So dull that even air has been known to ignore and stagnate around him, Robert Pattison is the most baffling superstar ever generated by the various casting couches of Hollywood.

He’s so forgettable that we can’t think of a suitable ending to this sentence.

And now, to add to his impressively tedious acting résumé, he’s going to pollute the world of music with an awful album of his music, created with his sister Lizzy, who sometimes has to be reminded of her extremely famous, but ultimately stiflingly dull brother.

Pattinson, often so criminally boring that his meal decompose in tedium when they’re served to his famous face, started piano lessons when he was three. Apparently, he’s developed an unusual technique on the ol’ ivories as, thanks to Pattz being a thorough charm-vacuum, he’s never played the black keys on a piano because they all saunter off when he approaches them.

And now, along with big sister Lizzy (who performed backing vocals in Twilight), he’s making some album or other… not that anyone buys albums these days.

Should Pattinson’s LP make it to the shops, the very shelves which promote them will probably fall asleep.

Some warty-div who knows him or something, told the Express:

‘Rob has always been so supportive of Lizzy’

‘They’re really close, so it’s nice they are working together.

Dull.

‘He’ll always turn up at her gigs if he’s around, but he’s seriously talented in his own right.’

It’s been written elsewhere that, when Robert was younger, Lizzy found him so unswervingly beige that she used to dress him up as a girl and call him Claudia.

THAT is how boring R-Pattz is.

Robert Pattinson may well be so dull that sometimes, even light itself rejects his presence and that, granted, he’s so riddled with tedium that sometimes his heart forgets to pump his boring blood around his lifeless body…

…but he still manages to pop his doo-dah into the girls. Mystifying.

Of course, everyone has been muttering about Pattz and Kristen Stewart getting it on because, quite clearly, they’re a couple. However, rumour has it that Rob has been flinging his grey peen up the front garden of Twillighter Nikki Reed too! Oh the unbearable horror of it all!

That’s right. Pattinson, who you berks all love so unswervingly that you really should – at some point at least – recognise that there are real life people stood around you all the time who you might want to interact with, may not be the nice boy you thought he was.

The source claims:

[Nikki and Kristen] can’t stand each other,. They don’t even talk anymore. Kristen has never forgiven Nikkie for the fling she had with [her boyfriend Robert Pattinson]. Kristen never confronted Rob about the affair, she just put the blame on Nikki and accused her of pursuing him.

Yeah. That won’t harbour resentment and mistrust will it?

Nikki’s the most down-to-earth actress you’ll ever meet. Kristen acts like she can’t be bothered with fame, yet she lives for all the press about her and Rob. Nikki is very vocal about Kris not being appreciative of her success. Nikki is not one to censor herself to avoid confrontation, and Kristen does not like that.

Of course, bozo Twilighteers won’t believe a word of this and take straight to their badly spelled Twitter accounts to chide Nikki Reed and call her all manner of slut and slag while the world trundles on, completely obvious to these exceedingly boring individuals.

Amazing scenes.

Vacant bundle of grinning sinew, Taylor Lautner, is going to be immortalised in wax at Madame Tussauds. Cue: WE CAN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE WAXWORK DUMMY AND THE THING THAT STARRED IN ALL THOSE TWILIGHT FILMS comment.

In all seriousness, there will be very little to differentiate between the wax Lautner and the real one.

Look at him. He’s barely human as it is. He’s just a flickering heart and dormant brain set amongst a tower of resin moulded muscles. He’s the closest thing we’ve got to a walking, talking, livin’ sex-doll for depressed, horny fortysomethings.

That said, if you’re one of the legions of shrieking Twihards who look to be graduating from the first throes of masturbating over your Twilight ring-binder, looking toward something you can hump for real without getting anyone arrested for statutory rape, then this waxwork is just the thing!

However, like the depressing chastity of the Twilight films, you’ll have to wait a little while (feel free to scream I WILL WAIT FOR YOU UNTIL THE END OF TIME TAYLOR! at the top of your lungs, if you like).

Lautner’s more-real dummy will be unveiled to the pinging of hundreds of training bras at Madame Tussauds in January.

This all comes on the back of Taylor got his hands and feet set in cement on the Hollywood Walk of Fame alongside Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart.

Alas, concerning the latter, they were so gaspingly tedious that the cement didn’t even part as they put their hands in, too bored to even obey the laws of physics.

Either way, when Taylor’s star wanes, they can just cover it in glue and roll it around the floor of a barber shop until Tussauds end up with a lifelike Chewbacca dummy.

Robert Pattinson is crashingly dull. He’s so dull that rain water has been known to hurl itself into furnaces in a bid to escape his terrific tedium. Rumour has it that R-Pattz is so boring that his blood clots into scabs while still in his veins everytime he wakes.

Once, it has been said, Robert Pattinson made an ocean curdle just by absently staring at it. He’s that yawnsome. Someone told us that a field tried to vomit itself to death while Pattinson was stood nearby.

And would you believe it, he’s actually realised that, once the Twilight saga ends, he could well be without a career as everyone is very likely to forget he exists.

Rob compared the Twilight movie series to a “safety net”, which has so far allowed him to appear in an established series of films without fear of failure.

Not that anyone noticed.

Pattinson told The Observer:

“I had a three- or four-month window between each [Twilight film] during which I could do another job. But whatever I did, I knew that I’d have another Twilight movie on the way, which is theoretically guaranteed to make a lot of money. So I could always afford to fail.”

It’s rumoured that the Observer scribe tasked with speaking to Pattinson passed out through fatigue and died. Just died. Right there in front of Robert Pattinson.

A second writer was drafted in to catch Rob saying:

“If I do decide one day to stop acting, I just hate the idea of people going: ‘Oh, did you ever do anything else besides that Twilight thing?’”

The second writer also ended their life because the clawing suffocation of Pattz beigery enveloped their entire being ’til their lungs just refused to work anymore.

Breaking Dawn – Part 1 is released in cinemas from November 18 WHICH IS OBVIOUSLY AMAZING.

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Odious slit-eyed dolt Matt Cardle has decided to further distance himself from the leagues of likeability this week by joining the ranks of Charlie Sheen, Lee Ryan, David Shayler et al by making dubious comments regarding the circumstances surrounding 9/11.

Whilst dodging his destined career as a Wetherspoons deputy-manager, the unflattering-hat enthusiast has stated that:

“The whole 9/11 thing… something’s not quite right there.”

Reports are unclear, but we understand the relatives of the 2,998 people who died as a result of the attacks are framing pictures of Matt ‘bloody’ Cardle as we speak, delighted as they are to have a small-town stubbly talent-show-nobody cast doubt upon the circumstances of the appalling death of their beloved kinfolk.

The entirely fictitious Mrs.Houndslow of Wisconsin, whose son Jack perished in a cloud of dusty red bone and flesh in the bowels of the South Tower is quoted as saying, in a completely imaginary interview with us:

“Thank God and Jesus that the United Kingdom’s X-Factor winner of whatever year it was Matthew Cardle and his hat/cap are on the case. NOW we may finally get some answers. Other than the current answers we have that make perfect sense.”

Matthew “Matt” Cardle’s “something’s not quite right” allegation may yet see the FBI re-opening their investigation, and also lead to him suffering several disingenuous interviews with Jon Ronson.

Mis-hearing the news that he was “in the X-Factor” for “in the X-files” the human embodiment of the word ‘smug’ Cardle further gifted the world by stating:

“It’s just not what they say it is. Other conspiracies might be true and the one I believe might also be bulls**t. But all I do know is what they’re saying is bulls**t.

“From the things I’ve seen… I don’t care what anyone says. To not question it is silly, I think.”

The alleged singer-songwriter, unaware of the fact that he had just broken all the rules not only of grammar but of logic and of the English language in general, seemed blissfully unaware that hundreds of still-mourning families may not welcome his admittedly insightful “bulls**t” hypothesis.

Reports that his silly bloody hats are lined with tin-foil are unconfirmed at time of publication.

Are we about to enter a glorious period in human history where we actually find out who Kristen Stewart has been swapping bodily fluids with?! Even though we all assumed it was Robert Pattinson?!

HAVE YOU MANAGED TO STAY AWAKE?

For those now propping their eyelids up with matchsticks, you’ll be fizzing at the gusset to learn that Twilight Kristew (we still do this abbreviating thing don’t we?) has finally admitted something to us after years of being to dull to listen to! She’s FINALLY revealed: “My boyfriend is English.”

Oh god! We can barely take it!

See, despite the fact that everyone (well, anyone stupid enough to show the vaguest of interest in this criminally tedious duo) already assumes that they’re an item, there’s still some press interest on the whole official relationship status.

Hasn’t anyone checked their Facebook profiles?

Of course, to make them have a trace of interest (seriously, these two are as thrilling as mop buckets) Rob and Kristen have never admitted that they are more than just friends. We say they’ve never admitted anything, but they may have, but everyone keeps falling asleep in their presence.

However, one plucky scribes who works for esteemed tome, Glamour Magazine, managed to stay concious and capture Kristen saying:

“So much of my life is so easily Googled.”

“I mean, it’s like, ‘C’mon guys. It’s so obvious.’ But this subject, I don’t think you realise what a big deal it is for people. Well, it is a big deal. And right now, even me talking about it like this is a big deal. They would be, ‘Oh. My. God.’ There would also still be a 50/50 split. Some people would still be, ‘See, told you they’re not together.’”

“I don’t worry about it at all. It’s just one of those things. I’m selfish. I’m like, ‘That’s mine!’ And I like to keep whatever is mine remaining that way. It’s a funny little game to play and it’s a slippery slope. I always say to myself I’m never going to give anything away because there’s never any point or benefit for me.”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….

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What’s worse than faux-broody simpering glittercock vampires? Bruno Mars, that’s what. He’s far, far worse. He’s magnolia emulsion personified. He’s about four inches tall with three feet of hair and has answered the question nobody wanted answering: Who is the next Jack Johnson?

And thanks to fate being more cruel than a clone army of Mugabes, somehow both of these shuddering worlds of colostomy have collided.

That’s right – the Twilight Breaking Dawn (Part 1) soundtrack will be lead by Bruno Mars, complete with put on emoting and grotesque politeness, thinly masking his ghoulish contempt for the earholes of the world.

Mars will be singing a song called ‘It Will Rain’, which is a great artistic statement you’ll inevitably agree. Bruno Mars may not be able to do a thing about the rain itself, but he has an umbrella… an umbrella that he’ll invariably try and tap off with you beneath.

It doesn’t stop there either.

The Joy Formidible, The Noisettes and Iron & Wine will be submitting tracks to the chastityflick. In the case of the latter, we’ll get to hear music so limp that it can barely form a sound at all, thanks to being so very, very earnest and shy.

Hateful, hateful stuff.

If you’re stupid enough to buy the deluxe version of the soundtrack, your ears will be treated to a song by the spiteful Hard-Fi too.

Meanwhile, the spineless of the world will all huddle ’round each other and cry into each other’s laps as they’re overcome with the overwrought emotion of it all.

Honestly. Go kill yourselves if you’re not already undead.

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So-boring-that-the-concept-of-time-slows-around-his-tedious-frame Robert Pattinson, is a man loved by those who like to stare into the void. His hollow face exudes an air of nothingness, not seen since we got into a staring competition in a morgue.

Such is Pattz baffling popularity, there’s people who hang on his every yawn. No matter what he does, there’ll be those clambering to get at it and devour it like rabid toddlers with sharpened milk-teeth.

In fact, people are keen to digest things he’s not doing. The latest thing he isn’t doing is a record, and everyone can’t wait to not hear it!

See, there’s been reports flying around with all the vim and vigour of week-old gravy settling in a jug, noting that Pattinson is going to release an album of his music.

Apparently, he was torn between acting badly and singing badly. However, he’d found a window to put together a guitar-based record in the next few weeks, just before he has to do the promotional shift for The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 1.

And just imagine what his music would sound like. Plodding earnestness over tediously picked acoustic guitars, all offered under the vaguest of mumbles, barely registering into a suicidal microphone.

Alas, Pattinson’s rep was on-hand to deliver the good news:

“The report is untrue. He is not working on an album right now.”

Right now? JESUS! That means that the whole thing isn’t being ruled out!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

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Christmas is promoted over summer these days, since stupid capitalism got involved. They say it’s the most wonderful time of the year and who are we to disagree? Children throw strops when their parents won’t buy them a games console to replace last year’s outdated model whilst long lost relatives crawl out the woodwork looking for presents.

But the most irritatingly thing about Christmas isn’t the dry turkey or lack of birthday cake for Jesus with its 2000+ candles – it’s the awful music.

Crusty rockers such as Slade cash-in on royalties as TV and radio stations lazily play a variety of supposedly feel good hits that get us in the mood for eating and drinking ’til we get diabetes. Recent years have seen X-Factor contestants pester us with songs that usually take the number one position, but if that wasn’t enough to make you upset, Justin Bieber has decided to release his own Christmas album. We think we can hear baby Jesus driving nails into his hands again.

It’s a shame that Jesus is dead, because we’d love to see what sort of songs he’d put on a compilation, or even spin in a nightclub under the alias of DJ J-Suss. Perhaps a religious cult is hoping that Justin Bieber’s angelic like voice will trigger the return of our lord saviour, returning to planet Earth so he command the world’s superheroes. Batman and Superman must surely be the equivalent of community support officers, filling in for Jesus until he’s back on the beat.

Like many artists before him, we imagine that Justin Bieber will take a batch of archaic hymns and carols, giving them a modern day twist. By that, he’ll add a tinny sounding beat, a cheap and nasty melody that could be created on a poundshop keyboard and add a dash of pointless rapping with those bastard sleigh bells.

Regardless of this album sounding worse than a Cher Lloyd and Olly Murs collaboration, Bieber lovers will no doubt be flocking to snap up the record when it’s released, or opening it as a gift on Christmas day.

For any mortified parent reading this and hoping we’re talking our usual rubbish, you’ll be sad to know that news of a Justin Bieber album came straight from the mouth of the foetus itself. Using Twitter, he or one of his minions posted:

“So it’s true…been in the studio doing something special for Christmas. We are going to try and raise a lot of money this year for charity!”

As yet, the charity hasn’t yet been announced, but due to Justin Bieber still being a child and believing in Christmas creations like Santa, he’ll no doubt be investing any money raised in a course to teach reindeer how to fly. Just so they can be like Rudolph and all of his other merry chums that deliver us shoddily made goods each time the 25th December rolls round.

Or it’ll be put into a secret offshore bank account that Bieber will use to fund his heroin habit when times get bad.

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Take That are bunch of drips, aren’t they? If they’re not gyrating around in front of millions of middle-aged women or complaining about press intrusion in effete Northern accents, they’re having little panic attacks about getting felt up by giant robots. Or something like that.

Their latest woe has come in the form of a little bit of lightning which gave the lads the heebie-jeebies when their tour plane was lightly struck by it ahead of the start of the European leg of their Progress tour. Oh no! Did they survive the ordeal?!

Of course they did.

The band were travelling to their opening show in Milan when their plan hit bad turbulence at 35,000 ft. Planes never hit anything at anything less than 30,000ft. It’s a rule set down by aeronautical disaster films since the beginning of time. Seriously, you could skim a plane along the ground and it would be in less danger of running into something than at the dreaded 35,000 ft.

Of course, there’s no difference in the feeling of turbulence to the plane actually being struck by lightning. It’s not as though the wings were sheered off by the wrath of an angry god. The plane was hit by a pretty routine bit of weather. Planes are hit by lightning all the time because they have some pathological desire to fly in the ‘danger zone’ of 35,000 ft.

Some nincompoop told the Daily Mirror;

“The plane took off fairly normally, though we knew there was bad weather ahead, but mid way during the flight the turbulence was really quite frightening. Then suddenly, there was a bright flash, and the plane had obviously been struck by lightning.”

Obviously. That being said, the Take That lads were obviously and visually shaken up by the affair with Robbie Williams questioning why the strike didn’t leave them all with super powers before Mark Owen pointed out that they had always had the ability to induce the menopause in any woman over the age of thirty.

The incident was no doubt an act of God, the great and benevolent ruler in the sky that some of you believe in. However, why would God do such a thing?

A spokesman for God told hecklerspray;

“Well, that’s what you get when you release a ‘special edition’ of your old album and try to pass it off as a completely new one in order to grind more shekels out of your fanbase.”

Take note, pop stars. God is watching.

On this day, way back in 1972, The Rolling Stones’ double LP ‘Exile On Main Street’ went to No.1 on the UK chart, and cemented ‘That Stones Sound’, aped by many, but never bettered. The legacy of ‘Exile’ can be seen in the posturing of Aerosmith and the Black Crowes, and alsoin the blues-grits of The Black Keys and more.

It seemed that it took a bunch of pasty English blokes to realise the roots of American music, to fully translate it into white longhair shorthand.

With ‘Exile’, the Stones took soul, country, blues and rock ‘n’ roll and melded them all together in a muggy soup, kicking the door in for excesses and Memphis horn-led boogles that would see the band again being taken seriously and, very very nearly falling to pieces.

Completing their contract with the thuggish Allen Klein, The Stones went about honing tracks for their new album, which they’d kept back from previous sessions. Previously, they’d been contractually forced to give Klein songs such as ‘Brown Sugar’ and ‘Wild Horses’ from the Sticky Fingers sessions.

Now, free of Klein and faced with a staggering tax bill, Mick, Keef & Co decided to become outlaws and go on the run. They left England before the government could get their hands on their assets, all settling in various parts of France. The convened in Keith Richards’ villa, Nellcôte, in Villefranche-sur-Mer to start recording in earnest.

Using the famous Mobile Recording Unit, The Stones were able to take a more lax approach to recording, not chained to a studio’s timetable, leaving the band to stay awake for days and record as they pleased, using whatever pickmeups and brain-fryers were available to them.

Of course, the band’s appetite for rhythm and blues was matched only by their fondness for getting totally fucked out of their heads.

It was during this period that Keef discovered just how much he enjoyed heroin, with thousands of dollars of the stuff disappearing into his bloodstream, aided and abetted by people such as William S. Burroughs, Gram Parsons and Marshall Chess. Such was Parsons’ penchant for getting doped-up, he was  asked to leave Nellcôte so the Stones could flex their famous work ethic.

Through the narcotic haze, the foundations were laid, with addition tracks and overdubs taking place at Sunset Sound Recorders in Los Angeles.

The disparity of the recording process, along with the band’s own private lives so a confused, muddled end-product met with mixed-reviews. Some critics complained about how filthy and unlistenable the the mixes were, sprawled out over four indulgent sides of wax. Yet, fans of the group heard something different. It was a band who may have been wrecks, which of course, only added to the soap opera of it all which would later be enjoyed by bands like Fleetwood Mac when they released ‘Rumours’, but it was a band with its guard down. This was the closest people had felt to the Stones since they disappeared into their celebrity bubble of glamorous wives, substance abuse, drug busts and private jets.

This torn and frayed (see what we did there?) long-player was too ragged and fucked-up for those who thought about it too much. To everyone else, it was immediate, loose and filled with the funk that The Stones always threatened to deliver on. The grotty, blackened fingernail production only added another element, much like the lo-fi nonsense of Sly and the Family Stone’s ‘There’s A Riot Goin’ On’.

Keef noted:

“When it came out it didn’t sell particularly well at the beginning, and it was also pretty much universally panned. But within a few years the people who had written the reviews saying it was a piece of crap were extolling it as the best frigging album in the world.”

In 2003, Jagger still wasn’t sure about the album saying:

“Exile is not one of my favourite albums… when I listen to Exile it has some of the worst mixes I’ve ever heard. I’d love to remix the record, not just because of the vocals, but because generally I think it sounds lousy.”

This mongrel of an album grew in stature, eventually being regarded as a masterpiece. However, while it may lack the finesse of ‘Pet Sounds’ or ‘Revolver’, ‘Exile’ is a snapshot of rock ‘n’ roll in transition. The blues enthusiasts were a dying breed, stepping to one side for the soul and disco kids about to take over. David Bowie was rising to the top with his skewed take on pop. ‘Exile’ was the ’60s last hurrah, being the spotty punk next to Led Zep’s stadium sized behemoth rock.

It was finally showing a Stones that were no longer concerned with their own image (ironically, in turn, creating a whole different one which Keef still leans heavily upon), throwing away the need to make that one killer single and eschewing the notion that they had to make albums for anyone other than themselves.

Richards:

“The Stones had reached a point where we no longer had to do what we were told to do. Around the time Andrew Oldham left us, we’d done our time, things were changing and I was no longer interested in hitting Number One in the charts every time. What I want to do is good shit—if it’s good they’ll get it some time down the road.”

‘Exile on Main St’ still remains the most rambling, sexy, incoherent LP made by a bunch of drunks that somehow, against all the odds, managed to find it within themselves to fire up the cylinders enough to make on of the greatest LPs ever cut to wax.

If anything, the LP is Keef’s epitaph. The last great R&B album before he passed the baton to Jagger who, save for a few moments on Goat’s Head Soup and the like, would never again capture That Stones Sound of perfect, ragged abandoned soul music.

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Music has a special place in the hearts of the writers of hecklerspray. Without it, we wouldn’t be able to block out the shriek from protesting nut job fans outside our office. Some of us are even externally employed by naïve club promoters to spin vinyl discs and cause disco inferno via booty shaking antics.

There are other things we like including free alcohol, solid chocolate Twix’s, being ushered to the front of a queue due to our awesome status and our football team winning.

Sometimes we can only admire the qualities of other people such as their dashing looks or ability to draw. Pat Dam Smyth sees us showing an awful lot of bromance as we marvel at his tremendous wares. That’s pretty much makes our lives complete, music and awesome facial hair. Seem we’re easily pleased.

Before we begin, we are going to dispel the myth that Pat Dam Smyth is just another one of those singer/songwriter types. Did we just say singer/songwriter? Indeed we did, but fear not dear reader, he isn’t the sort to proclaim he stopped World War III like James Blunt, use his status to tell us naughty meat eaters off like Paul McCartney does or act like an all round dick, a la Pete Doherty.

The beauty of Pat Dam Smyth is that he lets the music speak for himself. These days it’s a rarity for an artist to not become swept in the PR hype and believe all the bollocks that’s been written about them. Few keep their minds focused on the music and seem to believe that a starring on the cover of NME will be another to boost their career.

Not since Duke Special have we had such warm praise for an Irish act. Okay, Pat Dem Smyth may have Greek heritage flowing through his veins, but we’re not going to gripe over that small fact. Now whilst we are already singing his praises, people who really know what they’re talking about are also speaking highly of Pat Dam Smyth.

You may well be familiar with the works of Mick Jones and Paul Weller – well, these two have already had Smyth accompany them on vocal duties.

Listening to tracks by him, we can’t help but feel that these songs have been reluctantly released for our pleasure. They have an almost personal and unique meaning and message attached to them. Sometimes, singing about topics so close to home can be a hindrance, but a perfect balance has been found.

They are the sort of songs that could be performed in the back of a dingy club or in archaic surroundings of a traditional pub whilst the rain batters at the windows.

With an album due in early December, we have been given special permission to let you listen to the album, The Great Divide in its entirety. Not because anyone anticipates a leak, but you may as well try before you fork over the petty amount of £6.

You can’t even get three pints for that, especially if you’re one of those London types.

Feel good folk with a rock n roll edge? We’ll have some of that please. To listen to the album in its entirety without annoying adverts like on Spotify, click here: http://patricksmyth.bandcamp.com/album/the-great-divide

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If you’re reading this, you’re probably scum of the earth. Not because you kick small children, but because you haven’t appeared in Heat magazine.

Being a celebrity rocks because it gives you a higher vantage point over normal people. So what if you won a reality show five years ago, that ounce of fame means you can still be photographed picking up dogmuck five years later and newspapers will brand it as news.

Famous people often branch out from what they’re known for to make us believe they care about other people. This is what Lily Allen and a host of others have done – they’ve all contributed to War Child’s new album.

When news reports aren’t all focused on the weather or how we’ve messeded up the planet we’re told about other equally depressing issues. Not a day goes by without some sort of fear being waved in our faces. Job cuts, war and financial buggery are just a few hot topics for instant depression. And, if you’re a Daily Mail reader, immigrants are solely responsible.

So who’s going to change the world? Will it be our ever reliable government with its shaky prime minister who makes promises that always go tits up? Or will it be that bloke from the rival party? You know the middle-aged man who desperately wants to be hip and trendy like America’s new presidential equivalent Barack Obama?

A person in their field solving a problem? Don’t be daft, we need a celebrity. Quick! Blow the celebrity horn so we can gather a bunch of people together who collectively will be so delusional with fame that they believe that they can solve everything. We’ve already seen Band Aid attempt to solve the crisis in Africa to no effect, so what’s the next on the musical agenda of making a problem go away?

Well we’re having a sing-song for War Child this time it seems. A gang of artists has gotten together to record some songs for a new compilation album. But are the tracks fresh slabs of musical meat for the hungry musical masses to chomp on? No, instead we get treated to some cover versions which don’t particular look like they’re going to do the originals any justice.

There are some songs that should never be messed with because they are ridiculously awesome. Estelle seems a bit blind to this unwritten rule and has chosen Stevie Wonder’s Superstition to try and cover. We haven’t heard the result yet, but we aren’t expected anything that will rewrite musical history.

The album has attracted the attention of some fairly well-known people, but will their time spent recording someone else’s song help the plight of someone in wartorn Iraq? Judge for yourself, as the full list of contributors has just been released. Feast your eyes if you dare:

Beck – Bob Dylan‘s Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat
Scissor Sisters – Roxy Music‘s Do The Strand
Lily Allen ft Mick Jones – The Clash‘s Straight To Hell
Duffy – Wings‘ Live And Let Die
Elbow - U2‘s Running To Stand Still
TV On The Radio – David Bowie‘s Heroes
Hot Chip – Joy Division‘s Transmission
The Kooks – The Kinks‘ Victoria
Estelle – Stevie Wonder‘s Superstition
Rufus Wainwright – Brian Wilson‘s Wonderful/Song For Children
Peaches – Iggy And The Stooges’ Search And Destroy
The Hold Steady – Bruce Springsteen‘s Atlantic City
The Like – Elvis Costello‘s You Belong To Me
Yeah Yeah Yeahs – The Ramones‘ Sheena Is A Punk Rocker
Franz Ferdinand – Blondie‘s Call Me

At best it looks like a tracklisting that would appear on one of Jo Whiley’s tragic Live Lounge albums. Perhaps instead of telling people what to do, maybe they should venture to these places instead of leaving mouthy rants on their MySpace blog about how much enriched they feel. Then again, we have got a member of the Royal Family actually battling away so we can’t knock him for that. Though the use of supposed racist language doesn’t help him. The silly ginger dressing Nazi.

War Child is nothing short of an amazing charity that raises funds to try and make life better for children who felt the effects of war. But somehow we don’t think that buying this record will cure any problems.

We’re more than happy to actually donate a wedge of cash instead of boosting some tosspot celebrity’s ego by buying into their latest project.

After being sidetracked with a few things, such as trying to end all world evils and finding out where the boogieman lives, Bono has returned to his 50-bedroom mansion to concentrate on churning out another U2 album.

Bono and the other members of U2 have been threatening to release No Line On The Horizon for a while now and finally they’ve delivered the bombshell with a March 19 2009 release. Is one new release bad enough? No, Bono has to be an extravagant twat and release it five bloody times.

Of course this isn’t a move designed to fill the bands pockets with enough cash to enjoy a lifetime supply of potatoes and Guinness. No, surely releasing the same product five different times is a celebration of all things U2 and a test to see who’d actually buy the same crap again and again. Think of it as an intelligence test without having to work out which funny shape connects the pattern.

Once people either download it illegally or stump up some cash for the bog-standard CD version, what’s going to be so special about the new album No Line On The Horizon? We have some suggestions of what we’d like to see included with the album. You know, just so Bono and the rest of his merry band of rockers can disappear further up their own arses as they rejoice together for pushing the boundaries of album packaging and superfluous additional extras.

For £20 extra, an interview with the band’s creator Larry Mullen, Jr. It would be nice to hear what he thinks. As we all know, Bono just takes over all conversation and namedrops his mates such as the Pope and Bill Clinton.

For £40 extra, a replica copy of Bono’s magical sunglasses. Maybe we’ll be able to tell if they source his power and make him act like the moron we know and love.

For £100 extra, a used hat from The Edge.

Whilst we know they’d go down stupidly well with the legions of U2 stalker fans, it seems that their record company don’t see things like us. As the NME reports, the additional three versions aren’t anything like ours:

“The digi-pack version offers the full album along with a 36-page booklet, a fold-out poster and a downloadable film by Corbijn, featuring the music of U2. A magazine version of the album comes with a 60-page soft cover magazine-style book, along with the Corbijn film as a download. The most excessive of the five releases is the box set, which features a 60-page hardback book, a second poster and a DVD version of Corbijn’s film.”

Oh wow! A poster! Something that’s printed on paper! For hours on end, we can stare in utter awe at a picture of bloody U2. Who would have thought a band would ever think of releasing pictures of themselves in moody looking poses as they stand against a backdrop of a beach, coffee shop or burning car?

And a U2 magazine? We shudder to think what crap they’ll use to fill 60 pages with. Perhaps loads of photos of their faces with captions like ‘We are brilliant’ ‘Feel the love’ and ‘Don’t eat Irish pork’.

Whatever the case, we at least know of one album that won’t feature in our 2009 best-of list. If we wanted to listen to the older generation babbling on about non-important issues, we’d check into an old folk’s home. At least there they might have cool stories about war and stuff.

It’s good to end your year better than you started it – Britney Spears has, but only because she was cheating.

Britney Spears’ 2008 is ending with her new album Circus at number one in America – and she’s also the first ever SoundScan artist to have four albums sell 500,000 week-one copies.

So well done – Britney Spears’ year has ended better than it started. But then again she did start it in a mental hospital – Britney could have caught Ebola off a rabid zombie meerkat while falling down a lift shaft and the year would have still been an upswing for her.

Everyone loves a story of redemption, especially at this time of year. That’s why people love A Christmas Carol - it wouldn’t be nearly as popular if it ended with Ebeneezer Scrooge punching Tiny Tim down a flight of stairs, machine-gunning a puppy and then hanging himself in the middle of the town square, would it?

And Britney Spears’ year has been a little bit like A Christmas Carol. Not a huge amount, admittedly – instead of being visited by ghosts, Britney Spears was deemed too mentally unwell to feed or dress herself and then, rather than redeeming herself by welcoming a festive spirit of goodwill into her heart, Britney made a record where she went “UHH Pappi LOVE you! UHH Pappi LOVE you!” about 15 times in a row – but a bit.

Anyway, by getting her act together enough to release and promote a new album properly, the redemptive message is loud and clear – Britney Spears is still a bit mental but at least she’s got a proper haircut now – and the American public have rewarded her for it by buying Circus in droves.

You know what this means? Britney Spears is number one again! Reuters reports:

“Circus,” the sixth studio album for Spears, sold 505,000 copies in the United States during the week ended Dec. 7, one of the biggest debuts of the year. She becomes the only artist in tracking firm Nielsen SoundScan’s 17-year history to have four albums sell 500,000 copies or more in their first week.

While that’s enough of an impressive double-combo as it is, it’s not all – Circus by Britney Spears has also made history by being the best-ever selling album to sound like it was recorded by Professor Stephen Hawking‘s wheelchair after it was struck by lightning and learnt to kill, plus it’s the only number one album of the year where the cover features a picture of the singer pulling a face like a laboratory puppy pleading with strangers to put it out of its misery.

So our hearty congratulations go to Britney Spears for the success of Circus. She’s back where she belongs now – at number one, drunk on success and on the precipice of a giant career-threatening mental breakdown. And so say all of us.

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