Women! When you’ve stopped complaining about the negative, overtly sexual images of women in media, which breed an unrealistic body-ideal in young girls, we’d like to point you in the direction of David Beckham in his underpants.

See, ol’ GoldenNads has done a photoshoot for some undercrackers he’s flogging through dreary clothing bazaar, H&M.

A number of women have stopped worrying about the patriarchy long enough to admire Beckham’s bulge and sigh with feint arousal everytime they see it. So what does David have to say about it? Well, it doesn’t involve stuffing but it does involve his daughter.

While womenfolk rail against the appearance of naked girls in print, they simultaneously objectify men like there ain’t a thing to it. The gays of the world objectify everything because they’re brilliant at it and make no apology about it.

For straighty woman though, there’s this confusion over whether or not its okay to lust after a half-naked human. The selling of female flesh by the pound is bad, but musing on whether Becks’ stuffs his package is completely fine.

And on that score, Beckham has proudly proclaimed that he has never stuffed his pants to make his manhood look bigger.

Referring to comedian James Corden – who parodied him in a shoot, who admitted to stuffing socks in the underwear – David said:

“I’ve never, ever done a James and padded out my pants, or shoved socks down there though. I’ve never had to for any of the photoshoots I’ve done because, hopefully, I don’t need to. Well, let’s just say I’ve been told I don’t need any help in that department. I think I’m pretty OK!”

Of course, there’ll be women dribbling down their blouses at the thought of a massive schlong hiding behind those briefs. However, if you have half a brain, you’ll note that, in Beckham’s shots, his gruds appear to be filled with 90% balls. Does that mean Beckham has a genital region that looks like a jug spout grafted onto a hot-air balloon?

Either way, ol’ Davey B wasn’t finished talking about underwear. He’s quite the raconteur you know?

“Victoria loves me in long johns. I like wearing the normal, short briefs but she reckons she likes me better wearing the long johns! She makes me wear them around the house. But that’s OK because they’re comfortable and keep you warm.”

Frost/Nixon, eat your heart out.

And still he wasn’t finished! No, he wanted to talk about the fact that his daughter should be thoroughly ashamed of the naked human body. Talking about how he used to walk around his house naked, he said:

“My naked days are over. I definitely walk around the house in my underwear. But not naked. With the boys it’s not a problem because they’re naked all the time but with a little girl now, it is different.”

There you go. Instill that little girl with a sense of shame from the off Dave! Go you! Still, at least she’ll grow up thinking that the human body is something to be hidden, unless you’re displaying your ballbag to the world in a series of lucrative advertisements, eh?

Walter Pandiani might be little more than a jobbing footballer to those of you who have actually heard of him, but from this day forward, he’ll be known as that poor, poor, sweaty bugger.

He currently plays for RCD Espanyol as a striker and has played for a bunch of other teams that you don’t rightly care about.

Anyway, El Rifle should perhaps change his name to El Desodorisante after he leaked roughly nine thousand litres of sweat out of himself during a press conference. Watch over the jump and mock away.

If you don’t want to watch the video in real time, look at his shirt at the start of the video, then knock it on for one minute.

Then knock it on another minute.

Then knock it on another minute.

Repeat until you feel desperately sorry for him.

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A dominant role in society is something that everybody craves. As you’re reading this, you’ll be imagining who the head honcho is in your boring office job, group of friends or members in the AA club.

What kind of person becomes a leader? Is it the bloke who makes all sorts of hilarious wisecracks? Or that weird looking sod who never gets involved, but always offers sound advice?

But who cares about real life people when there are celebs everywhere! Are we concerned that we’ll never meet them after spending thousands of pounds on travel so we can gawp at them? Of course not. So who’s scorching hot and who’s totally not? According to InStyle the top honour has gone to someone who can’t feed herself properly. Not Paris Hilton, but Harper Seven Beckham.

According to InStyle – something we’ve never heard of, probably because we ain’t got no style – some baby is more powerful than the likes of Justin Bieber and Rihanna?

But why’s this? Surely it can’t be because Harper Seven Beckham popped out of a famous person’s vagina? It might seem unfair on everyone else, but small infant children do seem to be powerful folk. Just look at future scientologist queen Suri Cruiuse. She’ll no doubt lead an abnormal life believing that aliens came out of volcanoes or something.

So what gives about Harper Seven Beckham? Because she’s a baby the ability of walking, talking and eating solid foods will be quite a challenge.

But perhaps she’s magic in other ways. Babies have a habit of pooing everywhere, so we’re going out on a limb and believing that Victoria and David Beckham have a child that craps its demands out in its nappies.

IN SAFFRON.

Christians go mental when Jesus H Christ appears as mould on a slab of cheese, so we can only imagine that Harper Seven Beckham has enchanting and delightful dumps.

SAFFRON MADE OUT OF GOLD.

But it isn’t just one tiny tot that is making giant waves at the top of the list; a whole load of the swines took prominent positions:

Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale’s sons Zuma, three, and Kingston Rossdale, five, took second and third place in the power rankings, while Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes’s five-year-old girl, Suri, was ranked fourth.

It appears that already young and hardworking celebs are taking a hammering from infants who haven’t realised they’ve been given a stupid name. Nobody knows if Harper Seven Beckham will grow up to be a lollipop lady or the women who does the sign language for TV shows late at night (what? The greatest, most hard working woman on Earth? Ed), but rest assured, she’s already considerably more powerful than you.

In fact, Harper shortly to become our now ruler, we’re going to emulate her highness and take a preemptive strike by changing our middle names to a meaningless number. Your suggestions are most welcome.

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This week’s Badvertising was half-written until something dropped through our mould-covered letterbox that was so awful, it couldn’t be left alone for a week. We subsequently scrunched up the previous Badvertising and set it alight, after all this incumbent piece was so sickening to watch that we felt as though we’d been eating another of Matthew Laidlow’s “special curries”.

Let’s give you a little bit of the history, shall we? Way back in Tudor times, men used to place a ball in the- no, you’re right, we’ll bring it up to date a bit. Last year, English Premier League club Blackburn Rovers were bought by an Indian company called Venky’s.

Venky’s sells chicken products and are therefore the perfect company to buy a team of perenially dull under-achievers with all the personality of a really weak stock.

Many moons ago, Blackburn won the Premier League under the guidance of now-Liverpool manager Kenny Dalglish. Chris Sutton and Alan Shearer scored 50 goals between them that season, now Rovers are lucky if they can punt the ball forward enough to score 50 goals a season between their entire squad. Yes, despite being one of the least interesting teams in British football they keep managing to cling on to the trap door of the league and avoid relegation.

Bully for them but we’re quite sure you’re bored of all this football talk. After all, this isn’t a football site. So why are we taking such an interest in Blackburn today?

Their owners, famed Indian chicken-peddlers Venky’s have a reputation for being quite deliciously mad having tried audacious bids to bring the likes of Ronaldinho to Ewood Park. They’ve added ‘Orange’ into the colours of the kit so that it fits with their corporate image and they also replaced ‘relegation specialist’ manager Sam Allardyce with ‘unproven boring arsehole’ Steve Kean midway through the season to bemused groans from the Blackburn faithful but now they’ve really gone and taken the piss by having their first team stars appear in an advert.

Enjoy that? Of course not. It was bloody awful. Any fillet-brained fool could see that but it does mark an odd change in the attitude to football clubs by their owners. The idea that a team of professional athletes could be used to peddle what looks like under-cooked chicken is (with the exception of David Dunn), quite alien to most football fans.

Shall we carve the advert? Well, if you insist.

The opening shot is of the Rovers’ dressing room during what appears to be a mild earthquake and the camera pans out to the first team huddled together in one of the classic protection manoeuvres for falling debris. After all, they don’t want to get knocked out as that might impact upon their money-earning potential.

Cue a Pulp Fiction-esque shot of all the players looking down at the camera. There’s a look of steely determination on their faces. After all, the ceiling could fall in on them at any moment. There’s no escape, there’s nothing but the bright light of death beckoning them onwards towards… oh, it seems to have passed. They’re still alive.

It must time to celebrate with some chicken!

After they all cross themselves, implying a level of religious fervour in the sale of chicken that we here at hecklerspray were previously unaware of the camera reveals the feast. Chicken! Loads of horrible-looking, allegedly piping hot, under-seasoned chicken! Wow! Apparently it’s the taste that brings Blackburn Rovers to India. It’s not, it’s the fact that this advertising deal was probably in their contracts but it’s certainly the taste that will keep them in India.

After all, have you ever tried to take a long-haul flight with explosive diarrhoea?

Blackburn Rovers, eh? Now we know why they’ve been so drab and awful. They’ve all got tape-worms. It’s a real shame that professional athletes can be dragged down so far by the need to eat (and advertise) chicken products. Still, at least Venky’s are proud to own them, eh? That’s because Venky’s is good for you. Either that or you’d better know what’s good for you. Not questioning the integrity of these delicious chicken products.

Still, it’s not like Venky’s have been winging it (oh, come on) here. Their plan to bring Premiership football to India is a huge money-spinner and owning Blackburn Rovers will only help them on their way to making that money. However, they might not have long before Rovers’ fans are sick and tired of being a laughing stock in the football world and if fans start to fly the coup then they may be left with egg on their… oh, forget it.

Cheryl Cole must be practising her best disappointed / all out of love face in the mirror again, because on again, off again, on again, off again, on again (off again?) ex-husband Ashley Cole is facing fresh allegation that as a single man he has slept with a lady or two, you know, cause he likes women and their vaginas.

After their divorce last year Cheryl has been linked to bleached blonde, male dancer Derek Hough (it might be fair to say she has a type) while Ashley has been free to run around playing with his phone and shooting work experience boys with air rifles. How manly of him.

It must have been this display of pure brute macho-ism that attracted Chezza back to Ashley, she is, after all, from Newcastle; and naturally the papers have been rife with rumours of weddings and babies and other things to distract people from the fact that golden girl Cheryl has been sacked from not one, but two major television shows in the space of a week.

So it should come to the surprise of no one that Ashley seems to have been scoring on and off the pitch… with ladies… you know, women, with breasts and female reproductive organs, just the way he likes them; and not been faithful to his ex wife, the naughty ladies man that he is.

One of the said vagina owners, model Colette McBarron, is believed to have been trying desperately to avoid been ousted as one of Ashley’s conquests. You know how those buxom blonde models hate being linked to Premiership footballers, nightmare, eh?

According to the Sun, the “Irish babe” has decided to “wait and see what happens” while more ladies come forward saying Ashley has scored in their goal. Goal meaning vagina. ‘Cos he likes those.

One source has said: “There are so many rumours flying around about Ashley – she can only keep her head down and avoid the publicity.”

Collette now joins the esteemed club of young women Ashley has ravaged, including air hostess Kerry Meades and US model Jessyca Rayanne, all of whom have said to they had flings with Ashley shortly before Mr & Mrs Cole are said to have got back together at her 28th birthday party earlier this month.

Oh Ashley, you crazy vagina loving ladies man, what will you get up to next? More vagina we assume. What a card.

This was an article by Ruairidh Pritchard who, if he survives the Chinese Water Torture that we’re currently subjecting him to, might be doing some more work for us.

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Beer. Lager. Come on folks. We all love a nice cool, refreshing lager after a hard day sitting in the bedsit, angrily hacking words into our typewriters but lager advertising is notorious for playing up to ‘laddy’ stereotypes or generally misrepresenting the product as being anything more than yellow piss-water that no-one in their right mind would splash out three quid on.

Beer advertising is a minefield. On the one hand you have pressure from the public saying “GIVE US MORE BOOZE AND GIVE US IT CHEAPER!” and on the other there is pressure from regulators and central government saying, “DON’T GIVE THEM MORE BOOZE, THEY KEEP HITTING EACH OTHER  WITH BROKEN BOTTLES!”

Under such pressure it is difficult to encourage people to consume the product in quantity which, make no mistake, is exactly what alcohol manufacturers want you to do. The more you buy, the more they sell to pubs, clubs, supermarkets and off-licenses.

The more you drink, the more you poison your liver, the more money they make. They’re like drug dealers or tobacco companies. Or are they?

Yes. Fundamentally speaking, they are.

Therefore the companies have to work much harder to make sure that their products are distanced from the actual aim of the thing and are seen more as rewarding you for a hard day doing whatever the hell it is that you do with your day. As such, you’ll have noticed a move towards the aspirational side of things. Carlsberg have moved from their “If Carlsberg Did…” campaign, as people were beginning to realise that Carlsberg isn’t the best lager in the world- not even close.

According to a website all about advertising (that actually believes the nonsense they write:

“The aim of the re-launch was to focus the brand around a universal human truth — the connection between endeavour, achievement and pleasure. This is captured in the new tag line “That calls for a Carlsberg”. The creative reflects on the pleasure of an ice cold beer as a reward for achievement.

The opening thematic campaign features landmark moments in history, giving them a twist and placing Carlsberg as the reward.”

Yes, that’s exactly what they’ve done…

EVEREST! One of man’s crowning achievements. The cold, the sheer altitude and the time it takes to climb, it remains one of the most mysterious and tragic locations on earth. Everest is so rooted in the mind as being a challenge that we refer to our biggest life challenges as being our ‘Everest’. It’s one of the focal points of human endeavour.

You would never look at a person who had just climbed Everest and call them a berk. You would look at them with appreciation for their resolve and respect for the mountain that they conquered.

It’s hard to imagine standing on Everest’s peak, looking out across the entire planet (okay, not quite) from its highest point. It would surely take your breath away, if the thinness of the air hadn’t done that already. It’s easy to imagine long minutes of stunned silence and reflection from the expedition while they take time to absorb the full scale of the task they had just accomplished. It’s a life-changing moment.

It’s a champagne moment. It’s a really expensive malt whisky moment. It is, if you’re pushed, a really good Czech beer moment. It is not a moment where you whip out eight tins of 3.8% abv Carlsberg and toast to the achievement before smacking each other about because someone “looked at the Sherpa funny”.

Carlsberg, at a push, is a reward for all the other taps in the pub being off or for it being on special offer in a club. It is absolutely not the reward for life-changing, momentous events because, by that logic, If Carlsberg Made Human Endeavour Then It Would Be A Massive, Piss-Weak Let Down.

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Many of the UK’s “press outlets” have been reporting the reunion of Cheryl “Beat up a woman in a toilet” Cole and Ashley “shot a work experience kid with an air gun” Cole today. This is, to the tabloids, a moment on par with the a renunion of Big Ears from Noddy & the ‘Queen of Hearts’. To readers of The Sun, that’s pretty much what this is.

Of course, hecklerspray would be remiss in its duty as the last bastion of celebrity “commentators” if we didn’t scream our glassy-eyed opinion straight down the smoking barrel of the internet straight into the faces of people who either adore the couple on a level that is painful and embarrassing or hate them in equal measure. You might be wondering what our collective opinion of the couple is; wonder on readers. Wonder on.

With newspaper reports suggesting that Cheryl will walk down the aisle with Ashley once again, speculation has surfaced as to what their intentions are.

With Cheryl’s embarrassing, potentially career harming and fundamentally random removal from the X Factor USA judging panel has seen her profile slip slightly and as for Cashley (sorry… Ashley), the last time he made it into a glossy magazine it was when rumours abounded the last time they were supposed to be getting back together.

Subsequently, more rumours about the couple have surfaced revealing that they want to start a family within the next two years as well as an interview with Mister Cole claiming that people should judge him as a footballer and not on the spurious stories about his private life. That is the sign of a man who would love people to care enough about him to read the spurious reports about his private life.

According to the Sun, the couple, who reportedly spent the whole weekend together, have told friends of their plans to be pregnant between now and 2013. However, it appears as though Cheryl and Ashley are the only ones who are excited about their new(ish) life together after Cheryl’s mum and Girls Aloud band mates, Nicole Roberts and Kimberly Walsh, expressed their reservations.

A source, invented by the tabloids to shift more of their terrible rags, revealed:

“Cheryl’s bloody-minded and has made her decision. Her pals have told her, but she’s been stubborn. She just wants to be happy again.”

Here at hecklerspray, we can’t wait to hear that Cheryl’s pregnant- there’s nothing we like more than picking on a pregnant woman- but perhaps Ashley will suggest they use a surrogate mother that he ‘prepared earlier’?

LET’S GET READY TO RHUMBLE! Supposedly hilarious Geordie duo Ant and Dec have put their fists where their mouths are and challenged the entire world to a fight.

After Ant (PJ) was attacked in a pub earlier this week for allegedly insulting the presenters of OK! TV for being “lobotomised scum-weasels”, Declan Donnelly (Duncan) has come out in support of his embattled friend with unusual vigour.

The BAFTA-winning ‘cheeky’ pair who are renowned for peddling inane, mawkish drivel to ITV’s dribbling weekend audience have seen their fair share of adversity since being plucked from the ganglands of Byker Grove in the early 1990s and have been implicated in multiple incidences of arms dealing and drug smuggling as well as extortion of charities.

Both keen amateur boxers, both Ant ‘n’ Dec soon became involved in a life of crime from their numerous clubs which they ran around London. Before long, they were involved in a vicious turf war with Mel Smith and Griff Rhys-Jones who ran a rival- but less successful- firm which was involved with money laundering throughout a number of West End theatres.

In a way, it is surprising that this is the first time that Anthony “The Ant” McPartlin has been attacked in public given the immense interest and rivalry felt in the entertainment industry in the UK. It is common knowledge that Robert Webb from That Mitchell & Webb Firm has placed a high price on the heads of McPartlin & Donnelly with a view to taking their places as the kings of Saturday night “entertainment”.

In an interview given to New! Magazine in a dingy boxing club in London’s East End, Donnelly was quoted as saying;

“I’ve always got his back, but more than ever from now on. We always look out for each other, so I’d have his back in a fight. And vice versa.”

This was before going on to openly invite the world to a massive brawl.

“In case any of ‘that lot’ [famous comedy double-acts] are reading this. You can bring your best challenge to the table and we’ll end you. We’ll be here and we’ll be waiting for you. We took our lessons from the best. From the Godfathers [Laurel & Hardy].”

Rumour has it that an on-stage brawl has been arranged for the next Royal Variety Performance. hecklerspray is throwing its money behind the old guard beating off the challenge of the new boys looking to take their title of “ITV Vehicle Collectors”. There will be blood.

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Is there anything more delightful of an evening than a beer and some unwarranted violence?  Of course not, it’s what makes us British.  Tea, banging on nostalgically about the blitz and fighting in pubs, are as quintessentially British as having Prince Charles play national anthem on a kazoo while you shave a Union Jack into your pubic hair. Rule Britannia!

Something else quintessentially British is Ant and Dec.  No other country in the world would embrace a couple of midgets from the third world (Newcastle) whose main talent seem to be that you can never figure out which is which.

Although, we’re going to have to figure it out now.

In a moment more indicative of Old Blighty than the last night of the proms, the dual force of telly omnipresence and casual violence joyfully met in a good old fashion pub punch up.  Someone’s punched Ant.  Or was it Dec?

Which is the one with the big forehead?

Ant?

Right, him.  He’s been decked.

Ant McPartlin got punched in the face while stood in a pub watching football in a London pub.   The 35 year-old Geordie was innocently watching footy on the old Aunt Nelly in the nuclear sub when some right raving oil tanker Salford Docks up beside him and lamps him right in the Chevy Chase.*

According to The Sun, Ant was having a few beers with friends in a pub in Chiswick, The Barley Mow. Dec had been there, but wasn’t anymore. Which surprised us, we thought they were conjoined twins or something.  Apparently a chap in tracksuit and silly hat shouted “Where’s your girlfriend?”, referencing Dec.

Then, according to Giedrius Kudzinskas, who conveniently had eyes pointing in the direction of the incident;

“Ant didn’t react and this bloke launched himself at him and punched him in the face. Ant reeled back and then a big fight broke out as his mates came to help him. Other people jumped in and held back the other guy.”

The chap was thrown out, Ant finishes his drink and all is well until Ant leaves and the young pup is their with more verbal nonsense. Ant walked away. Which we of course applaud, but a full blown street riot would have made this story much more interesting. So uneventful was this event that the landlord didn’t know a thing about it until The Sun rang him for this solid gold quote;

“I’m not aware of any violent situation.”

The biggest disappointment of that hecklerspray‘s could’ve gone ’round to The Barley Mow to watch, film and cover this live. If only we could afford pubs, instead of spending the evenings huddling together for warmth and sipping anti-freeze.

*The 35 year-old chap from the North Eastern part of England was, quite without blame, was viewing a game of association football on the television in a public house when a ruffian perambulated to his side and proceeded to strike Mr McPartlin in the face, presumably by rapidly straightening his arm, thus thrusting a clenched fist into the front side of Mr McPartlin’s head.

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In 1966, football was a totally different game. Not to the extent that players had a half time lager instead of Lucozade, but they were generally better at doing what they were employed to do.

Amazingly, this was just to kick a rock solid leather ball around whilst occasionally digging out lumps of an opposition’s ankle.

Nowadays footballers only care about how many zeros follow the number nine on their pay cheque. Then there are the clothing endorsements, forced charity work they’d rather do and complaining about playing without gloves in winter. It’s almost like they’ve forgotten how to play football.

Think we’re joking?

Well take a look at John O’Shea’s terrible shot the other night when his Manchester Utd suffered a hilarious hammering from West Ham.

This is a man who is paid more a week than the majority of people reading this will be paid in a year. Or several years that we come to think of it.

Basically, for someone earning wages in around £60,000+ a week, you’d expect someone of his calibre to be at least hitting the target every time.

For anyone who detests football and doesn’t know any player apart from David Beckham, O’Shea plays for one of the best clubs in the world, Manchester United. Therefore, manager Alex Ferguson must have thought about calling up a child from a nearby school due to the awful miss he witnessed.

He didn’t just miss the goal by a good couple of feet. No, he somehow managed to shift his shot a complete ninety degrees and kick it out for a thrown in.

That really is a special sort of skill.

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Fifa vs Pro Evo. It’s a battle that has caused many a forum argument and playground bullying campaign as people try to decide which provides the better footballing experience. A battle that has had fresh life breathed into it with the release of the demo versions of Fifa 11 and Pro Evo 11 on both Xbox Live and PSN.

Having spent a long time playing both the latest Fifa and Pro Evo demos I can tell you that they once again offer a broad range of differing aspects of the game… and all of them are boring and insignificant.

I don’t care about the motion capture, I don’t care about the ball having the same physics as a ball that was, in possibly one of the most bizarre statements in sport, described as being too round and I don’t care about the player likenesses.

You know why? Because football is no longer about football, it’s about some of the world’s richest, thickest and, quite frankly, ugliest people taking copious amounts of drugs, sleeping with prostitutes whose ages range from 12 to 90, players trying to win an Oscar for throwing themselves to the ground at every available opportunity while crooked billionaires buy up anything and everything they see.

Seriously, Wayne Rooney and Peter Crouch, 2 men who between them have the IQ of a particularly stupid potato and who both look like they escaped from a zoo for handicapped animals, managed to cheat on their model girlfriends with high class hookers and random girls in clubs. How is this not a more interesting aspect of the game than the lack of talent they managed to display at the World Cup?

Fine, if you want an arcade feel buy Pro Evo, if you want an all around better simulation, buy Fifa. But for the love of God shut up about it being, “the most realistic football experience ever,” it isn’t, there is no button that allows you to dive, no clubs go bankrupt half way through a match and no tabloid sex scandals in the season or be a pro modes. Even This Is Football had a dive button, which instantly makes it 10 times more realistic than either Fifa or Pro Evo.

It’s Tiger Woods PGA Tour 2011 all over again.

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Peter Crouch is a rare fish isn’t he? He’s about 60ft tall and 3 inches wide. He looks like Brassneck from The Dandy if he was made with straws by toddlers at a playgroup. Yet, despite all this, he’s a rather talented footballer.

Of course, him being a footballer means that he’s prone to monumental idiocy. After seeming like he was one of the good ones, answering “a virgin” when asked “what would you be if you weren’t a footballer?”, he went and shagged it all up by ALLEGEDLY have sex with a prostitute in Madrid.

You might imagine that Crouchistuta would be pretty angry at the newspapers for breaking that story… and he is indeed angry at them. Though, it appears that he’s not fussed about the whole ‘lady of the night’ thing, but rather, the fact that The Sun broke a story about his gal, Abbey Clancy, is pregnant.

Indeed, the rag-top newspaper announced that Clancy (of no fixed talent as yet) is expecting a baby boy, claiming that she had been overhead talking about her 12-week scan in a restaurant.

This is supposed to be good news, right?

Well, Crouchinho has complained that the publication broke the news before she was three-months pregnant (something of a no-no) and, worse yet, they’d not even got ’round to telling all their family members.

Crouch said:

“I am very upset by the way in which The Sun has behaved. This is a private matter between me and Abbey and she is in fact less than three months pregnant. Abbey told me on 25 July that she was pregnant but we agreed to keep it private until she was ready to make an announcement.

“There were even some members of our families who were still unaware that Abbey is pregnant until today’s revelations in The Sun. I will not be saying anything more at this time.”

The footballer’s solicitor Graham Shear added:

“Peter Crouch today condemned intrusive Sun reporters who followed his girlfriend to a private clinic and eavesdropped and apparently recorded her private conversation in a restaurant. The Sun published a story stating that Abbey is pregnant, depriving her of the opportunity to make this public in her own time and in her own way.”

We can only hope that any babies that he’s about to have with prostitutes don’t get the same treatment, eh? Not that we’re saying there’s more babies out there.

IT’S MEANT TO BE A JOKE.

Oh, leave us alone. We can’t write properly anymore because we can’t stop thinking of Peter Crouch’s long, thin penis. It probably looks like a butcher’s pencil or something.

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Jay Z is an incredibly busy human being for someone who has retired a million times already. Since he decided to lead a quiet life, he’s married the most famous woman on the planet, released records, headlined Glastonbury, headed up a massive record label and recently, played the first ever show at the brand new Yankee Stadium in New York with Eminem and Kanye West.

So, that’ll be that then won’t it? He’ll know glide slowly into a life of Horlicks (with Kristal in it) and (diamond encrusted) slippers and (weed) pipe. Right?

Wrong. See, J-Hova has got more plans which include buying Arsenal Football Club (that’s a ‘soccer’ team to any American readers) and owning the soul of Will Smith’s daughter.

That’s right. After hearing the voice of Willow Smith (presumably in the eerily sexual ‘Whip My Hair’, which you can hear here), Jiggaman signed the nine-year-old daughter of Will Smith to his label.

He’s probably thinking he’s got another Justin Bieber on his hands. Sadly, tween boys aren’t as screamingly obsessive as their female counterparts.

After hearing her track, Jay-Z gunned straight after Willow without even knowing that Willow is only nine. Yes. Nine years old. You were probably harbouring a wall full of bogeys down the side of your bed at that age, or maybe, you were still a blithering idiot who couldn’t work out how to use an adult toilet properly.

Jay-Z recently told Ryan Seacrest that the Willow song hooked him from the start and was surprised.

“I heard the record first before I knew that it was recorded by a 9-year-old and I was like, ‘man that record’s a smash’”

But is she too young?

“When you have that sort of talent, there is no such thing as too young.”

It doesn’t stop there though, as Jay Z may well be moving to wheezing piss-stink metropolis, London, with Beyonce in tow. All because he wants to buy shares in Arsenal football club.

Jay Z, who also owns shares in the NBA side New Jersey Nets, is considering moving to London so he can be “involved in the decision-making” alongside current chairman Peter Hill-Wood.

He added:

“I would never want to be a back-seat investor and would like to oversee all decision-making. I’m ready for another investment like this.”

Jay is dangling a carrot to the clearly greedy-eyed Gunners players by stating that they are all welcome to whatever they like from his Roc-A-Wear clothing range and that:

“They would be more than welcome to come to my next concert when I am over in London. They can come and see me do my work, and then I will come and see them do their work.”

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Men, the day we have been dreading for weeks has finally come and gone, Sky Sports News is no longer available on Freeview in the UK. That’s right, no more up to date analysis, no more SoccerSaturday and, of course, no more Georgie Thompson.

I know it hurts but we have to face facts, no longer shall she be there when we wake up in the morning, to tell us the latest scores and transfer rumours, no longer will she distract us from the fact that there’s a bloke from Blue Peter attempting, badly, to present news that isn’t about some sort of bring and buy sale.

It is indeed a sad day for us all. Rupert Murdoch is now using our beloved Georgie to get us to sign up to his extortionate Sky TV subscription service. All we have left is the vain hope that someone vaguely attractive turns up on Loose Women to ease our heartbreak.

But surely what was most memorable about Sky Sports News was the in depth coverage of every major sport around the world I hear you cry. Well, let’s be honest, it isn’t. Ever since the launch of Sky’s betting service Skybet (not to be confused with megalomaniacal artificial intelligence system Skynet) Sky Sports News has been accused of manipulating stories for personal gain. Plus Sky Sports News is part of Newscorp, a company that seems to think that Aryan, loud-mouthed loony tune Glenn Beck is an appropriate host for a show on one of the biggest news networks in the World.

But we could forgive all that, because they gave us Georgie. With her long blonde hair, sultry voice, piercing eyes and, most importantly, love of football. Even her own colleagues can’t keep their eyes off her, as Sky’s flagship Breakfast show Soccer AM pointed out.

Let’s just hope she makes a big money move to Match of The Day before the end of the transfer Window, or this season could see us being relegated to watching supposed funny man James Kimberley (yes, his middle name is actually Kimberley) Corden’s God awful panel show, A League Of Their Own, to get our Georgie Fix.

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Did you read The Dandy? Ever looked at Peter Crouch and thought to yourself “Ah! That’s what happened to Brassneck!”? No? You’re an idiot. Anyway, Peter Crouch has been a bit of a favourite amongst many because he’s seemed like a nice chap and owned that rarest of footballing traits – self deprecation. And then he stuck his long, thin penis into a prostitute.

Yes indeed, a man that was clearly continually punching above his weight was almost egged on by a nation because thanks to being nice, everyone wanted the lanky freakshow to get himself an attractive girlfriend.

However, like all professional sportsmen, he ultimately let us down by being acting like a spoilt dick.

Whilst on a stag-do in Madrid, Crouchistuta apparently got sucked off in a taxi and then, to use footballer parlance, nailed a prozzer in a cheap hotel for €1000.

Of course, the tabloids had a field day and couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it, just before the football season starts and England play a friendly against Who Cares?

Naturally, Abbey Clancy (his missus) was furious and probably said something like “I was doing you a favour you massive streak of piss! And you’ve blown it!”

Now she’s moving out of the home they share.

The Daily Star helped her to pack some of her stuff up, offering sagely advice on how to cope with a break-up. That, or they spied on her crying over the boxes piled up in the hallway of the Surrey mansion.

Clancy was yesterday shown being comforted by John Terry’s wife Toni, whose marriage to the Chelsea captain survived newspaper reports of his infidelity.

Oh, and click here for a picture of Brassneck.

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