There is no-one more hateful on planet Earth than Bruno Mars. Absolutely everything about him is odious to the point of a year-long continuous vomit. And yet, there’s people out there who are determined to keep him in the public eye.

His songs are played, his stupid goofy expression keeps appearing on our televisions and no-one seems to care that he sang ‘meet a really nice girl and have some really nice sex, and she’s gonna scream out ‘THIS IS GREAT!’‘ while others willingly join in with “I’ll be lounging on my couch just chillin’ in my snuggie“

You monsters. And now, the law has decided that cocaine possession charges against Mars should be dismissed when really, he should’ve been sent to the electric chair for his awful, tepid, vapid, intestinal dissolving music.

So what happened? Well, Mars was arrested in September in some toilets. This normally ends in someone exposing their nether regions to an uncover policeman or Louis Walsh threatening to kill himself, but alas, Bruno was caught with a bag of cocaine.

He admitted the charge and fined $2000 (£1296) and given 12 months’ probation. He then completed some community service, seeing that his guilty plea would now be taken off his record.

However, the prosecutors obviously forgot to bring up his biggest crime: his album Doo Wops & Hooligans.

If those concerned had taken his music into account, then they would have had no other option than to put Bruno Mars to sleep.

The options are vast in America. They could’ve sent him to the chair or given him a lethal injection. So bad is Bruno Mars’ song ‘Grenades’, then public sympathy for a firing squad is not out of the realms of possibility.

In short, despite being one of the first musicians to totally be let-off from a drug-charge without much fuss, the American legal system has released one of the biggest monsters in history back to an ear-owning public. First you made stars of Nickelback and now this?!

Shame on you America. SHAME ON YOU.

Remember when Michael Barrymore was such a big deal that America wanted to steal him and put him on US television? His mixture of long limbs and open-contempt for gameshow contestants really was a winning formula in light entertainment!

And who could forget his touching tribute to the fallen Notorious B.I.G. which saw Barrymore rapping ‘I’ll Be Missing You’ on My Kind Of Music?

Alas, an incident in his scrotum shaped swimming pool with Stuart Lubbock saw that his career nosedived quicker than a Japanese WWII pilot, leaving him to appear ghost-like in Celebrity Big Brother. So what’s he been doing since? Well, if you must know, the answer appears to be ‘loads of coke’.

We must point out that we don’t actually know if Barrymore has been doing loads of cocaine. What we do know is that, before a judge, he admitted cocaine possession when he appeared in court following an early-morning car collision.

After a prang in his Citroen, Bazzamore was held after officers on routine patrol discovered the scene at the junction of The Vale and Dordrecht Road.

We included the street names on the off-chance you’d like to make it some kind of Barrymore shrine. And who wouldn’t?

Either way, he was found to have coke on him – he may have been holding it for a friend or, indeed, just had a little on him for special occasions – and a law wanted a word.

He admitted possessing cocaine during an appearance at Ealing Magistrates’ Court today, while a second charge of being drunk and disorderly, was withdrawn.

He was fined a total of £780, which buys a decent about of cocaine, should you be the kind of person who needs to blot out that nagging voice that persistently tells you that you cocked up your hugely successful career by being a wreckless nitwit.

Oh well. There’s always drink. He’s not a recovering alcoholic as well is he?

Well sod him then. He’s made his bloody bed, so he can pissing well lie in it. We’re not wiping his backside forever, y’know?

Our good friend Michael Barrymore has been hitting the yayo pretty bad. Think it’s time we staged an intervention. After all, he is our good, close personal friend Michael Barrymore, whom we care for. And as the good good friend of our friend Michael Barrymore, we need to be on hand to cater for all of Michael’s post 2005 whims.

Such as wiping his constantly replenishing cocaine moustache, or respectfully reporting the news yesterday that Mike has been arrested for his lovably endearing and altogether totally fine hobby.

At around 4am yesterday morning, the former TV presenter, and ex-guy-people-used-to-like was arrested near his flat in London with ‘unidentified male friend’ (nudge, nudge) for the most extreme of winter sports (that’s a cocaine joke, cocaine fans). The news of which, came as a shock to us all.

Not an actual shock, obviously – just a shock that someone would give half a chuff about arresting Micheal Barrymore for cocaine abuse in 2011.

Sure, Michael’s been through a lot over the past 800 years. What with Strike It Lucky, and that poorly received Hitler impersonation on Celebrity Big Brother, and all the rest of it. And as the old Japanese proverb goes;

“When C4 decommission your rumoured comeback chat show, just take some cocaine instead.”

Or if you’d prefer something a little closer to home, as Chumbawamba once said, “I Get Knocked Down, and Then I Stay In An Eternal Ebb Until The Day Of My Arrest, Where I Finally Get To Be Close To People Again”.

You know the one.

So, as you can see – a whole plethora of signs have been leading Michael this way for quite a while now. Especially when the big boost from CBB did not sow the spermatozoon of that vibrant resurrected career we were all secretly gunning for after all the ‘stuff’ (God, you guys and Michael Barrymore’s ‘stuff’. That’s all you ever go on about, isn’t it?) and instead went a little bit like this:

So all in all, we did actively try and give Michael the whole back sack and Robert Downey Jr. treatment. We really did. As it stands – probably best off letting him enjoy his nice cocaine in peace now, and we’ll just remember the good times.

No no, we said the good times.

That’ll have to do.

For those who know their onions about music, they’ll no doubt be a fan of Sly Stone’s work with Sly And The Family Stone.

Basically, Sly and his cohorts invented funk, melded rock and soul and completely tore the infamous Woodstock festival apart, knocking Jimi Hendrix and The Who into a cocked hat.

However, while most of the ’60s superstars died or gently glided into decades of beigeness, Sly Stone has gone about becoming a dreadful wreck. After getting found with crack cocaine embedded in his clothes, he’s now taken to living in a car park in his van.

In his white van, Sly Stone now parks up in the rough Crenshaw neighbourhood of LA. It’s sad isn’t it? Sly will be beleaguered and humbled with humiliation, right?

Wrong.

Of course you’re wrong. This is Sly Stone we’re talking about. A man who got handjobs from women while he was pretending to record them for There’s A Riot Goin’ On before erasing the tapes so frequently, that the whole thing sounds like a muggy (brilliant) mess.

And so, while he’s parked up, he’s befriended a local family and uses the shower at their house. They must be Sly & The Family Stone fans because he’s also pinched their son who is now serving as his assistant and driver.

According to TMZ:

“I like my small camper. I just do not want to return to a fixed home. I cannot stand being in one place. I must keep moving.”

So, from being a megastar to trying to convince the police that he’s not taking drugs again and that all that coke in his jumper is simply from hugging his friends in the music industry, to living in a van, stealing someone’s kid as an assistant while crapping in their shower.

Why is he so broke? Well, he’s claiming that he’s no longer getting royalty cheques from his manager who he’s accused of fraud and he’s suing them for $50 million. In addition to this, he says that the FBI are after him and that ‘enemies’ have hired hitmen to kill him.

This is the kind of mental illness we can sit back and enjoy (until it kills him, in which case, we’ll end up writing saccharine obituaries about how much we loved him) while Roger Daltrey waddles around in bad shirts with his gym-tits.

Ah rock ‘n’ roll, thank you.

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Religion is a fascinating thing isn’t it? Whilst Christians, Muslims, Sikhs and the mentalist Scientologists all bicker over who is right, they are united by one thing – practising terrible and archaic teachings.

Practically everything else in the world has developed and modernised, such as transport and communication. We reckon that if Jesus was alive today, he’d have been crucified on a wind turbine.

Whilst the Christian church hasn’t asked us yet, we reckon we could pen a mean 2011 remix edition of the Bible, giving the holy book a connection with today’s modern day mortal. As technical God, editor Mof could rattle off a load of ukulele based hymns whilst the rest of us try to work out how we’d cut the umbilical cord of a baby with a plastic fork. Once the finer details are ironed, feel free to Paypal us your £150 membership fee. Until then, traditional religion will have to do, claiming another celebrity victim, Daniella Westbrook. Sorry, member.

Over in America land, Religion is a massive thing. Almost as big as the waistlines of the people who attend Church services every Sunday. We missed out on that experience when we we’re growing up. Depending on your preference, a sermon conducted by a vicar or priest would tell us stories about massive boats full of animals whilst some bloke did all sorts of crazy magic tricks. Homosexuals are later berated and branded as the devil, all before proceedings are finished.

You’ll go home feeling the like the spirit of the lord has penetrated your soul, whilst some church leaders literally drill their teachings into their long suffering choirboys.

To us, Christianity is kind of like the sauces of Heinz. Not because the red of the ketchup symbolises Jesus’ blood, but because there are so many varieties. From wonky suicidal cults to faith healing, there’s probably an offshoot of Christianity for you. Born Again Christians are a particular breed of people who wake up one day and decide that they want to be happy clappy Bible bashers who either knock on your door for donations or stand in the street proclaiming the world will end in three months time.

This particular group seems to be for the individual who has messed up their life in the past, but wants to make amends. Daniella Westbrook is one such person who did have a prominent role in depressing BBC soap, Eastenders. Playing the role of Sam Mitchell, fame must have gone to her head, and then up her nose as she started tooting cocaine to the point where her nose fell off. However, she now has Jeebus.

Danniella said:

“I have given my life to the Lord. The first time I came to this church, I felt -something so spiritual and amazing, I wanted to cry. After a few visits I found myself walking up to the altar to ask the Lord for forgiveness for my sins.It was an incredible ¬experience. I have realised that there have been things I have struggled with, like guilt, that I would have never found a solution for. Because there are things that a therapist cannot give me – that I can only get from Jesus Christ.”

But surely there is some sort of induction process to make you a proper Born Again Christian? It can’t be easy as just walking in to a Church, knocking back a goblet of wine and dressing in a sheet? Because we’re not religious nutters, we can only imagine that an individual has to lie down on the floor of a church while the congregation wrap potential members in ripped up pages of the Bible until a caterpillar like cocoon is formed. When oxygen is expelled, the cleansing of the person’s soul is complete.

We’ve yet to find God; it seems he/she/it a tricky one to capture. The last time we checked down the back of the sofa, we found a 17p in change and a dried condom. Perhaps God is testing us?

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For all the misery that Charlie Sheen has put us through since his wheeze of Being A Nutter got tired, we’ve all been waiting for some comeback. We kinda hoped he’d OD on bad drugs surrounded by prostitutes rifling his pockets, but alas, it wasn’t to be.

In fact, since Chuck Sheeno knocked the drugs on the head, the best he’s offered is a stupid custody case which is less interesting as watching nana trying to work a television remote.

However, we might get to see his uncomfortable face grinning while he masks the stabbing pain of being torn eight new arseholes as it transpires he’ll be subject to one of those fine American institutions – The Comedy Roast.

Of course, this will be Sheen’s first proper appearance on the idiot lantern since CBS hilariously fired him from the laugh-vacuum that is Two and a Half Men. Interestingly enough, the roasted on Comedy Central will air at the same time the new series of Two and a Half Men kicks off, starring the equally laughless Ashton Kutcher.

Sheen says, with his trademark lack of irony:

“You could say I’ve been providing kindling for this roast for a while. It’s time to light it up. It’s going to be epic.”

Naturally, his stupid life is comedy gold for any comedian who wants to crush someone’s spirit right before our very eyes. There’s drugs, legal troubles, punching chandeliers, his haggard face, making porn stars cry, infidelity, his lack of career and absence of talent to have a pop at. Better still, in an attempt to seem ‘cool with it all’, Sheen will invariably encourage the comedians to go all in, saying that nothing is off limits.

We hope someone goes for the whole ‘Overcompensating for a small dick’ skit at some point. Lazy as hell, sure, but it’ll wound him and he’ll probably start crying before getting it out before everyone while the hall echoes with mocking laughter.

However, there’s already trouble brewing. Sources close to Sheen’s ex, Brooke Mueller, say that she wants her name “completely off-limits” when The Warlock gets roasted to within an inch of his life. And she could well be backed up by the law on this.

In the divorce settlement, Charlie has promised to never publicly discuss her drug use… which of course, he won’t stop because he’s a thoughtless, attention-seeking, emotional-cripple.

This is going to be so toe-curling that the whole world may end up with a clubfoot.

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There was a time, not so long ago, when Justin Bieber didn’t exist. It’s hard to believe we know, but it’s true. “But who did you have to provide annoying bubblegum pop that sent tweenage girls hearts a flutter?” We hear you ask.

The answer is simple, Aaron Carter. He was the brother of a Backstreet Boy, wore a backwards baseball cap and he had Bieber’s trademark mix of a baby face, blond hair and an unthreatening charm that saw him climb the charts with such sweet puppy love anthems as, “I Want Candy,” and, “Crazy Little Party Girl.”

Naturally all of this made him a target for Michael Jackson.

THAT’S RIGHT! Despite being dead for over 2 years, it’s time for yet another instalment of, ‘What inappropriate thing has Wacko Jacko done now?’

According to poor, sweet little Aaron (now 23 and somewhat less cute than he once was), during his early teenage years he spent a lot of time hanging out with The King of Pop, which would be a dream come true for any impressionable young singer.

It was during his time spent with Jackson that Carter claims that Jacko brought out the Jesus Juice and proceeded to ply the underage pop sensation with wine and cocaine.

Now why would a fully-grown man need to give an unsupervised minor entrusted into his care intoxicating substances? No, seriously… if anyone could tell us that would be great, the only things we can think of would result in our, rather overworked, lawyer having a heart attack if we published them.

Carter was quoted as saying:

“I did things with him that nobody else did… But I was also troubled about what he did to me.”

Which sounds downright sinister to us. His mum even had to call the police in when she found out what Jackson had been doing to her poor sweet little boy.

For now, let’s just take some time to remember Aaron in his more innocent days:

If only it was just Candy that wanted you, eh Aaron?

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Sly Stone, who has made some of the greatest records ever ever ever ever, is not exactly a well-behaved man. When he sang “I want to take you higher!”, he was actually more concerned with getting himself so high that his afro would be scorched by the sun.

Over the years, he’s consumed an amazing amount of drugs. At one point, he was running around his mansion, bug-eyed with a gun, leaving the front door open to anyone who wanted to come in, while having sex with women on the promise they could sing on his LPs. Only to erase their voices and end up with ‘There’s A Riot Goin’ On’ which sounds like it has been mastered on a well-worn C90.

And now, he’s in trouble with drugs again after the long arm of the law decided to haul his funky-ass in to answer some distinctly unfunky questions.

Sly has pleaded not guilty to possession of cocaine rocks, despite the fact that, when Los Angeles police pulled over a motorhome for a minor traffic violation, there was Stone, with cocaine rocks all over his clothes. The driver of the vehicle was also covered in ‘em.

Zoinks!

Peter Knecht, one of his attorneys, insists that the coke did not belong to Stone.

“A lot of musicians hang out with people who have drugs. How are they supposed to know?”

This isn’t the first time he’s had a brush with the law. Throughout the ’70s and ’80s, he was constantly getting his collar felt while being accused of drug and gun possession charges.

Knecht adds:

“You can’t punish a guy for what he did 40 years ago, 30 years ago”

However, you can, it seems, ask him why he covered in drugs, right? Anyway, this whole article was just an excuse to have some of Sly’s music on the site. Here we go…

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Let’s be honest, we all have pretty boring lives that generally fall in to a pattern of getting up, going to work, coming back home and sleeping. In between these set activates, we pad them out with eating, drinking and taking part in awkward conversations.

Occasionally, curiosity kicks in and if you’re anything like us, you’ll try and get creative, but ultimately fail when attempting something new.

One bloke who had an ever changing lifestyle was the former king of pop Michael Jackson. From playing in his very own fairground to dangling his kids off hotel balconies, everyday was like an adventure. Despite not being with us, the entire world is still gripped by his epic life, especially one man, Dr. Conrad Murray. Murray is the one who allegedly failed to stop Jackson dying of a heart attack from the drugs he ironically prescribed him. In yet another twist to the never ending saga, supposed evidence has emerged that shows Jackson might have had a taste for cocaine – a drug not prescribed by Murray.

We know all sorts of things about Michael Jackson. Most importantly, he made a lot of decent pop records. However, more varied than his musical output was his many faces. His chops seemed to alter every day, kinda like he was made from putty. It must have been excellent fun for his three children each morning as they styled dad’s face.

One aspect of Michael Jackson’s appearance which was under constant scrutiny was his nose. Despite the Jackson estate telling us, he hadn’t had much work done, calling his snout wonky is nothing more than polite. Delicately poised on his face, it was hanging on by a thread and nothing more than a blob of baby food squished together with two small pinpricks jabbed in for nostrils.

Was it the result of botched surgery or had Jackson been sniffing some sort of happy clappy pixie dust? That’s cocaine to us, but Jackson liked to give taboo things stupid names. Just look at the Jesus Juice he fed to his sleepover guests.

According to supposed secret documents that were collected during the 2003 child molestation trails, it’s reported that:

“Traces of cocaine were found in Michael Jackson’s underpants when the garments were seized during a search of his Neverland ranch in 2003. A secret police document has revealed that toxicology tests on the Calvin Klein briefs showed traces of the substance, along with a “cocktail of other drugs. The file also alleges that 500 bottles of prescription medicine were found at the property during the raid.”

At this point, we’re assuming that nutty Michael Jackson fans will leap to his defence and threaten to tell our mum what we said so we get no fishfingers for tea. What we would like to point out that this allegedly happened in 2003, therefore Dr. Conrad Murray and his defence team are clutching at some fairly tenuous straws. We assume that, in the six years of this happening, he’d have countless medicals and it would have been picked up. Claiming that a monster cocaine addiction made a drug crazed loon probably won’t stand up in court.

They’ve already gained access to photos of his genitals for the trial, so we’re curious as to where this is going to go. Could he shove a wrap of cocaine down his foreskin? That’s the sort of act that would appear on Britain’s Got Talent.

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Dina Lohan has finally admitted that her daughter, Lindsay Lohan, is an addict. We were excited to learn this, as we’re on pretty hard stuff too. Our weight in chocolate buttons, every time we get the hecklerspray house groceries in.

Giving up is hard to do. Lindsay’s an addict too. She’s not addicted to anything fun, though. She’s in rehab for cocaine. Which is probably less tasty and more deadly than delicious chocolate. At least that means more sweets for us.

While we rip into this unopened pack of melty goodness, we need to update you on all things Lohan. As the entire clan has been acting more cracked-out than usual, in recent weeks.

Lindsay is currently in her umpteenth rehab facility, pretending she’s getting better. One day at a time. And she’s taking shopping day trips, away from the Betty Ford Clinic, with money she ‘doesn’t have’. Because when your addictions are cocaine, amphetamines, and Twitter, there is no room left for healing that doesn’t involve retail therapy.

At the clinic, Lindsay has spent time in family sessions, with Dina, dealing with ‘the codependency’. And Lindsay reunited with her father, Michael Lohan. Who has been less of an attention whore than her mother, this week.

Dina, amusingly, seems loathe to parent in person. She prefers to do hers while on television. Which must be the celebrity equivalent of leaving your kinds in front of Non-descript/ Interchangeable Characters In Assorted Primary Colours, all day long.

She went on The Today Show this week to talk about Lindsay’s recovery. We learnt nothing of substance; Dina likes superlatives and has no clue whether Lindsay really hates cocaine now.

After talking about how ‘amazing’ and ‘life-changing’ Betty Ford was, and how ‘happy, relaxed’ and ‘different’ Lindsay was, Dina ran out of adjectives. So she strung this sentence together, hoping no one would still be watching.

Can Dina admit Lindsay is an addict? “Yes. When I first came to her initially, you know, that was for Lindsay to admit… I put her in rehab when she was 19. It wasn’t for me, as a mother, to come to the world and – I mean, how many viewers do you have? – about her problem, that was for her do. I wasn’t in denial by far, but I think it was for her to come to her own [conclusion].”

She punctuated that point with another. More terrifying than the last.

Will this rehab break Lindsay’s addictions? “We’ll take it one day at a time. I don’t have a crystal ball. I pray hard and she wants to start her own facilities, help other children. She’s so public, we can only be positive and look to the future to help other families.”

Other people’s children are going to be weaned off coke, by switching their stash for Mean Girls DVDs? Lindsay wants to open her own rehabs? Was that a threat? We can’t even tell any more.

This was a guest post by Amy Grindhouse, so hooray for that.

XBox Kinect

Walking piggy bank, Paris Hilton, is having a rough time of it at the moment. Yes, she’s insanely rich, but everyone’s seen her getting off with Lindsay Lohan and she’s in trouble for remembering the difference between cocaine and chewing gum.

Of course, we’re only showing vague interest in her because she was thrust into the spotlight for being thick and deluded on a reality show… and… well, by now, every human on Earth has seen her having sex via a nightvision lens, leaving us all acutely aware of what the Incredible Hulk looks like with a boner.

Now, she’s got more bad news as her boyfriend is in trouble with the police after an alleged hit and run involving a female photographer.

So who is this boyfriend?

Well, he’s got the silly name of Cy Waits and he’s been accused of running over paparazzette with his Bentley. His leaving a  celebrity hotspot called the Boa Steakhouse, in Los Angeles, caused a now obligatory media scrum.

The former Vegas nightclub manager, who just happened to be fired after being arrested for drugs possession, reportedly accelerated as photographers swarmed the car and then mowed down the woman.

That’s nice isn’t it? There’s probably a few celebrities punching the air at this news. Don’t worry. They’ll feign remorse at a later date should something terrible result.

Paramedics were also called and the alleged victim was taken to hospital.

Within hours, the empty-eyed heiress, who avoided prison time by the skin of her veneered teeth thanks to opting for a plea deal in her recent cocaine arrest, had taken to her Twitter page to blame photographers for the incident.

She wrote:

“Lovely evening with friends and family ruined by aggressive paparazzi. They are literally insane!”

There you have it. She was asking to get run over eh? Stupid humans, with their breakable bones and gooey insides dangling like flesh from a butcher’s finger nail.

Idiots the lot of ‘em.

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It must be wonderful being Paris Hilton. Think about it. You can wander through life with all the wide-eyed innocence of a toddler in a field full of butterflies, yet still have all the sordid fun that adults have.

Money is no object in Hiltonville, so you can toot as much coke as you like, shag people on camera and be of no fixed talent… yet still uphold a reasonably successful TV and music career. Why, that’s the American Dream in action right there.

It doesn’t matter who you are – YOU CAN MAKE IT AS A FAMOUS SOMETHING OR OTHER!

And so, the socialite dimwit has been tottering around the world like a parrot dancing for peanuts, not knowing the difference between cocaine and Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit. In fairness, they do look incredibly similar.

That was the initial story anyway. However, it turns out that Paris wasn’t getting chewing gum and Class A drugs mixed up, but rather, she’d got all in a muddle about the difference between telling the truth and telling outrageous lies to a police officer.

Again, they do look incredibly similar when you have them both in the one purse.

Once she’d worked it all out in her vapid little head-space, Paris Hilton finally got ’round to nodding and dribbling mealy mouthed confessions about carrying cocaine.

Then she learned one of the most valuable lessons a human can ever receive -if you’re famous, you’ll get cut a lot of slack.

That’s right, while young black Americans get their arses kicked by police departments, famous people get away with murder as Hilton discovered that, by confessing to carrying cocaine, she would be hit with community service and a warning from a Las Vegas judge to keep her nose clean.

Literally.

Paris got a one-year suspended sentence, plus 200 hours of community service (which she’ll probably fulfil while filming various tasks in a new series of Simple Life)  and fine of $2,000. That amount of money probably doesn’t even touch the side of her septum.

Lindsay Lohan is probably sending her texts of support as we speak (and deleting dealer’s numbers from her cell phone while she’s at it).

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This week the scum-rags have told us about children’s star Sportacus visiting a young fan who has lost his limbs and doing press-ups and a one-handed handstand in front of him (the definition of rubbing it in surely?) and publishing the name and photos of Baby P’s mum, and then getting cross that she’ll need a new identity.

But we’re guessing you don’t want to unwind in your lunch-hour with quite such dark matter. Well then let’s talk about Kerry Katona, a woman addicted to, and almost biologically allergic to, being famous.

It would seem that the recent criticism of the News of the World about phone-tapping hasn’t upset News International too much. Someone has hidden a camera in Kerry’s house, and sold film of her snorting cocaine to the newspapers, including The Sun. Only in the wonderful world of tabloid journalism can you advocate the filming of someone in their own house and take the moral high ground. They get to condemn her, whilst simultaneously pretending to be concerned about her welfare.

They then have the usual quotes from sources ‘close to the couple’ who can’t believe that Kerry is more concerned with who has installed a camera in her bathroom. Which is an understandable position for the ‘source’ to adopt if you’re the one who installed the camera. Presumably they’re bitter that they couldn’t sell pictures to the Sport of Kerry having a poo under the headline Atomic Shittin’.

On Tuesday The Star got their scoop by interviewing Max Clifford, Kerry’s ex-PR rep and a man whose self-image is so wildly different from the reality, he can say things like “the relationship she has with [husband Mark Croft] is clearly not good for her” without exploding and covering everything in gore and irony.

Next on the hypocrisy train was Iceland with a priceless statement that they had “always stuck by her, as an example of a normal person and mum who has experienced some of the modern-day culture of fame, and how difficult it can be to deal with”. This translates as “we didn’t sack her before, because we made money from the fame in question”. They have also promised to give her “appropriate support, should she require [their] assistance”. What support can fucking Iceland give? Last time I checked there was limited use of frozen lasagne in the rehab process or have they simply misunderstood and were hoping to supply the cold turkey?

The story took on a positively slapstick element yesterday with The Sun reporting how “cops swooped on drug-shame Kerry Katona’s home only to find Mum had gone to Tenerife”. Perhaps the two plain-clothes policemen (can two people ‘swoop’, surely a decent swooping require at least six policemen in full-uniform?) should have read Monday’s Sun when they reported that Katona was going to Tenerife and saved themselves any embarrassingly pointless swoop action.

[story by Si Sharp]

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Looking back, the world fell in love with Marcia Brady because of her adorable hollow eyes and her wholesome trembling hyperactive paranoia.

That’s the reason why everyone’s favourite episodes of The Brady Bunch is the one where Marcia Brady plumbs the squalid depths of addiction thanks to her years growing up in an abusive family, trading sex for drugs and being forced to deal with unwanted pregnancies. And that episode where Marcia Brady gets hammered on Quaaludes in Sammy Davis Jr‘s house? Oh Marcia Marcia Marcia.

Wait, they’re not episodes of The Brady Bunch at all – they’re excerpts from Maureen McCormick‘s new book, Here’s The Story: Surviving Marcia Brady And Finding My True Voice. You might think that Maureen McCormick has reached a new pitiful low by detailing her battles with depression and drug addiction in a book for cash, but you’re wrong – she’s nowhere near the pitiful low benchmark set by her participation in A Very Brady Christmas.

If we ever have children, the first thing we’re going to do is shove them into ill-fitting careers as childstars. Really, it’s the best thing for them. Admittedly they’ll grow up with a sort of low self-esteem Pavlovian conditioning that’ll equate attention with love, making them spiral off into the dark realms of joyless sex and drug addiction by their early teens. But they’ll thank us later when their careers dry up and they can get an easy second income by detailing what a shitty childhood they had in a series of books.

Honestly, everyone’s at it. Screech from Saved By The Bell has a book coming out, it can only be a matter of time before Gary Coleman releases a book called What’chu Talkin’ ‘Bout: Cries For Help From An Angry Midget and now Marcia Brady actress Maureen McCormick has had a go too.

Previously the two most exciting things to ever happen to anyone from The Brady Bunch were a) when Bobby lost control of his car in The Brady 500 and ended up paralysed from the waist down and b) when Florence Henderson lost her dog and got a bit sad about it.

But that’s nothing, because Maureen McCormick today publishes Here’s The Story: Surviving Marcia Brady And Finding My True Voice, her attempt to make all Brady Bunch fans so depressed and guilty by association that they end up losing all will to live. In the book, Maureen McCormick reveals fun little anecdotes about the time she developed a long-term addiction to cocaine and Quaaludes, the time she spent most of her adult life getting treated for depression, the times she debased herself by swapping sex for drugs and her hilarious unwanted pregnancy. E! Online has details:

“As a teenager, I had no idea that few people are everything they present to the outside world,” McCormick, now 52, writes in the book, excerpts of which were released today. “Yet there I was, hiding the reality of my life behind the unreal perfection of Marcia Brady. No one suspected the fear that gnawed at me even as I lent my voice to the chorus of Bradys singing ‘It’s a Sunshine Day.’”

Well that’s Christmas sorted, then. Everyone we know is getting a copy of Maureen McCormick’s book. That way, by Boxing Day teatime, everyone will be so inert and desolate that they won’t notice that we’ve eaten all the sausage rolls and have stolen their Xboxes. Result.

Let’s hope that Maureen McCormick’s book acts as a valuable warning to the new generation of tween stars rising up in America at the moment. The lesson it teaches is plain to see – make sure you do as many drugs and have as much meaningless sex as possible right now, otherwise you’ll never get that publishing deal in 30 years’ time.

Helen Mirren is perhaps the only 63-year-old Oscar-winning Dame Commander Of The British Empire who still looks halfway decent in a bikini.

But even someone as distinguished as Helen Mirren still has her problems – like all that cocaine she used to take, for example. That’s all in the past, though, because Helen Mirren has revealed exactly how she managed to quit her drug habit – it’s all thanks to notorious dead Nazi war criminal Klaus Barbie.

There’s a reality show in this somewhere, we know it.

Drugs are everywhere these days – you can see it in our culture. Would the Teletubbies exist if it weren’t for the invention of mind-altering hallucinogens? Doubtful. Without drugs, what would Pete Doherty would be doing now? He’d probably a Saturday boy at Games Workshop or something. And who can forget that 1993 episode of Praise Be where Thora Hird gangbanged 24 members of a local church’s congregation because she was high on a mixture of cough medicine and glue? It’s tragic.

And that even goes for Dame Helen Mirren. You may know Helen Mirren as the lady who dressed up like the queen and won every award going last year, but beneath her staid exterior is the heartbeat of a desperate woman.

How desperate? Desperate enough to quite like cocaine and then sort of stop liking it about 25 years ago. Yes, that’s how desperate.

You see, Helen Mirren has been interviewed in this month’s GQ magazine and she decided to go for the whole ‘My Drug Hell’ angle – or at least she would have done if it wasn’t for those pesky Nazis screwing it up for her in the early 1980s.

Oh yes, the Nazis. We forgot to mention them, didn’t we? It’s probably best to let Helen Mirren explain this one herself:

“I loved coke. I never did a lot, just a little bit at parties. But what ended it for me was when they caught Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon, in the early 80s. He was hiding in South America and living off the proceeds of being a cocaine baron. And I read that in the paper, and all the cards fell into place and I saw how my little sniff of cocaine at a party had an absolute direct route to this fucking horrible man in South America.”

Helen Mirren is absolutely right about this. If you take drugs, you’re helping to fund the Nazi party. We’re sure the Nazis are grateful. In fact we’re pretty sure that they’re going to send Amy Winehouse a crystal decanter as a mark of their appreciation before long.

Anyway, if this is true and Klaus Barbie managed to wean Helen Mirren off cocaine, then he must be kicking himself from beyond the grave at the moment. Had he known about this earlier, he might have been able to get it together to become a motivational speaker. Imagine the publishing opportunities – Klaus Barbie Helps You Kick Drugs, Drop A Dress Size The Nazi Way, SS Stands For Super Selfconfidence….

Don’t laugh – you’d still feel less dirty buying those than you would with anything by Paul McKenna, wouldn’t you?