Grown Up Gossip & Internet Villainy
Ladies and gentleman, a modern day miracle has occurred, Holly Willoughby has been cured of her fear of ghosts, much to the delight of Phillip Schofield?s long dead career.
Willoughby, also affectionately known as the Willobooby, suffered from Spectrophobia (which it turns out is a genuine phobia and not a bad 70s sci fi series) so badly that she was once reduced to tears on the set of This Morning after a segment about ghostly apparitions.
Wooooooooooooo! *rattles chains*
Despite the fact that Amanda Holden should technically be reclassified as an android after the mixture of human tissue to plastic, polymers, artificial tear ducts and assorted car engine parts ?dipped below 50% in 2010, the Britain?s Got Talent judge has announced that she is six months pregnant.
More than this, because she is so far gone, she as revealed that it is a *spoiler alert* human baby that she's planning to give birth to.
Oh, and it's apparently a boy. Or, conceivably, a very convincing example of a synchronous hermaphrodite, which will surely brighten up the birth no end.
?Knees up Mother Brown! Pass the dog and bone whilst I pop up the old apple and pears!? This is how a typical person from London talks and we have no clearer example of this than Grade A bell-end and all round East End geezah, Danny Dyer.
As a proper Cockerney hardnut, Danny is the American equivalent of Steven Seagal who somehow gets away with making terrible films again and again.
We all know him from top quality cinema flicks such as erm? and urm… where he points his finger at some muppets, swears repeatedly and dishes out the pain. Recently, Danny Dyer was most known for his horrific ghost written colums where he advocated violence to women. Apart from that, we thought he disappeared in to the hole he came from and died peacefully.
Danny Dyer is brilliant. And by brilliant, we mean astonishing. And by astonishing, we mean crashingly woeful. It’s amazing really. Once he was just a rubbish wide-boy actor and then, mystifyingly, people started to hire him ‘As Himself’.
As such, we were greeted to a series of documentary shows that showed Dyer to be the vapid ‘ave a word wiv yoursewff tagnut that he is. More mind melting was his advice to cut a woman’s face in his dribblings in some dismal lad’s rag.
Sadly, it doesn’t end there as Sky have announced that they’ll be making a show that, quite possibly, defies all expectations of Dyer. Basically, it could be TV so bad that even the most cynical miserablist couldn’t even dream it up. Ladies and gentlemen, Sky 1 will be sending Danny Dyer to the Middle East in a show called ‘A Geezer In Gaza’.
Danny Dyer is amazing. It doesn’t matter what he does, the poor sausage always manages to do it wrong.
He had an advice column. That went wrong. He had a promising film career. That went wrong. He had a believable cockney accent. That went spectacularly wrong, to the extent that when Danny Dyer now talks he sounds like a troubling cross between Sylvester Stallone, Dick Van Dyke and a violent brain haemorrhage. And now Danny Dyer drives cars.
That’s gone wrong too. Danny Dyer, you see, doesn’t have a driving license. And that mean that he’s liable to plough into other cars, or buildings, or simply fall asleep at the… oh, hang on, no, that’s George Michael we’re thinking of. Ever so sorry.
Alwight?
You might have ?eard about me, Danny Dyer*, ?avin? a dust-up with Twat magazine last week ’cause of that palaver where I said summink about striping some bird’s boat race an’ that. Well, ?cause of that, they told me to sling me ‘ook.
Thankfully, those diamond geezers at some website called ‘ecklerspray ‘ave decided to snap me up for me own agony uncle section, called ?Dear Danny?. Which is ?andy, ?cause none of the other mags were interested. I asked ?em all: Tits, Piss, Jizz, Balls, Spunk, Shit, Toss, Wank and The Radio Times. No one wanted ol’ Danny.
I don’t spend all my free time poncing about on the internet like you poofs, so I’d never even ‘eard of ‘ecklerspray. Now I aint a mug, so I went round me mate Gary’s drum, fired up his laptop and ‘ad a quick butcher’s at the site.? Now I’m no expert, but I reckon it looks sound. Not a lot o’ minge or motahs like, but I thought, since they're paying me half a monkey and a dozen voles, I’ll ‘ave some of it.
So let's ?ave some now shall we?
Luvvly!
This week?s cream and cheese.
Folded:
Creased:
Danny Dyer is our favourite actor, mostly because he seems genuinely confused between ‘pretending to be hard in a film’ and ‘real life’.
He probably imagines that when he's out shopping, he can't resist a cheeky Cockney smile before battering the butcher with his own cleaver, and coming out with an incomprehensible witticism.
Implausibly, Danny has turned his gangster hand away from guns, but towards his keyboard, to put together a weekly column for Zoo magazine, covering such important issues as ‘how many sausages should you have on a fry up?’ (at least four) and ‘If I was Prime Minister…’ (‘legalise cannabis’ and ‘castrate anyone caught noncing’.)
The bit that's got everyone all in a twizzle though is his rubbish agony uncle column, ‘Ask Danny’…
You know Danny Dyer right? Yes, the man once dubbed by the Royal Shakespeare Company as ‘the best Hamlet since Olivier’ and praised for his deep, dark and gritty roles borne from Dyer’s unswerving dedication to method acting and delivering performances that Variety call ‘ethereal and devastating’.
Yeah. That Danny Dyer.
Of course, that’s all a bit glib because we all know that Dyer is a new breed of actor that goes to new depths every single time he appears on our screens. He’s invented a new zero-dimensional style of acting that effectively enables him to appear on-screen and act like himself, only ever varied up by the appearance of a cut on his lip or talking either ‘loudly’ or ‘slightly less loudly’.
And so, with opinion on the widest geezer in town at an all-time low, he’s got the sheer bloody nerve to slag someone else off for not being able to act. That’s a bit like a dog-shit criticising a rancid open sore for being too stinky. Dyer has set his phaser to ‘blah’ and Kelly Brook is in the crosshair.
Hey man, don't sit around feeling all sorry for Madonna because she hasn't got a boyfriend. That would be a massive waste of time.
Instead, peruse the list of potential suitors below, and decide which one you would consider a worthy follow-up to that pouting Jesus character who recently made a run for it.
Madonna, take your pick.
You're welcome.
