The Super Bowl Halftime show is a chance for the biggest names in music to either perform a bulletproof collection of world-conquering hits or whap a big wobbly booby out and make everyone choke on their tea.

Which one happened at yesterday's Super Bowl? Well, none. Tom Petty performed you see.

Tom Petty. You know. From Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers. Oh, come on, you know who Tom Petty is - he did that song that was on for about 20 seconds during that one episode of Scrubs once. At least we think that was Tom Petty.

Firstly, in case the headline misleads you, Sir Alex Ferguson did not arrange a Christmas Rape Party for his players. The use of the phrase 'rape party' is in reference to the alleged rape by young player Jonny Evans (a charge that is almost certainly to be dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence) that may or may not have occurred at the same party, where this girl was - also supposedly - given the red devil roasting experience. OK? Now let's continue...

A guest at the party has described how she could hear the group of players having an orgy with the young girl in a hotel room. She told The Sun:

"I was upstairs in the hotel gossiping with a friend when I heard cheering and clapping noises coming from one of the rooms. We could hear the voices of around five or six men - together with the groaning noises of a girl who was clearly having sex."

How Los Angeles has welcomed the Beckhams.

First, the celebrity couple were greeted by legions of fans and admirers upon their arrival at the airport - every one of them anxious to catch a glimpse of a woman who looks like a transvestite Skeletor and a man so stupid it takes him two hours to watch Sixty Minutes.

And now they've got the ultimate accolade from their newfound American chums. Actually, it's only really David who's been given the accolade. He's got his very own imposter, see - a weird guy who has been phoning up various Los Angeles officials offering all sorts of services. Hey - it's as much a confirmation of stardom as a big yellow star on that magical Hollywood sidewalk!

True, Victoria is a bit jealous of all the attention her husband is getting, but plans are afoot to redress the balance. She's due to have her face carved onto Mount Rushmore in the next few months, so that her Terrahawk-with-bulimia visage can beam proudly over the South Dakota landscape, frightening tourists where'er she may gaze.

It brings an eagle-shaped tear to hecklerspray's eye just thinking about it.

Gary Lineker - big-eared sportsman and one-time panellist on 'comedy' show They Think Its All Over - has had his latest Walkers Crisps commercial briefly pulled off the air.

Quick bit of exposition for any non-Britons reading this: Lineker is an ex-footballer who now makes a living by presenting sports programmes and - whenever he gets a spare moment - advertising packets of crisps to bewildered audiences. Many have argued that using a sporting type like Lineker to flog junk food might be a bit hypocritical, but they need to lighten up - the whole shebang has been pretty much commonplace ever since Muhammed Ali advertised Doritos, yelling to camera: "You know, when I'm not reflecting on my epic career, I like nothing more than to shovel handfuls of additive-coated corn snacks into my eager boxer's mouth."

He did need someone else to open the bags, mind.

By and large hot dogs are such an awful, slightly metallic, offally, penis-shaped food that it'd take most normal people about half an hour to just eat one without managing to vomit all the bad meat back up again over their hands.

So credit where credit's due, Joey Chestnut deserves your respect. Yesterday at the annual Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Competition in New York, Joey Chestnut managed to pack away 66 hot dogs in 12 minutes - that's one hot dog every 10.9 seconds. Joey Chestnut's grotesque display of hot dog-wolfing not only scored him a world record but also forced former six-time hot dog eating winner Takeru Kobayashi into the sort of convulsing puke frenzy that'd swear you off all food for the rest of your life. As new hot dog eating champion, Joey Chestnut wins a mustard-coloured belt, $10,000, the respect of his peers and an early coronary-related death.

Apparently murder is gonna be a viable category at the London-held 2012 Olympics. 'bout time, we say.

Swimming is boring and watching people run is only fun if it's away from you and your bodybuilder girlfriend. That's precisely why London has decided to push for this new killing category. It's a financially wise decision too, because if the winner is decided by cage match you'd probably only have to buy one winners platform. Say, London, that's monetarily sound!

Now if honesty is the policy of the day again (lame), we're obligated to tell you that the Olympic killing currently being talked about isn't a category of sport. Rather, it seems like people are worried about the new Olympic adverts killing the likes of you and us via synchronised epileptic seizures.

Did you see the 'us' in that last sentence? Suddenly it's warm in here.

The London Olympics are still five years away, by which time most of us will be passed our best and looking back ruefully on how we somehow frittered away whatever dribble of potential that we once briefly had - but the rest of you should think about being in a film for the

It's usual that athletes have been trained so hard to follow instructions that none of them actually have a personality to share between them - fancy an evening in shooting the breeze with Tim Henman? Of course not - but Mike Tyson is the exception.

Yes, Mike Tyson, the potential man-whore with a giant cuddly crush