Classy children’s author and stain on the pants of society, Katie Price, has insisted that she would never have sex on the first date.

Stop laughing.

Yes,the horse lover (and horse killer), formally known as  Jordan, turned up on Loose Women to talk about how she’s not the kind of girl who does that kind of thing, despite the fact she pumped the virginity right out of Gareth Gates in a London Hotel in 2002.

We remember things you see.  We also remember that sex tape she made. (Google it you perverts, we’re not here to help you sin.)

Speaking with her voice she said:

“I’m not into doing the one night thing. It’s like, how long do you leave it before you do it?”

“Because I always think if you are going to give it to them straight away, then they think that you’re a dirtbag, and I’m not a dirtbag even though I want to jump into bed with them.”

*cough* dirtbag *cough*

With a list of ex partners, longer than Peter Andre’s remote control sized penis and her last victim boyfriend Leandro Penna, now broken and back in Argentina, she admits she finds it easy to fall in love.

“Even if I’m trying to be cool then I’ll either be really shy and I can’t eat in front of them or I don’t know, I go all silly. I’m an absolute nightmare.”

Yes you are. A great big Wes Craven style nightmare, THAT NEVER, EVER ENDS.

She just kept talking.

“People think that I’m this strong bolshy girl, but I’m not. I’m gullible, I fall head over heels, but I’d rather be like that than not like that.”

AND TALKING.

“I don’t like to play games, I can’t be bothered with that, I’m too old for that now. If I’m going to text them and if they don’t text or call back then I’ve got to the point whereby I don’t want to play games, if you’re not interested and you try and play games and make me keen on you and be cool, forget it, I’m not interested. If you like someone go for it, life’s too short.”

And you lot said she didn’t write her own novels.  SHAME ON YOU.

So there you have it.

We have no idea what to do with this news either.

You all remember Kim Kardashian, right? She’s the business woman and entrepreneur who is also the star of her own reality television series with her whole family. She’s worth a bit of cash is Kim but, in keeping with the American dream, vacuous idiots can always have more.

Is Kim Kardashian a vacuous idiot? IS SHE? WE ASKED IF YOU THOUGHT KIMMY K WAS A BLITHERING NINCOMPOOP?

No, of course she isn’t. Why?

Well, you might remember (or have had it forced down your throat by us every two days for the last month) that Kim was married to a young gentleman called Kris Humphries. Their marriage lasted something like 70 days before it was declared that they were splitting up citing “musical differences” or some such nonsense.

Many people with an iota of sense have claimed that the marriage was a stitch-up job, designed to allow Kim to sell the TV rights to her inspiring ‘life after Kris’ story and make a mint in the process. You’re probably thinking “Oh no! Poor Kris Humphries that I’ve never heard of before!” Don’t worry. He’s in on it too.

That makes Kim Kardashian a very intelligent woman indeed. Imagine the show! Think Katie Price’s documentary after her split with middle-parting extraordinaire Peter Andre. But with a bigger arse and a bigger budget.

Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? The chance to see a grown woman pretend to be heartbroken for the benefit of a camera crew. Still, she’s got to keep the illusion up and who better to “set the record straight” than Kim’s very own Mum.

Dear ol’ Mama Jenner told Now! Magazine:

‘It certainly wasn’t a sham or something for TV,’

It certainly was.

‘We have enough going on that we don’t need to make things up.’

They don’t have to make things up. They have enough going on. They’ve just finished redecorating the Moon Base and they’re now moving on to upgrade the engines in Mrs Jenner’s Krispy Kreme sponsored Donut Rocket.

‘Kim really felt like she was in love with money Kris Humphries. It was an amazing time. Like all of us that were watching, I had no idea there was a problem.’

Perhaps if they had done a ‘Newlyweds’ style show, the American public could have seen the cracks forming! Everyone likes to see a couple hurtle perpetually towards a messy divorce.

‘It saddens me that one of the rumours is we sold the TV rights, which isn’t true. And that she profited from the wedding is absolutely not true.’

It’s not true, y’hear? Not true. That’s her mum saying that and she would have been involved in the negotiation of any TV rights so you can rest assured that it’s all poppycock.

‘She feels like she’s let a lot of people down. She’s sick about it.’

That’s true. It hasn’t been the same since Stuart Heritage left.

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On Sunday, we witnessed what came to be the last programme documenting the audition process of the underrated, revolutionary post-feminist Space Opera series “The X Factor 2011″.

Hear that over there? That’s Ewan Mcgregor singing Your Song in a melancholic manner with an umbrella. See that over in the other direction? That’s your inescapable loneliness.

But put all that heroin and selection of complimentary bath salts to the side for one moment! Those headaches are probably nothing to worry about after all. Let’s just kick back, and remember all the classic moments of the past few weeks instead. Remember when a woman told Tulisa how it was all HER opinion, and then on top of that, that other thing happened as well? Sometimes the path to creating amazing music is hard. Just ask Brian Wilson or David Sneddon. Or both! They’re probably sitting together on the same park bench somewhere, trying to feed Hula Hoop packets to pissed off swans.

Ah, Memory Lane.

Sunday night’s show promised us such splendours like the prospect of Gary Barlow teaming navy with maroon, and Louis Walsh literally retracting the gift of the human voice to one unlucky, nondescript contestant, cruelly telling them that ‘singing is not for you.’

Then along came our beloved Dermot O’Leary, with all his layers of self-loathing and wool. Dermot, with his choreographed face, standing outside the Millennium Dome with thousands of blissful, cheering people waving merrily, despite the devastating financial collapse that the building once suffered, like the insensitive prick that he is.

In one of the more experimental features of the show, we were introduced to a special segment where some people actually tried their hand at auditioning for the X Factor. These people came in the vaguely upsetting shapes of Neil and Sue Perkins Margaret.

Neil and Margaret are the sorts of people who are lonely and not conventionally attractive. You have may have once seen something about it on Panorama. The reason this is really really funny is because it means Neil and Sue are less likely to procreate, due to not successfully accommodating Charles Darwin’s theories of natural selection and as such are subsequently void as a contribution to the species. Just really, really funny.

Neil and Margaret met on the internet and are middle aged, which ITV1 respect so much that they have dubbed their interview with an insincere midi clip of The Carpenters’ Close to You in the background, presumably to help articulate the immense success rate of social networking in the early 2010s/true love.

Also: KELLY ROWLAND LOVES THE CARPENTERS.

Margaret, without any shadow of hope, did terribly in her audition, despite having a man to hold her at night. AND she’s ugly. God, that’s kind of funny too – in a way. Neil, of Being in Love With Margaret fame, came up next and by all the forces of the stars, the galaxies, and Mystic Meg’s Microsoft Word documents, Neil can’t sing either. Blimey, we guess that whole Sonny and Cher thing was just a massive anomaly. Neil looked like he was going to cry. Neil also looked like he was drawn with charcoal and then brought to life by the BBC Visual Effects company.

Margaret and Neil go home, allowing us to return to Liverpool. Or Gary Barlowverpool, as you may be more familiar with it being called these days. In fact, there was something rather mystical in the air throughout the whole show – because in Liverpool, Dermot O Leary by no manner of coincidence, bumps into one of the three featured singers in the programme and conducts a very long descriptive interview with him, which is bloody good luck if you ask us.

The lad in question was Bradley Johnson – a check-shirted maverick of contemporary performing arts who used to hang out with scallies. Like how Margaret and Neil were happy to have found each other after years of pervasive emptiness and scabies – Bradley was expelled for being a dillweed at school, so is naturally more deserving of: THE SINCERE VERSION OF THE INSINCERE MIDI CLIP.

Oddly enough, the judge’s small talk with Bradley conveniently circulates around asking Bradley if he just so happens to have been expelled from three schools and is subsequentlyfeelingunsureofhisfuturecareerpath recently. WHAT THE WHAT? HE HAS AND IS? Harry fucking Potter, isn’t it insane that the one time the judges happen to ask that particular line of questioning, it happens to be utterly factually accurate to an auditionee’s life? If this pre-audition chit chat always took place in the same manner though, surely Matt Cardle would have never won the X Factor, as he’d have been ushered off the stage sobbing into a hemp rag.  But for Bradley, the future is considerably more encouraging as he bravely gets over behaving appallingly at school and gallantly gets on stage and sings an Ed Sheeran track, all by himself. It’s colon-wrenchingly more amazing than the word ‘amazing’. Barack Obama even reportedly tried to give his Nobel Peace Prize back after a mate of his +1′d Bradley’s performance from YouTube.

Some more people bothered to audition, like we even need to listen to anything poorly masquerading as ‘music’ post Bradley’s introduction of the acoustic guitar genre, but nonetheless, The X Factor insists on giving EVERYONE a chance. Yawn. Bring on Joe Cox, who wants to achieve his dreams or something. Such a bloody killjoy. Upon auditioning, Joe Cox discovers that he won’t be getting the chance to be gay during his time on The X Factor -even if he wanted to be, as the judges man-handled him into admitting that he ‘likes ladies’. “Do you like the ladies Joe? DO YOU? WE BET A HANDSOME SINGLE MAN LIKE YOURSELF LIKES THE LADIES!” Sorry Joe. On the bright side – a bit of ambiguous sexuality didn’t do a certain mastermind of white soul Will Young any harm! (before he got blackmailed by The Sun, obviously.)

MEANWHILE – KELLY ROWLAND CONTINUES TO BE AMAZING.

Next up to perform, was OF COURSE  Terry Winstanley. You remember Terry. Terry being the unstoppable force that generated such wonder over the years on Dawn French’s chocolate orange adverts. Terry is old too. This series of X Factor has had a momentous amount of  messed up middle aged men on it this year, which probably is something to do with the ‘NEXT GENERATION’ thing they keep harping on about, or because otherwise they might invent Diana Vickers again.

Maybe Tulisa just sapped up all the youth in the world, and that’s why everyone on this series looks like they were painted by Fearne Cotton. Beautiful, amazing, Tulisa. God, she’s so fledgling and current. Unlike Terry who enjoys simpler pleasures, such as melodically assembling a Micheal Bolton cover version with ‘gusto’. Nice one, Terry. We bet his wife is alive, and everything. Not only do we like Terry, but we we really like what Terry did with his X Factor sticker. Right in the centre of the shirt. A simple but effective twist on the X Factor Audition Sticker, considering Cher Lloyd used to just fuse hers to her kegal muscles, and shove dice in her mouth.

A woman with a croissant on her head sang a song and was rewarded for inexplicable reasons – but more importantly than that, a man called Deep Dhillon turned up. Deep Dhillon – a name that genuinely has appeared on a birth certificate in the medium of a coherent woman’s handwriting at some point. This is the whole ‘Johnny Robinson’ debacle all over again. (Seriously, imagine being called ‘Johnny Robinson’. See, you can’t even try.) Deep Dhillon is not even a joke name. We know there’s a dildo joke starkly available, but quite frankly it just doesn’t seem worth it. Seriously, not even for us. Is there anything really that funny about an untalented primordial bloke called ‘Deep’? It’s just a bit upsetting, really.

TAKE THAT INTERLUDE.

Next up was That Comedy Old Woman With The Empty Lungs (Which is not just something we just tried to 40d, honestly) Alright, for the sake of giving some of the more superannuated members of society a vague swipe at respect, we will call her by her actual name – which is Ceri Rees, which we bothered to find out for you. If you’ve accidentally watched 8 years of X Factor before, you will know that Ceri is a regular auditionee who ultimately disappoints herself and us again and again, because sadomasochism is just too damn sexy to give up.

Unfortunately for everyone, Ceri can’t sing. Not as in, she cannot sing a Whitney Houston song the way Whitney Houston used to sing a Whitney Houston song 40 years ago – She cannot sing. She cannot sing to the extent that she literally cannot sustain speech. There is absolutely no phonatory process of any sort for Ceri to even attempt to pursue. The woman is simply tired and old, like if Neil Buchannan were to create a Big Art Attack in the Sahara Desert. (This reference would probably be funny if Neil Buchannan wasn’t regrettably racist – if you believe the internet rumours.) Yet despite this – ITV1 happily give her the same amount of air time that they also give to men who brutally beat their wives and/or the friends of Peter Andre.

And then of course – after receiving mockery from braying New Look shoppers/musical experts in the audience, ITV1 play the Jaws theme tune over the top of her, because the fact that she reacts unreasonably can only be explained by dubbing her with the soundtrack of a film about an impetuous, crazed beast.

And that’s it.

Congratulations – you made it to Boot Camp, alongside this stupid bitch.

See you next week to see if the contestants can handle the grueling task of singing alongside only a piano, or will they succumb to the temptations of  beat-boxing to Simply Red instead? Only time will tell.

Oh, and we didn’t watch Xtra Factor. Why, did you?

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Run for cover! Katie Price (or Jordan if you live in the ’90s) is threatening us all with a new album. Aren’t there war crime tribunals for things like this? Seriously. We need someone like James Bond and some piano wire to sort this, post haste.

We know this because she cruelly asked everyone on Twitter what songs we’d like to hear her singing.

Of course, there were those who asked her to never open her mouth to make any kind of sound ever again, but alas, Price is not a woman who takes no for an answer, as her many, many marriages and babies are testament to.

The last time she made an album, it was a disaster on every level. 2006′s A Whole New World, which featured ex-husband Peter Andre, saw God Almighty considering reversing evolution to see that humans never developed ears (but alas, had better things to do like consoling child molesting priests from their nagging consciences).

Price tweeted:

‘I want to do another album for next year what would my fans prefer cover songs – new songs or mixture?’

One idiot suggested Adele’s Someone Like You and Price replied with:

‘Me and Leo love that song its our fav song.’

We can’t imagine Adele is much of a Katie Price fan to be quite frank and will no doubt do everything she can to ensure Price’s goose-like singing voice doesn’t get anywhere near her song.

Mercifully, one hecklerspray reader chirruped

‘you can’t sing so I wouldn’t bother’

This saw Price reply with

‘Whether you think I can sing or not at least I do things I want in life your obviously a person who would rather knock people.’

This is a woman who once described Jodie Marsh as having a nose like a ‘builder’s elbow’. Ms Pot? Meet Mr Kettle. That said, we have to applaud such a needlessly nasty snark.

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Here’s some advice. Fashion yourself a miniature love nest in your room, masturbate wrathfully for the next four days, then click the following link.

This link right here.

Yes, that’s right.You physically cannot produce enough paranoia and semen to replicate this video, can you? Well, seeing as you’re all loved out – it is all here, spread out in the This Morning studio. And apparently Ruth Langford’s preferred choice of hair mousse. Whatever. Chantelle Houghton and Alex Reid were never meant to be a couple. This is just a Closer magazine work experience girl typing a caption wrong. This is why communism was ultimately an unsuccessful idea. Most importantly, this is why Katie Price should stop marrying male prostitutes.

If you are currently unable to watch the video due to voluntary paralysis, here are a few choice quotes from one the most loveless pieces of television we have ever seen since that BBC sitcom where Jasper Carrot fathered a wheelchair-bound mute.

Chantelle Houghton on why she loves her new boyfriend Alex Reid

“When he walks into a room he is literally like a hurricane.”

Alex Reid on the tragedy of falling in love with a celebrity

“Why didn’t I just date a girl from the library? You know?”

Alex Reid on battling Atypical Depression

“My heart was a bit broken back then. But erm, she’s mended it.”

And not forgetting

“We share a lot of common experiences. Like Big Brother. And marriage.”

And to think we thought they were just rutting for money.

However, as Eamonn and his dried up cavern of a wife very helpfully point out – due to this dramatic amalgamating of two of the major power forces of British culture, there is unfortunately a risk of running into a bit of completely unwanted paparazzi attention.

But never fear, because Alex has found a way of turning this horrific situation into a great thing, judging by his Twitter page from yesterday, where he gallantly posted how ‘Soliders are dying in Afghanistan, but where is our freedom?’ – 36 times. Hero much?

This really puts into perspective that time Denise Van Outen used her Twitter account to call Natalie Cassidy a terrible mother, doesn’t it?

So, on this one occasion, it really has been made clear, that sometimes love can just be about the stolen moments between two lost souls at a TV Quick Awards after-brothel. So put that in your cynical pipe and enjoy your cynical cancer, cynics.

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Hey everyone, you massive pile of galahs! Pandre Peter Pandre Andre here, and I’ve been given just enough time by the scummy hoardes at hecklerspray to give something back to you, the people.

That’s what I’m all about now. Giving something back. You may have seen my new show on ITV2, that I don’t like to talk about, Here 2 Help? That’s all about me giving something back as well, to people who are so pathetic and downtrodden that just me giving them one of my special Pandre hugs and lobbing half a ballad at them makes them rise up and walk like Lazarus.

But I don’t like to talk about that show, that’s on every other hour on ITV2. Or talk about how much I love my kids, because I really love my kids. I just want to give some more things back… like tell you how to get a woman to date you!

Yeah, even you, sadsack with the flabby man-tits and the suspicious downstairs itch and 14 different tabs all open on RedTube!

Just follow the patented method I invented which I used to get my big strong Aussie hands on Stacey Solomon, outlined in the Sunday red-tops after I rang myself and left precise instructions on my own voicemail just so I wouldn’t forget or something, and you’ll be swatting them off faster than you can count to the highest chart position of Insania (3, but I don’t like to talk about it).

First, pick your target. If you’re too busy being on TV (Here 2 Help, ITV2, on right now unless American Idol’s on) or loving your kids to find someone yourself, just get your management company to open this week’s copy of Heat at random and point to the first female under 50 that they see. That’s the girl for you, guy!

Unless it’s Stacey Solomon, because she’s mine, and if you go near her, I’ll cut you, no matter how much I love my kids.
Second, play it cool. Just casually announce in an interview or two that you think Stacey Solomon is amazing, and you really want to take Stacey Solomon to Bella Pasta and treat her real nice, and make sure you write in your trashy magazine column about how your life is no more than a pointless dive into a screaming abyss of depression and loneliness because Stacey Solomon is not by your side. Remember: girls love being complimented, and the more deranged the fashion, the better!

Third, why not invite her to your kid’s birthday party? (Wow, don’t you love your kids? I know I do, but I don’t like to talk about it) Because nothing says sexy like licking icing from a Finding Nemo cake off your fingers and pointing your crotch at Stacey Solomon while she glumly clings to her boyfriend and tries to hide from the TV cameras from your reality show to the soundtrack of 100 ignored and hyperactive kids pinning down a bedraggled and underpaid clown and kicking his face apart! (Yeah, don’t worry if she has a boyfriend, mate. Boyfriend isn’t in Peter Andre’s dictionary. I had to cross it out so I could write “giving” in there twice.)

And lastly, the killer blow. Bombard her with texts and phone calls and beg her for a date. Don’t take “I don’t want to come to your child’s birthday party”, “I’m engaged to someone else” and “If you contact me again I’m calling the police” for an answer. Desperation smells even more potent than my latest album, Accelerate, drenched in Lynx Africa!

That’s it. Easy! Good luck, mate. It’s definitely going to work for me. Watch out for my new series, “Pe-tacey: Jungle Loving” starting next month on ITV2!

Note for lawyers: this article was shoved under the door of the hecklerspray bedsit and was almost certainly not written by Peter Andre. We don’t think he’s got any crayons in that colour.

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You really think you have the energy to hear this? Sure about that, are we? Let’s just take this slow, just in case. Let’s not get lodged inside something dark and unyielding and then regret it afterwards (Extract from Antony Costa’s Bedroom Memoirs, 2008) So. Katie Price has written another book.

You should know the drill by now, because of that time you accidently walked into a Newsagents and bought Heat Magazine regularly for two years. Just in case you don’t – here’s the situation we’re facing. After having had some sex with Dane Bowers, Peter Andre, Katie Waissel, and most recently a hired homosexual gentleman – Katie Price’s career as a businesswoman was for some reason being somewhat overlooked. It was then that Katie discovered her greatest talent – ringing someone up and asking them to write a book for her. A great author was born (but that’s not relevant).

Today saw the launch of Katie’s latest literary delight in the shape of ‘The Comeback Girl’. A story about something, or other. Pssh. Bloody pretentious Pulitzer fodder, if you ask us.

On top of all this, during the event at the 02 Academy in Leeds, Katie decided to give the world yet ANOTHER blessing, by staging a world record attempt to sign as many books as possible in eight hours, like her hero – chess extraordinaire and all round DD+ glamour-puss Anatoly Karpov. Unfortunately, we can reveal that Katie’s attempt was unsuccessful. The bright side is that we we can all focus on the content of the novel now, which is clearly what Katie wanted all along.

Besides, as Yazz once concluded – The Only Way is Up. Based on this logic, and this logic alone – we forecast bright things in the future for Katie. Oh wait, The Only Way is Essex now, isn’t it? Never mind. Katie’s talents will shine through regardless. And if you are unlucky enough to not possess the shining beacon of optimism that we uphold every single day, then take a look at some of these quotes from an interview in today’s Sun about Katie’s next chosen career path instead:

“I’d love to be a detective. I’m obsessed with Harold Shipman, Dennis Nilsen, Ted Bundy and Rose and Fred West, I’ve read about them in detail – really sick, true crime.”

“I’d like to go to a murder scene and try to work out what’s happened. I actually looked into how to be a detective once, but you have to join the police first.”

“Last night I stayed up late watching 24 Hours In A&E. I suppose it all makes me feel better about my own life.”

“For now, I’ll make do with making a TV series interviewing Britain’s worst criminals.”

Goodnight, and god bless.

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If the borders of reality and literature were to ever blur by magic and represent members of society, then Peter Andre would be the human equivalent of the Mr. Happy character from the Mr. Men books. You can’t pick up a trashy 67p magazine without seeing the ex husband of Katie Price and general lousy pop star slapped across it.

Over on ITV where the bosses are keen to fill their airtime with any old tosh, Andre has been given his own show where he shunts his children around, showing what an adoring parent he is.

Tears literally roll down our cheeks everytime we watch, but we get the impression that the footage will be used as evidence to show he’s be a more responsible parent than Katie Price who spends her time running over horses. When Peter Andre isn’t kissing bot-bot to the camera, he supposedly has a day job as a singer. Tragically, he’s in demand.

If you’re a performer who has a fan base who’d literally jump through burning hoops to see their idol, it doesn’t matter if you announce tour dates two weeks or even a year in advance. People will buy tickets on mass and treasure them until the big night arrives. Looking at people like Rihanna, Take That or even the late Michael Jackson, those who want to go to a gig will travel far and wide for the spectacle.

We can only assume that Peter Andre is using the same model for his live shows. In actual fact, it came as a surprise to us that Peter Andre has enough followers who pester him enough to divulge in touring information. His Twitter feed must have been full of the same messages and mail sacks must have spilled over the floor of his home as fans desperately pleaded with the Mysterious Girl singer to tell them his tour plans. Taking to magazine column which doubles as a Peter Andre PR board, he said:

“People have been asking if I’m planning to tour again, and I’m pleased to say the answer is yes.”

Adding:

“Dates and venues haven’t been confirmed, but it looks like I’ll be on the road around January.”

January? We can’t fucking wait January to see a mediocre pub singer wheezing his way through a half hour set against a backing track. Before you start constructing effigies of Peter Andre to burn for making us wait till 2012, fear not, he is planning some summer festival action. So where will he be heading? Down to Glastonbury with all the hipsters? How about Glade to do a secret nosebleed Gabba set? Or perhaps he wants to literally take it easy at The Big Chill? No, his stage is much bigger; Andre broke the news again by saying:

“He couldn’t wait” to perform at summer festivals, including gigs at Kempton Park Racecourse and the Isle of Man’s Bay Festival.”

We imagine his slot will be perfectly timed between the donkey ride ending and the finger painting event getting set up by the festivals organisers.

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Katie Price aka Jordan is bloody brilliant. Not only is she covered in boobs, has cloven hoofs and a slightly large orange head, she also has a great big gaping hole in the front of her face and sometimes words fly out of it like a perfectly veneered bat cave.

Of course, like any devoted celebrity mother, she keeps her kids grounded and out of the spotlight by putting them directly in front of TV cameras and providing them with several, slightly useless father figures to choose from when they grow up and decide to run screaming from her clutches.

While she’s waiting for the sun’s rays to transform her once and for all into Zelda from Terrahawks, she loves to talk about her sex life and is apparently still shagging her cage-fighting ex Alex Reid with her unholy vag.

She eloquently snarled:

“Do I go and f*** Joe Public or do I go and f*** an ex? Can anyone here tell me they’ve never f***** an ex?”

While we’d love to open a bottle of ‘ up yours’ and get right into that debate, our eyes were drawn to another little sparkly gem she had vomited over the interviewer.

She said:

‘My main dream – and I’m trying to get Living TV to do it – is to go into prison and interview serial killers, rapists, murderers, psychopaths.

‘I’m so interested in the brain. I read true crime. I’m not interested in any b******s made-up stuff; it’s got to be true.’

Unlike 90% of her face.

And we are like, sooo interested in the brain too! We wonder if hers is controlled by Satan directly or if it’s just a merry band of his minions, driving her around like The Beano’s Numbskulls.

We feel Living TV would be insane to not allow Price and her brain into a room filled with as many axe wielding, damaged inmates as possible.

We’d also recommend they ask her to sing, just in case any of those nice men aren’t quite angry enough.

The wonderful Joanna Bolouri wrote these words. Give her three cheers or she’ll find out where you live and beat you up

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Those of you who are fans of crushing idiocy have had a rough time of it recently. There’s always the Bieberphiles and the Kardashians to entertain you, but nothing can quite compare to the eternal, head rottingly awful stupidity that can come about from the coupling of two dunderheads of colossal proportions.

We are, of course, referring to Jordan Price’s  hook ups and doomed marriages to men primarily made from the revolving meat suitcases that you see adorning the kebab shops of this fine land. Where would we go and who would we be sarky about now that she has released another one into the wild?

Fear not, good people, even when she’s let them loose from her clutches she still pipes up from time to time to remind us all of why we loved her and her dwindling intellect. Even though her and Peter Andre have been split up for about a year (which is decades in gossip time), they have ‘continued their war of words’ (according to most, ‘continued honking at each other like frightened geese, according to us), to both keep each other in the public eye and, apparently, to moan about their kids getting burnt or something. It’s mostly the first reason, obviously.

Looks like they are both not only godawful people, singers, presenters, speakers, ‘writers’, thinkers, and whatnot (you can probably go ahead and add that they are godawful at eating, pooing and playing basic children’s games as well), not only are they undoubtably terrible at those things, but it turns out they are also drastically bad parents.

Who would have thought it, eh?

Seems as though the Price/Andre idea of a good time was to play ‘injure the small child’ and now allegations are coming out that they’ve both been waving lit matches in their kids faces and hurling them into pits of lava.

Digitalspy readies it’s fire extinguisher to tell us:

It was reported yesterday that Andre had used his lawyers to contact his ex-wife after discovering a burn on the child’s back. Price hit back on Twitter claiming that the story contained more “lies” and went on to suggest that her son Harvey had received an injury while in Andre’s care.

Of course, they are both parents who clearly love their little publicity machines very much, but is this not just the same as being trapped in a waiting room with a new mother who just won’t stop going on and on and on and on about how her little darling was coughing all last night and was right off his babychino this morning and she won’t stop until you commit a timely act of violence on her person?

Instead of being a new mother, it’s two of the most boring and unlikeable celebrities on the planet, and instead of a waiting room it’s all over the internet and those magazines that girls leave in their houses and it’s not even a coughing fit, it’s the world’s tiniest burn sustained yonks ago and an unspecified injury.

It’s not like this is even playground-style hair pulling to get the girl you like to notice you. Apparently,

Price went on to add that she hoped the latest row would put an end to “ridiculous” claims that she wanted to get back together with Andre.

They’re even denying us the satisfaction of looking forward to a whole new messy break up, they’re just boring us with their bad parenting.

Teases.

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Much has already been said about the Andy Gray and Richard Keys story, with Charlie Brooker supplying one of more interesting slants on it, but we would like to point out The Sun’s sweetly optimistic approach to it on  Monday, the day after Andy’s original on-air gaffe and was tucked away on page ten in a teeny article sharing a column with a three line article about falling prices in Portugal.

The incident was treated more like something from a television out-takes show than the final piece in the trinity* of inconvenience that’s got Murdoch’s News International into a bit of a tizz.

The story was over- he had apologised and everyone was laughing about it whilst slapping the arses of passing waitresses by lunchtime. Unfortunately, the same day the Daily Mail, those masters of creating broadcasting controversies from the sparsest of ingredients, dedicated page 3 to it, and a shitstorm was born.

By Friday, the Mail were tiring of the backlash, so created the backlash of the backlash with a photograph of Richard Keys’ wife (every inch a woman Mail readers would be able to relate to) serving cake to journalists whilst dismissing the story as just ‘boys being boys’.

One of our favourite pastimes is watching the tabloids squirming when they have a story with reactionary ingredients but for some reason can’t quite bring themselves to stir it up themselves. They’ll write articles and litter it with inflammatory clues, and just pray the public decides to be outraged without the usual encouragement.

For instance the Daily Mail have dedicated a disproportionate amount of coverage to Jonathan Ross announcing (well, mentioning at least) that his daughter is a lesbian. Rather irritatingly for them, he did so in a casually dignified way.

The Mail have since repeatedly found new angles on the story whilst hoping that it’s controversial, or even just newsworthy, by virtue of having the words “Jonathan”, “Ross” and “lesbian” in it.

Or take their uncharacteristically unopinionated coverage of Elton John adopting. You would think that they were big supporters of gay adoption. That didn’t seem to be much in evidence on Monday’s page 14. On the left-hand side the editorial, in response to a Barnado’s report that white couples are prevented from adopting babies from ethnic backgrounds, the paper preached that…

“all that should truly matter is the ability of the adoptive parents to a stable, caring and secure home”.

On the right hand side of the page Melanie Phillips was less hesitant about condemning organisations putting an agenda above the welfare of children. In her piece she explained very clearly for those of us unfortunate enough to have a sense of perspective, that Catholic adoption agencies being forced to cease their policy of not allowing gays and lesbians to adopt was evidence of homosexuals being “the new McCarthyites”. **

So is it that they are scared of Elton John’s hissy fits, lawyers, or his Mail-reading fans? Either way, there’s a lot of fun to be had watching the paper acting like a prude on a nudist beach frantically looking around confused at why no-one else seems outraged.

Headline of the week that bore no relation to reality goes to The Star for…

“Alex and Andre unite against Jordan- Cage-fighter joins fellow ex-hubby Pete”.

This strategic alliance simply consisted of Alex Reid refusing to comment on his separation from Jordan. The conclusion being that this was, y’know, kinda like the way Pete cares about the kids, so they are therefore “united in keeping their dignity”. That’s the dignity shared by a (bad) transvestite, reality TV-starring topless model-marrying cage fighter and a tabloid-courting reality TV-starring, topless model-marrying ex-pop star. Rosa Parks ain’t got nothing on those boys. Either way, hats off to The Star for basing a front page story around a ‘no comment’.

…and finally…

Childish headlines about Ed Balls that the Daily Mail’s copy editor must have been really tempted to drop words from

Monday- “Miliband urged to rein in aggressive Ed Balls”

Tuesday- “’Explosion warning’ over Balls and Miliband”***

*= the other two being the proposed buying of the remaining shares in Sky, and the News of the World phone-hacking scandal.

**= sorry for the patronising link to McCarthyism, but it seems unfair that you can’t fully enjoy the irony of this story just because you weren’t paying attention that day in history.

***= whist  Balls is the surname of a Labour politician, it is also slang for testicles. Thus exploding and/or aggressive balls is funny.

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Argh! What do we do in this situation?! Peter Andre has been rushed to hospital and we don’t know what level of piss-taking to offer. What if he dies over the weekend? We’ll look nastier than usual then?

Mind you, we could claim it as a ‘first!’, thereby giving us the chance to say ‘we told you so’.

So yeah, Peter Andre will probably die this weekend after he was rushed into hospital for “extensive tests and scans” to determine the cause of a random and searing pain coursed through the singer’s body.

The people who will be most devastated by this news are the people of Plymouth who were due to turn out in their millions tonight to watch Andre sing ‘Mysterious Girl’ and that other on he did kinda recently. Sadly, it has been postponed.

Andre’s manager Claire Powell said:

“We are very worried about Peter and at present we do not know what is causing him to be in so much pain. Peter is terribly disappointed that he is unable to perform at tonight’s sold out opening night.”

She continued:

“At this time we have no more information, though we are hoping Peter will be able to perform at Minehead tomorrow as planned.”

NOT IF HE DIES!

OH GOD! HE BETTER NOT! WE NEED PETER ANDRE IN OUR LIVES!

Andre’s ex-wife Katie Price revealed that Peter had been taken ill in a message on Twitter today and a full statement confirmed the news on his official website. The news being that Peter Andre has excruciating stomach pains. Of course, you lot are such huge Peter Andre fans that you’ll know already that he’s collapsed once this year thanks to gallstones.

The people of Plymouth need not riot yet. The concert has been rescheduled for Tuesday December 21st. That’s a nice Christmas present for you.

UNLESS HE DIES.

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Sorry for wasting your day, but you might have already read this story before.

In an ideal world, we’d love to be the first news outlet to let you know that this estranged couple have patched up their differences by posing together in an exclusive photo shoot for some tacky magazine. Instead, Katie Price has decided to remind us yet again that she believes Peter Andre is still harping on about their divorce.

Of course, these suggestions are ludicrous when you think about it. Surely when the two split, they’d never have to communicate ever again apart from awkward birthdays and Christmases with the kids. But oh no, we forgot the TV crews that follow the pair around to record every gory detail. Surely Katie Price doesn’t sit down and watch Peter Andres show with a tube of Pringles and scribble down each lie he says? Actually, we wouldn’t put it past her.

Let’s offer our services to throw a spanner in her works and shut Katie Price up from babbling about her divorce. Newspapers are meant to report about real items such as hot political debate, scandal and matters close to home; but somewhere along the line, a gap in the news has supposedly allowed ‘negative press’ to sift through about Katie Price. Oh dear, she said about the situation:

“The negative press attention hurts my family more than me. I say, ‘Mum, just don’t read it. End of.’ Junior, my middle son, does ask questions about my divorce from Pete but I don’t know what Pete says to him.”

For someone who recently promoted her millionth book by pretty much forcing her boobs in to the world’s face, it’s strange to think how she believes she can only generate good press about herself. The general perception of Peter Andre is that he is a bit of a goon and would probably buy you a pint even if you didn’t know him; all he wants in return is a friend. Moaning on further, Katie Price said:

“All he ever had to say is, ‘I don’t want any bad word said about Kate. She’s the mother of my kids. End of.’ But instead he milked the situation and still is.”

Unless it’s us, we now have the image of Peter Andre suckling on the teat of the media and extracting all its milky hate to spit in the face of his ex-partner. Or as what will probably happen here, he’ll respond to this by releasing a song and she’ll call him a twat or something.

Oh how we love the circle of divorcee life.

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Katie Price has written a new novel, presumably to help you identify train passengers that you hate.

But the book isn’t important. What’s important is how Katie Price is marketing it. Yes, Price courted attention by rocking up to the book launch in a leotard with the title splashed across her tits, but that’s nothing new – everyone from F Scott Fitzgerald to Paul Of Tarsus has done that at some point. But she’s also landed herself in trouble for saying that children of divorced families are ‘lucky’.

After all, Katie’s parents split up when she was a toddler and she turned out OK. Apart from the way that she invented a secondary personality to hide behind, then mutilated her body to appear more sexually attractive, then kept compulsively taking her clothes off for the approval of strangers, obviously. Apart from all that, she turned out OK. Sort of.

Katie Price’s children might not know it yet, but they’re so incredibly lucky. One day they’ll grow up, see all the topless photos of their mother, watch that video of her having it off with Dane Bowers, read the torrent of bitter interviews that came in the wake of her divorce from Peter Andre, witness that interview where she flashed her norks at Piers Morgan and listen to that tinny death rattle of a recent single and realise just how incredibly lucky they are to her as a mother.

But that’s not the only way that they’re lucky. They’re also incredibly lucky that they now come from a broken family. No, really, Katie Price says so and everything. During an interview to promote her new book – and, incidentally, we’ll disown you if we ever catch you reading it – Price unveiled this piece of diamond-hard logic. STV reports:

“Any child that has parents who are divorced are lucky. They get extra Christmas presents, birthday presents and extra trips… I revert back to when my mum and dad split up. I was three or four and I can’t even remember it.”

Needless to say this comment hasn’t gone down especially well with family groups, who’ve pointed to all the cases of emotional distress caused by parental divorce and then pulled a sort of ‘durr’ face at Katie Price. But maybe she has a point. Maybe children of divorced families really are better off after all.

Unless they happen to be the children of Katie Price and Peter Andre, obviously. That’s something that everyone can agree on, at least.

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Peter Andre and Katie Price are a gift that just keep giving aren’t they? Once upon a time, they were just two people who didn’t know each other, both keen on showing their tits to the world. Price, then known as the country of Jordan, graced page threes and lad rags, pouting with a vacant look in her eye. Andre meanwhile was the champion of ’90s cod-reggae, all pouting with a dead look in his eye.

Then, via reality TV, they met and gave each other hard-ons, soundtracked by an orchestra of dry-heaving celebrities stuck in the jungle who had to listen to them slobbering over each other like teenagers at a shit house party. A meringuey wedding ensued and, in no time at all, it started going horribly, horribly wrong.

Now, Andre wants it all erased from his mind like some dystopian sci-fi film.

Initially, Andre was joking when he said that he’d like Katie Price hypnotised out of his puny little mind. He made the comment on ITV gameshow Odd One In (no, us neither), during a round in which he had to spot the genuine hypnotist from a line-up of five.

It was a trick question of course because hypnosis is bunkum.

Various reports say that Andre asked: “Is it possible through hypnosis to forget someone from your recent past?” which was met with braying cheers from a public yet to work out what they like about him.

Of course, idiot TV execs got their collective thinking caps on and thought this was too good an opportunity to miss and have now offered (ITV, unsurprisingly) Peter Andre the chance to undergo a hypnosis session on television.

Jesus wept. We can only hope he regresses to childhood and soils himself, before reliving the life of a Victorian prostitute with no teeth, screaming in syphilitic pain. Only because it would make for ace car-crash TV mind you.

A source said:

“It will make fantastic viewing. Can Pete finally empty his memory bank of his ex-wife? Who wouldn’t want to find out the answer to that one?”

Let’s make a deal ITV. If you’re offering this to Andre, then at least have the decency to offer a similar red button service to the general public so we can blank out both of these cretinous urchins from our lives forever and ever. Oh, and Piers Morgan too.

In fact, what we’re essentially asking is that ITV just close down their broadcasting wing. It’ll save us from gouging the ’3′ button out of our remote controls.

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