Right. RIGHT. So, the X Factor is still on.

Here are the opening titles. Here’s Dermot O Leary’s voice hurriedly aired in from Skype. It’s time to face the music. No, not time to face the music and dance. You are mistaken. Just time to face the music.  Just maintain eye contact with the music until you start feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed and just want to go home.

Look, there’s an X Factor helicopter. Okay, so let’s talk about X Factor helicopters.

X Factor helicopters. Here at Hecklerspray, we absolutely arse-rape X Factor helicopters.   There is literally no object in the universe that carries quite as much purpose as an X Factor branded helicopter gliding merrily over an open field system to an indeterminate location. X Factor helicopters. Just a really good idea.

Now, although the X Factor has always been achingly spontaneous and a bit like The Lady from Shanghai but with more Kelly Clarkson covers, it is still important to maintain the televisual rules of basic continuity, so we are treated to a conglomeration of young people with hairstyles and shirts and skin informing us that they will literally commit actual suicide if they don’t win the X Factor in the next five minutes because the prospect of not-winning makes them genuinely physically ill.

One young woman professes that when she thinks about not being a singer, her heart beats really fast, which is actually quite lovely and inspirational. Or Type 2 Diabetes.

Most Successful Person To Come Out of Manchester From Cheshire Gary Barlow has now regretfully downgraded his upbringing as simply being from the slightly more ambiguous ‘North West’ so he can champion the talent of Liverpool in this episode instead. God, it’s like Sophie’s Choice, but instead of a gassed rejected child, it’s a Merseytravel rail card.

So, as this is a double bill X Factor weekend – some pretty fucking special juju is most certainly going to go forth, wouldn’t you say? You couldn’t be more utterly right if you tried. It’s Tulisa’s birthday. How do we know? Because we care. Louis Walsh told us on an escalator.

Queue a whole massive chunk of quality TV about how Tulisa celebrated a birthday about three months ago, which is the most deserved celebration of someone’s life on television since ‘Living Lohan’. This sequence of Tulisa pretending to be happy goes on for about twenty years, which coincidently is the same amount of time it takes for Asbestos to embed into the typical human lung, which are obviously two radically different incidents, but still probably worth pointing out.

This is getting a little bit silly now. Let’s try a bit of reverse psychology. CAN WE HAVE SOME SINGING NOW PLEASE?

No we may not, apparently. What is available however is the brand new changing room segment of the show – where (we assume) contestants stand in a room holding up hair straighteners, and shoe boots and tampons and for some reason – dancing. Just constant, terrifying, disheartening dancing. It’s a really upsetting thing to try and put into words. How can we put this? We know. Did you ever see that documentary about that heroin addict whose veins were eventually rendered useless to the point he had to start injecting it into his groin? No? Oh. Okay. Have you ever seen Glee? Right. It’s exactly like Glee.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, it’s the first contestant of the show. His name is INEVITABLY Marcus Collins. Marcus coyly divulges to us that he has toned down his hair to a more ‘relaxed colour’ for his audition today, which interestingly enough is much closer to his natural shade anyway. He goes into this matter in further detail, but it’s a pretty sensitive topic to discuss so we don’t really know if we should speak about it so openly. How best to describe it? Right, did you ever see that docu-

Okay, never mind.

Marcus gets up on stage, and selfishly talks about his life aspirations and dreams for a whole 9 SECONDS before remembering to wish Tulisa a happy birthday. Marcus creates a Twitter parallel universe by uttering the not so immortal words: “I’d rather walk into Marks and Spencers than walk past it”, if ‘we know what he means’. We don’t – because that isn’t on any level a popular idiom to slip into conversation in front of 8 million people, let alone poor old Marks and Spencerally challenged Louis Walsh, who stares morosely into the distance, secretly wondering if his off-pink shirt has made any sort of an impact on anybody he’s bumped into that day.

Marcus sings Signed Sealed Delivered, I’m Yours – by Lee Ryan. This is presumably the obnoxious Stevie Wonder cover that everyone tried to ignore. Marcus sings the song with a jaunty spring in his step and at no point does he try and throw the microphone into his other hand and then back into his previous hand and then return the microphone to the original hand to the rhythm of the bass line, which is something that happened on the X Factor once, and it wasn’t very good. Marcus gets through. Kelly Rowland says ‘Marks and Spencers’. We cuddle our own knees.

The editors put their 2005 British Comedy Award to good use in a small segment where a man is forced to strip naked and serve drinks to Tulisa and the judges, whilst Tulisa makes inappropriate comments about how she’d like to spend ‘an hour in her room with him’. Louis giggles, because he suspects Tulisa may be alluding to violent, clammy mutual masturbation.

A man in a wanky hat is up next. He is unemployed, he is called James Micheal, and seems to be trying to give off the impression that he is a real, verified human being regardless. James sings the Adele version of Make me Feel My Love OBVIOUSLY. And when we say ‘sings the Adele version’, I mean properly ties his testicles in a Windsor knot and hits every nuance and modulation that you could ever hope to hit to achieve faux-emotion in a song you lyrically probably don’t give much of a shit about. (Come on – “I could hold you for a MILLION years?” That’s AGES.) Nonetheless, James gets through.

It’s time for the Dermot O Leary wearing a navy blue turtle neck section of the program, which isn’t everyone’s particular FAVOURITE bit, granted – but eventually everyone kind of grows to love it, like when Demi Moore and Bruce Willis had that daughter with the chin that looked like a root vegetable, but kept her anyway.

As is customary with the Dermot O Leary Navy Blue Turtle Neck portion – the next contestant is a middle aged man who ‘goes to the gym’ and has aspirations despite a little thing called LIFE trying to diffuse them on a day to day basis. His name is Graham Bennett, although the catheter hanging out of the ankle of his jean clearly says ‘Paul Weller’, so we’re not trusting anybody. He has the voice of a man who should be deep in conversation with Suggs in a Wetherspoons about how he once voiced a badger on a CBeebies ident.

Sorry, what? Graham professes that the only reason he is auditioning for X Factor is so that he can get off with Sandra Bullock. This is the greatest excuse for auditioning X Factor in the world. He better be good. He better be bloody good, so he can attend to the broken heart of Sandra Bullock as quickly as is fucking possible. Like THAT’S not been looming over our heads on every waking minute of the day. Shit. He isn’t very good. How can one woman endure so much pain?

Turtleneck Hour on the X Factor drags on slowly and bitterly on as A Woman From Dublin performs a song not to the best of her abilities. Louis Walsh makes a big deal about saying no to her, despite HIM BEING FROM DUBLIN HIMSELF! Loveable scouser from Take That Gary Barlow makes the exact same joke. This is followed by a man who wants to be a pop star not being granted the wish of being a pop star, and a black woman not singing exactly the same as Beyonce despite ALL THE ODDS. Meanwhile, Charles Darwin shrugs.

The next segment is Sunday night television at it’s most droll (Unlike Saturday night television which will never quite be able to scrub off the whole ‘Don’t Scare the Hare’ thing) – as every single X Factor contestant spontaneously loses their confidence and can’t sing properly, one after the other in perfect chronological order. Jesus, fucking Disney – isn’t this incredibly unlucky? This low self esteem bonanza drags on about as long as talking to someone subtly alluding to the fact they have low self esteem.

Ie: ALL OF THE YEARS IN EXISTENCE. The dramatic crescendo of this section is brought to you by ‘Jonjo Kerr’ (Which is pretty much the exact phonetic spelling of how Hecklerspray writers project feelings of lust on to the opposite sex) Jonjo is an Infantry soldier (IMPORTANT JOBS ARE IMPORTANT) and has successfully inseminated his wife with a child much to the gormless delight of Kelly, who is increasingly striking us as the sort of person who’d joyfully contract dementia if she ever got hold of the ‘Woohoo’ feature on any Sims PC game.

Quick run-through of the really boring event that happens next: Jonjo sings a Rod Stewart song, and messes it up. The judges remind Jonjo that he is a soldier and has a foetus developing in his wife, so obviously has to sing well, because if the past 3 years of horrific Mariah Carey cover singles are anything to go by – the X Factor really love soldiers, presumably because they are big and strong and good at fighting lots. JUST like Frank Sinatra.

So, Jonjo sings the song again, sings it exactly as terribly as the first time, and gets through because he is a soldier and has a foetus developing in his wife. The whole point of ending on Jonjo of course is to display the Aesop-esque moral that sometimes people get nervous, and that’s totally okay. But you won’t get through to the second stage of X Factor unless you’ve had a certain degree of lead pumped into your internal organs at some point.

And with that, we close on the final contestant, Amelia Lily. Let’s just wind things up really swiftly, because there is nothing more to say about Amelia other than the following three things.

• It’s just Pixie Lott, isn’t it. What’s the point in attempting to make a joke. She’s a girl that looks like Pixie Lott, and is going to get rewarded for this.
• Her name sounds like a character that would talk to a badger on a CBeebies Ident.
• If you missed Amelia’s audition and have simultaneously forgotten what rock music is: Hopefully this handy video will kill two birds with one stone.

Next week is another double bill. We’re not even fucking joking.

PS: Hey – did anyone see Antony Costa’s brother audition on Xtra Factor the other week? No, us neither. But still…  what a horrifically discouraging piece of information.

Jesse James is still talking about how he cheated on Sandra Bullock a year ago. It behooves him to talk about betraying his ex-wife for the sake of his book sales. So, his current book tour includes belated apologies and indignant admissions of guilt. However, you may be interested to know, any wrongdoing on his part is in the eye of the beholder and Jesse is only sorry that you’re so sensitive.

There are probably no innocent parties here and we don’t know the full story. There were two people in that relationship.

Until there were suddenly seven more people and Jesse was having sex with all of them. It took two of them to break-up the relationship. Which is, incidentally, roughly how many strippers with whom he cheated.

No one’s ever really at fault when a marriage breaks down. Apparently. So Jesse has spent the last 12 months writing and promoting a book about cheating on and humiliating an Oscar winner for any other bastards who want to do the same.

Asked by a journalist whether he’d entirely emotionally moved on and detached from cheating on Sandra, Jesse responded simply, ‘Yeah, I’m cool.’ He’s ‘Cool’ with moving on from Nazi strippers and a burning sensation when he pees.

Oh, good.

Probed further, as to whether his life fell apart after the scandal or whether he was ever heckled by passersby, he replied that everyone loved him. Like, everyone. Only we in the media mocked him because we are, apparently, the only ones with any perspective. ‘I never got one negative comment. Not from anyone,’ insisted Jesse. ‘The only people that said negative stuff to me were paparazzi and they were like being paid to do that.’

We’re the only people who’re habitually pointing and laughing at his goober face, whiny voice, and thin excuses for philandering. We need our own book tour where we can promote Team Hecklerspray and blame our readers for the crotch rot and constant itching in tender places.

This was a guest post by Amy Grindhouse, who is currently having an affair behind the backs of the many ‘spray writers she’s told she’ll marry, the heartless sow.

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Imagine the fun you could have standing over Renee Zellweger and Sandra Bullock while they both sit before each other, taking it in turns to cry and do their best impression of melancholy. Just imagine!

Well, that’s what has been happening as Renee took her peculiar face to Bullock’s house and let all the water fall out of it.

They probably said things like “men are so not worth it”, before toying with the idea of some sorrow induced mock-lesbianism, but never actually getting round to it because neither actress has any sort of sexual allure or prowess. As such, they probably watched a film and ate cheap Chinese food from those cartons you’ve seen in films.

Of course, Zellweger has just broken up with some character called Bradley Cooper, so she needed someone to comfort her while she did a cry. Sandra is the perfect choice because she’s just had a high-profile divorce from Jesse James after he stuck his penis into a string of women that weren’t Sandra Bullock.

Together, the pair will have no doubt bonded over the fact that they’re both from Texas and invariably mused about the potential of giving the electric chair to their exes.

Their dirty, rotten, no-good exes.

That’s because the rumours floating around Hollywood are that Bradley Cooper, star of the dismal ‘The Hangover’ managed the near-impossible by having sex with someone behind Renee’s back. That’s two whole women in the world willing to have intercourse with someone who starred in The Hangover.

Amazing.

Better yet, one of the rumours is that Cooper had sex with Sandra Bullock. How fantastic is that?

A friend of Renee’s says:

‘She tried to make it work, but in the end it was too hard. Her friends feel bad it ended, but she’s okay’.

‘She hasn’t been working because she wanted to really put time and energy into the relationship and now she’s going back to work’

This means there’ll probably be Bridget Jones 3 then. Gah.

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Celebrities are brilliant aren’t they? They’re always doing really stupid things and, in the event that they’re not, we can just make stuff up about them because they’ve got this misguided notion that all publicity is good publicity. You try telling that to John Leslie that.

Anyway, because they’re both on the rebound, everyone has decided that Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds are now swapping bodily fluids in some kind of depressing sex-based grief triste.

Naturally, there are those that think this is the chance for these two sobbing celebrities to start afresh, after Reynolds got dumped by Scarlett Johansson and Bullock’s marriage to Jesse James collapsed under the sheer weight of mediocrity.

And because Sandra Bullock seems kinda nice and Ryan Reynolds is fancied by women who stare wistfully at cushions in catalogues, wishing that they had some kind of sex-life, the pair have almost been willed together by all and sundry.

Well, apart from those among you who really couldn’t give a flying teste.

And lo, it came to pass, speculation actually made two people get together and the longtime friends decided that it might be nice if they saw the New Year in with each other, both crying uncontrollably and wiping each other’s snot bubbles from their famous nostrils, before showering each other’s bloated, puffy faces with kisses and, of course, both gently sobbing at the moment of climax.

Then, the post-sex ritual of endless discussions about how they’ve been hurt in the past and blah blah blah. What ever happened to celebrities that took loads of drugs and were always on-hand for a vicious put-down? None of this crying business.

A source confirms that Sandra, 72, invited the newly single and therefore vulnerable Ryan, 344, to spend NYE with her in some restaurant in Texas (where they serve meat cooked on electric chairs). He quickly accepted.

“Sandra planned all along to spend New Year’s at the restaurant with friends.”

“And she was thrilled that Ryan accepted her invitation to join in.”

Brilliant. So they probably healed each other with a mixture of wallowing coitus and indigestion. What a lovely couple they made (etc)

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When Sandra Bullock comes to look back on 2010, it’s likely that all she see is a slate of total misery.

There’s been divorce. There’s been public exile. There’s been heartbreak so profound and all-encompassing that only the adoption of a baby could heal it. It hasn’t been a good year for Sandra Bullock at all. Until now, that is, because last night Sandra Bullock won a Teen Choice Award. You know who else won a Teen Choice Award? Justin Bieber.

So, you see, it doesn’t matter how many tattooed Nazi fetishists her husband slept with, or how emotionally vulnerable she’s become, or how freakishly rigid all that cosmetic surgery has left her face, according to the teenagers of America Sandra Bullock is still as popular as a stupid-haired infant with a girl’s voice and 400 different songs about Bebo. That’s something, isn’t it? No?

The Teen Choice Awards – formerly the Oh Let’s Just Give Something To Bieber And Something To Twilight And Then We Can All Go Home Awards – are the teenage version of the People’s Choice Awards, only less depressing because teenagers are supposed to like bland mass-produced rubbish but fully-grown adults definitely aren’t. And, boy oh boy, they took place last night.

We’re not going to spoil all the surprises from last night’s Teen Choice Awards – partly because they’re not broadcast until tonight, and partly because the physical act of telling you that George Lopez put on a dress and pretended to be a Kardashian sister would fill us with so much unrelenting self-loathing that we’d end up addicted to barbiturates by the end of this paragraph – but we can tell you that Sandra Bullock won a very special prize, as People reports:

The actress, 46, surprised the crowd at L.A.’s Universal Amphitheater on Sunday, when she accepted the award for choice movie actress in a drama for her Oscar-winning role in The Blind Side. Bullock invited her “sweet friend” Betty White, who she joked hadn’t been a teen “since 1919,” onto the stage… The two then shimmied together to Lil Jon’s “Get Low.”

Now, you see, why didn’t Sandra Bullock do that when she won an Oscar? Surely, as pleasant as her speech was, it was nothing like as dignified as if she’d chosen to dance around with an 88-year-old woman to a song about sweaty balls. Maybe, just maybe, if Sandra Bullock had done that during the Oscars, her husband wouldn’t have shagged that tattoo model and she’d still be happily married. Ever thought of that Sandra? Huh?

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In a week where regular editor Stuart Heritage has gone missing, it is interesting to note that Sandra Bullock has obtained a temporary restraining order against a man accused of stalking her since 2003.

Heritage, who has the real name of Thomas James Weldon according to various reports and sources, has been ordered not to contact the actress at any of her homes or on movie sets. Weldon will have to attend a further hearing 6th August.

This is not the first we’ve seen this. A previous restraining order obtained in 2003 ran out last year, leaving the celebrity obsessed critic free to hound the poor Speed actress all over again.

He informed doctors, who were given the unfortunate task of treating his unspeakably sick mind at a Wyoming hospital, that he had driven from Tennessee to try to meet Bullock at her home in Jackson Hole.

Before any of you mental Michael Jackson fans start going nuts, Jackson Hole is the name of a place and not in fact a slur designed to besmirch the name of the recently deceased singer.

Reports also state that the restraining order seeks to protect Louis Bardo Bullock, the seven-month-old baby that the actress is in the process of adopting.

In previous court filings, Weldon has been accused of repeatedly trying to contact Bullock and following her around the country to try to meet her.

According to court documents, Bullock has never met the troubled gossip editor.

Please note: Sections of this article may be factually incorrect and added for comedic purposes/reasons only clear to an obviously bored writer on a slow news day

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Who’s the most dangerous celebrity? Which fiend of myth wields the most power?

Cheryl Cole/Tweedy/Whatever? She’s only beaten up one toilet attendant, and that’s nothing for a Northern Girl, Cheryl Weedy more like. Russell Crowe? Well, there’s his terrible band with the terrible name and he can throw a mean phone, but that’s nothing new. Just ask Naomi Campbell.

No, it’s none of these monsters of legend – it’s Oprah. Oprah has just won the title of ‘officially the most powerful celebrity it the world’. And she won it with an elbow takedown in the fifth round, apparently.

Songs will be written about her, and her legend will live down the ages in poetry and music.  According to legend, she has hands of pure stone with which to smash your stupid face, her thighs are made of the finest brass that resound with a mighty bass ringing when she walks, her nose opens and fires out heat-seeking missiles (as did Michael Jackson’s, he just filled it with a sleeping-gas delivery system and ended up overusing it. Now you know). Frankly, Oprah could probably kill you with just her hair.

Just think, this time last year we were living under the yoke of Angelina Jolie and her multi-ethnic army of children, idyllic times. However, it seems as though the house of Jolie has waned with the lack of fresh orphan blood, and the house of Oprah has risen like a lardy hawk and she has waged much war to take the jewelled crown in what was undoubtedly an awe-inspiring and bloody conflict. The BBC reports from the battlefield:

US TV host Oprah Winfrey has been named the most powerful celebrity in the world by Forbes magazine. Winfrey knocked film star Angelina Jolie off the top spot of Forbes’s annual Celebrity 100 list, which is based on earnings and media exposure.

Oh, so it’s just some poxy back-slapping exercise where net worth is considered in terms of how much you can bang on about your weight-gain on your network chat show, and not about the ease at which you could crush a solid ice sculpture of a lighthouse in your mighty fist? Well, that’s much less exciting.

You know what they should do? Stick ‘em all on a remote island and let them scrap it out, Battle Royale style. I mean just look at the Top Ten, surely Oprah wouldn’t stand a chance? Let’s run down:

10. Madonna – Well, she is quite wirey, but one good punch would probably split her parchmenty, aged skin. Oprah’s got the stones to take that. Lose.

9. Johnny Depp – He’s basically a very effeminate girl. Lose.

8. Sandra Bullock – Good for bluffing her attacks, what with her not being about to move her skin about at all, but then again there’s probably a loss of motor function that comes with that. Lose.

7. U2 – it’s four on one, but Bono will probably sack off the fight to fight climate change in his private jet or something, and no one is really sure the other three actually exist and aren’t just holographic leftovers from the Zoo TV tour. Lose.

6. Britney – Where do you start? Lose.

5. Tiger Woods – Not unless he knobbed her to death (which is quite possible, granted). Lose.

4. Lada Gaga – Are you kidding? She can’t even stand upright. Lose.

3. James Cameron – Frail, elderly man who looks like a creepy lesbian aunt? Oprah literally eats people like that for breakfast. Lose.

2. Beyonce – Apart from the arse, a light snack for the beast that it Oprah. Lose.

Huh, looks like Oprah is the most powerful celebrity in the world, well done Forbes. Let’s hope the reign is a benevolent one. All hail Oprah!

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See, Jesse James? See? You’re not the only one who parade around like a gigantic strumpet.

Your estranged wife Sandra Bullock is just as capable. In fact, she’s even better at it than you are. Why? Because you only managed to hook up with a Nazi fetishist who was covered in so many tattoos that she looked like she’d fallen asleep under a pile of damp newspapers. But Sandra Bullock? She just kissed Scarlett Johansson. On the lips. On television. Really briefly.

The Sandra Bullock/ Scarlett Johansson kiss happened at the MTV Movie Awards, and it was largely the sexiest thing to happen all night. But, hey, when hasn’t the sight of a 45-year-old woman kissing a 25-year-old woman to make up for her husband’s multiple heartbreaking infidelities been sexy? No? Just us?

Just because you haven’t seen Sandra Bullock around for a few months doesn’t mean that she hasn’t been keeping busy. She’s been doing loads of stuff, really. There was that kid she adopted, for starters. And she’s probably been working on all kinds of film projects as well. And, oh yeah, crying. Lots of crying, as is probably to be expected when your husband gets caught having it away with a tattoo model in a Nazi hat called Bombshell. Or, if not crying, whatever the closest alternative to crying is when your face looks as if it’s been rendered almost fully immobile by surgery.

But at last night’s MTV Movie Awards, Sandra Bullock got to put all of that behind her by making her first public appearance since the Oscars and using it as an excuse to get off with Scarlett Johansson. MTV reports:

“I’m here because Ryan couldn’t be here, and I wanted to be here when you accepted your award for Best Kiss,” Scarlett said. After Sandra informed her they hadn’t won, ScarJo replied that she thought they should have won because it “was sweet and looked really soft.” And with that, the two began inching ever closer to each other until they—you got it!—kissed.

You see? Sandra Bullock can still be an aspirational figure. Now millions of horny teenagers around the world will make sure they’ll marry a butch mechanic in the hope that they’ll one day break their heart by cheating on them with a funny-looking tattoo model, because only then will they get to have an awkward two-second kiss with Scarlett Johansson. Keep living the dream, Sandra.

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Everybody has more or less moved on from the Sandra Bullock/ Jesse James scandal of earlier this year.

Sandra Bullock? She’s got her adopted child to worry about. Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee? She’s probably found another weirdo to have uncomfortably Nazi-themed sex with by now. And Jesse James? Well, actually, we haven’t heard the last of Jesse James yet. Speaking to Nightline last night, Jesse James revealed that he didn’t go to rehab for sex addiction this year, or for anger management – he did it because he was the victim of child abuse several decades ago.

Oh that’s right Jesse James, blame it all on your violently abusive monster of a father. That’s low, Jesse. That’s real low.

There’s always a consequence to fun, isn’t there? Take Jesse James, for instance – the consequence of his carefree infidelities was the destruction of his marriage and reputation. And it’s the same for us – it may have been a riot to giggle at the way that Jesse James cheated on one of the world’s most beautiful women with a Nazi fetishist who’s got a giant eyelashed fish tattooed up her arm, but that riot has to be cosmically balanced out by something. In this case it’s having to hear about how Jesse James was abused as a child.

Because he says he was. In fact, he can trace his decision to cheat on Sandra Bullock right back to the moment when his dad started hitting him. On Nightline last night, presumably as part of a Refusing To Shut Up Because You’re Clearly Some Sort Of Idiot special, Jesse James revealed that his stint in rehab earlier this year wasn’t to deal with his sex addiction at all – it was to deal with the emotions stemming from his abusive childhood. NBC reports:

James said he realized he “never had a chance to be a kid” because his father used to “terrorize” him. “He beat my ass pretty good a bunch of times,” James said. “I just remember, like, clinched teeth, [a] strained-neck look on his face.”… At age seven, James said, his father chased him in the dark until he fell and broke his arm. Afterward his father laughed and called him a “dummy.”

Bloody hell, this is a bit of a downer, isn’t it? Seriously, we think we just preferred it when Jesse James went around having weird Nazi sex with funny-looking women. Be more like that man again, Jesse. He was fun.

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Angelina Jolie, Octomom and every other woman in Hollywood with children can breathe a sigh of relief. We’re all obsessed with Sandra Bullock’s adopted baby son, Louis Bardo Bullock. Apparently.

At least that’s what we’ve just read in People magazine – so we’re assuming it’s true. After all these years, working long hours and such, we just can’t stomach thinking for ourselves any more. We’re happy to let unpaid teenage underlings at People do our thinking for us.

We’re obsessed with all things that have worked their way out of celebrity mothers’ uteri. For example, carefully stashed valuables and biological babies. We’re even more obsessed with adopted celebrity children. We do have the slightly odd predisposition to point and stare in wonder – as though we can’t fathom where adopted children come from. We suspect celeb mothers find them behind street signs, or even in bushes, while going about their daily business. More sensible folks suppose there is something about adoption or surrogacy in there – but that just sounds too preposterous to explore any further.

We have it on good authority that Sandra found her New Orleans-born baby on her doorstep, as she was about to go out for her morning coffee. Being that the baby had just turned up, and not wanting to have to return it, she kept the child a secret from everyone. That is, until she didn’t. In a cunning PR move, the Oscar-winning actress did an exclusive for People in which she talked about the adoption and spluttered something about her Nazi-ish ex-husband. No detail whatsoever about almost tripping over her own baby, only a few months earlier. Well played, Sandra. Well played.

Being that the child turned up out of nowhere, and he was kept secret since January, and he was African American (oops, we left that part out), everyone and their grandmother wants to know more about what’s going on in Sandra’s life.

This issue is selling like there’s a free packet of sweets sellotaped to the front. According to a magazine insider, the issue sold 2.7 million copies in a week. That’s only around 100,000 less than the 2008 exclusive about Brad Bitt and Angelina’s holy twins. Sandra’s issue has actually sold half-a-million more than the June 2006 issue about Brad and Angelina’s daughter Shiloh! Pop Eater reports:

It’s no surprise that People magazine’s shocking Sandra Bullock baby cover was a huge seller, but it hasn’t yet replaced the biggest-selling baby exclusive ever. That would be People’s 2008 exclusive photos of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s newborn twins, Knox Leon and Vivienne. [...] So although it looks as if Sandra’s baby will ultimately outsell Angie’s twins, she still has a long way to go be beat the top two seller’s in the magazine’s 35-year history: the Sept. 11 issue (4.1 million copies) and the issue covering Princess Diana’s death (3 million).

This was a guest blog by Amy Grindhouse, who is quite peachy.

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Sandra Bullock’s adoption of little Louis Bullock has raised several questions, but one stands out above all others.

Louis Bullock? She could choose any name and she picked Louis Bullock? What sort of catastrophic short-term thinking is that? The only way she could have called her baby something more awkward than Louis Bullock is if she made up a name of her own for him, like Nullock Bullock or Bullbullbullbull Bullock. That’s the big question here – why does Sandra Bullock suck at naming children so much?

Oh, and also how has Sandra Bullock managed to keep her adoption secret for so long? Well, the truth is that she hasn’t. Look back at Sandra Bullock’s Oscars speech, or her Golden Globes speech, or any of her recent chat show appearances, and you’ll see that she wouldn’t shut up about it. She’s a master of deception. And giving babies crap names. Obviously.

So Sandra Bullock has her new husband replacement baby, adopted fresh from New Orleans. That’s not so much of a shock. After all, Sandra Bullock had just finished making a film about adoption, and everyone knows how much she likes to mimic the plots of her films in real life – which explains the time she rode around in a really fast bus for a day, the brief period where she exclusively communicated with the ghost of Keanu Reeves via handwritten correspondence and her upcoming movie Stop Shagging That Tattooed Bitch You Nazi Arsehole.

But what is shocking is that Sandra Bullock managed to keep the adoption a secret for so long. She officially took charge of Louis Bullock back in January, but we only found out about it this week. To think – she probably laughed with Louis when she won her Razzie, celebrated with Louis when she won her Oscar, and held Louis to her chest, rocked backwards and forwards and muttered “You’ll never leave me, you’ll never leave me, never never never never NEVER NEVER NEVER!” into his ear when she discovered what a bastard her husband was. And we never knew anything about it.

But the clues were there. In fact, looking back it seems like Sandra Bullock was desperate to tell everyone about the new man in her life. People magazine has been on the case, and it’s gleaned these retrospective Sandra Bullock hints from awards season. From the Oscars:

“I would like to thank what this film is about for me. The moms that take care of the babies and the children no matter where they come from. Those moms and parents never get thanked.”

From the Golden Globes:

“A family is not just who you were born to, or what color you are. It’s who’s got your back.”

From the Broadcast Film Critics Association Awards:

“I’VE GOT A NEW FUCKING BABY! YEAH, IT’S A BLACK ONE AND EVERYTHING! IT’S BRILLIANT!”

In retrospect, we should have seen the clues. We just should have seen the clues.

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Since her spectacular marital disintegration, Sandra Bullock has longed for one thing above all else.

A load of tattoos. Oh, and somebody to love. Somebody who’ll love Sandra Bullock no matter what. Someone who’ll never throw on a Nazi hat and have 11 months of illicit sex with a woman who’s got a selection of bland Little Book Of Calm platitudes permanently inked across her forehead. Somebody who’ll appreciate her. Someone who will never let her down. Someone who she can smother and mollycoddle and fuss over in a generally overcompensatory way, even though at times it’ll make them fantasise about running away because they feel as if they’re trapped in an emotional straitjacket.

So we should say hello to little Louis Bullock, a baby from New Orleans who Sandra Bullock has adopted as her very own. From now on, he’s all the man she’ll ever need. Wait, that sounded disgusting.

History has shown time and time again that if your marriage is failing, the last thing you should do is try to paper over the cracks with a baby. Rather than give you a new focus to share, it’ll only deepen the resentment between you and hasten the inevitable split – and you’ll have buggered up the life of a baby in the process. Nice work, idiots.

However, this isn’t really applicable to Sandra Bullock. She may have just adopted a little boy from New Orleans, but she didn’t do it to try and save her marriage. She did it to try and replace her marriage, which is obviously completely different so shut up.

Yes, while Jesse James was in sex rehab trying to cure his crippling addiction to having bizarre Nazi-tinged sex marathons with women so oppressively tattooed that they may as well have just wallpapered their entire bodies, Sandra Bullock was out doing something constructive – adopting a baby. People reports:

His name is Louis, and he is her newborn son. “He’s just perfect, I can’t even describe him any other way,” Bullock reveals exclusively in the new issue of PEOPLE, announcing that she is the proud mother of Louis Bardo Bullock, a 3½-month-old boy, born in New Orleans. “It’s like he’s always been a part of our lives.”

Now we’re being a little disingenuous here. Sandra Bullock didn’t split up from Jesse James, rush to the nearest possible adoption centre, grab the first child she saw and scream “YOU’RE MY HUSBAND NOW! YOU’LL NEVER LEAVE ME, WILL YOU? NEVER NEVER NEVER!” right into its face. In fact she’d apparently been planning the adoption with Jesse James for four years, took care of Louis in January and had the adoption papers changed to make her his sole guardian after the split.

But we can still pretend that at one point or another, Sandra Bullock screamed “YOU’RE MY HUSBAND NOW!” into his face. It’s just funnier this way, OK?

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She’s destroyed Sandra Bullock’s marriage, has a thing for Nazi uniforms and looks like a redneck Na’vi.

Nice work, Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee! You don’t don’t do things by half, do you? When you set out to become one of the most reviled people on the planet, you do absolutely everything you can to get there. Everything except for taking out a contract hit on Sandra Bullock, obviously. Because, clearly, that would be a smidgen too far.

That didn’t stop the FBI from allegedly investigating a claim that Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee had organised for Sandra Bullock to be murdered, though. Fortunately it didn’t take long to reveal that the claims were bogus, which is just as well. Imagine if all other women tried to kill their lover’s wife. Elin Nordegren would have to live in a lead-lined panic room for the rest of her life.

Many things have tried to kill Sandra Bullock over the years. In Speed it was Dennis Hopper. In Speed 2 it was a moderately fast boat. In The Net it was some flashing green text on a black background. And in real life it definitely isn’t Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee.

We really can’t stress that enough. Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee isn’t trying to kill Sandra Bullock. Although Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee has all the motive needed to kill Sandra Bullock – she was having sex with Sandra Bullock’s husband, she likes to dress up as a Nazi from time to time, she lacks the mental ability to realise that writing pointless Little Book Of Calm-esque quotes directly onto her forehead with an inky needle is an incredibly stupid thing to do – it’s been fairly conclusively decided that at no point did she ever try and order a trained assassin to take Bullock out.

We know this because someone told the FBI that she had, and it all turned out to be rubbish. TMZ reports:

Roughly two weeks ago, McGee’s ex-husband, Shane Modica, reported that he received a call from a man in Missouri who claimed Bombshell wanted to put a hit on both Modica and Bullock … and the mystery caller claimed he was the person who was supposed to carry out the hits. Sources tell us Modica reported that the caller claimed he received his killing orders before the cheating scandal came to light.

But relax. The man from Missouri is known to local police – he has a head injury that apparently makes him ‘lose sense with reality’ – so it was quickly decided that the whole thing was nonsense. Which is probably best for everyone involved, because now we know that Sandra Bullock’s life isn’t in danger and that Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee hasn’t done the stupidest thing that she could ever do.

Well, you know, the second stupidest thing. She’s already got a giant fish with fake eyelashes tattooed on one of her arms. Technically that does count as the stupidest.

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Great news! Yes, Sandra Bullock may be devastated because her husband cheated on her with a tattooed Nazi fetishist.

But it’s not all bad. Because now the tattooed Nazi fetishist feels remorse. That’s right - Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee has apologised to Sandra Bullock for all that sex she had with Jesse James. She didn’t apologise directly – she did it on TV – but we’re sure that Sandra Bullock saw it nonetheless.

Hang on, what? Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee apologised to Sandra Bullock on TV in Australia? What’s the point of that? Honestly, she may as well have gone the whole hog and apologised to Sandra Bullock on TV in Australia under her breath in Esperanto wearing a full-body disguise inside an airtight nuclear bunker for all the good it’ll do. You know, we’re starting to think that Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee might not be the trustworthy model citizen we think she is.

So in the last few months Sandra Bullock has won an Oscar for the worst film she’s ever made, won a Razzie for the second-worst film she’s ever made, realised that her husband had an 11-month affair with a tattoo model who’s got a giant eyelashed fish drawn up one of her arms and had to deny the existence of a sex tape where a Nazi pushes a shotgun all the way up her bumhole.

But let’s look on the bright side here. On the plus side, Sandra Bullock has demonstrated enviable stoicism throughout the scandal, possibly because her face has been rendered completely immobile by the effects of modern-day cosmetic surgery. And what’s more, Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee feels bad about having sex with Jesse James now. So that’s just dandy. EW reports:

In an interview with Australian TV show Today Tonight, the Bombshell said, “Sandra, I’m sorry for your embarrassment. I’m sorry all this is public. I’m sorry for everything… I feel like I was lied to just as much as she was. If Jesse was upfront with me in the beginning, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” she said.

If you’ve ever been to Australia, you’ll know what a big deal this is. Today Tonight wouldn’t just let any old idiot appear on the show – Today Tonight is almost as prestigious as other Australian icons such as Today Today, Tonight Today, Tonight Tomorrow, Yesterday Next Month, This Afternoon A Week On Tuesday and 14 Years Ago At Some Point Between Now And Christmas. Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee, you’re in the big league now.

Anyway, now the ball is back firmly in Sandra Bullock’s court. Will she refuse to acknowledge the apology and let Michelle ‘Bombshell’ McGee fester, or will she be gracious enough to accept it for what it is? Fingers crossed it’ll be the latter – because that’s the only way our dream of seeing a Thelma & Louise-style road movie about one slightly Nazi-seeming woman who’s got words tattooed all over her face and another woman who can only pull one facial expression can come true. Make our dreams come true, Sandra.

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Ask any man what his fantasy is, and he’ll reply ‘Sandra Bullock, naked, with poo on her face and a gun up her bottom’.

Phwoar. Seriously, phwoar. And if you ask the man to elaborate slightly, then they’ll obviously explain that the man wiping poo across Sandra Bullock’s face and putting a gun up her bottom should be dressed as a Nazi and swearing quite a lot. So imagine everyone’s excitement when it was rumoured that Jesse James had made a Sandra Bullock sex tape featuring Nazi uniforms, facial poo-smearing and gun-based bottom play, and that he was threatening to leak it online following their split.

And imagine everyone’s disappointment when Sandra Bullock denied the existence of the sex tape yesterday in the strongest possible terms. Apparently it was all just a lie designed to damage her reputation. bit like The Net, except that was worse because it actually exists.

There’s no two ways about it, the rumours of the Sandra Bullock sex tape were based on nothing more than wishful thinking of the highest order. Deep down, everyone wanted to see the Sandra Bullock sex tape, for the following reasons:

1 – According to online whispers, the sex tape featured Sandra Bullock swearing copiously as Jesse James – sporting a Hitler moustache and dressed like a Nazi – handcuffed her, smeared faeces across her face and rammed a shotgun up her bottom, which barely even seems possible.

2 - People were naturally curious to see whether Sandra Bullock could force her cosmetically-tightened face into a recognisable human expression during the throes of sexual ecstasy or not.

3 - Sandra Bullock is an Oscar-winning actress, so the sex tape would have definitely had higher production values than any of the other Nazi poo-wipe anal-shotgun porn films currently available on the market.

4 – It would have meant that Speed 2 was no longer the worst thing that Sandra Bullock had starred in.

5 - As it was a Sandra Bullock film, the sex tape would have probably ended with the two leads overcoming their initial differences – like the Nazi uniform, the poo-smearing and the fact that there was a bloody great shotgun lodged halfway up her bottom – to live happily ever after.

But anyone hoping to see a grainy video of Sandra Bullock covered in human excrement and being used as a sort of impromptu ammunition holster is flat out of luck. Sandra Bullock, speaking for the first time since her split from Jesse James, has denied the existence of the sex tape. People reports:

Sandra Bullock has broken her silence during her marriage crisis, denying an Internet report there’s a sex tape with her and husband Jesse James. “There is no sex tape,” she says in a statement to PEOPLE on Tuesday. “There never has been one and there never will be one.”

So that’s that. In retrospect it was foolish to think that Sandra Bullock – one of the most recognisable faces on the planet – would ever think “Here I am, handcuffed to a bed with my Nazi fetishist husband’s turd plastered across my face and a shotgun wedged up my rectum. I can’t think of any possible reason why this moment shouldn’t be recorded for posterity”.

But at least now Sandra Bullock has put this all straight. Now nobody will talk about the Sandra Bullock sex tape any more. Except for us, now. And People magazine yesterday. And most of the internet until the end of time. Good work, Sandra!

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