Rap troll, Lil Wayne is going to release his prison diaries, just in time for next Christmas. That’ll be a nice present for your nana won’t it? In it, he’ll probably talk to God a lot while simultaneously glamorising his pretend ‘thug’ lifestyle.

But will he be mentioning the poundings he took around the anus while in the prison showers? We do hope so, because that would be refreshingly charming!

The book will be titled ‘Gone Till November’ and will be based around the diaries he kept while in the clink. This puts Wayne in the same company as Nelson Mandela and… uh… Jeffrey Archer.

Little Wayney Wayne spent eight months on Rikers Island on gun charges. Basically, he thought he’d do something original and be a rapper with a gun. Seriously. What a git. Cops just love pulling over black people and searching them for weed or firearms – you’d think they’d be a little more wary, right?

Ben Greenberg, of Grand Central publish (who, duh, are putting the book out), said:

“We are thrilled to be publishing Wayne’s prison memoir. He kept detailed journals of his inner and outer life while he was on Rikers Island, and they certainly tell a story. They are revealing.”

Revealing how? Like his lyrics? Such as…

“I admire your poppin’ bottles and pimpin’ just as much as you admire bartending and strippin’.”

and

“I said he’s so sweet, make her wanna lick the wrapper – so I let her lick the rapper.”

This book is going to be amazing, obviously. Up there with Chaucer and Bridget Jones’ Diary. Of course, he’s going to be detailing all his thoughts and feelings, but if that’s the case, this should be more of a pamphlet than a book.

Still, it’ll give numskulls something to read away from Sports Illustrated and FHM when they’re on the pan.

For some reason, we’ve credited you slobs with some intelligence. Christ knows why. We’ve read the comments you leave. Either way, some of you ain’t so bad. Some of you have probably only seen Jersey Shore out of morbid curiosity.

If you watched it, you probably thought ‘By Jove! This is faker than Kim Kardashian’s wedding!‘

If you’ve been watching the antics of Snooki & Co, thinking that it’s BLATES REAL (or whatever you wobbling colostomy bags say these days), then we’ve got news for you. And someone with more spare time has made a video which proves it. OKAY?

The scene in question concerns Snooki and Deena having a fight in a bar.

Remember that?

No, not THIS fight involving Snooki…

It’s a different one. That said, the above video looks grimly real. No, this one involved a hissy fit in a bar and it looked for all the world that a bartender lobbed ice at Snooki and Deena which saw them trashing the place.

Have a look.

It’s clearly all bollocks.

Legally, we should say that MTV’s response was “It’s all real, and we couldn’t make this all up.”

You don’t care do you?

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Yes it’s that time of year where Twitter is all aflutter with talk of moustaches and novels. The nights have finished drawing in and the drunken abandon of Hallowe’en has passed into the forgotten annals of Facebook albums to be ignored until next year.

Winter’s here and it’s a time for soup, fires, books and growing a moustache and forgetting to do it for charity (yeah, you’re supposed to get yourself sponsored, you unbearable poseur). Winter’s also a time of reflection when we look back and realise that we’ve done nothing to inspire or improve the world. You know, that feeling that everyone gets where they want to make the world a better place by forcing their insufferable platitudes upon an uninterested populace?

Well, most people.

It’s an old cliché that everyone has “one novel in them” and the NaNoWriMo scheme does its best to prove the point by having a set month for people to blurt out whatever nonsense is lolling around in their brains, having a proverbial mud-wrestle with smutty jokes and opinions on X Factor contestants. NaNoWriMo is a bit like school.

People need structure to create their best work and signing up for NaNoWriMo gives it to you, whether you like it or not. You have thirty days to write a novel. Easy as that, right? Everyone’s been planning their great page-turner since the last National Novel Writing Month ended.

Actually, no-one has.

What does signing up for the scheme get you? Well, you can meet up with like-minded people who are also trying to write the next great novel within the confines of thirty days. What qualifies these kindred spirits to do this? Why, they have laptops and Starbucks loyalty cards! You can get uppity about that if you want but their “coat of arms” leaves that heavy implication.

The National Novel Writing Month website claims that you, yes YOU, can write a novel in a month. C’mon! It’s easy! Anyone can do it! It doesn’t even have to be good! Just give us some money! What? Of course it’s for char- oh… servers are charity, right?

Look, let’s face facts. If you want to write a novel, you don’t have to sign up to do it in a month, try to cram as much into it as possible and wail about it on twitter so that people think you’re being brave. Sure anyone can write a novel and if you are writing a novel then kudos to you. Even if it never sees the light of day, at least you’ve had a bash at it. You can be proud of that.

Still though, why would anyone feel the need to register to write a book?

It could be because to write a novel, there’s no support structure. We don’t mean “people there to help”, there are plenty of industry vultures looking to do people down in the pursuit of a quick buck, we mean the social networking crutch structure. The only reason to sign up and dedicate a month of your life to writing a novel is so that everyone can give you a nice big pat on the back and say, “My word, look at how clever you’re being. I can’t wait to read it.”

Perhaps when it rolls around to the 14th November you can send them the two-page long, tear-stained manuscript that will stand forever as testament to your failure. If you even remember that you signed up by that point.

Remember when you lot liked Frankie Boyle? Remember when you watched Mock The Week and thought it was ‘alright’? Remember when you realised how awful it was? Remember when Boyle turned into a poor man’s Jerry Sadowitz/post-modern Roy Chubby Brown?

Of course you do. You’re still supremely sore about it. You’re irked and wounded because someone you once liked has gone so very, very shit.

And worse still, you’re irritated because Boyle is so very good at winding you up. That’s exactly what he’s doing right now, by wishing a raping on comedians Josie Long and Richard Herring. God, he’s a twitter outrage dream isn’t he?

So what’s he done?

Well, in his new book – which we can’t remember the name of because we, like you, have absolutely no intention of actually buying it – he’s gone and made a distasteful joke… WHICH IS A MASSIVE SURPRISE ISN’T IT?

Basically, Chortle report that he’s written down a depraved daydream that imagines

“Richard Herring being ‘fucked to death’”

He also muses on Josie Long (admittedly lovely)

“inhabiting a monkey body and being raped by a similarly simian Hitler”

And, with a wearisome predictability, Twitter goes into full outrage mode, giving Boyle approximately a million times the attention he would’ve had if everyone simply ignored it.

This kind of publicising has of course been mastered by the Daily Mail and the Fox News Network, which preys on liberal outrage… which of course, is the best kind of outrage.

Why? Because all the complaining wet-farts are simply going to complain… and complain… and complain… and that’s it. Nothing else. They’ll sit there with their arms folded like sulky toddlers in a supermarket, bottom lips stuck out kicking their thin little legs to no avail.

These people are, of course, the same people who grow moustaches for charity and are politically active, provided you don’t have to do anything beyond putting your email address into an online petition.

We saw a similar level of pathetic outrage when Ricky Gervais repeatedly used the word ‘mong’. Mong, granted, is not a very nice thing to say… but the response from an online community who still says things like ‘that’s well gay’, refers to androgynous people as looking ‘like trannies’ and doesn’t mind calling a friend a ‘spazz’ is a bit rich, right?

While Boyle is, without question, a tit who likes to make crass comments for his own amusement, at least he’s canny enough to feed on the pointless outrage that exists and turn it into a decent mortgage payment or ten.

So well done to you saps for that. Perhaps we should wish a raping on you spazzofaggotAIDSnegroes too, just to provoke some kind of traffic gobbling return too?

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Wikileaks founder Julian Assange probably knows all of your deepest and darkest secrets, but it seems like no one wants to know any of his as his new unauthorised autobiography has failed to set the literary world alight.

Since being released last week “Julian Assange: The Unauthorarised Autobiography,” hasn’t managed to shift more than 1,000 copies.

Assange will undoubtedly blame the poor sales on some bizarre CIA conspiracy plot, instead of accepting the fact that no one really cares about him or his allegedly criminal penis.

According to the publishers of the book, Canongate, the slow sales have meant that despite all the media furore surrounding Assange and this unauthorised biography, the only people who have actually made any money out of it are Julian and his aforementioned, allegedly criminal, penis.

Assange and “little Julian” accepted an advance believed to be in the region of £250,000 from Canongate, which was then spunked away on lawyers to help ensure that Julian and his member were kept from being put behind bars in Sweden, following allegations of rape that were definitely part of one of those US conspiracies that sane and logical people always go on about at dinner parties or street corners, whilst wearing tin foil hats.

Rumours we just made up are abound that Canongate are in the process of asking best selling author Katie Price to knock up another draft whilst she’s between husbands, in the hope that maybe she would add some credibility and interest to the title.

Katie Price could not be reached for comment. Mainly because we can’t stand her.

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They sound like Brian Adams if he’d sat Politics 101 and hop around in Richey Edwards presumed grave, piddling out the most pedestrian piffle ever slopped onto a guitar solo. They are the Manic Street Preachers and they’re opening and closing their mouths again.

Oh joy.

Fact is, these bloated oafs have been bothering everyone for what feels like a millennia, and now they’re going to go away… and potentially never come back according to chief skipping rope enthusiast, Nicky Wire.

The Manics are taking a nice holiday from music and are concerned there won’t be a music industry to return to. Ear-owners are, of course, concerned about the return of MSP albums more, worried that they’ll come back to us with some wishy-washy stadium indie that about communism or some junk.

Before they go, the band will be having a show in London (you would’ve thought these proud Welshmen would’ve done something in Cardiff, but there you go) where they’ll play every single they have released. Yes. Including the woeful tourist board friendly ‘Australia’.

Bass player Nicky Wire says:

“I think the greatest hits is completing the end of the second great cycle of Manic Street Preachers.”

Great cycle? Spin cycle more like.

“Hopefully there will be a third, but we’ve got a job to take on to do that. And who knows what we’ll be left with in terms of a music industry by then? We’ll just have to wait and see.”

As for this farewell thing, Wire sounded like a man ready to retire completely.

“We’ve never done anything on this scale before. It’s going to be an immense project, production-wise, screens, videos, you name it, you know it’ll be a completely unique thing. And we’ll never do it again. Its’ really, kind of, finishing up.”

You can almost hear the pathetic tearing of flesh as sycophantic Manics’ fans carve ’4 Real’ in their pale arms, can’t you?

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You know Jersey Shore? That’s right – the thing you can blame dreck like Geordie Shore and The Only Way Is Essex on. Well, one of the stars of the show – The Situation – is a monumental penis who has somehow weaselled his way into the VIP section.

So all is well? Not quite.

See, while he’s the star of a hit MTV show, some people aren’t so taken with him. Despite the free advertising that comes with appearing on a widely watched show, Abercrombie & Fitch have posted a statement on their website asking Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino to stop wearing their clothes. That’s how much they hate him.

A&F say:

“We are deeply concerned that Mr. Sorrentino’s association with our brand could cause significant damage to our image”

Okay.

“We understand that the show is for entertainment purposes, but believe this association is contrary to the aspirational nature of our brand, and may be distressing to many of our fans.”

Distressing? Really? What kind of simpering, spineless wimp wears Abercrombie & Fitch clothes then? The kind that feel distress when someone they don’t like buys the same clothes as them? Jesus Christ on a bike.

“We have therefore offered a substantial payment to Michael ‘The Situation’ Sorrentino and the producers of MTV’s The Jersey Shore to have the character wear an alternate brand. We have also extended this offer to other members of the cast, and are urgently waiting a response.”

Wait. So A&F are offering money to people to NOT wear their clothes? Can we, the team of ‘spray degenerates, also have money? We’ll accept money to never buy your clothes, even in the past.

Seems like we’ve got an Abercrombie & Fitchuation on our hands.

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You really think you have the energy to hear this? Sure about that, are we? Let’s just take this slow, just in case. Let’s not get lodged inside something dark and unyielding and then regret it afterwards (Extract from Antony Costa’s Bedroom Memoirs, 2008) So. Katie Price has written another book.

You should know the drill by now, because of that time you accidently walked into a Newsagents and bought Heat Magazine regularly for two years. Just in case you don’t – here’s the situation we’re facing. After having had some sex with Dane Bowers, Peter Andre, Katie Waissel, and most recently a hired homosexual gentleman – Katie Price’s career as a businesswoman was for some reason being somewhat overlooked. It was then that Katie discovered her greatest talent – ringing someone up and asking them to write a book for her. A great author was born (but that’s not relevant).

Today saw the launch of Katie’s latest literary delight in the shape of ‘The Comeback Girl’. A story about something, or other. Pssh. Bloody pretentious Pulitzer fodder, if you ask us.

On top of all this, during the event at the 02 Academy in Leeds, Katie decided to give the world yet ANOTHER blessing, by staging a world record attempt to sign as many books as possible in eight hours, like her hero – chess extraordinaire and all round DD+ glamour-puss Anatoly Karpov. Unfortunately, we can reveal that Katie’s attempt was unsuccessful. The bright side is that we we can all focus on the content of the novel now, which is clearly what Katie wanted all along.

Besides, as Yazz once concluded – The Only Way is Up. Based on this logic, and this logic alone – we forecast bright things in the future for Katie. Oh wait, The Only Way is Essex now, isn’t it? Never mind. Katie’s talents will shine through regardless. And if you are unlucky enough to not possess the shining beacon of optimism that we uphold every single day, then take a look at some of these quotes from an interview in today’s Sun about Katie’s next chosen career path instead:

“I’d love to be a detective. I’m obsessed with Harold Shipman, Dennis Nilsen, Ted Bundy and Rose and Fred West, I’ve read about them in detail – really sick, true crime.”

“I’d like to go to a murder scene and try to work out what’s happened. I actually looked into how to be a detective once, but you have to join the police first.”

“Last night I stayed up late watching 24 Hours In A&E. I suppose it all makes me feel better about my own life.”

“For now, I’ll make do with making a TV series interviewing Britain’s worst criminals.”

Goodnight, and god bless.

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People on the far left of the political swingometer of shit, have this insane belief that they are on the side of The Truth. Those on the far right are aware that they have unpopular views, but are still just as mental.

Both are unified by a need to lash out at an imagined enemy, kicking the shadows and swearing at the air. Republicans think that foreigners are not to be trusted, and Democrats think that this is just racist talk.

On the left, we find Barbarella. Or, if you prefer, Jane Fonda. She’s had her appearance on QVC pulled (things are tough, right?) where she was to promote her new book on ageing, and she’s wagging her finger at ‘extremist groups’. Familiar language, eh?

Fonda says, on her website:

“I am, to say the least, deeply disappointed that QVC caved to this kind of insane pressure by some well-funded and organized political extremist groups and that they did it without talking to me first”

“I have never shied away from talking about this as I have nothing to hide. I could have pointed out that threats of boycotts are nothing new for me and have never prevented me from having bestselling books and exercise DVDs, films and a Broadway play.”

“Most people don’t buy into the far right lies. May people have reached out to express how excited they were about my going onto QVC and hearing about my book.”

Yet, it appears to Fonda that the network buckled to pressure from angry callers who threatened to boycott QVC if Fonda appeared. Presumably, they’d boycott it for an afternoon, then forget all about it and carry on buying terrible firesale tat at hoiked up prices.

Of course, Fonda wasn’t finished.

“Bottom line, this has gone on far too long, this spreading of lies about me! None of it is true. NONE OF IT! I love my country. I have never done anything to hurt my country or the men and women who have fought and continue to fight for us.”

SHUSH! YOU SOUND LIKE SARAH PALIN!

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You know what the Jackson family are kinda like? Performing dolphins that entertain crowds of clapping idiots who pay money to see overgrown fish jump through burning hoops. Trainers of dolphins usually use the Joe Jackson guidance method which generally involves beating the creature until it does what you want it to do.

Michael Jackson suffered the most under his father. Perhaps he never received tasty morsels of salmon as a reward for mastering the moonwalk correctly.

The rest of the family also had to endure daddy Joe’s teachings, though we often wonder about Latoya Jackson. We genuinely don’t know what she has done to warrant any sort of successful career. Does that riot count when she promised to take her clothes off for money, but then bottled it? Who knows? However we are aware that she is bringing out a book containing her theory on her successful brother’s death. This’ll go down well at the local reading club we imagine.

We we’re going to write a whole load of jokes about Latoya possibly having to live in the shadows of sibling Janet Jackson all her life. But then we realised that Janet is as equally an inferior Jackson family member which must have left her father fuming. Two failures in one clan? Well he could always rely on Tito, Jermaine, Marlon and Randy.

Oh.

That means we still have to focus on Michael Jackson, who’s death has turned in to a never ending game of Cluedo. Was it the King of Pop with the prescription painkillers in the kitchen? Or perhaps it was Dr. Conrad Murray with the syringe in the hall? It seems that Latoya is pointing her finger at Murray who seems destined never to get a trial at court due to it constantly being pushed back. Anyways, she said:

“Dr. Murray was the fall guy. Authorities should look into this more deeply. I believe it was a conspiracy. Michael told me repeatedly, ‘They’re going to murder me. You don’t understand. They’re trying to murder me.’ He’d tell me this again and again.”

Hold on. Have we unearthed some sort of potential breaking news? Did Michael Jackson tell his sister that his doctor was going to kill him? Or is he saying that there was a whole bunch of people out to ensure he joined the deceased early?

Despite everyone in the hecklerspray bedsit initially thinking that we’d done it, we then leapt from our urine stained couch in excitement! Conspiracies are ace! Then we realised that these claims couldn’t possibly be true. Still, at least MJ had a lot of music in his house.

“He had the world’s largest music catalogue – 750,000 songs. People knew how important it was.”

Ah! Clearly Michael was an illegal downloader, so maybe it was the music police who killed him!

Or could this be “the revenge of any Jesus Juice drinking children?” Whilst that could be the title of a brilliantly rubbish b-movie, we assume the children he allegedly touched (but legally didn’t thanks to a judge) came back and haunted him whilst he slept.

Suffice to say, when the actual trial for Dr. Conrad Murray starts, it’ll dispel any crackpot conspiracy theories just like the ones his sister has written. No doubt we’ll be live blogging the trial under the following title:

Dr Conrad Murray: Injecting the truth in to our hearts. Or, Michael Jackson: Moonwalking For Justice.

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Snooki – a cross between a shaved Har Mar Superstar and a tin of off-creosote – is, once again, being filmed for some vapid, gaspingly bad television programme for MTV, the music channel that doesn’t show any music videos.

And while shooting (with cameras, not guns sadly) the fourth season of Jersey Shore this weekend, good ol’ Snooki managed to crash into a police car that was accompanying them, injuring two officers.

The astonishing thing there is, of course, that Snooki has enough faculties to actually have a legal driving license. Beggars belief.

Everyone was in Florence, Italy for the new series, for reasons which are unclear and presumably, of little importance to anyone, including those appearing in the show.

Whatever the reason, Snooki has ended up ramming two cops and now they’re in hospital with minor injuries. Once they heard Snooki talking, they allegedly asked a doctor if they could be given some ‘major injuries’ as life didn’t seem to be worth living anymore, in a world where three-inch tall morons are paraded like stars.

Snooki, not one for being the centre of attention, tried to cover her face as she was questioned about the crash. A crash that, obviously, will feature in the final cut of an episode of Jersey Shore.

And to think that the traffic police vehicle which was hit by Snooki was only travelling with them in order to give the cast and crew the chance to be able to travel around more easily.

Jesus fucking Christ.

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Shania Twain once told us that ‘the best thing about being a woman is that you get to have a little fun.’ Of course, men have fun too. And when men and women have fun together, everything is just great, right?

Wrong. You see, in this case, ‘a little fun’ happened to be Shania’s husband – Mutt Lange – sticking his member inside Twain’s best friend in the whole world. “That don’t impress me much, uh-uh-uh-ooow“, Shania probably said at the time she found out about it all.

The fallout of this heartbreak left us all tantalisingly close to Shania giving up on music completely, never again subjecting us innocents to the appalling, vomiting country-pop smashes that briefly took over the universe like some kind of sonic herpes.

Apparently, Shania was utterly shattered by her fella’s infidelity. She told Oprah Winfrey that she became

“an emotional mess”

“I figured mentally that I would never sing again.”

See, Twain had not only lost her husband, but also, the man who produced and co-wrote her records.

“I hadn’t written a song without this man in 14 years….How do I even get started?”

Well, what musicians normally do is translate their pain and thoughts into their music. Especially country singers. Failing that, what with you being so famous and all, you could always hire someone new to do it, right? You may not have talent, but at least you have your voice, right?

Twain revealed that she also suffers from dysphonia, an ailment where the muscles squeeze the voice box, leaving you sounding like a rasping housefly doing a Cartman impression while stuck in a moped engine, razzing in first gear.

“My fears and anxieties throughout my whole life have been slowly squeezing my voice. I was losing it slowly and progressively.”

Alas, unable to sing, Twain decided to sit down and write a book which looks at her failing marriage and knackered voice, called From This Moment On, as well as a documentary series called Why Not?

However, the best bit of this tale is still to come.

Brilliantly, Twain decided to find love with a chap called Frederic Thiebaud. Who he? He’s the former husband of the woman who ran off with Shania’s bloke. It’s like ol’ country incest!

Fantastic!

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New Jersey is having something of a state crisis. There’s a $112.3 billion funding gap for next year according to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities. Worse than that is House Republicans are planning on pushing through a plan to cut off further funding which will take away a further $32 billion.

Granted, that’s not your typical opener for a hecklerspray article, but digest those shoddily researched figures for a moment before considering this:

A New Jersey state university called Rutgers paid $32,000 of tax-payers money Snooki to give a speech about partying. Brilliant.

Yep. You read that right. The tottering orange ballsack from MTV show Jersey Shore was paid a big wodge of cold, hard cash to speak at 2,000 students who either loved the whole thing in a hootingly ironic way or sat there, wishing someone would lop the top of their heads off and feast on their weary brains.

The Q&A session covered some important topics of course.

The advice given to these poor shites included “when you’re tan, you feel better about yourself” as well as “study hard, but party harder.”

At the time of press, we can’t confirm if Snooki covered the whole ‘take your trousers off before defecating’ thing.

The best bit of this news is that Snooki received a whole $2,000 more than Nobel-Prize winner Tonie Morrison will get when they appear for this year’s commencement address.

Tax payers of New Jersey are, quite understandably, thrilled and not prowling the streets looking for someone to beat senseless with lumps of wood… or, alternatively, they could put their trust in this crying resident of New Jersey who wants to raise property taxes.

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Are you a fan of turgid, pedestrian, Bryan Adams-sounding cod-political stadium indie music? Well you must be a fan of the Manic Street Preachers then! Or U2. Or Coldplay. We’d add Senser, but they only filled the ‘cod-political’ bit.

Anyway, we’re here to talk about The Manics and specifically, World’s Worst Bass Player and skipping/eyeliner fan, Nicky Wire who would like to make some money with a book of badly taken photographs.

That’s right Manics fans! Wire has been taking polaroids throughout the band’s tedious 25-year-career which are going to be collated into two volumes, the first of which will be called ‘Death of The Polaroid: A Manics Family Album’. Feel free to start speculating about the whereabouts of the obviously deceased Richie Edwards.

The photos start from the band’s beginnings as a dreary combination of glam, The Clash and Guns ‘n’ Roses when they made the awful ‘Generation Terrorists’, right through to when they were as thin as bulimic coat hangers recording the occasionally harrowing ‘The Holy Bible’, right up to their latest album which hardly anyone has heard, ‘Postcards From a Young Man’.

Speaking of the book, Wire sez:

“You see the unfolding and unraveling, really, of four kids that kind of grew up in a bedroom, dreaming of taking over the world. I’m hoping it will be really engaging and really tactile.”

Gah. Of course it’ll be tactile you idiot. It’s a book. A book you pick up with your hands.

Nicky added:

“Obviously the amount of travelling you see in the book – from Blackwood to Japan and back, is pretty amazing.

“I think the genius of Polaroid is you can pinpoint a memory really easily, and our fans are just as dedicated as we are in that sense, so I think they’ll just look at the book and be able to associate a memory with it as well.”

Or, if you use it as a flip-book, you can watch James Dean Bradfield’s stomach expand in a hilarious manner. Anyway, if you’re stupid enough to be interested, ‘Death Of The Polaroid: A Manics Family Album’ will be published in November.

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Hybrid of Har Mar Superstar and the thing that comes out of the screen in the Ring film, Nicole Polizzi of Jersey Shore, has reached the point of being utterly sick and tired of… well… herself. Now, this isn’t going to end up in some kind of suicide bid, where she finds herself on a rooftop threatening to chuck herself off and into the blades of a passing combine harvester.

Rather, she’s pretty bored of her own nickname. Her nickname is Snooki if you were wondering and, no, it isn’t a reference to how good she is at clocking 147 breaks on the baize.

The Thing That Occupies Valuable Fame Space says that, while the name undoubtedly helped her to be kinda famous, she’s thinks that it is all a bit old and now, she misses being called by her name… which of course means that people will now shout “Oi! Nicole Polizzi! I’ve seen you on TV! You dick!”

She said she misses people calling her by her real name… she misses being called Nicole:

“I miss my real name. I miss people calling me Nicole”

See? So why then, would you put ‘Snooki’ on the front of your new book (‘A Shore Thing’, available in the 9p bargain bin at all good bookshops) then? You’d only do that if you were toweringly thick, right?

Either way, if you’re excited at the prospect of a Snooki Booki, then the story revolves around a young lady called Gia and her cousin Isabella who go to the shore with the hopes of having, like, totally the best summer, like, ever!

If you can’t even begin to imagine that you’d be arsed reading a book written by someone called Snooki, then rest assured, you could watch some of the awful Jersey Shore and look at the ‘bond’ between Snooki and co-star Jenni Farley aka J Woww.

Apparently, the book is based on their friendship but sadly, not their preposterous nicknames.

We’re off to get punched in the face by one of the ‘stars’ of the show and, hopefully, we’ll get a book deal where we chronicle the days of bitter, jaundiced bloggers who find fulfilment while shitting into a football sock.

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