Winona Ryder once said: “Dear diary, my teen angst bullshit now has a body count,” clearly she was watching Skins where, in the opening three episodes of the season, two people have been brutally butchered from the cast list. We haven’t seen one funeral.

In fact the closest we come to Richard Curtis territory is a seaside elegy and mere reference to a wedding. Obviously this is too inherently British for the residents of Bristol who are more content to wallow.

It’s all getting totes emosh up in here which is no doubt why the writers this week introduced us all to a new plucky character to reconfigure the group dynamic. He’s gay too, so that not-graphic-enough-sex-scene ticks another demographic box for the youth enveloping programme.

New Gay and dice man about town Alex got the spotlight this evening along with fag-hag Liv who’s back on the booze and off the rails, on fine form as all of her associates decide that communication is overrated. Instead, they opt for a series of scowls, smiles, and generally fraught looks.

Alex, despite the weird face and normal name, was actually a rather good character to introduce at such a late stage. They brought him in shrouded in a smug cloud of smuggish mystery, like an amateur Derren Brown looking for work in a bowling alley, but he turned out to be a well-rounded young man who actually introduced the concept of ‘see you at college’ to the group.

Obviously nobody saw anyone at college because this programme is teaching us all that you don’t need to learn things – you just need to know how to cheat at poker. We can recommend the DVD special features on the film 21 if you’re looking for a quick guide to card counting. Or just watch The Real Hustle if you can bear it.

Anyway, it was a strangely melancholy episode for Skins. With half of the cast dead or mysteriously absent, it only left a few faces to glumly teach us the art of the awkward silence and boy did they stay stony faced in solidarity. You know when your friend dies and you just knock back a few shots and don’t move on? That is exactly what happened for an hour last night on E4 – at least we had it in HD is all we’re saying. Of course it wouldn’t be Skins if there wasn’t time for a few parties, a quick flash of the tits and some reciting of Nietzsche.

Dead Grace would have loved the send-off, but she might have wondered where her boyfriend was. Rich, hi if you’re reading this –  please do come back and tell us you’re not in a mental institution for hallucinating all those moments with the one you loved after she had been dead at least 24 hours, cheers.

Frankly nothing really happened this week and it is easily the best episode of the series so far, which is a bit backwards. This is possibly because this mundanity is what being a teenager is actually like. It’s not smuggling drugs in the desert and the like. It’s sitting around, not knowing what to say.

It won’t last though. TV won’t allow a character to languish. It’ll be bags of ket in no time, with yawning predictability.

It’s Friday and the hecklerspray bedsit has breathed a collective sigh of relief as they’re allowed out into the world to live among functioning humans for a couple of days. Unfortunately, I’m still here as there are Readers’ Letters to be analysed. Still, it’s nice to have a bit of peace and quiet to work. No Mof Gimmers shouting about codpieces, no Sophie Hall shouting at Kris Wood for making a reclining chair out of sausage and no Euan L Davidson, breathing heavily in my ear.

Yes folks, Fridays are the nicest time to be in the bedsit. It’s easier to sit in “the clean chair” and the stale stench of discarded cigarettes and methylated spirits is beginning to lift. Unfortunately, that means that the foetid stench of the hecklerspray post bag is coming through loud and clear.

It stings the nostrils.

This week has seen some of our most preposterous correspondence to date. Even long-forgotten artists of yesteryear are getting a mention from the lobotomised dingbats that frequently troll their way through the site. What, you don’t believe me?

How about Justine Clark who got in touch to, and I’m not making this up, offer an opinion on Daniel Bedingfield, the artistic equivalent of a beige dining room:

You talk absolute crap re: Daniel Bedingfield in my opinion. His CD Gotta Get Thru This is totally amazing as far as I’m concerned. This is why art is so wonderful and the media is so crucifying. You annoy me immensly and if only you were that spider you so lovingly spoke about.

Art is wonderful, of course. Daniel Bedingfield’s artistic craft and vision is outmatched only by his sister, Thingy Bedingfield. Of course, it’s not just music that’s an art form.

Some people believe television is art, a sensory waltz for the pleasure of your eyes. That’s probably why people react so well to the colourful dribblings of the Tellytubbies or their grown-up version, Noel Fielding’s Luxury Comedy:

I can see why some people really wouldn’t enjoy this show. But personally, I thought it was brilliant. Haha. I adore Noel Fielding and his work, I always have. But what saddens me is that this show has been getting so many negative reviews.
What people need to really understand is that this show is NOT The Mighty Boosh. It never will be. Julian Barratt DOESN’T need to be in this show, because that would basically make it The Mighty Boosh.
Noel can be independent. Let him. Give the show a chance, guys. You’ve only seen one episode. Noel worked quite hard on it.

There we go folks. Artistic vision is not based on the worth or the quality of the finished piece, it’s based on how hard you work. We should have given Luxury Comedy more of a chance, of course. It was wrong of us to judge it on the strength of just one episode and we realise now that next week’s instalment of Carpet Badger’s Woodland Rainbow Experience will likely be one that pushes it into an entirely new realm of comedic existence.

Or it will continue to be pervasively shite for the rest of its run.

On the bright side at least, he’s not Brad Pitt who, according to this five year old article has a tiny penis. Mind you, that’s according to Juliette Lewis who doesn’t seem to have brilliant depth perception. Luckily, Brad has the world’s slowest rapid-response unit to stick up for his pecker.

A woman is more than acunt and a man is more thanacock. This is a very small woman with a need to talk down to a man she hates to admire. Bradly Pitt is a very BIG man where it counts most to be big. He has a big heart, a big bank account and lots of kids with very BIG love for their dad. Also, Brad’s wife respects him which places them both as close to Hollywoody as the planet Mars. Its a real tribute for them to come off as martians in Hollywood where no human thing lasts for long no matter what its size. And another thing about size… In Hollywood the size of a THING is closest to the hearts of men, only a man who loves women would care less about who is unimpressed with the size ofhisSHOE. Pisson HayawathaKuntababe who coulda shoulda woulda but wasn’t anything at all.

Decipher the nonsensical crap and that’s quite a pleasant comment. Men and women shouldn’t be judged on things that they can’t help. Although, not everyone shares the same opinion of people. Remember homophobic git-drip Diane Richardson from last week’s Readers’ Letters? Well, this week she’s back with one of the most sexually menacing comments we’ve ever had:

I am not a moron, i can lay on my bed and put a 14? dildo into my anus until its disappeared and you wont even see a flinch in my eye, can either of you to dipshits do that, the answer is NO !!
What planet are you guys living on, everyone knows that the deeper you can put something into your ass, the smarter you are, so you had better straighten up because i am obviously far superior to either of you.
As for you JOANNA, you probably couldnt even get your pinkie finger in your ass, thats how dumb you are…………Retard !!

Make sure you don’t puncture any vital organs while you’re doing that, Diane. Of course, the insertion of floppy, phallic objects into oneself is high on the agenda of one Paris Jackson, daughter of Michael. She’s pre-destined to have really kinky, unprotected sex with Justin Bieber, according to God. Naturally, the whine of pernicious cunts that call themselves Michael Jackson fans are furious about this biblical necessity:

Whoever wrote this article is a fucking dickhead! You have no respect for anyone whatsoever. Maybe your just jealous coz no one gives you the sex-eye you fuckwit. Excuse my language but you deserve it doochebag. RIP MJ. We love you man. I wish Paris the best in life. Not so much of a fan of Beiber but..whatever.

We also wish Paris the best in life. Perhaps she’ll have a child out of wedlock with young Bieber and it can grow up to be the second coming of Christ, given the religious following that both precocious brats have. Still, at least that was polite compared to DharmaRepublic’s effort, who decided to call us Nazis:

THIS IS MEANT TO A WEBSITE?..news?..entertainment??..or is it the Nazi guide to news….from a Christian perspective?

lol..

GROWN UP GOSSIP…lmAOooOOoo,….hahah

some people REALLY DO DELUDE THEMSELVES DONT THEY….like the creators of such errr…..Site .

This is definitely a website. The fact that it can be read on the internet should be the first clue. Of course, the Nazi guide to news wouldn’t have a Christian perspective, as such but given that DharmaRepublic laughs at their own “jokes” using the term “lmAOooOOoo”, it’s hardly surprising to see them not understanding that.

On the bright side, at least they’re not threatening us with physical violence. Unlike the inimitable Stefani, who was so upset about the Michael Jackson Glee episode that she threatened us with actual bodily harm.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS FUCK ARTICLE ABOUT? STUPID ASSFUCKER IMMA KILL AND SMASH YO ASS AND EAT IT!

Given that the charming Stefani seems to believe that ‘assfucker’ is a biting insult, we’re surprised to see that she would be absolutely fine with eating the anus of our writer. Then again, Michael Jackson fans will do anything to imitate their spiritual leader Uri Geller.

That’s it for this week, folks. We hope you’ve enjoyed this sickening display of fatuousness and we’ll leave you with this:

I think this is a real great blog. Keep writing.

Just kidding, we’ll actually leave you with this:

Fuck you – you little tick terd. You’re a shithead like your buddy Stuart.

‘Til next week, you piss-stains.

As well you know, Demi Moore’s suffering and being rushed to hospital after seizures from alleged narcotics, is simply not enough for us. The fact she’s so unhappy is fine and all, but we need more.

Like what?

We all need to hear her cry for help. It’s not good enough knowing that she was desperate – we need to hear EXACTLY how desperate she was. Of course, this also gives everyone the opportunity to overdub her pleas for help into a Hitler video or, indeed, remix it into the next hilariously autotuned dance-smash! That’s right folks! Her 911 call is getting released to the public!

City officials plan to release an edited version of the 911 call made from actress Demi Moore’s home Monday, with any personal information about her medical condition or medications removed. Which is a shame.

Still, at least the palpable fear in her voice, potential slurring of words and any crying will still be in the final cut.

The Los Angeles City Attorney’s office has recommended that the recording should be edited before it sees release to media outlets to comply with federal medical privacy laws.

And, if sources are to be believed, Demi was caning ”whip-its”, which is a type of nitrous oxide inhalant. TMZ say that one of Moore’s pals called 911 after the actress had a bad reaction and started showing symptoms of a seizure.

With any luck, the phone call will also feature Demi Moore laughing her ass off in the background, with the pitch of her voice drastically altered or something. Let us not forget, while she may have been under the impression she was going to die, we need some comedic relief from it. We should be thankful of her drug of choice.

But remember, Moore is in hospital for “exhaustion.” Everyone should pray that we manage to find a cure for it.

Either way, this is all Ashton Kutcher’s fault. Not only is he hellbent on making the entire world miserable through Two And A Half Men, but he’s trying to kill Demi Moore.

Well done to all concerned. NOW HURRY UP AND RELEASE THE TAPE!

You can’t fault Demi Moore’s record. Some terrible, terrible films aside, some people forget that she put up with really, really Republican gunslinger Bruce Willis’ penis for a considerable amount of time, before taking on Ashton Kutcher in his most elaborate “Punk’d” episode so far.

Fresh from divorcing the “Butterfly Effect”, um, star (well, he was in it), our Demi’s feeling a bit sleepy and has been admitted to hospital with exhaustion.

Moore, who has been in over 9 films since 2006 (so, 10), said through a psychic medium in third-person: ”Because of the stresses in her life right now, Demi has chosen to seek professional assistance to treat her exhaustion and improve her overall health. She looks forward to getting well and is grateful for the support of her family and friends.”

Demi will be delighted to know this makes her hecklerspray fodder and we have no shame. We can only hope she pulls through to carry on playing Gloria Steinem in what is an inspired piece of casting, similar to Arnold Schwarzenegger in “Kindergarten Cop” or Uma Thurman in “Batman and Robin”.

Here’s a thing: how much do you reckon Bruce Willis’ appendage looks like him physically? We have weird dreams sometimes, and thinks it’s something like Dr Evil and Mini Me but all too literally. Yippie-kye-ay.

All that aside, Demi is invariably going to hospital to die because, not only has she got the shame of having some of the most peculiar surgically enhanced breasts in the universe, but she’s also got the trauma of being the only woman lame enough in the whole world who could have Ashton Kutcher cheat on her.

That’s like losing a game of cards to an ailing goldfish. Seriously. Kutcher has no merit whatsoever, and yet, he had the temerity to stick his wang up someone else. On their wedding anniversary.

Anyway, best of luck, Demi.

Are you familiar with Drake? If not, then all you need to know is that he’s the lamest, softest, wimpiest milktoast of a rapper who ever lived. Seriously. Your little sister could easily take him. Your dead nana could beat him up AND out-rap him.

And so, with that, does it surprise you that the weather made him cry?

Over the weekend, he played at the Sundance Film Festival and it snowed a bit. Instead of making a snow-sculpture shaped like a ho with a gun, he preferred to bite his nails and worry about the whole thing, cowering under his Power Rangers blankie, fearing for his life.

Late for his show, he told a crowd made up entirely of divorcees and poindexters:

“I almost lost my life six times to get to this motherf**ker. My flight was delayed six hours. I was on the curviest roads of my life!”

He wasn’t finished talking about his ordeal, at one point, asking for a lie-down and something to eat, telling his simpering, wimpo audience:

“I need a massage and a grilled cheese”

Obviously, someone would’ve had to cut of the crusts for Drake as well as wearing special linen gloves because the roughness of people’s hands hurts his skin.

After the show, Drake invariably went backstage, worried about any profanity he used because getting his fee stolen from him by a passing butterfly who threatened to land on his face.

He probably then spent the rest of the evening crying at the moon because he didn’t know what it was and it frightened him, before being talked round with a glass of warm milk and a big cuddle from his management.

If you’re under the age of 22 then you will be familiar with the Daily Mail’s nemesis; common sense. Whoops! That should read Skins. If you’re living like the characters in the show, then you’re probably dead and we offer our sincerest sympathies; we died around the same time as Tony who was paralysed by youthful happiness and, you know, a bus.

If you’re lucky enough to be a child now, then we can blame you for the continued success of what is shaping up to be a life affirming/sucking programme.

Either way you will all be suitably disappointed to find out that a new series is going to be cuming (see what we did there?) to E4 on Monday. There are mere days to prepare yourself. Here in the ‘spray bedsit we like to think of Skins as a disease and as you know, with diseases, you must inoculate yourself with small doses to become immune. Based on that logic and no small amount of self-loathing we subjected, or watched, the two ‘webisodes’ on that thing some of you are calling The Internet. It’s a sharp learning curve for us all.

We’re still on the third cast of complete and utter hopeless specimens and this time they will be entering their second year of a 6^th form run by snivelling political comedy insurance vendor Chris Addison, but not before a little and undoubtedly highly believable dramatic holiday to somewhere sunny. There will be beer  five litres of vodka, there will be drugs, there will be sex, and there will be nothing resembling an average teenage experience. Leading up to this spectacle is where the web episodes come in and steal 20 minutes of your life which could have been used better by staring at a brown wall and contemplating the relevance of the colour brown.

For the sake of everyone, we’re merging these two together in no particular order, all you need to know is that it starts with wanking and ends with two boys, one of whom has gained A LOT of weight, in a bathroom debating who gets to shove the drugs up their arse.

You did NEED to know that didn’t you?

In between a ginger boy fails to have sex with one of those easy goth girls and reaffirms two stereotypes that are going to cause millions of children to be bullied by the bastardised youths watching this drivel and a man who we reckon is probably a heavyweight in the realm of British acting, smokes a lot of weed and talks about his ‘iron lungs’ before being mugged and only slightly sexually assaulted. IF IT WASN’T FOR THOSE PESKY KIDS, EH?

Christ it’s an awful show these days, remember when Nicholas Holt was in it? Wasn’t that vaguely all right? Not even the world’s worst named child Dakota Blue Richards can make it better; though she often tries with her stony glances and androgyny.

Anyway if you can’t be dicked or have some sort of sense about you then you probably shouldn’t watch this. Always the antagonists we will be shunning the popular consensus and tuning in every single week to numb the mind before providing you lucky kiddies with our pearls of wisdom on whatever grandiose shit went down the following day.

So try not to kill yourself and come back here or else we’ll throw a massive, obviously, Skins Party—a popular term meaning house full of dicks—and you won’t be invited and you’ll feel really bad when you see all the photos on Facebook.

So. Death! Pretty serious stuff. Pretty bad all round, you could say. Like that time that gentleman from the news died. Not the Bin Laden one, the other one. Not Jeremy Beadle. Oh no, wait, it was Jeremy Beadle, wasn’t it?  It was always Jeremy Beadle.

Oh god, it really was terrible about Jeremy Beadle. Right. Let’s just start again. DEATH. Que sera sera.  Whatever will be will be. The future’s not ours to see.

Prince Phillip

That should get the ball rolling. See, Phil clung to his life because… well… it’s brilliant! He gets to eat rare animals, be as racist as he wants, drink constantly and do absolutely no work (aside from occasionally meeting plebs and pointing at stuff). He’s got it made. Sadly, he didn’t die over Christmas, leaving us with a grisly Queen’s Speech (which would have been Her Madge silently sobbing for 5 minutes). 2012 is the year the Reaper catches up with Phillip and sinks his Battleship, just like in Bill & Ted.

Freddie Starr

Okay, so we’re a good two people into this list so far, and it may be coming across that we’re just picking people that we want to die, rather than who, say, biologically aren’t coming up trumps. That couldn’t be further from the truth. We love Freddie Starr. We love that he hates people thinking he ate hamsters, and talks about the fact he hates people thinking he ate hamsters for money and is quite well off because people think he eats hamsters. However, Freddie did have quadruple heart bypass surgery last year. And quadruple is loads. Also, there’s this whole thing that he might have eaten a hamster, which is just brilliant. Also, he’s a shoo-in for Suicide Watch. His mind has unravelled over the years, to the point where he might actually do it.

Eddie Murphy

Eddie Murphy, once a golden god of comedy and now, four time donkey in Shrek, is something of a wild-card choice. Essentially, Eddie seems in rude health… but he’s as mad a talking hedge. Reason? He willingly had sex without a condom on with Mel B. He’s clearly got a troubled mind and, with that, there’s always chance of a massive breakdown which leads to death by misadventure. Or, if you prefer, doing a David Carradine.

Cat Deeley

Well, you know we’re not having you on about this one. It’s been pretty obvious for a few years now that Cat Deeley is not one for this world. Here is just a typical picture of Cat Deeley hanging out in her garden. Nothing wrong with that. She clearly knows how to trim a nice Ivy. Very good. Although as you can see, her garden attire here really isn’t very fail-proof. If she doesn’t get nipped by the hedge trimmers, she’s most likely going to catch a bit of a sore throat keeping her oesophagus uncovered like that. Something to think about.

James Hewitt

Because somewhere down the line, James is going to be frequenting his enamel adorned sexy kitchen that he bought with his Diana memorial 50p box, and somewhere else down the line, he is going to uncover (either through therapy; or by Reddit) that he once did this.

Paul Daniels

Seems a bit harsh dunnit. Ol’ Paul Daniels, with his little face and smile, and his magic and his *googles* overwhelming urge to gas Ian Huntley to death apparently… Moving swiftly on. Phil is getting on a bit. And err, yeah. He’s old. The elderly die. Also – when you have an ‘Outspoken views’ section on Wikipedia though, there must be something a little up. He doesn’t like Alistair McGowan for example. For no reason. WHAT A DICK! A plague upon your house, Paul Daniels. A PLAGUE.

Michael Douglas and possibly an aggrieved Catherine Zeta Jones but only if she can be bothered

Yep.

Berry Gordy

Sure, Louis Walsh’s claims have been a little just plain insane and insipidly stupid out there during his constant forays over the years of X Factor. However, on missive was passed off as stupidity when really, it was a chilling prediction. When Walsh said that Berry Gordy wasn’t alive to see X Factor’s Motown weekend, he wasn’t kidding. Louis has insider information and his statement was actually a warning to those that want to see the American music mogul live. In 2012, assassins will take Gordy down, mainly for owning the record company that signed Bruce Willis as a recording artist in the ’80s.

Paul Gascoigne

Quite frankly pushing it now at 44 (which is 132 in Paul Gascoigne years), we predict the once great Paul Gasgoine is not long for this world either. After all, the bloke has not just bi-polar, but also OCD, and also bulimia, and also he gave a chicken to a psychotic once. Not very Gazzamania. Yes, we know what you’re thinking… but it is possible to die of a broken heart. And alcohol poisoning too.

Barry Manilow

*To the tune of Could it be Magic.*

Fractured ankle. Bronchial Pneumonia. Non cancerous cyst in upper jaw. Dicky eye. Dicky other eye too.  Christ Barry, just buy a damn foot spa. Could it be magic? No.

Basically – what all the above was, was a cry for help. But we still think Baz is gonna pop it this year. Besides, his face looks weird.

Jimmie Krankie

This would just be a breath of fresh air from all these years of living in a universe with ALIVE Jimmie Krankie.

Maggie Thatcher/Mezza

The UK could not be throwing enough shit at the walls with this one. Twitter rumours, prearranged state funeral, Shane Meadows pumping her face into mediocre sub-genre 80s dramas like Captain Howdy – we just really want her to die. Now with a Streep-handled Oscar biopic hastily chopped together on Windows Movie Maker, we should be good to go. Unless that gives her something to live for. Unless she uses the plastic from the DVD covers as a makeshift ventilation shaft and lives for another 20 years.  We’ll let you write your own ending to that one.

Neil Kinnock

If Maggie Thatcher goes, then rest assure, Neil Kinnock will go too. His sole reason for existing is to outlive Thatcher. Such was their rivalry in the 80s, Kinnock could well visit Thatcher on her death bed and say “I’m only hanging around to watch you die. I’m going to die ONE SECOND after you do, just to irritate you.”

Geri Halliwell

Now stop right there with your “But 39 year old Geri Halliwell is the picture of the healths” and your “The only Spice Girl who deserves to die is Emma Bunton for practically murdering Petula Clarke in her sleep with that Downtown covers”. Sorry guys, but you can’t hide from the truth. 2012, we will lose Geri Halliwell all over again. And for why? Well, we’re not entirely sure (But we’re still going to write a very long article about it unperturbed) but we believe it might be something to do with the Spice Girls revamped 2010 Children in Need single ‘Headlines.’ (which we’ve just realised 2 years on, might just be a subtle dig at those pesky tabloids who often hassle the girls, YOU’RE SECRET SAFE WITH US GIRLS!) Just think of Geri Halliwell, all in a bra writhing against a wall that doesn’t look like it has had proper asbestos cleansing. At least Mel C will be safe in her two-piece as punishment for being a lesbian with a triphop album in the 90s. What were we talking about?

Mark Owen

He drinks alcohol, he has sex with women, he’s about 4ft. Eventually either the weight of his adultery or the oxygen in the world will get to him first. It’s more a question of when, rather than ‘What the hell are you going on about?’

Bill Cosby/Chevy Chase

Suicide pact. Just you watch.

Bez

We don’t know. Because of physics? Because there’s only so much lenience festival organisers can have? Because of people being more Pussycat Dolls-orientated? Because Or a healthy combination of the three?

Alesha Dixon

Along  with whoever wrote the music for the new Haribo commercial, the people of the universe will no longer take the soundtrack to the annoying adverts and pick up their pitchforks and hound these people into caves where a team of dead-eyed bumpkins await to perform unspeakable and ultimately fatal torture. E4 to televise.

Michael Eavis

He’s killed music. Now it’s his turn.

Matthew Perry

Oh Matthew Perry. Oh Matthew Perry. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew Perry. Although he’s over that whole not very convincing Gwyneth Paltrow in a fatsuit morphine addiction phase of his life, our hopes are still not high for Matthew. It’s a shame. He was so sarcastic, and all “There’s no I in team, but there’s two in Martini so everybody BACK TO MY OFFICE!” Haha! Chandler Bing. We mean, he was just so sarcastic. But you know who else was sarcastic? Well, a few people. Like that bloke from black and white films, Other Pope, and Gary Coleman. And you know what happened to those people, guys? They died, guys.

Paul McCartney

Because firstly he spent the entire of the recent George Harrison Scorsese-documentary mid cataract-exam, and also: Ringo Starr has to be the last remaining Beatle.

Eamonn Holmes

Finally. One we can all agree on. Type 2 diabetes, in the kitchen, with the cream pie.

Mariah Carey isn’t a woman to retire from the limelight too readily. In fact, even in the case of her husband – Nick Cannon – being all drug-eyed and dripped in hospital, recovering from kidney failure, she still wants in on the action.

Sweet, sweet fantasy babeh.

That’s right! She’s snapped her poorly husband and leapt on the bed with him while he looks half-dead in a bobble-hat, unintentionally creating the finest photograph ever taken in human history. And yes, you can see it over the jump.

The pair were apparently on holiday in Aspen for a break with their twins with stupid names (Morroccan and Monroe if you’re wondering) and suddenly, the America’s Got Talent presenter got sick.

Presumably, Mariah gave him a load of hassle and demanded to know why she wasn’t the focus of attention, before realising something was actually wrong and got him to a hospital.

Mariah tweeted the picture, along with the caption:

“Please pray for Nick as he’s fighting to recover from a mild kidney failure. #mybraveman.”

It has been reported that the hospital staff were very keen for Mariah to leave. We suspect she was oblivious to the reasons why this would be a good idea.

In an official statement on her website, Mariah said:

“This is us in the hospital – role reversal; Last year it was me attached to the machines (after having dembabies) and Nick was there with me through it, and now here we are.

“We’re trying to be as festive as possible under the circumstances but please keep Nick in your thoughts because this is very painful. They tried to kick me out of the hospital but here I am pon de bed with Mr. C.”

Wanna see?

So dull that even air has been known to ignore and stagnate around him, Robert Pattison is the most baffling superstar ever generated by the various casting couches of Hollywood.

He’s so forgettable that we can’t think of a suitable ending to this sentence.

And now, to add to his impressively tedious acting résumé, he’s going to pollute the world of music with an awful album of his music, created with his sister Lizzy, who sometimes has to be reminded of her extremely famous, but ultimately stiflingly dull brother.

Pattinson, often so criminally boring that his meal decompose in tedium when they’re served to his famous face, started piano lessons when he was three. Apparently, he’s developed an unusual technique on the ol’ ivories as, thanks to Pattz being a thorough charm-vacuum, he’s never played the black keys on a piano because they all saunter off when he approaches them.

And now, along with big sister Lizzy (who performed backing vocals in Twilight), he’s making some album or other… not that anyone buys albums these days.

Should Pattinson’s LP make it to the shops, the very shelves which promote them will probably fall asleep.

Some warty-div who knows him or something, told the Express:

‘Rob has always been so supportive of Lizzy’

‘They’re really close, so it’s nice they are working together.

Dull.

‘He’ll always turn up at her gigs if he’s around, but he’s seriously talented in his own right.’

It’s been written elsewhere that, when Robert was younger, Lizzy found him so unswervingly beige that she used to dress him up as a girl and call him Claudia.

THAT is how boring R-Pattz is.

Well hello there, and good tidings! But let’s just cut the small-talk here before things get all chatty-chatty like what those baby lesbians do off Coronation Street. So, Janet Jackson’s awful.  

Hear that, Great Britain? Here that, Janet Jackson’s official fan club underneath all the wild babble?

Oh, quiet down at the front ? JanFan47?! Cease and desist 1nPHATuation! (Amazing.) PIPE DOWN Janhova_Troll_Slayer! Not our words! No! We’d never flirt with incessant mockery and combine that with the Jackson family, what with all that pain and despair they’ve been harboring these past few years.

No, these are the harsh, cruel, ill-judged vibes of PETA of course. That’s the one. Bitch-eyes from the furries. Tut tut. Ohnoshedidn’t. Holy Things That Matter Entirely, Batman. All that.

After designing a (admittedly quite real-fur specific) fashion label BlackGlama, Janet has been called up for her crimes against all the adorable little swans and herons she’s been murdering grumpily whilst rolling her eyes and muttering about glass ceilings, The Klumps, and cardiologists that dawdle, and been told by the PETA to “GRR STOPIT WE DON’T LIKE HOW FAMOUS AND NASTY YOU ARE.”

Or if you’re hankering for something a tad more specific:

‘When Janet Jackson had her infamous wardrobe malfunction during Super Bowl XXXVIII, at least what popped into view of 170 million onlookers belonged to her, unlike the animal skins she drapes herself in, which are as dead as her fashion taste and her career.’

What, Justin Timberlake’s odium? Oh, right her nipples. Oh, let us off, it’s the end of the year.

Hmm. This doesn’t really make sense at all, really. Does she…win? Is that it? Did Janet Jackson win at PETA?

Oh, well in that case, that’s wonderful! Congratulations Janet. Especially when you must have had stiff competition from our own UK genocide attempts.

 *Sigh*

Robert Pattinson may well be so dull that sometimes, even light itself rejects his presence and that, granted, he’s so riddled with tedium that sometimes his heart forgets to pump his boring blood around his lifeless body…

…but he still manages to pop his doo-dah into the girls. Mystifying.

Of course, everyone has been muttering about Pattz and Kristen Stewart getting it on because, quite clearly, they’re a couple. However, rumour has it that Rob has been flinging his grey peen up the front garden of Twillighter Nikki Reed too! Oh the unbearable horror of it all!

That’s right. Pattinson, who you berks all love so unswervingly that you really should – at some point at least – recognise that there are real life people stood around you all the time who you might want to interact with, may not be the nice boy you thought he was.

The source claims:

[Nikki and Kristen] can’t stand each other,. They don’t even talk anymore. Kristen has never forgiven Nikkie for the fling she had with [her boyfriend Robert Pattinson]. Kristen never confronted Rob about the affair, she just put the blame on Nikki and accused her of pursuing him.

Yeah. That won’t harbour resentment and mistrust will it?

Nikki’s the most down-to-earth actress you’ll ever meet. Kristen acts like she can’t be bothered with fame, yet she lives for all the press about her and Rob. Nikki is very vocal about Kris not being appreciative of her success. Nikki is not one to censor herself to avoid confrontation, and Kristen does not like that.

Of course, bozo Twilighteers won’t believe a word of this and take straight to their badly spelled Twitter accounts to chide Nikki Reed and call her all manner of slut and slag while the world trundles on, completely obvious to these exceedingly boring individuals.

Amazing scenes.

Yesterday was great for death. Kim Jong-il (or, as some dumb American said, Kim Jong The Second) shrugged off his mortal coil while elsewhere, rumours floated around about various celebrity deaths!

One such rumour was Brian Harvey (not dead, but can’t be far off) and another was Jon Bon Jovi.

When Jon ‘Bon Jovi’ Bon Jovi heard about his untimely passing, he thought he’d redress the balance by letting everyone know that, regrettably, he was absolutely alive as can be. Alas, for a crime of Christmas in his past (for which we have a video), his death would have restored some balance in the force.

Overweight women and men wearing stained vests (or, if you prefer, fans of Bon Jovi) were left feeling pretty frantic yesterday when gossip reared up like a jaundiced horse, suggesting the star had suffered a cardiac arrest and passed away.

We were hoping to inherit his bizarrely uniform teeth.

However, his spokesperson who clearly doesn’t have much on at the minute, swiftly dismissed the reports while Jonny Bonny Jovington appeared to reassure us all that he was very much alive.

The singer posed for a picture holding a sign which read:

‘Heaven looks a lot like New Jersey Dec 19th 2011′

See for yourself.

However, his passing would have been a perfect Christmas present for all the festive periods he’s ruined with his awful, awful R2D2 We Wish You A Merry Christmas song.

Haven’t heard it? Start wishing death on Jonathon Bonathon Von Jovi right now.

If anybody tells you that car boot sales and charity shops are pointless, they clearly don’t know what they’re talking about. Nothing beats the wonders of rummaging through boxes on a cold early morning with a ropey £1 polystyrene cup of tea whilst searching for hidden gems.

The high street charity shop is a haven for those sourcing everything from old records to a piece of clothing that would sell for bucket loads in a vintage boutique. Granted, someone might have died in the blazer you’re donning for a night out, but a few washes and squirt of Lynx Africa will cover that death musk.

Whilst second hand goods of the common man and woman change hands for a handful of pounds, the rules change when famous people are involved. One particular auction has been on the cards for ages with Michael Jackson extremists squealing in their droves as they get the chance to own items that they probably already have.

One of the more bizarre items that was rumoured to have been up for sale was the bed where poor Michael Jackson did his last boogie in. After Dr. Conrad Murray had administered a dose of sexy medical help and had been unable to save him, the bed could have wound up as a weird shrine to Jackson nutters everywhere.

In a way, we’re sad that it wasn’t up for auction. We’d have just published rumours that if 10,000 litres of tears where poured on the bed, the ghost of Jackson would reappear. Thrilling.

The pre-auction estimate of what was on offer ranged from $200,000 to $400,000 which would have filled the pockets of the Jackson estate quite well. Instead, this figure was blown out of the water with the final total being close to $1million. For that amount of money, Joe Jackson could customise all of his famous beating belts with the finest gemstones in the world. So what exactly was on offer?

“A kitchen chalkboard where Jackson’s children wrote ‘I love daddy,’ which sold for $5,000, and an armoire upon which Jackson wrote a message to himself on the mirror that fetched $25,750.”

It’s important to note that the chalkboard came from one of Jackson’s kids and not from one of his alleged child abuse victims when he bought their love with Jesus Juice and extreme sleepovers. However, it does make us wonder what a chalkboard with a message saying “HELP, HE TOUCHED MY SPECIAL AREA” would be worth.

Whilst it might seem creepy that someone purchased items with personal family messages on, you can always count on Michael Jackson weirdness to go that one extra step:

“The headboard from the bed where Jackson died at age 50 was removed from the auction at the family’s request, but the rug that was beneath the bed sold for $15,360. The estimate had been $400 to $600.”

Yeah! Maximum respect for the headboard there. Who knows what someone would do it if they purchased it? Christ, they might replace it with their bedroom rug, so that  Michael can almost be watching over them whilst they sleep and search for the sweetest of dreams. Who wouldn’t want their very own drug addicted skin morphing guardian angel looking after them?

With the auctions all over, how refreshing is it to know that grown adults will be going to bed and cuddling objects that Michael Jackson either touched, licked, rubbed or got aroused over?

Terrible news, readers. Kim Jong-il, has gone and died on us, leaving a rather small but impressive hole in the fabric of our world’s society. Seriously, he was a veritable Superman and we’ll never see his like again.

Of course, Kim Jong-il went by a variety of names. His people (lucky beggars!) referred to him as the Supreme Leader, as well as our Father, the General, Generalissimo, General Knowledge Round, Dear Leader, Mmm Leerdammer, I’m The Leader Of The Gang (I Am), Bodacious Kim and many other fabulous names

And now he’s gone and died because he was just too awesome to live. Let us look at his life and achievements.

As you know, Kim Jong-il could fly like a superhero and possessed the strength of 60 elephants. He was also a master of magic, spells and illusion (enemies would grumble with fear and confusion when faced with ‘Mister Rad – The Sacred Hombre’) who lead North Korea since the 1940s, despite only being 21 years old when he died.

‘The Bodacious Daddio’ was last seen in public at a music store with his son, Kim Jong-un who is suspected to take frontman duties in the veritable Status Quo that is North Korea. Of course, Kim Jon-il was an avid music fan, releasing a number of albums throughout his illustrious and totally cool life.

In 1967, he released with psychedelic masterpiece ‘I Can Totally Fly’, widely regarded to be the Sergeant Pepper of the Communist world. Through the ’70s, Kim Jong-il discovered disco and released a number of singles which topped the Korean charts such as ‘I Like Looking At Things‘, ‘My Tiny Little Spectacles‘ and ‘Juche‘ which contained that infamous lyric; “Live our own way; fight our own way; create our own way! A product reflects the face of the producer! So party with your pants off baby!“

In later years, Kim Jong-il would team up with famous guest-stars from the West. He performed a duet with Katie Melua on the song ‘If You Don’t Do As I Say (I’ll Kill You)‘, taken from the film ‘Kim Jong-il Is Really Great Isn’t He?‘. He also had a minor UK hit in 2004 after his successful appearance on Team America, with a club remix of ‘It’s A Bit Racist Saying ‘Ronery’‘, which of course, launched the career of rapper Pitbull.

A keen cook, Jongy also invented ‘the double bread meat sandwich’ or, if you prefer, the hamburger. Shortly before his death, it was rumoured that he was working on various culinary inventions like ‘water’ and ‘Kellogg’s Coco Pops’.

The ilmatic was also a keen writer, penning many romantic novels. This saw him getting the affectionate nickname in China of ‘The Barbara Cartland Of The East’. Of course, his biggest seller outside of Korea was ‘The Field Worker Always Maintains A Sufficient Standard Of Life With Pragmatic Arousal’ which, when said in the native Korean tongue, sounds like a crude version of the English vernacular ‘Chomp on my buttocks’ (imagine: ‘jampon mei bhu-taqs’) which owed for it’s success outside of North Korea.

Grooviest Dudiest was also blessed with the ability to leap over buildings, super strength, the ability to fly and of course, a knack for unhinging bras with one hand without too much fuss. It is said that, Superflyzilla was so sexy without his clothes on that he would levitate and simultaneously render any sane woman standing by immediately blind with arousal.

Kim Jong-il also played as centre-forward for his national football team, scoring 6,391 goals in 32 appearances. Alas, he was unable to play in the World Cup in 1966 and 2010 because of what The Great Leader Of The Pack described as ‘FIFA’s chilling bureaucracy’ for not allowing someone who could fly enter a World Cup final tournament. The 2010 team finished bottom of their group and were sent home to be killed by Kim Jong-il, which he duly did for ‘the good of the great people of Korea’ by erupting fireballs out of his ‘glorious anus’.

Kimmo was also the greatest golfer in the history of everyone ever, and in ’94, it was widely reported by Pyongyang media that Our Sweet Pappy shot 38 under par – with 5 holes-in-one – on a regulation 18-hole golf course. And that was the first time he’d ever played golf!

All this is unsurprising really, because Kim Jong-il was amazing since birth. His coming was forseen and signified by a passing swallow. He was delivered on Korea’s most sacred mountain, Mt. Paekdu and, at the moment of his birth, a bright star lit up the sky and the seasons spontaneously changed from winter to spring with rainbows decorating the sky.

Kim Jong-il. You were the illest of the il. Have fun trying to work out which of the above is based on official Korean documents concerning the life of The Suave Depressor.

They say that everyone deserves a second chance to learn from their mistakes. Or if you happen to have an ounce of intelligence, not copying the moves of those that led to their downfall.

One of the greatest examples of cocking-up a childhood comes from no-other than the Jackson family. Whilst we were left marvelled and amazed at the family’s dance moves, they were secretly hurting inside thanks to regular whippings from father Joe. Missing out on childhood clearly affected Michael, so you’d assume that his three children would be ushered away from showbiz? Oh, how wrong you’d be.

Thankfully, Paris looks like she’s decided to venture away from singing and head towards Hollywood. Yep! She’s going to be in a film! Good thing the movie industry hasn’t got a record of dark deeds and conspiracy, eh?

Despite not seeing any pages of script or knowing what the film is about, we can guarantee you that the movie will be rubbish. How do we know that? Well we haven’t consulted a fortune teller, but instead, we just looked at the title. It’s called “Lundon’s Bridge and the Three Keys,” there’s a glaring typo that’s more obvious than a streaker at a football match.

Nearly everyone in the whole wide world knows that London Bridge is a hotspot for tourists when they visit England. So misspelling a capital city is something that should make the producers cringe since we’ve now brought it to their attention.

People will probably argue with us that there’s nothing wrong with a young teenage girl embracing her talent that can be enjoyed by the world. But then again, Lindsay Lohan started off in films such as the “Parent Trap” as a youngster before the yummy substances took over. Even the magic of Disney couldn’t stop Miley Cyrus taking her clothes off and smoking bongs. So what will “Lundon’s Bridge and the Three Keys,” have in store for Paris Jackson before she starts a death cult?

“The film’s website says she plays heroine in a story where magic “turns a dolphin into a human, a teenage boy into a dragonfly and a loving jellyfish queen into an evil fairy godmother.”

Things turning into stuff? Sounds like the sort of mental stuff that Michael Jackson would’ve seen when he was getting a sexy dose of brain altering drugs from Dr. Conrad Murray. But even we assume that she’d probably not want to appear in a film that reminded her of her father’s death.

Even if the film is a load of donkey scrotum, you’ll be guaranteed that it’ll be a box office smash due to mentalist Michael Jackson fans going to see “Lundon’s Bridge and the Three Keys,” at least seventy times a day.