Cliff Richard hates the mental. It’s official. He thinks that they should all be locked up in an asylum and gradually killed. Maybe once an afternoon. While they’re enjoying Cash In The Celebrity Bric-a-Brac Stand probably.

Catch them off guard while they’re trying to figure out who the bell ringing killer is on Midsomer Murder. Imagine how mental David Dickinson looks while you’re under the influence of some “humane” poison.

If he had the chance, Cliff would happily pop a mentalist’s clogs for them as well.

Alarmingly he’s still the patron of the Alzheimer Research Trust as well. How can he spout all the good things that the Alzheimer Research Trust do (before forgetting they’ve done anything and thinking they are back in the War) when he’s saying that they should be killed. Madness.

The devoutly Christian and sexually ambiguous star spoke to Women’s Hour on Radio 4 and said these words before hopefully bursting into Wired To Sound*

“I said, look – if this happens to me, I’ll do the same for you if you’ll do it for me, don’t let it go on too long.”

Which is like when you see lonely twenty-something’s on a sitcom who’ll agree to get married when they’re 40 if they haven’t met anyone else, or died a horrible anthrax related death. Or been hit by a rampant horde of rhinos. Or killed by Cliff Richard because you forgot where your keys were that one time.

What Cliff is essentially saying is that euthanasia is a great thing, and can help alleviate the guilt of having to be at the beck and call of a crazy relative who is adamant that you’re Winston Churchill. Or worse, Winkie Churchill. And ease the suffering of the person with it.

Or something.

We must say that euthanasia, whether passive or active, is totes illegal in the UK. And also frowned upon by most Western religions, which are never known to be crazy or go off half-cocked on a situation. So when Cliffo says that euthanasia is the bee’s knees, he isn’t really sticking to his religious beliefs, the filthy hypocrite.

Unfortunately Cliff’s mother died in 2007 at the ripe old age of 87. Or so he claims.

*Wired To Sound is easily the best Cliff Richard song.

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Rock God Cliff Richard has today admitted to pulling off the most incredible rock n’ roll stunt in history after throwing his secretary of 40 years from a jet cruising at 25,000 feet. The star of ‘Summer Holiday’ and ‘God, What A Terrible Calendar’ has been trying to shake off his ‘granny’s favourite’ tag by hanging out with Peaches Geldof & Ke$ha and was also spotted in a London nightspot challenging Daniel O’Donnell to a scrap.

It’s a sad decline for one of Britain’s best-loved celebrities. From the moment the last shutter sounded on the infamous calendar shoot of 2010, Sir Cliff decided he still “had it” and wanted to attempt to break the world record for shagging his way around an issue of Grazia. He started by seducing Kelly Osbourne using the “I used to know your dad angle” but quickly moved on when he realised that he could never replace her dead dog.

The former detrimental presence in front of The Shadows was recently interviewed in The Sun where he claimed that his life of worship and abstinence meant that he could spend his twilight years pretending to be “f**king Jesus Christ himself” if he wanted to.

After a coke-fuelled sex binge on his private jet, Cliff is reported to have become enraged when his secretary burst into the room with the intention of discussing his personal appearance at the Berlin Christian Hasselhoff Appreciation Gala. Supposedly the German bookers had realised that he wasn’t ‘The Hoff’s’ dad as Cliff’s latest PR material had suggested.

Upon interrupting his good time with up-and-coming ‘It’ girls Tamarah & Samarah Booth, Sir Cliff supposedly picked the woman up in what has been described as an ‘aroused bear-hug’ and threw her from the side door of the jet. Miraculously, Ms Snow happened to have a one-person parachute stowed in her handbag and survived the ordeal; her only injury being the psychological scarring of feeling the touch of a coke-addled Cliff’s engorged member against her.

The singer hired Gill Snow in the 1970s to help organise his hectic work schedule and she had been a constant presence in his team ever since. Confirming the news, Snow told the Daily Mail:

“It’s over and I’m on to a new phase of my life. The office is continuing. A new [Cliff Richard] tour has just been announced and a new album. I’m glad he threw me out of that plane. Really glad.”

All’s well that ends well, we suppose. hecklerspray would like to wish Ms Snow good luck in the future and Sir Cliff the speediest of rehabilitations.

Despite holding a genuine old person bus pass, smelling of wee and forgetting where he puts his slippers on a regular basis, Cliff Richard has somehow topped the charts again. No, honest.

He’s become the number one bestseller in the hotly contested ‘battle of who can sell the most overpriced calendar to people you don’t really like enough to buy a proper present for, but y’know, it’ll do, it’s almost Christmas and you want to go and get smashed on eggnog and crap homemade mulled wine’ chart.

Weird, right?  You’d have thought all of his fans were dead by now.

What’s even more amazing about this story is the competition he’s up against. He’s outselling the mighty powerhouses of JLS and Justin Bieber – fans of whom will buy literally any old crap they bung their name on, be it condoms (JLS) or their own sweat (at least that’s what the headline ‘Justin Bieber releases fragrance’ was referring a couple of months back).

What’s more, he did all that with his shirt off, showing off his (actually rather toned and buff, really) uncovered elderly torso. I don’t know whether to be disgusted or aroused. Probably both.

BBC news (yes, because he is that important) bellows:

“Sales of veteran singer Sir Cliff Richard’s calendar is beating the likes of JLS, Justin Bieber and Michael Buble, online retailer Amazon has said. The star, who stripped to the waist for one of the shots, has the biggest-selling male celebrity calendar.”

See, Amazon said it, so it must be true. Hopefully, the ‘Spray will spare your eyes by not using the half naked picture from the BBC in the future, as we imagine it would be pretty embarrassing to be throwing up your lunch over your computer while having an enormous erection.

Amazingly, national treasure turned national hate figure Cheryl Cole is outselling second-placed Kylie 4 to 1 despite inflicting a haunted miniature version of herself on the nation week after week. Presumably this means that  the dartboard industry is in for a gloomy time this Christmas.

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The main problem with famous people is that they have such trouble keeping their underpants on. Everyone’s at it these days. It’s all sex here, sex over there, more sex here again. Do an interview, have a bit of sex. Sing a song, then have sex. Go to an awards show, have sex with someone first.

The latest celebrity having sex with people who aren’t his wife is Mark Owen – the cute little gentleman from Take That. The one who looks like the main character in an imaginary film called Hobbits – Lost in Miami.

Only, whilst the funny little people in that movie would just wander around looking confused and overawed by everything – even everyday items like kettles, or ironing boards - in real life Mark has been busily showing strangers his penis.

So, with that in mind, we thought it high time to list some famous people who DEFINITELY would not cheat on you if you got married…

Britney Spears

Yes, this one might come as a shock to some, being that Britney doesn’t tend to wash herself or bother with things like bras – normally tell tale signs that a lady might be dabbling in prostitution/crack, but not here. No, these are signals that smack of a woman who doesn’t want to attract the kind of smooth talkers who specialise in having rampant affairs with glamorous celebrities. She just wants a man who will love her for the terrifying maniac that she is. That could be you.

Joe Jonas

The Jonas Brothers have made a solemn vow never to have sex with anyone without first getting written permission from God. In infidelity terms, this can only be a good thing. But as with any family, you must beware the first born, and the last – they’re the most likely to skid off the rails, and succumb to the temptation of a frantic liaison with a girl who snuck onto the tour bus. Go for the level head in the middle – Joe. You know what they say, once a virgin always a virgin. Actually, that last bit’s not strictly true.

Geri Halliwell

My God, Geri Halliwell would love you. Love you with a blistering intensity that would blow your mind. No chance of any illicit sex here, because the woman would be too busy clinging onto your waist, begging that you outline exactly what it is that you love about her again… every damn day for the rest of your life. We’ll be honest, in this scenario, you’re the most likely party to slope off looking for cheap thrills. If only to forget. Just for a few stolen moments.

Tom Cruise

Remember, having a sexual affair with someone is very time consuming, and probably quite tiring too. Tom Cruise would be far too busy for that kind of nonsense – what with his career as a movie star, his pledge to rid the world of lizard-people (who are EVERYWHERE, by the way), and all the time spent at dinner parties, attempting to passive-aggressively make everyone like him. Sex just doesn’t even come into it.

Cliff Richard

Cliff doesn’t do sex.

This was a guest blog by Josh Burt from Interestment Comedy, which you will probably love

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Remember when the Christmas number one used to be sacred? So do we.

It’s not any more, obviously – until Facebook waded in to fix things, 2009 looked set to go down as the year that an annoying boy with too many teeth got the Christmas number one with a piss-weak Miley Cyrus cover version. He didn’t manage it, but it sure was close.

Now that Rage Against The Machine have secured the Christmas number one spot, we should probably take a look back at years when we didn’t have it so good.

Oh, and we know that we only did a thing about the greatest Christmas number ones last week, but this is hecklerspray, damnit. Being nice about things confuses us.

10 – Leon Jackson, When You Believe (2007)

Rather than just list each festive Cowell atrocity one by one, we’ve decided to lump them all in together under 2007’s effort. An awful by-the-numbers aspirational ballad performed by a sobbing Scottish boy with about 14 different simultaneous haircuts. Worse still, unless he goes barmy and unloads a machine gun into a shopping centre, this is the only thing that Leon Jackson will ever be remembered for.

9 – Winifred Atwell, Let’s Have Another Party (1954)

There’s lots to like about Let’s Have Another Party. It’s upbeat. It has a title that suggests Winifred Atwell was a hollowed-out, exhausted-looking raver in her time. It isn’t by Cliff Richard. But is it the sort of thing you want to hear while you sit down to tuck into a nice Christmas dinner? No. If you’re playing a game of high-speed snooker or running away from the bobbies? Yes. But nothing Christmassy.

8 – Band Aid 20, Do They Know It’s Christmas? (2004)

Now, look. We know it was for a good cause and everything. We know that, alright? But, Jesus. Turning Do They Know It’s Christmas into a piano ballad? With Travis in it? With Dido in it? With Bono croaking out his line like he’s pooing and ejaculating at the same time? There’s a Dizzee Rascal rap in the middle, for crying out. We’re all up for eradicating poverty just so these chumps will be out of a job.

7 – Dickie Valentine, Christmas Alphabet (1955)

Right, number one – you’re not spelling out the alphabet, Dickie Valentine, you turd. You’re only spelling out the word ‘Christmas’. You should call it Christmas Mnemonic or Christmas Bloody Acronym or something. Number two, you don’t need to spell it out more than once. You really don’t. Jesus. Some people, eh?

6 – Renee & Renato, Save Your Love (1982)

An obvious choice, maybe, but if we wanted to hear an obese man with suspect facial hair shouting at a woman with zero fashion sense, we’d go and move back in with our old university landlord. Really, there’s no call for that.

5 – Cliff Richard, Mistletoe & Wine (1988)

Possibly everyone’s first choice of terrible Christmas number one, but let’s cut Cliff some slack. In a week and a half he won’t have had a number one record in every decade since the 1950s, something that he’ll probably sob about in his giant tropical bloody mansion. Still, swaying like a wanker? Peering into that kid’s window like some kind of terrible pervert? That hair? The weird emphasis on the word ‘fingers’? This isn’t just awful, this is textbook awful. We get 77 seconds in before we start wanting to hurt people. You?

4 – The Flying Pickets, Only You (1983)

Oi, Flying Pickets. You’re Christmas number, for God’s sake. Put a bit of effort into it. Don’t film the video in the back of some clapped out boozer. And don’t wear a leopardskin collar on your jacket. And tell your mate to stop dressing up as Sylvester McCoy in Doctor Who. And stop obviously influencing the Flight Of The Conchords song Friends. Honestly, you make us sick.

3 – Mr Blobby, Mr Blobby (1993)

What? The TV character who was deliberately invented to be annoying turned out to be quite annoying? You don’t say. Still, though – this is exceptionally annoying. The only way that it could be more annoying is if was being sung directly to you by Noel Edmonds himself, from a throne made out of old Daily Mails, nude, and determined to softly stroke your cheek with the back of his hand. And Jeremy Clarkson’s in it. That’s never a good sign.

2 – Little Jimmy Osmond, Long Haired Lover From Liverpool (1972)

We have a recurring dream, you know. A dream that we’re walking through the city and we pass Little Jimmy Osmond in his horrible stripy jumper, waggling his head from side to side like some awful demonic little monster. “Be my friend, mister!” he says. We ignore him and walk on. But then he follows us. “Mister,” he says. “Mister, mister mister mister, hey mister!” he says as he tugs on our sleeve in an attempt to get us to look him in his incessantly cheery eyes. Long story short, we push him under a tram. He had it coming.

1 – Wings, Mull Of Kintyre (1977)

Why did this become Christmas number one? God knows. Maybe everyone was really miserable in 1977. The first half’s bad enough – if you wanted to recreate carbon monoxide suffocation with music, this is probably as close as you’re likely to get – but the bagpipes. Oh, the poxy bagpipes. And the fact that it NEVER ENDS. Screw you Paul McCartney. Screw you and your ratty mullet.

Oh, and merry Christmas and that, yeah?

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No, really. Actual fascists. Cliff Richard would have won Eurovision in 1968 if it weren’t for those darn fascists. Really.

A documentary was aired on Spanish TV last night claiming that Cliff Richard was the rightful winner of the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest in London, but General Franco‘s fascist regime rigged the vote in Spain’s favour.

These are just claims, of course, and we have no reason to believe that they’re true – firstly because if you can’t trust an all-powerful unblinking facist dictatorship then who can you trust, and secondly because Cliff Richard is going to be really sodding unbearable once he finds out about it.

The Eurovision Song Contest is now less than three weeks away, and while the British are busy rehearsing their traditional pre-Eurovision routine of violently disliking their own entry and then getting upset when the rest of Europe inevitably agrees with them, the Spanish have decided to try something different.

Rather than focus on this year’s song – which is probably for the best since this year’s Spanish Eurovision entry is a skinny tit in an Elvis wig and a tiny guitar singing a reggae song about how Hugo Chavez dances like a dog – the Spanish have decided to look back on their Eurovision victory of 1968 and blame it on the machinations of their fascist dictatorship.

Eurovision buffs will already know that the winning song was Spain’s La La La by Masseil, with Cliff Richard’s Congratulations coming second by a single point. But last night it was claimed that this was down to corrupt Spanish state television executives promising to buy TV shows from European countries in exchange for votes. The Press Association reports:

Sir Cliff Richard was robbed of victory in the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest due to vote rigging by General Franco’s fascist regime, a documentary has claimed. The British singer’s tune Congratulations was beaten to the top spot by Spanish entrant Massiel in order to boost the country’s international image, a film-maker said… In a documentary aired on Spanish TV on Sunday night, director Montse Fernandez Vila claimed Spain’s win was “bought” by corrupt executives working for state-run television.

This isn’t a good state of affairs by any means. Cliff Richard has already elbowed his way into popular trends like giving music away on the internet and tormenting the young, so the last thing we need is for him to become a standard bearer of grumbling about how political Eurovision has got. What next? Will Wired For Sound be included on Guitar Hero 4? Is Cliff Richard going to start performing guest raps in the middle of Beyonce songs? We need to stop this madness while we can.

Anyway, if these claims are true, and General Franco’s fascist dictatorship really did rig the results of the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest, then maybe similar practises still go on today. For instance, perhaps Scooch didn’t win Eurovision for the UK last year because of an underhanded political agreement by east European countries to vote for each other.

Either that or because their song was objectively rubbish and European people have ears. One or the other.

Read more:

‘Fascists stole’ Cliff’s Euro title – Press Association

Now, chances are you've just read the words 'Cliff Richard: Literally The New Radiohead' and assumed that Sir Cliff Richard has recorded a depressing wonky-eyed album full of experimentally introspective songs called things like Kafka SMTP.

However, the truth is a little more boring. Instead of, say, soundtracking an avant-garde movie about radio static with a series of dissonant chords played on the back of a kettle, Cliff Richard has instead decided to let his fans choose how much they want to pay for his new album entitled Love… The Album. But it's pretty much entirely irrelevant what hare-brained scheme Cliff Richard has dreamed up to sell his new record, because it rests on the hinges of Cliff Richard fans using the internet to preorder the album, and in our experience most Cliff Richard fans are so technologically backwards that they've only just learnt that DVDs aren't for spreading jam on and trying to eat like shiny Ryvita.

The music industry is changing, and acts need to adapt or die. That's why Madonna has signed her life away for $120 million, it's why Prince gave his album away for free with a newspaper and it's why The Charlatans are giving their album away as a free download, not because there's only about six people left who would have paid for it anyway. Crucially it's also why Radiohead let people choose how much they paid for their latest album In Rainbows, a tactic that will probably be most fondly remembered for the way it inspired Cliff Richard's latest gimmick.

Believe it or not, but Cliff Richard has always been a cutting edge innovator. In the 1950s Cliff Richard more or less brought rock and roll to Britain single-handedly, then in 1981 Cliff Richard invented the trend for twirling around shopping centres on rollerskates with epic mullets while listening to cassette walkmans thanks to his seminal Wired For Sound video. It's also a little known fact that Cliff Richard owned the world's first toaster, although back then technology was such that it was the size of six barns and took three weeks to toast each slice of bread. Plus Cliff Richard invented religion.

So with all of this in mind, it's little wonder that Cliff Richard has seen fit to hop on the music industry revolution and offer his new album to fans for whatever price they like. So long as it's between £3.99 and £7.99 and enough of them do it otherwise he's probably not going to bother. BBC News reports:

Sir Cliff Richard plans to cut the price of his new album if enough fans order it ahead of its download release. The maximum cost of Love…The Album is £7.99, but the singer says it could drop to £3.99 if there is the demand. Sir Cliff said: "We either keep one step ahead of the technology which is changing our industry so radically – or we throw up our hands and quit." But it is not clear how many orders are needed to bring the cost of the album which is due out next month. However all fans will ultimately pay the same price for the record.

Wait a minute, this isn't like Radiohead at all. This is like Cliff Richard offering to drop the price of his album slightly if loads of people preorder it instead of just mooching past it in Asda and thinking it'll do as a Christmas present for their Mum. If this is Cliff Richard's way to ensnare the kids into buying his music, he's going to be sorely disappointed. As it is Cliff Richard's music already scares children, but since his new album is basically Cliff Richard Sings The Hits Of Daniel Bedingfield And Ronan Keating we'd be surprised if children didn't instantly burst into flames and run round the streets clawing at their ears the second they heard it.

Read more:

Cliff Fans 'Control Album Cost' - BBC