Yeah, she was there, dressed A BIT like this…
If you didn’t realise, it was the Pride of Britain Awards yesterday – yeah we weren’t invited either. But, even so, there was a rather ironic turn out, for the most part made up of people who had featured on reality shows, plus a couple of slightly impressive sportsmen. Their job was to sit back and slow-hand-clap normal people. Not celebrities. Normal people. The kind of normal, everyday people who they wouldn’t slow down to watch if they were cowering under a flurry of legs in a roadside beatdown. The kind of normal people they would sneer at if they dared request an autograph without any cameras watching. The kind of beautiful, normal people who had done something worthy of an air kiss from Myleene Klass, because they’re blind, but not moaning about it. Or they’ve had a torrid time of things, but can still muster a smile. Good people. Good, normal people. Yes sir, it was quite a night… judging by the snaps.
The extremely poor man’s Posh and Becks, Joe Calzaghe and Kristina Rihanoff, were there – looking like the kind of couple who might normally spend the evening thrashing around in a rage of angry intercourse. Peter Andre thought he’d bury his woes, and attend wearing a black suit, with a black shirt, and a black tie. Lineker turned up with Bux. JLS blew out Movida with Gaffney and Bowers for the night, in order to further enhance their career credentials by wearing shiny suits, with one of them sporting a dickie bow/neck ribbon that you might find on a 19th Century dandy. Whilst Ronan Keating thought fashion be damned, as he oozed up and down the red carpet, in conflicting outfits – a posh dinner jacket, leather trousers, and a t-shirt. The word on the street is that his first option was going to be a cricket jumper and swimming knickers. We got off lightly.
Also in attendance was Abbey Clancy – the recipient of Peter Crouch’s thin, lizard-like tongue prods – wearing a see-through dress, over the top of another dress, and Kelly Brook, Emma Bunton, and Cheryl Cole all turned up in little black numbers! Cringe! Vernon Kay was there with his dead-eyed wife, and Konnie Huq from Blue Peter rolled up, as she generally tends to. She likes a free party, that Konnie Huq.
In other important celebrity updates, there’s a rumour going around that Justin Timberlake‘s swift hamster-like hands have been frenziedly scuttling around another woman’s taut, impressive figure. His girlfriend in America (below) will not be happy. And Anton Du Beke made a racist comment, then immediately said sorry… two weeks later.
Dares to look nice in swimming gear…
It’s been the phenomenon of the summer, this new breed of elderly women that dare to pass 40 and still look sexually attractive with their clothes off. As everyone of sound mind knows, once you pass 40, it’s time to slowly remove yourself from society and silently allow all of your body parts to embark on their slow descent towards your knees. That way, once you reach actual old age, you might resemble an owl wearing a flesh poncho. That’s the aim anyway. Or, should we say, that WAS the aim? Because now, there is a whole host of elderly rebels – led by the one-time supermodel Cindy Crawford – who have stuck a middle finger up to the heavens and insisted on maintaining their gorgeousness for as long as they bloody well like. It’s a brave, terrifying move, and just today showbusiness desks all around London have been thrown into a petrified silence by pictures of Sadie Frost – the one who bore Jude Law a mighty litter of will-be Pixie Geldofs – bouncing around in Ibiza, wearing a bikini, looking magnificent, like someone in their 20s. One celebrity journalist in particular seems aghast that this woman can be 44.
Elsewhere in the world of showbusiness, the irreverent celebrity sites – ie. just the same as Heat, only with the occasional “shit” thrown in to show how dangerous and unbelievably irreverent they are – have been all over the ongoing Andre and Jordan saga like dogs-on-string sniffing around rancid festival toilets. And Keisha from the Sugababes (below) went out for a few drinks and got totally drunk.
Tennis player, or sex kitten, Mr Stich?
Ask any gentleman fan of women’s tennis about the appeal of the game, and he will tell you that he prefers watching the ladies half of the competition because the games are harder to call and it’s more of a level playing field. He’ll remind you that Federer and Sampras have rendered the men’s draw damn near pointless, with their superior power play, and knack of winning year after year. All great points, very valid, but you might have noticed that the man blushed so hard when you asked him the question that little beads of sweat actually zoomed down his face and dripped from his nose throughout his very well balanced, lucid argument. You might also have noticed that when you listed players like Sharapova, Ivanovic and, from the past, Kournikova, he let out a small moan and crossed his legs. After three minutes of quizzing, he abruptly asked you to leave the room for eight minutes. It’s because he is most likely from the Michael Stich school of Wimbledon opinion. Just yesterday the former men’s champ left the sport world rocked with claims that the Wimbledon ladies are just there “to sell sex”. “They pay attention to their looks and everything,” he told a startled reporter, who could not believe what he was hearing. Which of these prostitutes he fancies to win, we’re not entirely sure. The above picture is Maria Kirilenko, by the way. She isn’t a hooker.
Elsewhere in the world of small clothes, Jordan has been continuing her quest to find sanctuary away from Peter Andre’s throbbing pecs. She’s in Ibiza. And Mel B enjoyed a birthday party in Vegas wearing just a very small bikini. As previously reported, the celebrity world is still stunned into silent awe at the state of her muscular stomach. She appears to be reveling in the aging process, reveals one celebrity journalist in particular.
Does not look like this all the time…
Clusters of showbiz reporters have been swallowing wildly to stop themselves from vomitting after seeing pictures of a supermodel without any make-up on. One in particular could not believe that it was the same person. She looked so appalling, so pale, so normal. The model in question is Helena Christensen, who dares to be known as a supermodel, and yet appears quite happy to walk around in public wearing clothes that a civilian might wear. Where is her designer clobber? Why is she not shiny and resplendent? Was it not Maybelline that told us that maybe she was born with it? Did not L’Oreal insist, quite publicly, that these kinds of women were worth it? The entertainment industry and fashion world have both been united under a startled silence. Thanks Helena. On a more positive note, she has made up for it by going to a party looking nice again. So, almost forgiven.
In other news, Kerry Katona managed to make it through a television interview without coming across like she’d just spent the preceding three hours sniffing glue from a plastic bag. And Jordan – of Peter Andre heartbreak fame – has rendered one showbiz reporter agog by appearing on a catwalk looking quite thin. Is she on hunger strike? Here she is in happier times…
That’s right, this Peter Andre…
For those of you still craving words about famous people, we have been doing bits and pieces for the excellent grown up gossip site, Hecklerspray. Today we thought we’d use the power of lists to dry Peter Andre’s salty post-Jordan tears. Read all about that here.
Not any more, not any more…
Were you to ask a group of teenagers whether they honestly believe in true love, they will tell you that they do. Yes sir. They didn’t always. No sir. But now they do. Why? Because of Peter Andre. Because of Jordan. Because of that fateful day when Peter sat on a log in the jungle singing a song he’d just made up called Woman, You Rule My LIFE to the half naked glamour model. That day the impossible became possible. His erection was proof that true love really does exist.
Granted, the majority of the above paragraph is either made up or hugely embellished, but that hasn’t stopped the celebrity world from reeling at the news that the Tescos version of Posh and Becks (who, by the way, are the Sainsburys equivalent of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie) have decided to hang up their shared silken bedsheets, and go hunting for someone else to have intercourse with. They seemed so perfect, him with his songs, her with her big fake bosoms. But now they’re gone. Christ. Why? Why God? Why?
In other news, one of the Westlife singers has married his actress girlfriend.