By now the haze of Christmas parties is bound to have worn off and you’ll be sitting there with nothing to show from the festive period but a photocopy of your genitals and an unplanned pregnancy; you’re probably looking back on the month or so preceding this and thinking, “Where did it all go wrong?”

That’s simple. You’re one of these people who gets so excited about the concept of Christmas that you vomit all over your facebook with excitement the first time you see that terrible Coca Cola advert.

SO YOU’VE PROBABLY ALREADY GUESSED THAT I’M GOING TO RUB IT IN YOUR FACE WHILE YOU RUB YOURSELF AND WONDER IF YOU MIGHT HAVE CRABS.

After all, that’s what Christmas is all about.

Let’s talk turkey (aha!), the Coca Cola advert is an unmitigated disaster zone of hackneyed ideas and 50s’-style ‘buy this, it’s good for what ails ye’ advertising. The fact that so many people see it as a sign of the festive period beginning is enough to make any sensible person run out into the street with a bolt-gun to start euthanising children before their parents manage to indoctrinate them into believing that advertising has anything to do with the start of the Christmas period.

Of course, I wouldn’t do that as I’m far too afraid of the brutal honesty of children to ever go near them whether I’m armed or otherwise.

Regardless of that fact, the Coke advert signifies the beginning of Christmas to many people who like to pour onto social networks proclaiming, “OMGCOKEADVERTITZTOTALLYCHRIMBOYAAAAAALOLMAO.”

The obvious question is ‘What has Coke ever done for Christmas?’. That is, aside from inventing Santa Claus in his current form and covering up your relatives’ alcohol problem on Christmas day. Coca Cola isn’t a particularly festive drink and therefore they’ve taken to disguising it with picture-postcard, Werthers Original style visuals and a song that is, I’m afraid to say, worse than Cliff Richard’s Millenium Prayer.

Coca Cola doesn’t bring the joy of the season and the idea of millions of people suddenly rushing to put their trees up when the Coke advert comes on fills me with a sense of dread usually reserved for a nuclear holocaust and a new Michelle MacManus album. Have you ever actually seen a Coca Cola truck like that? Are they like TV License Detector vans? There’s only one and it spends its life on a thankless PR dirge around the country?

Yes, Coca Cola invented Santa Claus, the red suited jolly version at least and we’re supposed to be infinitely grateful to them for allowing us to use him in our children’s folklore. Of course we should be! Thank you Coca Cola! Given the size of the company, they could easily charge you royalties every time you put out a mince pie and a glass of sherry on Christmas eve.

But wait. If we are to assume that the ‘accepted’ version of Santa Claus as the big, jolly red-coated gent that we see today comes directly from the marketing bods at the Coca Cola Company* then we might as well be telling the children of the world that their presents will be delivered by Ronald McDonald or those dickheads from the Pepsi adverts. Christmas owes nothing to Coca Cola and the mere suggestion that it ‘marks the beginning’ of festivities is often made by the same people that complain when there’s Hallowe’en costumes in supermarkets in mid-September.

Still, if you are one of the bleating sheep that rely on Coca Cola to tell you when you can start being nice to people then think of it this way: when you’re a kid, you believe that Santa Claus is real and maybe you believe that he’s directly responsible for delivering Coke. Then you grow up and you find out Santa isn’t real and you actually have to go out and buy gifts for the people you love. Maybe you want to cling on to part of that Christmas magic and the first sight of the Coca Cola trucks gives you that sense of wonder and joy that you’ve been lacking since you hit puberty.

It’s a nice thought isn’t it? It still means you’re being manipulated into feeling an emotion by an advertising company though. Maybe that’s what Christmas is all about after all.

Still, Merry Christmas an’ all that.

*In fact the depiction of Santa Claus in his ‘current form’ predates the advertising of Coca Cola but given that Father Christmas is essentially a series of lies to build the hopes of children and amuse the dull lives of adults (much as Hecklerspray do), we thought we’d keep the lie going. You’re welcome. Merry Christmas.

A sports personality we can’t name for legal reasons (not Barry Venison, pictured right, we just like his hair) was this week seen with his similarly unnamed wife arguing in the street with the unnamed person who may or may not been his former lover of an unnamed amount of time.

The sportsman in question, a legend of the sports world with over 900 appearances for an unnamed Manchester football club, had previously taken out a superinjunction that prevented us from reporting on his other extramarital affair, with an unnamed Big Brother contestant.

He and his wife were seen to approach his unnamed sister in law in order to confront her over going to the tabloids and spilling her unnamed guys about the near decade long affair.

“I hope you got paid a lot of money, that’s 2 families you’ve ruined!”

Exclaimed the star! His wife meanwhile, simply referred to the sibling her husband had sex with as a, “whore.” How original.

Naturally we haven’t been able to report any of the really juicy details, like when the unnamed star burst into flames and threw his former mistress into the heart of the sun, ending the issue and any speculation of a possible make up 3-way.

Similarly, we probably shouldn’t have actually mentioned this unnamed incident at all, lest we find ourselves on the receiving end of some extremely boring and ill thought out legal threats.

So, dear reader, please bear in mind that we never wrote this article and you never read anything on hecklerspray about Ryan Giggs or his troublesome travelling tallywhacker.

In fact, we here in the hecklerspray bedsit are currently in the process of filing a superinjunction against ourselves.

Just so we can save you from the filth and lies that we print for your viewing pleasure.

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How would you describe Katie Holmes? Attractive? Wholesome? Trapped in a loveless marriage to a man who controls her every action, safe in the knowledge that aliens told him to do it because he’s the chosen one?

No?

How about ‘Pumpkin slut’? Go on, say it out loud. It has a lovely ring to it and rolls off the tongue nicely. Slutty pumpkin! Tarty lantern! Halloween hussy! That’s right kids, the witching hour is near and Holmes is going to get all promiscuous.

We suppose some apologies should be given to Katie’s owner, Tom Cruise.

We’re not actually accusing the mother of your child of cheating on you while wearing a giant vegetable on her head (although, this is a very specific interest of ours and if you have any photos you’d like to swap with us, do get in touch), but rather, talking about a job she’s taken.

Apparently, Mrs. Cruise has been allowed out of the house long enough to get herself a nice part-time job and she’s agreed to play a promiscuous Jack-O-Lantern in a Halloween special of the pretty lousy (but not oddly likeable) How I Met Your Mother.

You know the one. The one with Dougie Howser in and that guy from Forgetting Sarah Jessica Parker or whatever it was called.

If you didn’t know – and why would you? You have the attention span of a nauseous gnat – the Slutty Pumpkin is a character that is wheeled out as a potential love interest Ted, to be bumped into at a Halloween party.

Or something. We weren’t paying attention either.

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Hey! Katie Holmes is married to slab of prime thetan, Tom Cruise. As you know, they’re both Scientologists, which makes them certifiably mad. Don’t argue. This is just a fact that’s as plain as the nose on your weird alien-believing face.

Of course, mad people have a myriad of odd symptoms and behavioural patterns. One such thing is to marry a man half your height.

Another is being afraid of an absence of light. That’s right! Katie Holmes is scared of the dark and probably screams in terror every time she blinks. That’s because she’s mental. We pointed that out already didn’t we?

So what scared Katie Holmes so much? Did she realise that, in the dark, Tom Cruise could be sleeping beside her with his weird staring eyes open?

No. It’s lamer than that. She’s frightened of a film she’s been in.

That’s right. She is scared of the dark after being a film she has read the script for over and over until it’s so familiar to her, she can recite the lines from it by heart.

Because of the remake of Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark (also starring Guy Pearce), she now has to sleep with the light on like she’s some kind of stupid baby.

Katie admits:

“I usually sleep with the lights on. When I read this script, I was scared and I had to turn on all the lights in my house.

“I thought I heard noises. And I held my child really close.

Still, nothing is as terrifying as Tom Cruise entering you and giving you his seed while shouting “THIS ONE’S FOR HUBBARD!”

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Katie Holmes may well be wealthy and successful, but that doesn’t stop the entire world pitying her. For starters, she’s in the unfortunate position of being married to Supreme Thetan, Tom Cruise AND she’s no doubt aware that everyone laughs at her because she’s one of those women who towers over her beau.

And so, to stop us from thinking that she’s a dead-eyed Scientologist with a head filled with quasi-religious gunk, she’s decided to act like One Of The Girls by talking about her knickers.

Because talking about your underpants in public isn’t peculiar at all is it? Nope. Not one bit. UNLESS YOU’RE SOME KIND OF GUSSET OBSESSED NUTTER THAT IS.

So why is Holmes talking about her scads? Well, she’s on the cover of InStyle’s August edition, and no, we’ve never got ’round to reading the publication either. It’s probably the kind of tat that gives away free cheapo sunglasses and Piz Buin flavoured biscuits or something.

Anyway, Katie features in the mag, cooing about underwear in a desperate attempt to not talk about her dodgy beliefs and her dung-brained husband who is probably preparing some underground lair filled with insect royalty who will devour non-believers like us Cometh The Hour.

Basically, nice undercrackers are her favourite thing. She likes them more than she likes L. Ron Hubbard.

“They make you feel special when you put them on in the morning.”

This is particularly useful when you have a husband who doesn’t make you feel special, ever.

“Even when I was a little girl I loved my ‘days of the week’ pairs. I love the hot pink ones, that makes my day!”

See? So devoid of joy is Holmes, that pink gruds are the only thing that make her day seem worthwhile enough to plod through. She invariably stares at them, all laid out on her bed and meekly smiles saying “At least you guys will never belittle me with talk of alien rulers.”

Be sure to pelt Tom Cruise with pink, soiled knickers if you should bump into him at your local corner shop. It’s the only way the message of Katie Holmes enormous depression is ever going to get through to him.

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When conducting an interview with Leona Lewis, it is best to set a tape recorder running because, should you fall asleep with tedium (an absolutely certainty), you’ll still get a document of the words she says.

Alas, the problem is, is that, when you listen to those same words back, you’ll fall into a coma all over again, leaving you with a predicament. hecklerspray tends to rig a car battery to the soft, delicate skin of the genital area to keep us from wholly passing-out.

And yet, despite this, Leona Lewis has the audacity to suggest that she isn’t boring at all. She’s not boring, because she says she isn’t boring. Not because she actually wants to tell us of the non-boring things she indulges in. She won’t even talk about her curdling hatred of cats.

See, Leona is tired of being called ‘boring’ by people like us.

She knows that she’s quieter (not when she’s booming out some gut-spasming ballad, again) and less risque than pop stars like Lady GaGa, Rihanna and Daniel O’Donnell… hell… she probably knows that she’s less risque than a single, lonely glove, curling around around a fence post in the rain.

However, she thinks she has other things to offer to fans of her music.

“I don’t care what anyone says. I’m not boring. Unless you know me, I don’t really care about your opinions. I couldn’t care less.”

“Lady Gaga does her crazy thing and she is great. I definitely have something different to offer. I’m all about the music and songs.”

Get that? She’s all about the music and the songs. So has she got some of the greatest songwriters in the universe to pen hits for her?

Step forward Ne-Yo and Jessie J.

Jesus. What a boring, boring bore she izzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

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Tom Cruise is a Scientlogist. That’s all he is now. He used to be an actor and pin-up, but now he’s just a religious nutter, the same as all the other religious nutters around the world. As such, no-one really trusts him anymore.

That’s not stopped people wanting to hire him for films though, as it has been reported that he’s to star in a post-apocalyptic, film called Oblivion.

It would appear that our Tom is more than happy to believe in the aliens that birthed his make-believe religious group but, alas, also happy to chase them around and kill them in the name of movie making.

The film will be directed by Tron: Legacy big-cheese Joseph Kosinski and will be set on a barren Earth, with all the humans living in the clouds above.

Of course, Tommy boy won’t be having a nice time in the sky with all the meek. He’ll be a perfectly toothed soldier who finds himself on Earth with some aliens to kill.

We suspect there’ll be a beautiful woman involved in some way, hired with Tom’s approval (which effectively means that she’ll be shorter than him, making her a dwarf of some kind – we’re hoping for Jeanette Krankie).

Either way, it doesn’t really matter because no-one will end up watching the thing, for fear of the story being some kind of naked propaganda for the Church of Scientology.

No-one wants that, apart from the dead-hearted swine who sign up to such things.*

(*Scientologists, please note – we reserve the same mocking sneers for all religions, especially Catholicism, so don’t start complaining about being single out and picked on, okay? Complain to your Thetan friends about how unfunny our jokes are instead, okay?)

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This may come as a shock to people used to the gritty realism of documentaries like Eastenders, Coronation Street, and Strictly Come Dancing - but it’s pretty much all smoke and mirrors. Even the bits that look really real, like the copious twirling. It’s all staged and you’re being played like a fiddle.

There’s a show that’s two episodes in, called Made in Chelsea. It’s basically The Only Way is Essex but with more-abrasive accents and less fake tan. The show centres around the entirely contrived lives of a group of people we’re no longer convinced even know each other.

Let’s start at the beginning – the show follows wealthy 20-somethings as they walk around Chelsea in circles, occasionally making passive-aggressive remarks toward each other. Producers fill any awkward gaps with scenery or shots of the cast wishing they were somewhere else. An hour long show contains about 30 minutes of the cast, mouths agape and struggling to find some witty put down for the asshole who crossed their paths while wearing Topshop.

Because we hecklers all live together, we like each other, and we occasionally go to the loo together, we’ve been watching this show together. It’s more out of morbid curiosity than anything. Kind of like watching a snuff film, we guess. And we think there has never been so many unlikeable people in one British reality show before. And we’re including all Big Brother contestants, so that’s a lot of people we’re counting.

And this isn’t random rich people-hating. It’s plain old fashioned people-hating. As we gather most of the people from the show lack the social standing that supposedly informs the narrative. The Daily Mail, who started off gleefully planting a positive story before watching the show, has since turned against it. They were so desperate for negative material that they crafted an entire report based on nothing but a dozen Twitter reactions from after the pilot aired.

At this point The Mail is fishing a little, but what they’re finding is shedding light on the level of deception that goes into creating, scripting, and conjuring parts of this show.

The cast is, incidentally, of a lower social standing than the show suggests because no better socialites would agree to be filmed. The Mail notes that some were signed up, but then ‘many of the genuine socialites and high-society members [who] signed up dropped out when they realised it could affect their social standing.’

More to the point, most of the cast aren’t important enough to be members of the fancy pants places in which they film. For example, episode one shows an event in a nightclub: scenes show club-goers and bar staff who are fairly sparsely spaced, a door man, one of the cast, who stands outdoors during what’s clearly early evening. Turns out the indoors scenes were shot during the day, with only paid extras and cast, with the venue hired for the purpose.

None of the cast were even members of the £400 to join, an additional £400-per-year to remain a member, Raffles nightclub.

When real members learned of the scenes that essentially peed all over their fees they complained, forcing the hand of the management who issued a statement.

We would like to confirm that the production company for Made In Chelsea have rented our venue on a few occasions – during the day – to film scenes for their television programme. The hire-outs were standard day-time venue hire that we were very happy to accommodate. We wish them and the cast the best of luck with the TV programme. We will be maintaining our strict policy of allowing access for members and their friends only during normal evening trading hours.

Fun times: partying with other unimportant people, in the daytime, while surrounded by extras.

We’re pretty sure the cast physically exist, as in you could reach right out and punch them, but don’t hold us to that.

This was a guest post by Amy Grindhouse, so three stinkin’ cheers for that.

We’re not ashamed to admit we quite like Rob Lowe. We’ve forgiven him all that St. Elmo’s Fire pretty-boy nonsense now that he’s starting to look agreeably rumpled, he was good at striding down corridors and talking quickly on the West Wing and we’re impressed with his surprisingly good comic timing.

And be honest with yourselves – if you had the opportunity to simultaneously have sex with two members of the opposite gender, you’d make bloody sure you video-taped the event as well.

Although probably best to make sure they’re both of legal age and not let the tape get leaked to the press or anything. But do you know what we really like about him? He chinned Tom Cruise!

We would pay good money to have seen the moment when Lowe ‘accidentally’ launched the tiny, squinty-eyed chipmunk-toothed king of boring films Tom Cruise during the rehearsal of a fight scene on the set of 1983 movie The Outsiders.

What we don’t understand is why he’s only mentioning it now. We’d have been shouting it from the rooftops for the past 28 years. According to Rob, after ‘accidentally’ smacking Tom Cruise:

“We all beat the living s**t out of one another. We really did. I got one clean shot on Tom, and Tom is such a competitive lunatic – which is what I love about him – but the next thing you know he’s ready to kill me!”

It’s unclear who came out the better of this, as Rob went on to perplexingly state:

“He’s a whole lot of guy. It’s like the United States and China right now. If you treat China like a foe surely she will become one. It was all good.”

Really, Rob? Like, what?

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Katie ‘towers over her mental husband’ Holmes does not take drugs. Okay? Can we just get that clear in our tiny little minds? She’s definitely not a drug addict. Absolutely, positively not a druggy mess.

Okay?

See, that’s the official line after Holmes settled a defamation claim with a US celebrity magazine over an article that FALSELY suggested she was a drug addict. However, because we’re sarcastic, every time we say “KATIE HOMES IS NOT A DRUG ADDICT, OKAY?”, it makes her sound exactly like a drug addict. We can’t do much about that though. We’re cursed with a sarcastic tone of voice. Sorry.

Holmes sued Star magazine for $50m (£29.9m) last month over a January edition bearing the headline “Addiction Nightmare – Katie Drug Shocker”.

The magazine will now publish a very tiny, barely readable apology in an upcoming issue, after they’ve finished counting their money gained for revenue generated from saying that Mrs Cruise is a stinkin’ buck of narcotics.

Showing that us celebrity leeches are actually very nice people, the Star said they would make “substantial donation” to charity as part of the private settlement.

In its apology, Star said:

“[We] did not intend to suggest Katie Holmes was a drug addict or was undergoing treatment for a drug addiction”.

“Star apologises to Ms Holmes for any misperception and will be making a substantial donation to charity on Ms Holmes’ behalf for any harm that we may have caused.”

Katie Holmes showed just how interesting she’s become after shacking up with Scientology nutter, Tom Cruise, by saying:

“With this dispute out of the way, I look forward to once again focusing my attention on my family and career.”

Not so much on the latter though, eh?

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Life’s got to be pretty damn dull when you’re a celebrity spawn. Once you’ve got used to the endless procession of uncles with big flashy cameras that Mummy is so fond of twirling about in front of, and the endless procession of nannies that Daddy keeps disappearing to the toilet with and making squeak like your Upsy Daisy doll, there can’t be much to hold your attention through those tender pre-school years before you can develop enough vocabulary to do your own reality show pitch.

So kudos to cute little Hubbard Reincarnated/utterly normal child Suri Cruise for making her own entertainment, by cleverly satirising the media whirlwind surrounding her mega-famous family unit through the medium of sweeties!

Yes, sweeties. Shut up and bear with us.

The story appears to be as follows: famously-married-of-her-own-free-will towering pixie Katie Holmes somehow managed to drag her be-manacled feet and genius child into a New York ice cream parlour to enjoy a few minutes of sugary solitude between entirely voluntary hourly personality tests. And Suri saw the paps, saw the sweeties; saw her moment to make the statement of the year.

As Mummy Winsome explains within the earshot of gaudy noseyparkers Heatworld:

We go in and we are waiting for a table and she grabs some gummies that are boy part gummies. I was horrified.

Boy part? So, what, shaped like Bs? Or Ys? Or maybe Os, which would be considerably easier to produce from a manufacturing point of view, which is important to think about in these tightened financial times? Nonsense!

They are called p-e-n-i-s gummies and they look like it. She was holding the box and I was like, “OK, wow, we don’t need that right now.”

Oh, yeah. She went for it. In front of the massed photographers of all the idiot lady-rotting magazines of the northern hemisphere, Suri went for the big box full of cocks.

You know what you’re itching to say right now, don’t you? Course you do. You can barely help yourself. It’s there, dancing round the tip of your tongue like unspoken words of love that burn through your soul but remain forever unexpressed. Man up. Just say it. “Got a liking for a crate of schlongs, eh? Ha! Like father, like…”

But no! Don’t you dare! Suri is far too clever for you. She may paw at the packet of porkswords. But she will do it with a cloak of irony, knowing that it’s the perfect gag, that we snark-laden schmucks will not be able to resist drawing comparisons, because her dad is Tom Cruise! And…therefore…has a penis, because he is a man, and there is no more comparison to be drawn between the two!

See? See how good she is? Not content with her mastery of the effect of the jellied John Thomas, she then went on to screw up her adorable eyes, squeeze with all her might, and pop a perfectly representative review of Daddy’s recent and upcoming film career into her big girl pants. Eat your heart out, Chris Morris.

Anyway, Suri – you’ve got talent, kid. Should you ever want a job at hecklerspray, let us know; we can shove the Henry round the bedsit to clear out the thetans and install tin foil on the walls. At least it’ll give you a chance to get away from the sobbing of your dear old giant of a mum.

Sobbing from happiness. That’s almost definitely a real emotion. Don’t sue us…

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Katie Holmes is suing mad over Star Magazine telling filthy, filthy lies about her alleged drug addiction. That addiction, you know. The one where she’s addicted to Charlie Sheen, or something. We’re pretty sure at least one person in this story’s addicted to Charlie Sheen.

The actress has filed a libel lawsuit in federal court because of a magazine cover that uses the magic of exaggeration and capital letters to declare her addicted to narcotics:

‘ADDICTION NIGHTMARE: Katie DRUG SHOCKER! The Real Reason She Can’t Leave Tom’.

In the January 2011 issue, the cover of Star alleged Holmes had an addiction problem; their proof, the bags under her eyes, and little more. There were also some scattered quotes about how the Scientology process of auditing produced a high to which she’d become addicted. Aside from that, it was the product of some monkeys, some typewriters and some faeces flung at its pages.

The cover alone was reason for the suit, alleges the actress, who’s now facing an uphill battle to win – with American libel laws being set up to facilitate bite-sized defamation. It’s probably the best course of action. It’s almost never worth suing over spilt feces.

From TMZ:

Katie Holmes just filed a $50 million libel lawsuit against the publishers of “Star” magazine after a recent cover insinuated she’s a drug addict. Holmes’ rep tells TMZ, “Star Magazine’s malicious claims about Katie are untrue, unethical and unlawful. Not only do they cruelly defame Katie, they play a cheap trick on the public, making ridiculously false claims on the cover unsupported by anything inside.” And, the rep adds, “Someone should bring a class action to get all buyers their money back.” Holmes is seeking $50 million in damages from American Media Inc.

It’s pocket change for someone who gets to spend the contents of Tom Cruise’s murse whenever she wants.

But it’s the principle.

The litigious principle from a member of a church notorious for lawsuits for lawsuit’s sake.

This was a guest post by Amy Grindhouse, so three stinkin’ cheers for that.

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Oh look! It’s Valentine’s Day which means one of two things: If you happen to be single and lonely like us, you’ll be spending the day furiously masturbating whilst eating a fist full of chocolate, all in the name of creating a fake romantic setting. For the loved up, couples everywhere will be bankrupting themselves as they spent money on tacky gifts like stuffed bears that hilariously say, “I WUV U.”

If you’re a bloke and manage to get your special lady more than just a bunch of flowers for the garage that end up smelling of diesel rather than nectar, what can you expect back? Sex! Well, that’s what usually happens with folk who are all loved up.

But how to set the mood? A meal that isn’t microwaved? Candle light? Rose petals scattered everywhere? If you’re a traditionalist yes, but now Leona Lewis can help improve the setting.

Don’t worry, she isn’t launching a vibrator with her horsey face etched on to the tip or launching a brand of condoms like JLS.

Leona Lewis can officially take the title of the “most played love song.” So, when raiding your CD or vinyl collection for a song to play during your three minutes of shagging, don’t put Sexual Healing on, rather, play Bleeding Love as it will definitely make any sexual act a billion times more romantic and that includes the swapping of STI’s.

Now we know what you’re thinking how can a song called Bleeding Love be given such an honour? After all, the song is essentially about periods. We only thought that someone with an extreme fetish involving blood would find that vaguely arousing. But no, this poll wasn’t picked by the public, but by an organisation called the PPL. The Press Association reports:

“Her 2007 single Bleeding Love tops a list of recordings played in public, including radio and shops, featuring the word love in the title. Figures released by airplay royalties’ body PPL show that one in 15 songs given a public airing has a name featuring “love” or variations.”

Let’s dissect this a little shall we?

Basically any song with the word love in the title stood a potential chance of being included on this list. That’s great, but we all know that the other people making up the list weren’t given a helping hand by karaoke competition X-Factor; all mastered by evil musical puppeteer Simon Cowell. As soon as she won the show, the song flooded TV & radio, forcing everyone to listen to her squeal about monthly cycle.

Other rubbish songs on the list include The Feeling’s 2006 song Love It When You Call. Spiller and Sophie Ellis Bextor’s single Groovejet (If This Ain’t Love) ranking third in the list.

Basically, it’s the second popularity contest she’s won really. On X-Factor Leona Lewis was crowned the winner for having all the charm, charisma and personality of a mushed-up paper bag. Being played the most on the TV/radio pretty much means that you should reward the person who gets the hashtag #cake trending on Twitter. Go on do that today, just to see if we make it popular enough to confuse everyone.

We’re sad that a decent love song didn’t get to number one in the list. Ape man Richard Keys has also angered us. He’s failed to see Valentine’s Day as a chance to release to his own romantic card with the heart warming message, “I’d Like To Smash You.”

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There are obvious differences between men and women. Once the smuttier of you look beyond the bouncing boobies or the swinging willies, things take a sinister, much darker path. Men are seen as the dominant aggressor with males receiving higher salaries and gaining more power in the company food chain.

This train of thought dilutes to almost everywhere in society. Pop music constantly sees women having to reinvent themselves so they maintain an audience, or as it’s known, the male gaze.

Do The Saturdays want to prance around in the knickers or sing catchy songs? We’ll never know, but we doubt Loaded Magazine haven’t offered Bob Dylan a shoot in sexy French lingerie. With Rihanna and Britney Spears already make an effort to keep up with Lady Gaga; it was the turn for Leona Lewis to look edgy and cool at the premier of Justin Bieber’s recent film. Even though she has the X-Factor PR monster behind her, it didn’t stop the Bleeding Love singer looking stupid.

It would be weird to think that, after the whole Sky Sports fiasco involving the two ape men, everyone would be treated as some sort of ridiculous equal. But this won’t be happening anytime soon, especially given the fragile state of the world.

Somewhere, probably in an industrial estate near Glasgow, a factory churns out fresh faced girls who aspire to be singers, dancers and models. They are the sort of people who are high on life, laughing off stepping in dog muck and hug passers-by in the street, telling them how lovely their hair looks. Basically, these people are ready to pounce and replace any existing pop star who does something moronic or decides to shun the corporate script their record label gave them to follow – just like at The Sugababes.

All female musicians seemingly go through a time warp of transitions. Rihanna for example is the latest starlet to be transformed from cute and innocent girl to a sex ravaged, bondage mad electro starlet in the latest video for S&M. For a woman who was publicly assaulted by R&B bucktooth Chris Brown, we fail to see that Rihanna would want to actively engage in an activity where consenting couples or strangers beat the shit out of each other with whips, belts and whisks attached to drainpipes.

But then again, it’s okay to do this – sex sells so Rihanna will get a number one song. Hooray, for her, it doesn’t matter about the impressionable nine year old girl who’ll think it’s perfectly normal to ask her mother for a trip to Ann Summers so she can purchase her first pair of PVC knickers and love eggs.

Men don’t have to constantly evolve their image when releasing new albums. When they do, results aren’t pretty and the vibe given off is one of “what a pretentious prick.” Razorlight recently showed what happened when you let a stylist dress you as a Victorian living in Mexico. If only record companies had pushed some of their bands to do something more than dire dross. Oasis wouldn’t have then released multiple albums that sounded like outtakes of Definitely Maybe.

It’s strange that Leona Lewis continues to be a pop star. Anything less than first place in X-Factor would have forced her in to a life of dressing as a giant hamburger and singing to children, subsequently brainwashing them that the food they’re guzzling is nutritious and won’t cause obesity. To a degree, she’s doing that now really, singing a load of ballads or cover versions that have the same charm as a bucket full of seal eyes. People cheer and froth at the mouth like she’s a musical genius and has done something amazing like conduct an orchestra with the baton wedged in her buttocks.

Public appearances for the singer are rare, so when Leona Lewis does appear, grabbing the attention from someone like Christina Aguilera is a must. By crikey we’re proud to say that she did this. Now it wasn’t done through placing a curse on Justin Bieber or urinating in the punch bowl. No, she wore a massive trout pout across her chest. Metro explains more:

“The top which she designed herself featured a sheer section onto which the hot pink lips were attached to cover her modesty. Leona combined this with a black high-wasted pencil skirt and grey heels. “

Basically, it looked like she was inviting you to kiss her boobs, all before getting you done for naughty touching. If she’d consulted us, we’d have given her a pantomime horse’s outfit. She’s permanently got the look of a hose attached to her gormless face.

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Do you know what’s fascinating about Leona Lewis? Nothing of course. In terms of phenomena, she’s like ‘that funny noise the fridge makes’ – something you’re vaguely aware of but couldn’t ever really have a strong feeling about.

Or so we thought, because look out world – Leona Lewis has been lying her expressionless face off.

You know how she ‘weally wuvs animwals’ and is a public supporter of PETA? To the extent that she almost caused a mutiny among her road-crew the other month for insisting they all refrain from eating meat – surely the least interesting way to upset anyone ever?

If she were insisting they subsist on a diet comprising only of fairy’s wings and the tears of children THAT would be interesting. But the non-meat-eating thing – Christ – that’s up there with Paul McCartney and Gwyneth Paltrow in the ‘things you couldn’t care less about’ stakes.

Anyway, the world was practically knocked off it’s axis by recent reports that Leona has said

“I don’t like evil cats.”

Correct us if we’re wrong, but cats are animals aren’t they? This shockingly out-of-character statement was prompted by a recent unprovoked attack. Not like that one in the bookshop when that bloke patiently queued for 90 minutes for the opportunity to hilariously lamp her one.

But an attack by a cat!

As Leona harrowingly describes it

“A cat jumped on me the other week. They scare me. It hissed and scratched my legs – I didn’t know what to do! It was an evil cat.”

Jesus Christ! It actually jumped on her and stuff! That poor woman. That poor, non-animal-loving sphinx-faced lying woman. The PR machine surrounding Leona has previously been so efficient at suppressing any sign of any character traits whatsoever that we really don’t know what to believe after this shocking event.

We preferred it when she was just giving interviews on T4 so tedious that the viewer could never really be sure they hadn’t actually fallen asleep and were just dreaming about a boring interview. This hurricane of ‘not liking’ things and having an ‘inconsistent stance on animals’ has blown our minds.

Oh stuff it we give up. We couldn’t make this woman seem interesting if we tried. And we just have.

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