The media, Instagram, Twitter and the Kardashian Klan are obviously in CAHOOTS today because there’s nothing going on. Nothing at all. It’s a very very slow news day. Again!
I read that Kate Bush gave her first live concert for 35 years years last night and sang like a magical fairy on acid. But she didn’t bite her tongue off so there’s nothing I can say here that everyone else hasn’t already said.
I also heard that Lauren Goodger has admitted peeing in the CBB swimming pool. The papers say that Lauren’s celebrity housemates made her laugh in the pool while she was drunk. Nobody saw it coming until Lauren’s face contorted into a crafty pout that said, “I just peed in the water.” So the Mail et-al have given her a ride to the gossip columns. Oh shit!
However the best news for all you gutter-drunk party weasels today is that the Queen of glitter-covered filth dragons, Rita Ora has taken her drag act all the way to the columns of shame this morning.
Yes, Rita has admitted to having the magical moment of a lifetime – and one we all wish we could experience – by going to the VMA awards without wearing any underwear.
In an interview with Capital FM Rita was asked if she’d worn knickers under the red Donna Karan dress that she wore to the VMAs on Monday night. Rita replied: “Oh no, I didn’t actually! I just literally knew my angles and I made sure that I didn’t move!”
Part of me thinks that nothing could be worse than Rita’s weird ass posing on a red carpet, her horn of plenty filled with feathers, headless Barbie dolls and hot chilli sauce packets. Another part of me just wants to weep for her tragic loss of dignity.
Stalker people are so bizarre. Why would anyone want to stalk Coronation Street’s Alison King? I’ll admit that whenever I watch her on TV it feels like she’s talking to me and only me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to dress up as Batman to go through her trash. Okay, I might do that for Michelle Keegan, but never Alison King. I mean, Alison King?! Really?
What’s even crazier is that the Sun says Alison’s stalker might be a female nut-job who may have psychiatric problems. Oh, you think? I mean, stalking Alison King should automatically get you a one-way ticket to the loony bin. I could understand Stephen King the author, but Alison?! Okay, I’m just going to have to swallow this insane fact and deal with it.
Alison’s latest encounter with her stalker happened when she made an appearance at the Southport Flower Show on Merseyside this weekend. As Alison was talking to fans the lady stalker rushed towards her and tried to push a dossier of ramblings into her hand. Obviously security stepped in and the stalker was ejected from the event but it left Alison more than a little shaken.
This crazy lady has been stalking Alison’s ass for weeks now. Apparently she waits outside the studio gates and is a regular visitor to the Granada studio. A source said,
“This woman is a regular at the show studio and often waits by the gates. She seems to be obsessed with Alison and has been repeatedly warned by police and our security staff to back away.
Her behaviour has grown more intense and Alison is very distressed. The worry is the woman will find out where she lives.”
Alison now wants all possible security measures to be taken because she is now constantly looking over her shoulder and fears for her safety.
I’ve tied to imagine what this crazy stalker woman might look like. In my mind I see a woman around 4 feet tall, weighing 15 stone with a face covered in hairy moles. Her breath smells like fish and chips and she dresses in a Spider Woman outfit whenever she’s out stalking soap stars.
I don’t think her psychiatrist had this in mind when he told he told her to take up a hobby. Alison King?!!!??!!
Thanks to sitting in front of an analog television for hours on end watching reruns of The Great Escape, I’m pretty sure the first words I learned to read were: ‘Richard Attenborough actor and film director.’ So my black heart is shedding a tear for the great man today because last night at the grand old age of 90 Richard made his escape to heaven.
Lord Attenborough died at the Denville Hall care home in west London which he and his wife Sheila helped to found some years ago. It was a specialist charity care home for elderly and sick entertainers. Lord Richard had been suffering with ill health since he had a stroke six years ago. He passed away in his sleep while surrounded by his family. (Note to my family: Please don’t watch me sleep, even if I’m about to die. Thank you.)
Lord Attenborough was the mastermind behind Oh! What A Lovely War, Gandhi, Cry Freedom and starred in epic films such as The Great escape, Jurrasic park and Brighton Rock for which he won an oscar.
Lord Attenborough was the life serving president of BAFTA. He was given his knighthood in 1976 and in 1993 became a life peer, Baron Attenborough of Richmond Upon Thames. He also wrote speeches for the late princess Diana.
Lord Attenborough is survived by his wife Sheila Sim and their two children Michael and Charlotte.
Rest in peace, Lord Richard, you are now in heaven where James Garner and Steve McQueen are digging tunnels and embarrassing Germans.
We already know that Paul Gascoigne gathers his drinking water from puddles, lays face down on pavements and smells like a bench at the bus station, but now he’s about to become a homeless.
The Sun (via Mirror) say that ‘Gazza’ was taken to hospital yesterday after being found slumped outside his rented apartment in Sandbanks Poole, Dorset. He now faces the prospect of being evicted by his landlord because neighbours have complained of his incessant drinking and terrible levels of noise.
A member of the pubic had to dial 999 yesterday afternoon after seeing a barely coherent Gazza looking like a toothless mess and guzzling from a bottle of booze wrapped in a paper bag. Police and paramedics arrived a few minutes later.
Before the ambulance arrived Gazza was heard on his phone telling some phantom friend: “I am in trouble, please can you come and help me.” But nobody came.
Paul is being treated at a hospital in Poole today.
A friend, who is made out of air and smog, told the Mirror:
“It is very sad. But the reality is Paul has been drinking for the past few weeks and once that happens things will only end one way.Today things came to a head. He has had a lot on his plate as he is in the process of trying to find somewhere to live.”
“His landlord had given him 10 days to get out of the flat and it was weighing on his mind. Obviously things became too much for him in the past couple of days and he has turned back to the bottle.”
The days of Paul Gascoigne, super star footballer burning fifty pound notes in a cauldron of exorbitance and excess are long gone. Paul is now 47 years old and he looks like a middle-aged tramp who lives under a bench and spends his days harassing women in a park.
I’m guessing that Paul would like to inject some fat into his wasted body, wonk up his eyes a bit and get a double chin implant. You know, make himself look somebody again. But really? How long before we see the saddest and loneliest hobo in all the land begging for coins on the streets of south London?
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