It seems like the highly anticipated, but probably ultimately disappointing, collaboration between Versace and H&M is headed for rocky roads. Roads that are as rocky as Donatella Versace’s face.

That’s because the raggedy face fashion luminaire has decided, a few days before the actual range lands in stores, that she doesn’t like the look of people who don’t advocate bulimia as a life choice, and doesn’t want to taint her precious designs by putting them on fatties.

Ridiculous, right? Well, probably not.

Versace is famous for designs that only appeal to women who have less than one percent body fat who bump uglies with men who are in the highest percent of earners who don’t pay tax. So why should you be surprised that they aren’t suited for you? Would Rocky Dennis be able to find a beanie that would fit his swollen bonce? Of course not. He might as well just staple a quilt together and use that.

The waxwork faced designer has even refused to let “real women” model them for the promotional campaign, saying:

“Donatella will likely not approve shooting the collection on real women [because they did not] fit Versace’s branding.”

Should we be surprised that Donatella and the people at Versace have no idea what H&M customers are like? Nope. If you think differently, then you probably have no idea what you’re talking about. Turn around and go back to your Jeremy Kyle double bill on ITV2.

Just because Versace is one of the most sought after names in fashion doesn’t mean that the people behind them aren’t pus-filled glory holes. Do we really expect one woman to be able to run the entire Versace empire by herself? Of course not. She may have hair brighter than a thousand suns, but she’s not that good.

Nor does it mean that Donatella Versace herself is the person to blame behind this debacle. Even before the range was released, the rumours were that she would never do something along these lines, because the customers aren’t the same, and that it would dilute the brand. Which it will. Just because you buy a Versace piece at H&M doesn’t mean that it’s going to be an authentic piece of fashion history. Because it isn’t. Can anyone remember any pieces of the Madonna collaboration? Or the Matthew Williamson one? Exactly. They come and go like erections in the night.

Also, how can Donatella Versace give any advice when we know that she’s been practising really hard to reprise her role in Electric Mayhem, the Muppets House Band? She doesn’t need this inevitable mess on top of learning the guitar again.

So let’s not hold it against her. The poor woman has that face. She’s been punished enough.

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There’s always someone on TV spouting some fashion related twaddle about upcoming Autumn/Winter looks and how on-trend leggings are, and they’re generally all giant weeping arseholes.

If it isn’t Gok Wan molesting women and masquerading it as appreciation of the female form then it’s that nad-less Mark Heyes spouting how great different shades of red are. Not even taking into account people with colour blindness. That’s how much of a monster he is. And then there’s Jason Gardiner.

But one woman stands aside from all of those gushing Anna Wintour Wannabes and fights for the customer’s desire to get good customer service, taking under her designer wing a whole range of businesses from bakeries, charity shops and garden centres (probably). That woman is Mary Portas of course. Imagine how angry you would be if you’d just read 140 words and this was all about Fern Britton.

Well Portas is back with her sharp tea cosy-esque haircut and penchant for leather capes, this time turning her attention to opening her own fashion store, which has helpfully been placed smack bang in the middle of one of the biggest department stores in the country. Must be nice to have a huge helping hand when you start a business like this.

Snarky, us? Never. Anybody who says any different, we will see in court.

Portas wants to attract the twilight woman who’s body hasn’t been entirely ravaged by the passing of time and blasting out numerous children, of which there is an actual hole in the market. The only companies that attempt to contend with the more mature lady are Bon Marche and Marks and Spencer and they are so lacking in feminine edge that even the amount of HRT it would take to make Jodie Marsh feminine again isn’t going to make a dint.

Seriously, these stores are like the worst things about being a woman (probably). Even bleeding for four days out of thirty and not really being respected by men, unless you make a mean cup of tea and/or fellate good, is still better than anything Bon Marche can do. Big whoop, the same person who made Princess Diana’s dress is the instore designer. NO ONE CARES.

So how does Portas go around opening her own shop? By taking the space that is already dedicated to fuddy brands like Austin Reed and County Casuals, making all the staff redundant and using the space to stick her own wares in. Perfect plan. It’s basically Lebensraum, but with tights.

Luckily Portas offers all those staff she makes redundant to apply for jobs working for her, and even goes out of her way to poach the manager of neighbouring brand, Biba.

Unfortunately all the old staff that had worked there for decades seem to be fascinator-loving mentalists, so they get the big heave-ho in exchange for people who would probably audition for X Factor because the corpse of their dead mother has told them that they can sing just like Beyonce (Beyonce being the child down the street). Even a member of the old Austin Reed staff who resembled Vincent Price after he spent a few too many nights in G-A-Y and half his wages on meth amphetamine, didn’t seem to make the cut. It was either because his attitude stank, which it did, or because he advised Portas on where the best bathroom scene is. Both are unemployable qualities, unless you work in Topman.

Queen of Frocks is a great addition to the Mary Portas portfolio of emotions. Previous inclusions include; exasperation, anger, disappointment and elated happiness at finally getting her way. But now we have crying. With honest to God human tears and even tear hiccups. The new ginger Queen of Mean (which she won from Anne Robinson in a brutal cage match. Smashed Robinson over the head with a table. That’s why she winks all the time. Involuntary tick) shows her more human side. Which after watching an hour of events seemingly to run away from Portas’ control, might be one of the best things you could see to fill the gap between sessions of searing grief on a Saturday and Sunday night.

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Models are, if we’re being honest, the most crashingly wearisome humans on Earth. They’re hired to be transparent when wearing clothes (why would a designer hire a human who actively distracts you from their clothes, huh?) and work so much that their lives are a series of non-events.

The only time anyone gets truly interested in a model is when they start talking about the terrible regimes they endure to stay so sickeningly thin. Laxatives, cigarettes and bulimia doesn’t make for a glamorous proposition.

And so, Kate Moss has started work on her first autobiography, which will hopefully be mostly focusing on what a monster Naomi Campbell seems to be.

The model, who became vaguely more interesting recently after marrying The Kills’ Jamie Hince last month, has already started work on her biog, which will include revealing details of her past and career.

We can assume she’ll talk about drugs (she went out with lightbulb of pus, Pete Doherty for starters) and wealthy businessmen making dodgy propositions at her. In other words, we’ve heard it all before but Moss will absolutely be under the impression that she’s writing the most important book in the world.

A source says:

“Kate has always held back from giving interviews so the public don’t know what she’s really like and what’s she gone through in her life.

“She’s never opened up about her parents’ divorce, having daughter Lila or her relationships with former boyfriends including Johnny Depp and Pete Doherty. Her fans will be desperate to read it and she’ll make an absolute fortune.”

Fawning, idiot fans of Moss will be wetting themselves no doubt, hoping to live vicariously through her past without actually getting ’round to living their lives for themselves.

How wonderful.

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If Peaches Geldof wasn’t the daughter of a moaning old rocker who pretty much called us pricks for not giving to charity, she’d be the sort of girl you’d see tapping furiously on a laptop in Starbucks all day and blabbing loudly on Skype.

With a face resembling curdled milk, she always looks like a combination of someone surprised and zoned out. Either everything is a surprise to her, or she takes a lot of ketamine.

Every time she appears in the news, we don’t get to hear of any great deeds she’s done for charity. Instead, she’s either off her chops on drugs, accused of stealing clothes or having relationship issues. Basically, she’s just a piss poor UK version of marriage mentalist Britney Spears and jewellery pincher Lindsay Lohan. For reasons unbeknown to us, Peaches Geldof keeps on getting TV work, with ITV2 giving her a ghastly show called OMG! With Peaches Geldof.

ITV2 is the equivalent of BBC3 where programming is commissioned for the respective network, all because it hasn’t quite got the sophisticated factor to be shown on the main channel. While we know that it’s designed to test the waters, the broadcasters labels the respective channels as ‘edgy’, ‘cool’ and ‘youthful’. Or, if you prefer, ‘totally gash’.

At times, we feel that ITV2 is used to give us never ending backstage footage of shows such as Britain’s Got Talent, X-Factor, I’m A Celebrity and Dancing On Ice alongside extended editions with seventeen seconds of extra footage. Occasionally, fresh programs are shown such as the never ending feud between Katie Price, Peter Andre and Alex Reid. But this a bit boring – what we want is something unique, visual representation of something that appears in glossy magazines.

We can only assume that OMG With Peaches Geldof is a programme that the producers aim to shock us with based on the 11pm timeslot that it has been given. Either that or, even before it was screened to the UK population, people involved with the making of the programme recoiled in horror about the monster they’d created.

Back in times gone by, pretty much before people could get their own decent internet connection, we marvelled at shows that showcased people who are open and honest about their weird activities. Kind of like a modern day Victorian freak show. But as websites like YouTube developed, the need to gawp at someone in a studio while a ringleader controls a hyena-like crowd isn’t needed. Peaches Geldof has seen a variety of people waltz on to her show including blood drinkers and older ladies seeking younger men. All making for TV that wouldn’t break the boundaries of a wet paper bag. Moaning as usual, she said of the negative reviews of her show:

“I like the language that people use, it’s fascinating and fabulous. I love to read a shitty review of anyone, including myself.”

We don’t know what’s next for Peaches Geldof, but with the way that higher education has been watered down, we expect that she’ll be lecturing students in how they can become successful at being famous for doing piss-all.

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Kanye West likes to remind us how ghetto he is whenever he can, because we shouldn’t be fooled by the rocks that he’s got, he’s still Kanye from the block.

But Kanye’s ghetto credentials may finally get revoked if rumours of his latest business venture are to be believed.

According to some magazine we’d never heard of until now, Kanye is to launch a new line of designer silk scarves. Which, as we all know, is the fashion accessory every wannabe gangbanger has been missing all this time.

How could we have not seen this before? Up until now every aspiring rapper that rises up from the street has looked a bit scruffy. They don’t quite have that Gentlemanly quality that would help them break into the mainstream.

After all, how threatened would your parents be by a rapper who wears a cravat? Not very. They’d even probably go to all the gigs with you and try and bop along whilst munching on cucumber sandwiches.

Just remind them not to go anywhere near the fish sticks.

Nowadays Kanye West is so far removed from reality it wouldn’t be surprising if he suddenly announced he’d invented unicorns and was personally responsible for Saddam being toppled.

His increasingly infuriating temper tantrums and bizarre entrepreneurial decisions fall somewhere on the crazy scale between Charlie Sheen’s meltdown and Mohamed Al-Fayed’s decision to build a slightly more lifelike likeness of his, “good friend,” Michael Jackson outside Fulham Football Club’s stadium.

We here at hecklerspray can only wonder at what other joyous concoctions Kanye will announce next, after the scarves fail to sell to anyone other than one of Primark’s elite team of increasingly expensive tat peddlers. He can’t be too far off releasing his own line of monocles, or possibly even a lovely collection of top hats.

All of which will naturally reflect his ghetto routes, by being obtusely neon and covered in bling. Because he’s from the streets is our Kanye.

And don’t you bloody forget it, or you’ll be whinged to death by a pompous, megalomaniacal Jay-Z clone who just wants you to respect him, despite never having done anything of any real worth.

Other than giving us some garish bloody scarves.

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Peaches Geldof has decided to forge a career for herself outside of composing listicles for a myriad of otherwise credible media publications.

It’s just a shame that she’s being accused of breaking the law in her new line of work. It’s a shame because, according to multiple reports, the 22-year-old is turning quite a roaring trade.

It was reported yesterday that the daughter of Live Aid’s founder, Bob Geldof, and daughter of the late Paula Yates, had been accused of theft. Again.

Peaches was minding her own business, coating her fingers with something sticky, when she was phoned by a store she’d patronised the previous week, Three Amigos, in Camden Town.

We should imagine the conversation went something like this:

*Phone rings… Peaches answers, with sticky fingers that are getting all over the bloody buttons*

Peaches: What?!

Store: Hello, Ms Geldof?

Peaches: Egads, I’m caught… I mean, yes?

Store: Hello. It’s come to our attention that the items of clothing left in our store, since your flying visit, have become covered in something sticky; possibly honey. And it got all over our floor. The floor we’d just mopped!

Peaches: So you want your floor mopped?

Store: No. Well, yes. But we also want back that £70 dress that went missing. Ugh, my fingers are sticking to our phone and my feet to the floor. I’ll have to phone you back. *click*

Pretending that conversation actually took place, we can deduce from our (not) scientific evidence that we… ate most of the honey with breakfast. Yummers.

The Daily Mail addresses the previous accusations that Peaches is a low-rent Lindsay Lohan/ Winona Ryder.

Staff at the Three Amigos store in Camden Town claimed that the garment disappeared after the 22-year-old TV presenter visited last week. One line of inquiry is that the alleged theft is due to a misunderstanding between the shop and Miss Geldof. The claims are the latest in a long line of shoplifting allegations for the socialite – though she has always been exonerated. In March 2008, she was accused of leaving the Victim store near Carnaby Street with a £500 dress she had not paid for. After store staff realised it was missing, they phoned her management firm and Miss Geldof returned to the shop and apologised, saying it had been a ‘simple misunderstanding’.

See, it’s just another ‘misunderstanding’. Those are like buses, right?

This was a guest post by Amy Grindhouse, so three stinkin’ cheers for that.

Clothes are quite an integral part of our lives. Not only do they stop our dangly bits getting in the way of sharp pointy objects but they allow designers to flog all sorts of overpriced garments that cost peanuts to make in sweatshops all over Asia.

But if you have no real ethics or morals, the main purpose of clothing is to keep look more fashionable than everyone else.

Out of the two fairer sexes, women are the ones who’ll often do battle with each other as they attempt to outdo everyone else in the fashion stakes. Stilettos will be used as makeshift daggers as fights break out over pairs discount leggings that at best look like they were modelled on a bin bags.

You might think that the local barmaid down the social can pull of her Primark buys the best, but the truth of the matter is, Vogue have decided Kate Moss is a more worthy winner.

Models are usually thought of as pretty one dimensional creatures. All they do is don some clothes and use all their energy to produce a smile. For the more advanced, some are asked to take to the catwalk whilst photographers do their upmost to blind them. Sometimes the dedicated model will perform her party piece of turning to the side, giving the illusion that they have disappeared due to their paper-like structure.

For some reason, Kate Moss is one of the lucky models that has broken through and become a household name. Otherwise, she’d have had a run-of-the-mill career before forging a lacklustre career in the Argos catalogue modelling socks.

Unlike Naomi Campbell, she doesn’t have a rage problem, nor has she accepted so called “blood diamonds” and been dragged off for a merry day in court, sporting a classy Gucci three piece suit.

Instead, Kate Moss has gone down the avenue of having not one, but two mainstream rock ‘n’ roll boyfriends. First up was all round waster, sixth formers favourite and blood artist Pete Doherty. Many so-called carers of Kate Moss blame Doherty for sending her down the path of booze, cocaine and other hard drug addiction.

Saying that, she has since scored lucrative contracts with Virgin and Topshop, obviously proving that powdering your nose does wonders for a career. Now she’s with Jamie Hince from The Kills – nope, we can’t think of any of their songs either.

We might describe Kate Moss as a haunted mannequin, however, as The Associated Press report, Vogue don’t seem to share our viewpoint. They report Moss as being:

“Tousled sexiness a la Bardot and for being the celebrity whose style is most emulated by other women.”

We have no idea what the hell the first five words are harping on about. To us, it sounds like something you’d order in a fancy French restaurant that literally translates as being ‘trout and broccoli.’ However, we’ll agree about Kate’s style being copied by other women.

Basically, your average teenage girl can’t fork out for a £100 dress that bumped up in price to £1800 because it has the name Prada attached to it. Common Topshop clones are now a common sight across the highstreet.

The Associated Press again reports:

“The British supermodel topped a list declared by the magazine as the “world’s most sartorially stylish celebrities”, which included Lady Gaga, Carey Mulligan, Michelle Obama and Sarah Jessica Parker.”

Did we say Topshop common? Scratch that, we mean Gak Chic.

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We have a friend that used to orchestrate panda fights in her basement.

She’d charge $12 a pop to watch, and when enough people were gathered around she’d let the beasts out of their cages. Those pandas are savage animals too – we saw them skin a guy once. It was a half-dead senior citizen, but a guy nonetheless.

But all that was when the pandas were younger. With the passing of time came panda-related geriatric problems. Also with the passing of time came a strange gay-panda love affair. It was actually horrific – not that anything’s wrong with that.

That experience is why we feel we can relate so well to a whole bunch of people in Arkansas. They showed up for a vicious cage fight, and what they got instead was two grown mean undressing each other in a flurry of lust and passion.

And you know who people are blaming? Borat. We mean Bruno. People are blaming Bruno.

Picture it – you spent all day polishing your finest brass knuckles until they gleam just so in the sunlight. You practice knee kicks on your wooden karate thingy for over an hour and you inject several numbing agents into both your face and groin.

When it’s time for the bout, you step into the ring full of confidence. Your opponent winds up, you brace for the impact, but instead of hitting you he licks your neck a whole bunch and tells you there are flowers from him back in your locker. You casually thank him, and notice for the first time that his eyes are the perfect shade of blue.

That was all from page three of our brother’s autobiography – word for word. The following four chapters are more of the same – it’s pretty redundant, actually. He calls it science fiction, and he’s still looking for a publisher.

Sacha Baron Cohen may have read some of it. We’re far from sure about that, but CNN explains our suspicions:

“Crowds in Arkansas came for the lure of cage fighting and $1 beer, but police say what they got instead was men ripping each others’ clothes off and kissing — a stunt suspected of being orchestrated by Sacha Baron Cohen of “Borat” fame. We had a contract for cage fighting. We were deceived,” said Dwight Duncan, president and CEO of Four States Fair Grounds in Texarkana, where the first of two Arkansas fights raised suspicions last month.”

Outside of Soho, San Francisco, and the lavender apartment our third step-dad eventually moved into, the cage-match crowd isn’t generally the sort that would take kindly to passionate displays of homosexuality where their stomach-jabs and face-punches are supposed to be.

That’s why immediately following the match, every male that looked effeminate within a five mile radius was rounded up, taken to a local park and tickled for no less than 20 minutes – which is ironic, as we’ve heard that’s kind of ‘a thing’ in those circles.

It’s just what we heard.

We’ve all been there.

You know the feeling: it’s a big night out and you want to dress to impress. But all your best clothes are in the laundry, and you can’t go out naked again – you always seem to draw all that nasty ‘police attention’, and besides, it’d be the third time this week. How you wish – oh, how you yearn and pray – that you could look like an overweight gangster who may or may not be dead and whose life neatly doubles up as a slow-burning metaphor for various aspects of American national identity.

Well … now you can!

All you have to do is head over to New York City on the 25th June for a Christies Pop Culture auction, the proceeds of which will go to a charity that benefits wounded U.S troops. Not only will you be donating your money to a good cause, but you can help yourself to Tony Soprano-related items including:

‘ … a bloody outfit worn when Soprano was shot at the beginning of season six by Uncle Junior in a fit of dementia, which is estimated to fetch up to $3,000, and his signature white tank top, light blue striped boxer shorts, striped short robe and leather scuffs that could make $1,500.’

Incidentally, if anyone is thinking of going to this auction, and they’re by any chance selling the costume that Adrianna wore in that episode where she played tennis and bent over a lot, let us know. We’ll gladly place an offer. Only, you know, because we need it for research purposes. Seriously. We’re writing a film about a female tennis superstar and placing that outfit on display in the corner of the room would provide a gripping visual ‘imagination point.’

Oh, okay. The truth: we’ve got a kidnapped hooker in the basement. She’s a big fan of Steffi Graf and it’s her birthday soon.

God, we’re so generous sometimes.

A lot of good so far this year. Lorra-lorra bad too.

Folded:

• Control out on DVD (stirring account of Joy Division front man Ian Curtis’ descent into martyrdom)

• Cats wearing clothes (always funny – like children falling over or Ruth Madoc)

• Free weights (gyms are for narcissistic ladyboys)

• City of Vice (if Programmes For Schools were like this in our day we would have stayed there longer)

• Juno (she’s a smart-alec kid you want to slap, but this is an okay film and no deep-seated hatred of the lead character should stand in your way)

Creased:

• BBC Breakfast MILFs (we’re all for a cheap morning erection, but come on)

• Leather bomber jackets (everyone has got one now. Vintage Cafe Racer, that’s the way to go)

• David Jordan (a dash of Wizbit, a smidgen of Bond, just a touch of Jona Lewie and a great big dollop of shite)

• iTunes (never far away from anyone’s shit-list, this breaks down more often than Britney)

• Chair-kicking teens (you heard right the first time – your feet will be torn off and used as doorstops. Understood?)