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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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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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

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.

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