If Peaches Geldof wasn’t the daughter of a moaning old rocker who pretty much called us pricks for not giving to charity, she’d be the sort of girl you’d see tapping furiously on a laptop in Starbucks all day and blabbing loudly on Skype.

With a face resembling curdled milk, she always looks like a combination of someone surprised and zoned out. Either everything is a surprise to her, or she takes a lot of ketamine.

Every time she appears in the news, we don’t get to hear of any great deeds she’s done for charity. Instead, she’s either off her chops on drugs, accused of stealing clothes or having relationship issues. Basically, she’s just a piss poor UK version of marriage mentalist Britney Spears and jewellery pincher Lindsay Lohan. For reasons unbeknown to us, Peaches Geldof keeps on getting TV work, with ITV2 giving her a ghastly show called OMG! With Peaches Geldof.

ITV2 is the equivalent of BBC3 where programming is commissioned for the respective network, all because it hasn’t quite got the sophisticated factor to be shown on the main channel. While we know that it’s designed to test the waters, the broadcasters labels the respective channels as ‘edgy’, ‘cool’ and ‘youthful’. Or, if you prefer, ‘totally gash’.

At times, we feel that ITV2 is used to give us never ending backstage footage of shows such as Britain’s Got Talent, X-Factor, I’m A Celebrity and Dancing On Ice alongside extended editions with seventeen seconds of extra footage. Occasionally, fresh programs are shown such as the never ending feud between Katie Price, Peter Andre and Alex Reid. But this a bit boring – what we want is something unique, visual representation of something that appears in glossy magazines.

We can only assume that OMG With Peaches Geldof is a programme that the producers aim to shock us with based on the 11pm timeslot that it has been given. Either that or, even before it was screened to the UK population, people involved with the making of the programme recoiled in horror about the monster they’d created.

Back in times gone by, pretty much before people could get their own decent internet connection, we marvelled at shows that showcased people who are open and honest about their weird activities. Kind of like a modern day Victorian freak show. But as websites like YouTube developed, the need to gawp at someone in a studio while a ringleader controls a hyena-like crowd isn’t needed. Peaches Geldof has seen a variety of people waltz on to her show including blood drinkers and older ladies seeking younger men. All making for TV that wouldn’t break the boundaries of a wet paper bag. Moaning as usual, she said of the negative reviews of her show:

“I like the language that people use, it’s fascinating and fabulous. I love to read a shitty review of anyone, including myself.”

We don’t know what’s next for Peaches Geldof, but with the way that higher education has been watered down, we expect that she’ll be lecturing students in how they can become successful at being famous for doing piss-all.

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Peaches Geldof has decided to forge a career for herself outside of composing listicles for a myriad of otherwise credible media publications.

It’s just a shame that she’s being accused of breaking the law in her new line of work. It’s a shame because, according to multiple reports, the 22-year-old is turning quite a roaring trade.

It was reported yesterday that the daughter of Live Aid’s founder, Bob Geldof, and daughter of the late Paula Yates, had been accused of theft. Again.

Peaches was minding her own business, coating her fingers with something sticky, when she was phoned by a store she’d patronised the previous week, Three Amigos, in Camden Town.

We should imagine the conversation went something like this:

*Phone rings… Peaches answers, with sticky fingers that are getting all over the bloody buttons*

Peaches: What?!

Store: Hello, Ms Geldof?

Peaches: Egads, I’m caught… I mean, yes?

Store: Hello. It’s come to our attention that the items of clothing left in our store, since your flying visit, have become covered in something sticky; possibly honey. And it got all over our floor. The floor we’d just mopped!

Peaches: So you want your floor mopped?

Store: No. Well, yes. But we also want back that £70 dress that went missing. Ugh, my fingers are sticking to our phone and my feet to the floor. I’ll have to phone you back. *click*

Pretending that conversation actually took place, we can deduce from our (not) scientific evidence that we… ate most of the honey with breakfast. Yummers.

The Daily Mail addresses the previous accusations that Peaches is a low-rent Lindsay Lohan/ Winona Ryder.

Staff at the Three Amigos store in Camden Town claimed that the garment disappeared after the 22-year-old TV presenter visited last week. One line of inquiry is that the alleged theft is due to a misunderstanding between the shop and Miss Geldof. The claims are the latest in a long line of shoplifting allegations for the socialite – though she has always been exonerated. In March 2008, she was accused of leaving the Victim store near Carnaby Street with a £500 dress she had not paid for. After store staff realised it was missing, they phoned her management firm and Miss Geldof returned to the shop and apologised, saying it had been a ‘simple misunderstanding’.

See, it’s just another ‘misunderstanding’. Those are like buses, right?

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

So, the worst has happened. You’ve woken up and realised you are Peaches Geldof. Now, the most important thing is not to panic. You are perfectly fine. You do not have to do a thing. You don’t have to dig deep inside yourself and work out where your true talents lie. It’d take too long, and you’d only get disheartened with the lack of results.

Short answer – you emerged from a celebrity uterus, and 22 entirely fatuous years later, here we all are. No, don’t cry. We’ve only just started!

Remember when those nice people from ITV2 turned up with that human hamster with dead eyes called Fern or Bush or something, who kept shouting about how everything was amazing? And you got to talk about being a Scientologist and everyone nodded and smiled and you felt like you were being a really clever sausage? Those nice people are back, and they’ve given you your own show. It’s called OMG. OMG! Hang on! That’s, like, totally what you say! OMG! And in it, you can, like, totally discuss the important and shocking issues of the day and everyone will, like, totally respect you and stuff.

Except it won’t be about important and shocking issues. It’ll be about troubled people pretending to be vampires, but it’s OK, you can basically just talk over them because they’re not important like you. And about Facebook relationships, or whatever. I mean, you don’t have to think about it too much, Peaches, because the people running the show clearly didn’t. They just grabbed a beermat, wrote “OMG!” on the back of it, and somewhere along the line that translated into “Get a studio full of people who would willingly hack out both kidneys with a butterknife if it meant they could stand about awkwardly in the same room as a minor celebrity, make them stand about awkwardly in the same room as a minor celebrity, film for one hour, stick straight on ITV2, get back to the Groucho for last orders.”

Anyway, Peaches. There’s a bit at the start of the show where you have to read off an autocue. You’re starting to panic, aren’t you? Don’t worry. You won’t have to do it with any panache, charisma or acting nous. When you’re meant to look moody and searching, just stare blankly at the floor. When you’re meant to make seductive eye-contact with your viewing public, just stare blankly at the camera. If you can, try and look like you’re in the middle of a severe neurological episode.

But remember, this is a show about really shocking stuff. OMG, right? It’s meant to make you go OMG! You know, Oh-Em-Gee, just like real people actually say in real life and everything! So when the vampire lady comes on – not the dippy fake vampire who just hikes her boobs round her thorax and mooches about near graveyards in black velvet chokers but only in daytime and every evening kisses her Noel Fielding poster goodnight, but the “real” vampire, with the twitchy eyes, the self-harming and the vial of O-neg clamped in her pale fist – make sure you ask really searching questions, like “So, you are pretty much bang into drinking blood?”

Careful, though. When the mental vamp chugs her own plasma and starts eulogising on the merits of slashing open your own arteries and drinking deep from the life-force that spews forth, and it all gets a bit serious and emotionally disturbing, immediately and abruptly change gear by cutting to a VT of you and your stupid, stupid co-hosts dicking about in a goth shop in Camden under the watchful gaze of a Rick Parfitt lookalike gently climaxing under his cloak made from used tissues he snaffled from Robert Pattison’s wheelie bin.

Did we not mention the co-hosts, Peaches? See, you won’t be alone! There’s a gay man from the radio, who’s gay, and he’ll be your gay best friend, because he’s gay. So whenever you need a gay perspective on things – for example discussing hot new iPhone app Grindr, so hot and modern and shocking and OMG! that it was only mentioned on Top Gear two years ago, he will be there, because he’s gay. And of course, he can speak for all gay men because as we all know, absolutely all gay men are exactly the same, so that’s that thorny issue sorted.

There will also be someone who no-one will have ever heard of, but who will call herself a “TV psychologist,” and all she will say when confronted with anything at all – drinking blood, updating Facebook, respiring oxygen into carbon dioxide – is “Sorry, I respect the way you live, but it’s not for me, and I think you should get help.” And then make a face like she’s giving birth to a shattered mirrorball.

You’re doing really well, Peaches. It’s almost the end of the show. There’s just one tiny little bit to get through, and it’s about the oh-so-OMG! topic of finding love on Facebook. Bit of a hitch, though. The nice ITV2 people couldn’t actually be bothered to find anyone who’d fallen in love on Facebook. So what they did, right, was get two researchers to pretend they were a couple, and then pretend they were broken up, and then film them pretend to change their Facebook relationship statuses. That’s it. OK – that might sound a little…slack for a prime-time TV show. But it’s OK, because they’ll slap some Adele all over it, and everyone still watching will assume it’s heartbreaking, because they’re fucking idiots.

Oh, no. Hang on, Peaches. Something’s gone terribly wrong. It actually IS slack. It’s worse than that. It actually could be one of the worst television shows ever broadcast.

You know that bit where you misunderstood one of the features and the off-camera stage manager had to explain it to you? They didn’t even edit that out. It’s entirely misguided. In trying to show the OMG! side of life, whatever that bloody is, it veers from vacuous tooting over how hilarious threesomes are to being completely unable to handle what are quite tricky psychological issues.

And you, Peaches? You’re just awful. It’s your show. You’re meant to be the main presenter. Your interviewee just drank her own blood. Don’t you have anything to say about that? Anything? Huh? Well?!

What’s that? You’ve got a new boyfriend and it’s, like, so funny?

OMG, Peaches Geldof. Sometimes that’s all that can be said. OMG.

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Political discussions normally crop up late at night when everyone at a party has ran out of booze and needs something to talk about, or your some sort of student pointlessly studying the subject at university.

UK politics inspires to the extent where we want to do nothing more than call anyone involved in a job which, essentially, is nothing but a blame games. Who can lead a successful constituency without a well funded second home and moat full of ducks? Ducks made out of coins probably.

If the economy hasn’t gone belly up, we’re either being told that criminals are getting away with more crimes and the political system becomes more and more elitist due to class and status. Basically, going to a state school will prang your chances of ever running the country. What we need is a refreshing look at the way UK politicians operate. The student protest showed people power does nothing, so what’s our remaining option? Enter our Lady and Saviour, Peaches Geldof.

Now give Peaches a chance here people. You might think she is a useless twonk who only pesters us occasionally because of her Monday hating father Bob.

Actually, now that we come to think about it, we can’t really think of any redeeming features about her. Bless her; she is a comic source of mockery for having a stupid name. Still it could be worse; Peaches might have been called Ripe Melons Geldof instead.

For some reason, Company Magazine decided to interview Peaches Geldof after airbrushing the hell out of some photos. They, unfathomably, asked Geldof what her favourite thing about Britain was. As an annoying pratty child, you’d assume her to snort repeatedly before answering, wipe her nose with a wad of cash and then brag about all the free stuff she gets sent. Instead, she answered:

“Ed Miliband, he’s fit. In fact, both Miliband brothers, and David Cameron for that matter, are quite fit. British politics has a suave thing going on.”

There are a couple of depressing issues here. Firstly, someone has a slight bit of fame and a small legion of mentalist devotees will probably encourage people to vote for people because of how fit they are. Given that theory, Wagner from X-Factor shouldn’t have passed the audition stage and if Peaches Geldof had her way, David Cameron and Nick Clegg would have decided who got to be prime minister after oiling up and wrestling in a paddling pool of jelly.

Frankly, the cabinet Peaches Geldof would employ would be made up of vain men who aren’t allowed membership until they’ve had five spray tans.

Elsewhere, the female staff in the Geldof political party would consist of the funny looking girls that work in American Apparel who look at you askance for daring to ask if they stock clothes in regular peoples sizing, as opposed to impossibly thin versions.

But wait! Peaches is a realist, we’re just presumptuous dicks. She explains that she likes to keep things to a norm:

“I prefer real situations with my real friends. We go to a little dive bar in Dalston run by Turkish men drinking White Lightning cider while they Skype their families back home. I love weird, out-of-context bars rather than swanky places.”

By real friends, we assume the people who aren’t there to lick her arse, tell her she’s wonderful and get an evening of free food and drink.

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Hecklerspray’s science lab technicians have been working long and hard on one of the trickiest questions ever asked by humankind – ‘What is the point of Peaches Geldof?’ As yet, they still haven’t managed an answer.

The closest they have come is to find a whole host of things that Peaches Geldof (who isn’t engaged) would probably do.

The latest is the discovery that Geldof would probably wear a bikini made entirely from raw meat. Don’t you dare tell us that we don’t bring you the hottest and most important stories.

If you didn’t know, Lady Gaga (real name Assumpta H. Calculator) appeared on the cover of Vogue Hommes Japan recently, wearing little more than a bikini made out of beef.

And so, ever the useful celebrity, Peaches ‘The Continual Disappointment To Sir Bob’ Geldof, decided to let the world know that she’d probably wear the same thing.

She tweeted:

‘RE: Lady Gaga’s meat bikini aka meatkini: I probably would wear one on the beach, but would be scared of birds pecking at it. Hmm…fashion.’

She added:

‘On second thoughts, if I wore a meatkini in the sun, it would cook on my skin. Meatkini + sun = steak, medium rare. Just pick off and enjoy.’

So what else might Peaches Geldof do?

Say ‘like’ every three seconds? Try heroin? Continue to use up valuable oxygen that could be used by someone more deserving like, say, a lepton? Try elevating herself above Celebrity Plankton status? Would she try out the new machine we’ve made which is designed to give her a swift smack around the head, every single time she blinks or breathes out?

We’ll get back to you when we know more/make something up.

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Good news, boys! Even though Peaches Geldof has been marauding around with an engagement ring, she isn’t actually engaged.

She’s still on the market! Hooray! We still have a chance of marrying her ourselves! Because, make no mistake, Peaches Geldof is a catch. What we wouldn’t give for a wife as droning and pointless and bleary and compulsively attention-seeking and thoroughly objectionable and funny-voiced and weird-looking and maddeningly annoying and completely awful as her. She’s a fox, in the sense that she generally looks quite unwashed and a bit feral.

So if Peaches Geldof isn’t engaged, then why does she keep going out with an engagement ring on? We refer you back to the ‘droning and pointless and bleary and compulsively attention-seeking and thoroughly objectionable and funny-voiced and weird-looking and maddeningly annoying and completely awful’ line above. That’s why.

We get the feeling that Peaches Geldof thinks that she’d shrivel up and die if people stopped paying attention to her. Which is clearly not the case – if it was then we would have obviously organised a nationwide Nobody Pay Any Attention To Peaches Geldof Day, just to make sure that it definitely happened. But despite this, Peaches Geldof is determined to cling on to her minuscule sliver of notoriety however she can.

Her latest ruse – following the ruse where she got married to someone she’d only just met, the ruse where she divorced him, the ruse where she was photographed in the middle of what looked like a drug-fuelled sex game and the ruse where everything she ever does, says or thinks makes us want to claw at our own skin with our fingernails and then go and roll around in salt – is to twonk around around with an engagement ring on. Except – get this! – she isn’t even engaged. Crazy. Metro reports:

Peaches Geldof resorted to a classic celebrity ‘look at me’ tactic – waggling an ‘engagement’ ring after a dinner date with boyfriend Eli Roth. The couple were marking their six-month anniversary on the night 38-year-old Roth’s film, The Last Exorcism, premiered in London’s Leicester Square. Geldof’s spokeswoman insisted Sir Bob’s girl was ‘100 per cent not engaged’.

Goodness, what will Peaches Geldof do next? We couldn’t possibly imagine, although it goes without saying that if it doesn’t involve going far far away and never being seen in public ever again by anyone then we’ll probably be quite disappointed.

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The trendiest must-have pet to have this year is the micro pig – it boasts all sorts of advantages over the traditional puppy.

Every winter, stark warnings are given to us that a dog is for life, not just for Christmas. Now, whilst we don’t condone the abandoning or even killings of puppies, at least the micro pig can be put towards an early morning bacon sandwich once it stops being cute.

So what makes micro pigs so desirable? Well, it turns out they do nothing but look stupidly cute because they’re very small. They’re so teeny, in fact, that stepping on them is a dangerous likelihood. Now one micro pig has gone the extra step and gotten its very own Peaches Geldof to look after. Let’s hope it knows the task it’s taking on.

Peaches Geldof is the creation of angry sweary Irish charity man Bob Geldof. He tried to do wonders for the world and help African people get medical care, housing, access to water and a nice pair of trainers. Late at night, he must cry deep tears knowing his stupidly-named daughter hasn’t done anything to mirror his actions.

This is probably why there’s now a micro pig on the scene – to keep her occupied and stop her from doing anything stupid. Based on her previous outings in the big bad scary world, for a few months at least, it might work. Pinging the creature’s tail from curly to straight should make her shriek her with laughter. But just what exactly will this micro pig prevent Peaches Geldof from doing?

1 – Getting stupid tattoos. Peaches Geldof has the figure that most teenage girls would probably want to go for. Well, take out the fake tan products, hair extensions and eliminate the post-photoshoot airbrushing. It’s a shame she has decided to ink herself with random body decorations that can’t be removed with fairy liquid.

2 – Taking heroin. Despite her PR insisting that the hardest drug she takes is alcohol, photos of Peaches floating around the internet last year came attached with unsettling rumours of a freaky heroin binge. With her mother dying in drug-related instances, getting involved with this ropey world shouldn’t be actively encouraged. Baking, horse racing or gardening would be better.

3 – Not inflicting her unique style of media work on us. As well as watching Peaches’s fascinating life through Sky One programmes, we also got to read articles by her in grown up newspapers like The Telegraph. It’s great to know she was able to do this all by herself without once using her father’s name to help her along. That’s like saying Stella McCartney had a helping hand too. Never in a million years.

Now Magazine reports that the cute porker is called Pennington, and we have a few key bits of advice in order for it to make sure its new Peaches Geldof grows big and strong. For example, it’s important that she’s given plenty of booze to liven her up, and to regularly expose her to plenty of paparazzi when she attends the launch of a new BBQ meat product so her ego doesn’t deflate.

This way, she’ll never run away and get hit by a lorry on the M25.

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Peaches Geldof, the face of a well-known brand of underwear, got caught up in a nude pictures/ heroin/ cult scandal. You know, same old same old. We were pretty sure it would all blow over in a second or two.

Oops, guess we were wrong. Big corporations do have a bothersome tendency to get all riled up over the most mundane of allegations.

None of us folks here do anything harder than beer. However, if one of us had been caught in a nude/ heroin/ cult-type scandal… well… okay, we aren’t famous so no one would care. But we’re sure the powers that be would pat us on the back, tell us we’re awesome, and give us a ruddy nice pay-rise to boot. Sadly for Peaches, when she gets caught doing something wrong the public do find out about it.

Peaches was photographed post-coitus and topless – at that point we realised she was two tattoos away from looking like a Jesse James mistress. She and her bedfellow were alleged to have spent that whole night having too much debauched, illegal, fun for us to go into right this second. All you need to know is that the results of that night ended up on the Internet. Which is the single best place for all of your memories to end up. You know, so you can share your high jinks with family, friends, and co-workers.

Consequences for celebrities are few and far between. Don’t go spreading things around, but we’re pretty sure all of under-age Hollywood smoke and drink and not a thing is done about it. None of the little blighters even get grounded. Again, in this regard, Peaches has gotten the short end of the stick. The consequences of her scandal are a nearly year-long relationship with Ultimo Underwear down the drain. Peaches has been the face and tattooed body of the campaign since May 2009. She was pretty much fired on Monday; people who make racy pants don’t like you to get naked on your own time.

MJM International, the company behind the Miss Ultimo lingerie brand confirmed that it has terminated Peaches’ contract. A spokesperson for the brand said, via Holy Moly:

“We have been in meetings all morning with regards to the stories that have surfaced over the weekend about Peaches and unfortunately we have no option but to terminate her contract. Miss Ultimo is a brand geared towards a young female audience and as a company we have a social responsibility to ensure we are promoting only positive role models that young women can aspire to.

We are thus in the process of removing Peaches from the website and we are working with Debenhams to remove her visuals from all Miss Ultimo shops and window displays throughout the UK.”

Michelle Mone OBE, the creator of the Miss Ultimo brand, said:

“We’ve given this a lot of thought, but there’s a point where a business must stick to its principles and as a brand that targets young women, we feel it is impossible for Peaches to continue to work with us as the face of Miss Ultimo lingerie”.

This was a guest blog by Amy Grindhouse. She rule hard.

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Peaches and Cream Geldof is looking a likely suspect to be the latest in an unfathomably long line of celebrities who are becoming Scientologists.

The 20-year-old, um, well whatever it is she does, has been spotted hanging out, in the Hollywood Scientology Celebrity centre.

The delicious Peaches took two seconds from licking her own arm to look deep within her wallet and ponder the mysteries of the universe. (Though watching a 2000-and-late episode of South Park could achieve much the same thing.)

Ready your tin foil hats Geldof family. The ‘religion’ is as religious as your first bowel movement of the morning and it is known to spread through the air like some kind of virus. Just as Parasite Hilton made it her mission in life to spread crotch rot wherever she were to find any male with working genitalia, the Scis make it their mission to share their “truth” with all those they encounter. The Parasite seems to be having more luck with her mission in life. The numbers of new crotch rot infections are off the chiz-ain. However, there is still a heck of a lot of speculation about the ability of Scientology to recruit and keep its new members.

Ugh. Rather than rely on 80s-looking recruitment videos and promo art that has been described as “always looking like a Journey album cover”, they should make far more use of their celebrity followers.

Having noted that, it’s times like this the church suffers from not having access to more celebrities like Fish Lips Jolie and her army of Brangeloonies or Megan “hard nips/ too much decolletage on the red carpet” Fox. So long as you do not mind having the church stuffed like an impacted bowel after a curry, these are the new faces that should be scouted. The delicious TV star/ DJ/ socialite would presumably do little more than confuse US parishioners who would have no idea who the heck she was.

Being the face of celebrity fakery is enough to get you a life time extension on your 15 minutes of fame, but being a religion’s face of celebrity fakery has unknown powers that are yet to be exploited.

According to My Park Magazine:

The 20-year-old socialite – daughter of Boomtown Rats rocker Sir Bob Geldof – was seen leaving a Scientology Celebrity Centre in Hollywood with documents about the bizarre sci-fi cult. According to the papers Peaches was holding, the centre “takes care of those who entertain, fashion and take care of the world”.

Eek. There are several blurry lines and assumptions here that one would need to iron out here, lest their head explode from the unbearable cognitive dissonance.

Firstly, when you are a celebrity, the holding of papers means that you have read them. Like, totally read and understood the whole thing. Whether it be some loo roll you scribbled on with lipstick or you are carrying the life’s work of Dostoevsky in your Hermes bag; being seen tarting something Sci about means that you are totally into the religion and about to sign that snazzy billion-year contract.

Secondly, this is a religion that is rumoured to rely heavily on bamboozling, brainwashing and mind-control techniques that derive from their leader, LRH’s, skill at hypnosis. All of these techniques presumably require a mind full of more than bonbons and carpet lint to work. The last time we cracked her head open and looked, that was all that was rattling around in there. Once Parasite and Fish lips get their doctorates and can officially start doing brain surgery, the “Church” may get a little more outta this chica.

This was a guest blog by brilliant Amy Grindhouse, who is, um, brilliant. Yes.

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The Geldofs are like ants in some respects. They always seem to be floating around despite no-one really wanting them there.

Ants scurry around and get in your food on a summer day. Whilst we wouldn’t out it past Bob Geldof to steal your sandwiches and give them to the starving, he is an annoying twat. Just like ants.

Bob Geldof can’t quite get over the fact he failed in his mission to get a McDonalds in every African country. They’ve had to deal with Burger King instead. But hey, he’s trying to do the world some good. Unlike his daughters Peaches and Pixie who use the Geldof name in vain to try and make us think they are vaguely important.

Peaches and Pixie are the annoying offspring who prance around scumholes like Camden like they own the place. Once they are refused entry to trendy nightclubs and the chicest kebab shops, they bring out the inevitable line “Don’t you know who we are?” The bouncers say no and the result sees a couple of spoilt kids trot off into the night.

Despite being fairly young, the sisters have both had lucrative media careers. These include TV shows, magazine columns and naïve girls thinking they are some sort of inspirational figures. So, did they work hard in school, go to university and gain all the key experience needed for the big bad scary media world? No, they leeched off daddy’s name and scored their way to fame that way.

We can’t really remember what Peaches Geldof has done, but we can recall the stupid bint suddenly getting married towards the end of 2008. Like everyone else, we didn’t see this happening. However we were quite right in predicting that this marriage wasn’t to be, and it would soon end in tatters. Surely it wasn’t a cheap PR stunt for her then husband’s band? If so, it didn’t work, as we can’t remember the name of them. We possibly recall the band being called The Bellends, but that could be an overall description of them all.

Whilst Peaches has also done DJ work where she cues up tracks on iTunes, she is now taking on a more serious musical role. According to Now magazine:

The socialite has formed Kiss And Makeup with pal Johnny Makeup.

Let’s hope that this isn’t a bad play on name. Because you see his surname is Makeup, so the songs could all be wretched love songs about the pain of a romance when a boyfriend steals your guinea pig. Yeah, that sounds about right, but we’re not overly bothered if we’re wrong. If you’re a bit odd in the head, we recommend getting to one of their gigs; they probably won’t last as long as Peaches’ marriage.

Don’t expect them to see them in our MySpace Trawl feature anytime soon. Unless we run out of bands to write about/forget to do it and need a reserve band to scribble about.

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10 – The best picture of Peaches Geldof you will ever see – Holy Moly

9 - Here’s a collection of murderous Japanese robots - Cracked

8 – This just in: farting during a football match gets you yellow-carded – Manchestereveningnews

7 – You want to hear more stories about men getting their penises bitten off, don’t you? Of course you do – Metro

6 – Birds with human eyes? RUN FOR THE CAVES! – Nationalgeographic

5 – Sienna Miller wears some clothes. That’s roughly it – Popsugar

4 – Madonna donates money to the Italian earthquake victims. Good taste prevents us from making any orphan jokes – PopEater

3 – Science: bacon sandwiches are good for hangovers after all - Telegraph

2 – Want to make an Easter egg out of hot glue? OK! - Instructables

1 - Think you’ll miss hecklerspray until it comes back on Tuesday? Fear not – here’s a live feed of a rabbit…

One of Bob Geldof’s daughters has ended her marriage to a terrifyingly unknown musicman. Oh yeah, also recession, war, yaddayaddayadda.

You know, it seems like only a decade ago that we were celebrating the marriage of Peaches Geldof and Max Somethingorother, a couple who – what? Six months? It just seems like a decade because they have provided an endless, soul-bleeding series of tediously studied photo-ops and stories detailing their inane and rather saddening lives in a way a little bit like six-year-olds attempting at being real adults? We want our toaster back.

Peaches Geldof, the celebrity strumpet who appears to get dressed by sleeping in a fast-cycle tumbledryer with a loadful of old lady’s bedclothes, has split from her husband, rock superstar Max Drummey.

Please, please, we know you’re upset. Believe us, we are too. When we awoke this morning to the news of the marriage failure – and the horrific realisation began to dawn that we would soon be literally unable to turn on a television, an internet or a newspaper without seeing her childlike yet smugly self-satisfied face weeping onion tears of loss and despair, we felt an almost unstoppable desire to pull out our eyes and ears (and nose too, just in case) and go throw them into a deep and remote quarry.

Call us celebrity marriage clairvoyants, but we knew it wasn’t right from the start. Peaches Geldof was the rich young girl with a dad who was a rock legend and a mum who… y’know. He was the something young lad from someplace who did a thing and was in no way a… y’know. And so it proved to be. The Sunday Mirror, please enlighten us:

Peaches, 19, and Max, 24, who got married in Las Vegas last August, claim their parting is amicable and they hope to remain good friends. The pair stated: “After much soul-searching we have made the mutual decision to end our marriage and have agreed to go our separate ways. “Our parting is amicable and both of us still respect and care about each other immensely. There were no other people involved in this decision and we both look forward to a future as good friends.” Peaches, second daughter of Sir Bob Geldof and Paula Yates, met American musician Max in London last July and says she fell in love with his brains.

To be honest, we’d never heard of that euphemism before.

Of course, we are always sad when two young people, with part of their lives ahead of them and who were perhaps rather foolish to marry during the first flush of youthful love, now feel themselves unable to overcome their differences and can see no other escape from the sadness than to go through the bitter and painful experience that is a divorce. But enough about that awesome Mexican soap opera we’ve got so into recently. Peaches and Whatnot? Like, whatever.

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Peaches Geldof has been filmed handing over money to a pair of notorious drug dealers and is to be investigated by the police.

Nineteen-year-old Peaches was secretly filmed offering Jonny Blagrove and Cara Burton £140 in return for some unspecified goods.

Then Blagrove, ‘dealer to the stars’, tells Peaches what she wants will actually cost her £190.

The extra £50 quid doesn’t deter Peaches, she is after all the daughter of modern day Jesus, Bob Geldof, and it’s good to see the royalties from I don’t like Mondays aren’t going to waste.

Peaches is then reportedly recorded saying:

I’m going to need Valium tomorrow after this.

It is because of this statement that police strongly suspect something drug related has happened here, as Valium is often used as a comedown by professional users. But, until the investigation is carried out, who’s to say Peaches wasn’t buying £190 worth of Red Bull? We just don’t know.

Maybe she was buying an X-Box 360 with GTA IV off them? The excitement of getting her hands on that could require a good dosage of Valium to help her get to sleep at night, in order to get up early, refreshed for another day doing whatever it is that she does.

The secretly filmed footage was found on a memory stick that was seized by police from Jonny Blagrove and Cara Burton, as part of an investigation into what they suspect is a celebrity drugs empire run by the couple.

A police source told the News Of The World:

She will be interviewed some time this week and asked to explain what is happening in the video and why she is handing money over to the couple. It is all part of a large investigation into alleged drugs dealing.

And, on that very same stick, there is also the footage of Amy Winehouse allegedly smoking crack at a house party last January. One hell of a part going on in that pen-drive.

All the footage had been deleted from the memory stick but police, using special secret police techniques, managed to recover the lost data, which is vaguely terrifying.

Let’s just hope girlfriends don’t figure it out anytime soon, or else it’s time for an acid bath.

It has also been suggested that the filming was carried out by the alleged drug-pushing couple, perhaps in an effort to blackmail Peaches.

If it is found that Peaches did indeed purchase illegal substances, she could face a jail term but, as she’s a white, female, middle-class, first time offender and the daughter of Christ, we can safely assume a slap on the wrist will suffice.

Read More – Peaches Geldof To Be Questioned Over Drugs Footage – EntertainmentWise

Hecklerspray's Matthew Laidlow recently applied for a job at a magazine, not knowing that it was to be edited by Peaches Geldof as part of an MTV reality TV show. The following is a true story… 

Firstly, let's be clear – nobody told me that I was going going for a job on a reality TV show or that Peaches Geldof was going to be the editor. Both these factors would have put me off straight away.

So here is my story of how I almost worked with the stupidly-named celebrity wannabe Peaches Geldof.

After being rejected time and time again off various publications and other high profile media outlets, it was getting to be a bit of an annoyance. However, a very kind friend pointed me in the direction of an advert to write for a new magazine.

It would be aimed at youngsters aged between 18-24. Being a hip and young person, I thought I could do this perfectly well. After all, I fit in that age demographic and hecklerspray seems to have gotten on some radars. So I scribbled out the application form and answered some basic questions about myself and whatnot. Nothing too challenging.

After waiting a while, someone told me I ticked the right boxes and passed that stage of the 'application'. Another form was e-mailed over and I filled that in too. A few days later I was told I was to be summoned for an interview down in the big city.

As I got on the train down to London, something occurred to me. I was applying to be a writer for a magazine, but I didn't even know what I'd be writing for. For example, my knowledge of chemical engineering isn’t so hot, so I was hoping it wasn’t a magazine about that.

Another thing that bothered me was the fact I was told not to bring any examples of work down with me. Don’t get me wrong, this would probably take up a lot of time as everyone showed off their pieces, but the only thing that the publishers knew about me is that I can cleverly answer some questions on an application form. Still, I took down a couple of nicely printed-off hecklerspray articles and that magazine that painted me orange.

Finally it was time to go and face the strange interview process. Upon arrival, yet more forms were filled in and strange questions were asked. Worryingly, nothing to do with writing was asked. I kind of half-expected some vague question of whether I had any qualifications, who I currently writing for and what journalistic experience I’ve had. After all, this was going to be a 'proper' magazine wasn’t it? It just had MTV attached to it.  

Then the significance of MTV seemingly dawned on me. What kind of input would they have on this project? Would they literally film snapshots of it and broadcast one-minute updates during advert breaks during repeats of My Super Sweet 16? Or would they do something else?

One other gritty detail suddenly hit me whilst I waited for my interview. The whole process was to be filmed – the making of the magazine and the interview itself. This made me worry that MTV had intentions of getting a cheap show out of me potentially trying to cobble a few stories together. Now, I’ve had interviews for jobs before and they can be uncomfortable. But to be filmed as well, that’s just really annoying. 

As I waited for my turn, the room was full of other people waiting to be interviewed, or who had been interviewed. From small talk, it didn’t seem like it was a very formal affair. Somewhat of a relief, but still I wasn’t happy knowing that other people applying for the same job as me didn’t know anything about the style, tone or content of this magazine.

Eventually it was my turn and I walked the short distance for my interview. As I entered the battered-looking room, I was faced with two women, a bloke and a camera. I sat down, got told to adjust the mic and not to worry about being filmed. Of course, this made me worry more.  

So off we went, from the vague memories I have, I was never really asked much about why I wanted this job, what writing experience I had or what qualifications I’d gained. In a nutshell, the conversation ranged from how I’d cope with office gossip about myself to if I could handle criticism if my work was shit.

Then the conversation switched to something to do with professions. I said I respected doctors quite highly because they make a difference to people’s lives and that celebrities did bugger all, got more media attention then they deserve and get away with everything. Then this happened: 

Interviewer: "This magazine may have a celebrity editor. How would you cope with working with a celebrity?"

Me: "Umm.. I’d try my best to get on with then. After all, I’d be working with a team, so I wouldn’t want to cause a dodgy atmosphere and ruin the magazine's progress."

I don’t think my response worked. After all, Peaches Geldof was going to be editing the thing. Some have said that she's a celebrity. They're wrong, but they said it anyway.

After the solo failure that was my interview, I then had to do a group interview. How this would show me as a better person then anyone else, I don’t know. But after a quick sit-down, I was summoned back to the same room with two other people. Here we were given a scenario to act out. Each person had a number on their head, ranging from 1-10.

The higher then number, the bigger twat they are. You had to act out the situation whilst addressing the person according to whether they were God, or a pikey who wants to bum 20p of you. 

And that was it. That was my interview to work on a magazine project with MTV. As you can probably guess, I got a lovely rejection e-mail a few weeks later. Was I disappointed? A little bit, yes, but then it was a bit annoying too. Part of the blurb in the message was that I was not picked due to the high calibre of journalistic talent.

Hmm, not sure how they worked that out, since no-one was told to bring any of their work down with them.

However, what pissed me off the most was that I actually wasted money coming to London to apply for a job that was never fully explained to me. Not even what I was writing about or the fact it was going to be flogged as a TV show. If I had made it, I probably would have rejected the job opportunity once the details emerged. Especially thanks to Peaches Geldof’s involvement.

I’m not one to make a twat of myself on a tacky TV show. I’ll leave that to her. Though if I had been working with Peaches I would have been able to ask some questions directly to her, such as. “Why do you have such a stupid name?” “What do you actually do?”

I was told on the day of my interview that none of the filming of me would be aired. However, something tells me I’ll probably end up seeing myself broadcast to the world looking like a gimp. And this article doesn’t help me much ether.  

There we have it. A hecklerspray expose. I’m going back to make the tea.

Hecklerspray has never been a fan of live gigs. They're always full of those things we hate. You know what we mean, right? They're all over the place wherever you look. What are they called again? Oh – that's it. People.

We're sometimes a bit more tolerant, however. If we're out to see a band or performer we have genuine admiration and respect for, then we're nothing but a bundle of joy and happiness all night long. Bearing that rule in mind, it's probably a good thing that we were nowhere near The Hospital bar in Covent Garden on Tuesday night, as an event took place that would have seen us embark on a rage-filled, blood-splattered frenzy of which that man with the big gun from Predator would have been proud.

Peaches Geldof played a gig.

The teen socialite – a creature whose uselessness is so powerful not even daylight can escape – apparently strapped on a bass guitar and attempted to strum a couple of tunes while mewling out vocals. She was accompanied by a band called Rodnik. You can check out their website here. Someone at Dazed And Confused would probably label them 'ironic bohemian subversives cleverly manipulating established art forms for a new generation'. We'll just settle for 'cunts.' Or possibly 'pointless trust-fund-leeching cunts', if we were feeling creative.

Evidently the audience at the Hospital were on hecklerspray's wavelength. During the course of a three-song set, Peaches – no doubt looking like her usual self, i.e. a gerbil crawling out of the wreckage of a firebombed Ms. Selfridges – forget her lyrics and generally made a shambling mess of herself. The assembled crowd decided that stepping outside to freeze in the present Easter ice age was a better option, and thus the venue vacated itself faster than Heather Mills in a marriage.

Rodnik's reaction? They finished their show by 'trashing their equipment' – something which has definitely never, ever been done by any band ever in the history of rock music. Ever.

Whether Geldof will attempt some sort of comeback remains to be seen. There are plenty of opportunities, though: we're sure that Wembley Civic Centre needs someone to scare the rats away, or alternatively Peachy-babes and the boys could reassemble for a self-help night hecklerspray is organising called 'Things May Be Bad Right Now, But Just Thank The Weeping Baby Christ You're Not One Of These Worthless Dullards.'

Failing that, she could always fall back on her usual routine – hanging around Shoreditch bars, expecting everyone within a ten-metre radius to suddenly spin around, drop their drink in amazement and scream 'oh my god, it's you, it's really you!'.

We're not going to look, okay, sweetheart? We're just not.

Read More:

Audience 'walks out' of Geldof gig – Digital Spy