Hecklerspray was saddened to hear of the Jordan/ Peter Andre relationship breaking up this week, even if it has allowed the opportunity to make jokes about a lovely pair and love splits, which was taken with relish.

While feeling sorry that Peter Andre no longer has those pendulous breasts to put his head between and wave his head about while making speedboat noises, it occurred that we’ve never had that chance. And that makes us a little bit sad, although it does give us an excuse to pay Google Images a visit.

After putting the tissues away (because we were crying over Junior growing up in a broken home), we set off to the supermarket to make our own credit crunch busting Jordan.

We used Sainsbury’s, but a less middle class supermarket will do. The thought of an Aldi Jordan isn’t great, though. It’d probably turn out a bit more Jodie Marsh. One point, it’s best to buy the sweets and condoms on two separate visits, or in two separate shops. Especially if that’s all you’re buying.

The ingredients. I’d recommend balloons instead of condoms, as you can sellotape them together a bit better. That I only have condoms (lots and lots of condoms) doesn’t say as much about me as you’d think.

Take a stick – lucky for you, they do grow on trees. I used a big stick and cut it down to size, but you can just use a small stick if you prefer.

Next, take an orange and gummy worms, and push them into the holes. This will make gummy hair, and also make your hands smell like orange. In a moment, you will think of these as the glory days of hand smelling.

Unwrap two condoms, and inflate. This will make your breath taste delightfully spermicidy, and make you spit a lot. Add two bits of chorizo or other round meat to the end, and spend an hour and a half sellotaping the bloody things together in a way that doesn’t make them fall down or flop. Because that would be unrealistic. Stick two chocolate cake decorations in as eyes, and remain unsure what to do for a mouth.

And there you have it, your very own Andre-bothering Jordan. The eggs are feet, and not bollocks, but it’s too late to correct that now. If it helps, you can imagine they are her kids.

In a misguided attempt to give her yoghurt themed make-up, I accidentally made it look like I’d, er, enjoyed it a bit too much. Sorry.

This essentially indecent piece of art and craft was brought to you by the godlike Nik Johnson from Shouting At Cows. Blame him.

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