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Listen, we’re going to tell you this, but you absolutely mustn’t care about it. If you do, we’ll find you and attack you.

OK, ready? Mariah Carey’s got engaged. Ta-daaaaah! Do you care? No, no you don’t - and that’s the way it should be. But wait, what if we tell you that Mariah Carey has got engaged to Nick Cannon? Do you care now? No, of course you don’t, because you don’t know who Nick Cannon is. Nobody does.

So what about this - Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon have known each other for less than two months, which means the chances of this ending in a way that’s messy and embarrassing for all is sky-high? Yeah, now you care. Doesn’t matter. We’re still coming to beat you up.

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If you thought all you needed to know about Jamie Lynn Spears’ baby was that it’d be genetically cursed for a lifetime of misery, think again.

That’s because the gender of Jamie Lynn Spears’ unborn baby has apparently sneaked out. According to reports, Jamie Lynn Spears’ mother Lynne Spears was overheard telling people that Jamie Lynn’s having a little girl.

A girl! How wonderful for Jamie Lynn Spears. Now, with the gender determined, Jamie Lynn Spears and her boyfriend can start planning for the baby in full, by buying it a range of Little Slutz knickerless play outfits and a My First Pressure Your Baby Into Fame So You Can Vicariously Dine On Its Flesh toyset. Well, Jamie Lynn Spears will want to train her daughter up nice and early, won’t she.

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Why can’t musicians simply be happy with playing music? Why do they insist on this misguided notion they are not simply musicians, but rather ‘performers’, ‘artists’ or, even worse, ‘entertainers’?

What’s so wrong with being called a musician? Does it not pay the rent anymore? Do you have to get another job as an actor just to make your ends meet? Times are hard for multi-millionaire rock stars, you know. Playing a guitar nicely and singing some catchy lyrics is not a bad living, but you can’t retire on it. And, of course, what the world really wants is more shit actors.

Well hecklerspray has had enough. It’s time to name and shame the worst offenders…

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Anyone in Britain feel the earthquake the other day?

If you did, you'll no doubt recollect that initial moment of uncertainty - the momentary panic that set in as you wondered what the hell was going on, then the relief as it faded away and you realised everything was going to be okay.

The thing is, imagine if that fear never went away. Imagine if that paranoia lingered. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how every famous writer in the world must feel today.

That's right. Amis, Ballard, Rushdie - you name 'em, they're quivering in terror. Why? Because some major league new literary competition is in town, that's why.

TV 'comedy' 'personality' Alan Carr is going to write a book.

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When hecklerspray saw 30 Days Of Night last year, we had to admit that we found it a little creepy.

After all, the idea of being surrounded by rat-faced violent sociopaths for an entire month is something that should send a shiver down the spine of any right-thinking human being. Unless, of course, you live anywhere near Wigan, in which case that's just business as usual all year round.

Still - there's actually one thing that unsettles us more than spending 30 days in the company of bloodsucking vampires, and that's spending 30 days in the company of 'unique' pop star Michael Jackson. Note: this fear isn't particularly based on any of his face-falling-apart, dangling-babies-over-balconies habits, but more to do with the fact that he might try singing Heal The World at us over and over again.

You've gotta feel sorry, then, for the O2 Arena. For it's looking very likely that Jacko is all set to fly over to the UK and perform a 30 day stint. A bit like Prince did, except that everyone going to see him only really paid attention to the popular eighties stuff and politely ignored the rest.

Hang on…

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The world may not care that much about Britney Spears as a singer any more, but so long as she's got ovaries constantly on the brink of inflating up another redneck infant and expelling it from her body, she'll never be without attention.

For example, the entire planet is currently frothing around like billyo over speculation that Britney Spears is pregnant with yet another child. But, as we all know, Britney Spears has emphatically refuted these claims as "B.S." So now the magazine that broke the Pregnant Britney Spears story in the first place has gone public with the text messages it claims are from the alleged father, admitting that the pregnancy is real. So what's the truth? Either Britney Spears is pregnant, Britney Spears isn't pregnant or there's a murky, alley-dwelling unlicensed abortionist knocking around somewhere who's sitting on an effing goldmine.

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By leaving a daytime TV show, Rosie O'Donnell has never been more famous - so now is exactly the right time for Rosie O'Donnell to publish her memoirs, allowing everyone to find out what really goes on inside that lovably indignant head of hers.

Rosie O'Donnell has promised at a national book convention that she'll be publishing what she calls a memoir of the last 12 months later in the year. Although no details of Rosie's memoirs - probably titled ARRGH! I HATE EVERYONE! - have been made clear, it seems obvious to us that the book will just be a printed version of Rosie O'Donnell's blog, only without half as many piss-awful Cyndi Lauper videos or rambling, barely-coherent movies of Rosie O'Donnell half-heartedly mumbling along to Amy Winehouse songs. So not as fun, obviously.

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There are many injuries you'd expect Noel Edmonds to pick up on the set of Deal Or No Deal. Retina meltdown from his horrible shirts, perhaps, or random punches in the mouth from contestants who remember the Mr Blobby single.

But that's not what's wrong with Noel Edmonds. Thanks to Deal Or No Deal, Noel Edmonds now has RSI. RSI of the mouth from saying that "22 boxes…" line every day? RSI of the eyebrows from having to look sad when an idiot contestant only wins 10p? No. Noel Edmonds has RSI of the elbow. From picking up the Deal Or No Deal telephone every now and then. Honestly.

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Just as we'd installed Keith Richards as the king of hilarious You've Been Framed-style drunken palm-tree head-bash mishap antics, it turns out that Keith's injury is actually quite serious.

So serious, in fact, that Keith Richards is going to let a bunch of people drill through his skull and suck a load of blood out of his brain. In a medical way, not a creepy voodoo way or anything. (more…)

Dragons are everywhere you look these days; in The Never-Ending Story, in Chinese carnivals, on the mantlepieces of all kinds of creepy friendless people.

Dragon Dash is a game involving, unsurprisingly, a dragon. And - boy oh boy - is he ever in a hurry! The aim of Dragon Dash is to guide a dragon along a cave without hitting the sides, using your spacebar. Hit the side and you slow down. Pick up an orb and you speed up. Press Shift and the dragon unleashes a furious fire tantrum to destroy the village and all of the beholden jewels. Or does it? Of course not, you big fool.

Play Dragon Dash Now

***Get a free £10 bet with PaddyPower***

Now that we're through with the British Soap Awards sexiest male, sexiest female and villain of the year betting odds, we can now look at the best actresses in Soapland

The saying goes that British soap operas are all about strong women. In reality, however, British soap operas are mostly about screeching old women with weird hair and yellow nicotine-stained fingers. And you can now place a bet on which screeching old woman with weird hair and yellow nicotine-stained fingers will win the British Soap Awards Best Actress prize. Hooray!

So here are the British Soap Awards Best Actress betting odds for Eva Fontaine, Diane Keen, Sarah Dunn and Cassie Powney, with help from PaddyPower.com… (more…)

Hey you! Are you a short fat wealthy man who wants to wear all manner of tasteless, yet ridiculously expensive, clothes that will raise money for charity? Has Elton John ever got an offer for you!

Elton John, the original short fat wealthy tastelessly-dressed man, is having a bargain clear-out of all his old duds. For five days only, anyone in the vicinity of New York can mosey down to the Elton's Closet store and peruse all manner of eye-shrieking garb that Elton John himself has worn and probably shouted at some foreign photographers in.

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