they make him go ‘raaaaahh’, according to his Wikipedia page. Goodness!). And now reports have come out that he has been taking part in some kind of druidy festival up at Stonehenge.
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Those of you who are fans of crushing idiocy have had a rough time of it recently. There’s always the Bieberphiles and the Kardashians to entertain you, but nothing can quite compare to the eternal, head rottingly awful stupidity that can come about from the coupling of two dunderheads of colossal proportions.
We are, of course, referring to Jordan Price’s hook ups and doomed marriages to men primarily made from the revolving meat suitcases that you see adorning the kebab shops of this fine land. Where would we go and who would we be sarky about now that she has released another one into the wild?
Fear not, good people, even when she’s let them loose from her clutches she still pipes up from time to time to remind us all of why we loved her and her dwindling intellect. Even though her and Peter Andre have been split up for about a year (which is decades in gossip time), they have ‘continued their war of words’ (according to most, ‘continued honking at each other like frightened geese, according to us), to both keep each other in the public eye and, apparently, to moan about their kids getting burnt or something. It’s mostly the first reason, obviously.
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Poor old Kelly Osbourne. After years of being chided for her masculine features – her strong jaw, wrestler’s shoulders and mouth like a inebriated docker – she’s finally managed to slim down to a rough approximation of femininity and find a lovely Aryan man-child to become her fiancé, only to get cheated on with a man.
Well, an ex-man, to be precise. Nearly. She still has a penis, and is pre-op. So it’s really a technically either way.
Anyway, sod it, we’re going to use the feminine pronoun for the rest of this and you can all fight it out in the comments or use your rage as an excuse to wrestle with that sex doll of indeterminate gender and species you have in the cupboard. You know, the one you’ve named after your mum.
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As we approach the year and a half anniversary of the death of the King Of Pop, you’d have thought that the number of stories about the tolerable, twinkle-toed man with a face like a shattered piece of primary school plaster of Paris model of the face of Bo would have begun to abate.
Clearly not though, there is still mileage from dragging out his withered corpse and dancing around on it a bit for some free publicity.
Fortunately, if, like us, you’re getting a bit bored with the whole ‘which government agency secretly killed Michael Jackson’, then breathe a sign of relief that novelty clothes-wearer, will.i.am has come up with a fun new game that doesn’t directly involve us picturing someone poking around in the exposed stomach-cavity of a man-child, like a scene from the worlds most hellishly distressing Zombie movie.
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The New Year can be a time of reflection and introspection, a time to think deeply about the things which have happened to us over the past year. A time to slow down and think about bettering ourselves and how we can just generally making the world a nicer place.
We don’t, obviously. We just use the festive season to build up our bile ducts for the next 12 months by drinking far too much and making regrettable decisions, but other people apparently try.
Cheryl Cole has taken a third route and gone all Howard Beale on everyone’s asses and she just ain’t going to take this anymore. Although she’s not going to do anything about it, like. So we can probably carry on as before.
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Despite the fact that Amanda Holden should technically be reclassified as an android after the mixture of human tissue to plastic, polymers, artificial tear ducts and assorted car engine parts dipped below 50% in 2010, the Britain’s Got Talent judge has announced that she is six months pregnant.
More than this, because she is so far gone, she as revealed that it is a *spoiler alert* human baby that she’s planning to give birth to.
Oh, and it’s apparently a boy. Or, conceivably, a very convincing example of a synchronous hermaphrodite, which will surely brighten up the birth no end.
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