Run for cover! Katie Price (or Jordan if you live in the ’90s) is threatening us all with a new album. Aren’t there war crime tribunals for things like this? Seriously. We need someone like James Bond and some piano wire to sort this, post haste.
We know this because she cruelly asked everyone on Twitter what songs we’d like to hear her singing.
Of course, there were those who asked her to never open her mouth to make any kind of sound ever again, but alas, Price is not a woman who takes no for an answer, as her many, many marriages and babies are testament to.
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Here’s some advice. Fashion yourself a miniature love nest in your room, masturbate wrathfully for the next four days, then click the following link.
This link right here.
Yes, that’s right.You physically cannot produce enough paranoia and semen to replicate this video, can you? Well, seeing as you’re all loved out – it is all here, spread out in the This Morning studio. And apparently Ruth Langford’s preferred choice of hair mousse. Whatever. Chantelle Houghton and Alex Reid were never meant to be a couple. This is just a Closer magazine work experience girl typing a caption wrong. This is why communism was ultimately an unsuccessful idea. Most importantly, this is why Katie Price should stop marrying male prostitutes.
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Hey everyone, you massive pile of galahs! Pandre Peter Pandre Andre here, and I’ve been given just enough time by the scummy hoardes at hecklerspray to give something back to you, the people.
That’s what I’m all about now. Giving something back. You may have seen my new show on ITV2, that I don’t like to talk about, Here 2 Help? That’s all about me giving something back as well, to people who are so pathetic and downtrodden that just me giving them one of my special Pandre hugs and lobbing half a ballad at them makes them rise up and walk like Lazarus.
But I don’t like to talk about that show, that’s on every other hour on ITV2. Or talk about how much I love my kids, because I really love my kids. I just want to give some more things back… like tell you how to get a woman to date you!
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Proper news organisations have all sorts of grown up codes and practices. So imagine if they were having a slow news day and had to report on less important articles like Lee Ryan? We imagine that a piece about one of life’s biggest blips would go along the lines of saying; “Lee Ryan, bad boy of pop band Blue has been living up to his reputation of causing chaos on a night out on the town.”
But here at the hecklerspray hole, we know that Lee Ryan has never had a credible reputation as a popstar or as a hard man. A yoghurt that’s gone a day past its expiry date poses more of a threat.
However, our number one bruv has been in bother with the authorities before. A few years ago, he was fined £500 after attacking a taxi driver following a crash in Surrey. Maybe our Lee’s given up on singing and is now imitating superheroes by getting involved in brawls, but not saving anyone. This particular epic struggle took place at his birthday party in June.
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The Eurovision has been and gone, with an immediately forgettable song from Azerbaijan winning, leaving the controller of AzTV absolutely shitting his pants at the prospect of hosting one of the most prestigious shows in the calendar.
More forgettable that the winning song… which was called… uh… um… whatever it was, is ‘I Can’ by Blue which, in hindsight, should have been called ‘We Won’t’.
Of course, the collective egos in Blue won’t be able to process what happened on the night. They’re still wrapped in their little bubble that tells them that, if they hit a high note or two and flash some pectoral muscles, they’ll be met with unswerving praise, like they’ve just found the cure for every illness in history. Alas, they finished mid-table and are now filed under ‘flop’.
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If the borders of reality and literature were to ever blur by magic and represent members of society, then Peter Andre would be the human equivalent of the Mr. Happy character from the Mr. Men books. You can’t pick up a trashy 67p magazine without seeing the ex husband of Katie Price and general lousy pop star slapped across it.
Over on ITV where the bosses are keen to fill their airtime with any old tosh, Andre has been given his own show where he shunts his children around, showing what an adoring parent he is.
Tears literally roll down our cheeks everytime we watch, but we get the impression that the footage will be used as evidence to show he’s be a more responsible parent than Katie Price who spends her time running over horses. When Peter Andre isn’t kissing bot-bot to the camera, he supposedly has a day job as a singer. Tragically, he’s in demand.
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Katie Price aka Jordan is bloody brilliant. Not only is she covered in boobs, has cloven hoofs and a slightly large orange head, she also has a great big gaping hole in the front of her face and sometimes words fly out of it like a perfectly veneered bat cave.
Of course, like any devoted celebrity mother, she keeps her kids grounded and out of the spotlight by putting them directly in front of TV cameras and providing them with several, slightly useless father figures to choose from when they grow up and decide to run screaming from her clutches.
While she’s waiting for the sun’s rays to transform her once and for all into Zelda from Terrahawks, she loves to talk about her sex life and is apparently still shagging her cage-fighting ex Alex Reid with her unholy vag.
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Those of you who are fans of crushing idiocy have had a rough time of it recently. There’s always the Bieberphiles and the Kardashians to entertain you, but nothing can quite compare to the eternal, head rottingly awful stupidity that can come about from the coupling of two dunderheads of colossal proportions.
We are, of course, referring to Jordan Price’s hook ups and doomed marriages to men primarily made from the revolving meat suitcases that you see adorning the kebab shops of this fine land. Where would we go and who would we be sarky about now that she has released another one into the wild?
Fear not, good people, even when she’s let them loose from her clutches she still pipes up from time to time to remind us all of why we loved her and her dwindling intellect. Even though her and Peter Andre have been split up for about a year (which is decades in gossip time), they have ‘continued their war of words’ (according to most, ‘continued honking at each other like frightened geese, according to us), to both keep each other in the public eye and, apparently, to moan about their kids getting burnt or something. It’s mostly the first reason, obviously.
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