Celebrity news & gossip from the world’s showbiz and glamour magazines (OK!, Hello, National Enquirer and more). We read them so you don’t have to, picking the best bits from the showbiz world’s maw and spitting it back at them. Expect lots of sarcasm.
The Sun hears Ted Beckham sit up in bed and tell the world “I’ll be okay”. The paper says that Ted even made it to wave off Posh ‘n’ Becks from the carpark.
As a hospital insider let’s us know: “David was very sweet and brought Ted some home-made fruit punch and a salad. Posh even took off her sunglasses when she reached the ward.”
Of course, she may have replaced them with still bigger lenses, especially since, as the Mirror reports, Posh and her Spice Girls entourage are collaborating with fly-eyed Bono, Mr G9 himself.
But that for later. For now, as the Star notes, “Posh Is Beck To Normal”, manfully refusing to smile as she jets off her to resume her amazing life in Los Angeles.
Says an onlooker: “They were holding hands like newlyweds but you could see the strain in their faces.”
And with that Her Poshness puts her sunglasses back on…
A fetishism suggests itself. All the more so when we learn that the Big Brother star emeritus’s new man is a dog. And not just any dog but a Pomeranian called Trouble.
What consenting adults get up to behind closed doors defies our judgement but this news invites Trouble, which is something Dani appear to be encouraging, given her pose which the Anorak postboy informs us is “doggy-style”.
“At first Trouble was so good and timid that I thought I might have to change his name,” says Danielle. “But now he’s into everything. He got to my red bra and knickers set the other day.”
“I couldn’t stay cross with him though, he’s just so incredibly cute.”
In “BECKS: My guilt over dad” the News of the World says “DAVID BECKHAM is haunted by guilt and believes it is HIS fault that his dad suffered a near-fatal heart attack.”
A source says Day-vid feels bad for “cancelling” on his dad, for not being closer to him.
The NOTW tells us: “He and wife Victoria have taken solace in religion, praying in a multi-faith room which has crosses and Bibles available in a box.”
This is the Beckhams in their time of private grief. Pull of a throne-shaped pew. Empathise.
David and Victoria are united in their moment of pain. Says a source: “She’s been a rock for David. She keeps telling him, ‘Don’t blame yourself for this, stop having a guilt trip—it’s not your fault.’”
Vicky has been forced to cut short a promotional trip to Japan. But she doesn’t blame Dave.
“The two of them have been sitting in the corridor together and she clasps his hand in hers. David’s like a little lost lamb at the moment.”
Touching stuff. And how does the NOTW trail this story? Why, with the line: “David opens heart”.
To remember in all our prayers: David’s father, who art in hospital, hallowed be thy turf…
Teenage boys and men with sweaty palms on caravan sites in Rhyl hear you, Angelina.
Angelina, of course, is no man. She is all woman, which is why she can engage in lesbianism, as OK! notes, and Priapic youths and men on government registers cannot.
“l’ve done coke, heroin, ecstasy, LSD, everything,” says Angelina. “But the one that had the worst effect on me was pot. I felt silly and I hate feeling like that.”
Angelina is not silly. She buckles up. Clunk. Click. Every trip. “I don’t do drugs. I don’t intentionally ride a motorcycle without a helmet. I will always be careful.”
One wonders how you can unintentionally ride a motorcycle, with or without a helmet? Angelina should be yet more careful, particularly when sitting on revved-up motorcycles. No joke. We’re serious.
But tiredness can get in the way of the best laid plans. And Angelina admits that children can take the spark out of love.
“Obviously your intimacy is not the same,” she tells OK!. “You are always engrossed and often you collapse with exhaustion in the evening.”
And it’s not all travelling the world that takes it out of Jolie. There are children to look after. And chances are the help is just as tired as she is…
No lightweight in the celebrity kitchen, McGuigan’s used every ounce of his stamina to pound potatoes into a frothy mash.
“I went into hell’s Kitchen to win, and I don’t do anything by halves,” says Barry, although children’s portions are available if there’s no rush on.
“Yes, I wanted my family to be proud of me, but above all I wanted to do it for my own sense of achievement,” says Barry. “If I compete I have to win, otherwise I feel I have failed. It’s a compulsion.”
Or what Marco Pierre White would all a “mousseline”.
And Barry won, of course, seeing off Paul Young and his 1980s white soul and Adele Silva’s vegetables.
Says Barry: “Adele was better then me at more things, but in area of service – and mashing potatoes and piping them – I had the upper hand.”
And duly delivered the knock-out blow…
The singer-songwriter descends the oak staircase at Highclere Castle. Hello! hears her draw “gasps of admiration from the guests”, some as old as Des, some older and well used to gasping.
Jodie is wearing a dress by South African dressmaker Gert van de Merwe, an empire-line creation in French lace and dupion silk, hand-beaded in the ubiquitous Swarovski crystals.
And here comes the couple’s son Adam, carrying his parents’ wedding rings on a satin cushion. Adam is three. Gasps a plenty. Possibly a nurse and an inhaler, too.
And the moment is nigh. “I vow to love and comfort you; share laughter and tears with you…and make you feel special each day of our life together,” says Jodie.
True to her word Jodie cries. Leaving guests gasping more, and Hello!’s readers wonder what part of the vows it sketched over.
“You’re my husband,” says Jodie as the registrar pronounces them man and wife. Des, ever the professional, recognises the moment and holds his brief close.
The crowd goes wild. Bradley Walsh, Melanie Sykes and DIY SOS presenter Nick Knowles gasp. Cilla Black, “Des’s old friend”, tells us: “I have been to many weddings in my time but I said to John on our way here: ‘Something tells me I may need the tissues today.”
And Des begins to sing…
As the Sun shows, on Goody’s hooded top is the legend “I’VE GOT YOU NOW”.
Has charmless Jade Goody been arrested? None of it. Goody is as clean as the mint sauce on offer at Osman’s Kebab stall.
News is that she is the victim. Indeed, this is not the first time Jade has been victimised.
Thieves have broken into Goody’s home and stolen £30,000 worth of valuables.
Did they make off with the TAN-gerine bronzing gun? Did they leave the Goody perfume?
Jade is said to be too distressed to list exactly what has gone. She merely screams: “I’ve been fucking burgled”.
And her tax disc expired on August 31, something the attending police are all too happy to point out.
Poor Jade. “She has not stopped crying,” says a pal.
Fetch the tanning gun – this one could run and run…
THE youth teenies look up to her. Who needs sexualised Bratz doll’s when you Smiley to entertain you? More on Smiley here.
“Miley Cyrus is pregnant is the latest hot gossip circulating around the web – Miley Cyrus ,she is just 15 yrs old & shot to fame with her appearence in Hannah Montanna .
The j-14 and teen magazine carry an interview with Miley Cyrus confirming she is pregnant she’s currently filming the last episode of Hannah Montana .
But she didnt say who the dad is ; but her parents are really disappointed milley says: “I’m going to take good care of my baby – I’ve already gained 7 lbs i was in real shock it just happened accidently i went a little to far I am sorry to my fans.”
This is “Sienna’s wedding day bliss”.
Married? No. Not yet. Although the Express notes that Sienna and her current project, actor Rhys Ifans, “could not have stood closer as the bride tossed the bouquet”.
Closer to one another or closer to the bride? The Express is unspecific.
No small chance, then, that Sienna was caught wrong footed, looking up as her future happiness arced over her head as the bride tossed with all the guile of Andre Agassi in his pomp.
Disappointment set aside, the Express notes how Sienna and her actor did manage to catch a cab and take a ride to the wedding reception in a north London pub.
Ms Miller is blonde…
AS mentioned, the Sun has no Page 3 Girl today. Like most of you she is not fully au fait with the EU constitution and requires a few weeks more intensive reading before her thoughts will be made known.
Will knickers be cheaper in a United Europe? Will Blackpool open a plage naturistes? Is stuna a pan-European term? We await the verdict.
The Sun champions Le Page 3. And in readiness for EU homogenisation and regulation reveals the correct shape for a topless stunna’s chest.
As for bananas and cucumbers, so for Nikkii and Amiii. And readers see that the official chest features 50 per cent breast meat below the nipple line and 45 per cent above the nipple line.
For purposes of illustration, Britannia is Keeley Hazell. She shows the “secret formula” that secures a career as a Page 3 Girl.
Of course, Keeley is a product of imperial measurements and it might be that the Italians prefer something more al dente…
The trick is knowing when the hype stops and the action begins. Beckham’s fellow Angelenos understand this, delivering to the world a diet of trailers for life-changing, you’ve–never-seen-the like-before blockbusters.
But as with Men in Black II, Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo (2005) and Basic Instinct 2 (2006), the second part of Beckham’s playing career is failing to live up to the billing.
And the Americans have noticed. As the Independent reports, Radar magazine has conducted a scientific survey to find the most overrated people, places and things in American life.
(The survey took into account the number of references in the media, the longevity as celebrities, talking points and the direction of the wind in Des Moins.)
And top of the heap, above Britney Spears, Friends and the Hard Rock Café are the Beckhams.
As readers learn: “It’s not that they’re untalented. They arch their backs nicely in porny W fashion shots. They’re excellent at peddling fragrances. But is it any reason for a besotted media to swarm them daily…to muse on his chances of being knighted? He’s an overpaid soccer star, she’s a pointless collection of body parts.”
Indeed, readers. Greater careers have been built on less.
And one day – fingers crossed – Posh and Becks can be as overrated as Bradgelina, Jennifer Lopez and Marc Antony, American football…
Says she: “I’m quivering with fear at the thought – but it’s nothing to the daunting battles faced by people with cancer almost daily.”
Not every day. Just almost. And not tomorrow, when their suffering will be given perspective…
It is the Mobo awards do. And the Mirror (“Backstage fright”), says Winehouse has ordered a “vast” rage of food and drink.
But not all of it has been consumed. The Mirror sees bottles of red wine unopened. So too bottles of white. Containers of chicken strew are untouched.
This is worthy of the Mirror’s attention. What of the rebel, the hell-bent rock ‘n’ rocker who leaves so much potential untapped?
An insider tells us: “It was such a shocking and sad sight. The bathroom in her dressing-room smelt really bad.”
The Winehouse career is going down the pan?
“The toilet lid was still open, and, well, how should I put this..It hadn’t been flushed away. The floor was a mess too. It was such a shame to see.”
Might it be that hard-living, hard-drinking Winehouse can’t hack it?
The Star is pictures Winehouse holding a bottle of champagne. Readers with a keen eye will note that the bottle is unopened. Another shot shows Winehouse holding a glass. The lip is angled downwards. The glass is empty.
Are these bottles and the glasses props, part of the Winehouse look? Is the Winehouse glass one of those tricks that contains a potion for bandy that the drinker cannot get at? Is that a novelty bottle of shampoo?
So here is Winehouse in the pub in Camden Town. She’s her own women alright. Although she is with two other women, the Star’s Charli and Amy (even the Star’s hacks have Page 3 stunna names).
Winehouse moves behind the bar. “This is where I belong. Behind the bar,” says she. “I love it.”
And she loves drinking. At least that’s the impression given…
Now further signs of role reversal as the Star reports that David Beckham is to design five outfits for the Spice Girls ahead of their World Your.
Readers learn that “Mel B told him to do it for a giggle”.
But this is no joking matter. Day-vid is serious. While most of us recuperate in front of daytime telly and the fridge, David is browsing the web for fashion ideas.
What price a carrier in fashion for David when he embarked on his mission to take football to the heathen?
What greater price that he would end up telling his wife what to wear and using her as his clothes horse?
David Beckham is a footballer. His career development can be seen in the picture.
White is, of course, the chef unafraid to call mashed potato “potato mousseline” and was never going to take Oliver’s heat without making reply.
“I’d like to see him call me a bully to my face,” says White, a challenge reproduced on the Sun’s front cover.
White is no bully and the thinly veiled threat that he will beat anyone who says otherwise into a mousseline is testament it.
And White will not leave it there. That’s just for starters. Over two pages (“HELL’S BITCHIN’”), White delivers his call to the Celebrity Chef Smackdown.
“Go and win your first Michelin star, Jamie, and then I might take you seriously.” White, admirably, resists all temptation to punctuate his pep talk with “grasshopper”, astutely observing that that would over-egg the pudding, or Jamie.
White has been there and done it. He’s not only on barking terms with stars like uncomplicated comic Jim Davidson and 80s singer Paul Young but remains the youngest chef to have earned three of the coveted Michelin stars.
But Oliver is a star in his own right, a legend in his own lunchtime. But White is unimpressed. He says Oliver’s school dinners campaign was a “cheap publicity stunt”.
And chucks in for good measure: “I’d rather be who I am than fat chef with a drum kit.”
White would, one suspects, grudgingly acknowledge that you can only make something with the ingredients to hand. And if Oliver is a fat chef with a drum kit is because he has not bought a guitar or, say, a saxophone.
White also has words for the Hell’s Kitchen maître d’ Angus Deayton, still seeking a comedic role in a presenting setting.
They did not get on like peas in a pod, nor a Domaine Lafage Muscat Sec 1999 with surf ‘n’ turf. “ITV didn’t want me to batter him,” says White.
Indeed, not. Best stick with the mousseline…
And so it is that in the Sun, Britney is “troubled” to find that her ex-bodyguard has turned against her.
The muscle is Tony Barretto. And his lawyer, Gloria Allred, tells us that her client is “prepared to testify on issues of nudity by Ms Spears, drug use and safety issues involving the children post rehab”.
The children, one Sean Preston and another Jayden James, have not been to rehab. Childhood rehab is not yet en vogue in the Hollywood Hills, although there are rumours of Rehab 101 modules being introduced at some of the starrier schools as part of life preparation class.
The rehab is Britney’s. And the development, we learn, may influence any verdict in the children’s custody as she seeks permanent settlement away from husband K-Ferret.
The Star picks up the story and turns it into a tale of a LESBIAN ROMP”.
A source tells us: “She’s clearly happier in the company of women…She needs to realise it won’t look good in court to be shown to be hanging out in lesbian nightclubs.”
Why this should be we are not told. But we do read that Britney is no longer in the company of one girl, namely her lawyer Ms Laura Wasser who has stepped down as her brief.
But as the Mirror reports on its front page (“Brit bodyguard spills the bean”) and again inside the paper (“THE NUDITY, THE DRUGS..AND THE KIDS AT RISK”), the story is Barretto’s.
Descried by Allred as “a key and secret witness” – Mr Barretto is 25stone and appears less stealth like than a tower block – feels compelled to speak out.
Ms Allred says Barretto has been stung into action because “He is a father of young children himself”.
Ms Spears remains troubled…
BRAD & ANGELINA’S SECRET DEAL!” reports the National Enquirer’s front page. “AFTER PUBLIC BLOW UP.”Fed on a diet of Bradgelina week on week it is no little wonder the public has blown up. Although the feeling at Anorak Towers is that Americans just get bigger until they are forced to take a deep breath and buy still larger shorts.
And what of the secret deal, which the Enquirer has learnt of? Is it that baby number 5 in on the way?
Hardly a secret there. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie collect children the way football fans collect Panini stickers. And we’d trade two Pax Thiens and a 2005 Zahara for one Shiloh.
If there is any shock then it is in the notion that baby number five (Says Cilla Black: “What’s your name, and where are you from?”) will be homemade.
Right now, the Enquirer might be watching the preamble to that happening as Angelina and Brad are in the bar at the Chicago Peninsular hotel.
She is said to be stroking his arm. He is said to be stroking her arm.
He is drinking a Corona beer. She is drinking Captain Morgan’s rum and coke, possibly from a glass made by Glasses of Maine and poured over ice produced from a Miele freezer from Bob’s House of Freezers.
An eyewitness notes: “At 2am, when the lights came on, they walked out of the bar hand in hand and headed up to their suite.”
The Enquirer says this marked a “new beginning for the pair”. And a new dawn in the age of mankind.
Shiloh is a hard act to follow. But if the Messiah is to have a third coming, and possibly a fourth (it might be twins), we can only pass on our sincerest wishes…
It might be wind, say some. Indeed, if the wind were to change Vicky’s face might stay like this, and what price her brand? But the Star knows. Indeed, it says Her Poshness is “beaming”.
This smile should be everything. Like a Cheshire cat’s grin it should linger in the minds of one and all who gaze upon it. But that dress. That green dress appears as a tribute to Terry Venable’s Christmas Tree formation of Euro ’96.
The Mirror says Victoria is getting ready for Christmas early.
The Mail calls the outfit “lurid”. “Cowabunga… Posh turns turtle,” says the headline. La Beckham is doing a passable impression of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
A turtle, lest it not go unreported, that smiles.
But to our tutored mind the dress looks like Posh has been covered in a swathe of green Post It notes.
Perhaps on each flap there is an instruction, or just the same instruction repeated many times over, words that Posh should consult in times of anxiety: “Open mouth. Curl lips. Bare teeth.”
As the Star reports (“SIMON BIDS TO SAVE BRITNEY”), the man with teeth whiter than Mel Gibson’s tan line says Britney can appear on his hit TV show American Idol.
“Sure,” says Cowell, “she can come on American Idol – as a contestant.
We at Anorak embrace the offer. Indeed, we would like the proposal to go further and for the entertainment industry to take a leaf from El Al’s book.
Granted, the Israeli airline is more interested in spotting potential terrorists intent on blowing up one of its planes than finding tomorrow’s Gareth Gates, but the airline operates a policy whereby security staff are tapped on the shoulder and invited to board a flight.
The judges of who is fit and proper to fly are, with no prior warning, placed among the riffraff. This keeps them vigilant.
(In an interesting aside, the Star reports that Muhammed Abdel-Al, leader of Palestinian terror group, the Popular Resistance Committees, says “If I meet those whores I will have the honour to be the first one to cut the heads off Madonna and Britney Spears if they keep spreading satanic culture against Islam.” Everyone’s a critic.)
And so to American Idol and all manner of reality TV talent shows. The established acts that pass judgement on the unsung talent, such as Paula Abdul (American Idol) and Danni Minogue (X Factor), are invited at random to see if they can cut it.
At a moment’s notice they are handed a song sheet and invited to sing for their careers.
Can Britney do Britney better than one of her fans?
Or will she crash and burn..?
It must be a Thursday. And it must be the Sun, which operates as Her Poshness’s diarist.
In times to come, Posh will be able to flick through past copies of the Sun and know what she was doing on any given day.
And on Thursday September 13 2007 she was wearing a red dress. At least she was the night before (Wednesday September 12) when she arrived for a meal at New York’s Cipriani restaurant.
(Note: the Mirror disputes the claim by saying the dress is orange. But the sun knows.)
Between bites of food, Posh tells the paper: “I got in very late last night but the first thing I did in the morning was ring home and check in on my family, making sure everyone has their homework done and everyone’s gone to school.”
And the kids and Day-vid can see what mummy’s been up to by reading the Sun…
Britney should wear pants, and to maximize impact she, or her stylist, should ensure that they are black, followed by pink, white a navy blue.
Britney may care to wear all four colours as well as her signature orange at once and add a sense of mystique to her jaded act.
And Britney is as tired as she is emotional. As the Sun reports in “Britney barmy barnet barney”, Spears was so unhappy with her hair for her recent MTV showing that she was handed prescription drugs to calm down.
A source says: “Britney took enough to floor an elephant. They calmed her down – but were clearly too effective.”
Next time Britney may be forced to take still more drastic action and shave her hair or wear a wig.
It is clear that Spears needs help. But, as the Star reports, she is finding it hard to come by.
The paper reports that “troubled “Britney is fining it tricky to secure a nanny because of her “sleazy lesbian lust”.
If anyone is to leer at the help it should be the man of the house. But with K-Ferret estranged, Britney is being forced to play the role of bother mom and pop.
It is she who must wear the pants…
Happily, what Italy lacks in frozen fish and Boozie Brownies, it tries to make up for in weddings. And OK! invites us to experience the thrills and no few spills from Kerry’s official wedding to Mark Croft.
Can it be only a few months since Katona married Mark on St Valentine’s Day in a modern function room on the Scottish borders?
It can be. That do ended months of “feverish anticipation”. “This is it,” said Kerry back then. “I don’t know how I lived without Mark before. He does everything for me. We’ve not spent a single day apart. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him.”
Now Kerry gets to spend another lifetime with the lovely Mark as she marries to him in Italy.
“I’m so excited because it’s all a big surprise,” says Kerry, who may have sensed something was up when the OK! marriage contract was slipped beneath her skirts.
So here we are on the shores of Lake Orta. We’re at the Villa Crespi. No, not Cispsy, as in Thin and Crispy. Crespi, as in Villa Crepsi, an “extraordinary hotel dating back to the 1930s”.
The guests are seated in a Moorish colonnade. Mark is waiting for her beloved. He nips out for few sips of beer. OK! says this is to calm his nerves.
And a mere 45 minutes late, Kerry appears on the arm of her “good friend and PR guru Max Clifford”.
How terrific of Max not to spill the beans and ruin Mark’s surprise wedding that saw him hire his wife a Philip Armstrong strapless gown and complementary white rose.
“I dos” are exchanged. And Kerry says: “Mark, when we became mates, I treasured our friendship – and the Xbox of course!” (Cue laugher and the sound of aliens being zapped.)
There are then tears. The couple sign the register. Someone presses play on the beat box and Nessun Dorma is played. And so to the wedding breakfast. It is 7pm.
Guests are seated. The Wayne Allen sings Always And Forever over a starter of Sicilian prawns with celeriac puree. Encore. And guests tuck into steak and chips.
And at midnight – incredible, we know – it is Kerry birthday. She turns 27. More tears. Everyone sings happy birthday.
And OK! wonders. What about of those rumours of Kerry’s dalliance round the back of Tesco’s with a youth? Says Mark: “Who would believe the face of Iceland would go with some 19-year-old weakling.”
Not we. Not Magnus Magnusson. Not Mark…
A private consultation with our dear friend Ann Summers reveals more about the Purple Penetrator (ask for it by name).
Ms Summers advises that the phallus has an “adjustable waist and back strap to fit all sizes”. Features include a “vibrating bullet”, “multispeed battery box” and “clip”.
(If only our forces in Iraq were to well equipped.)
This is “MADGE’S TOY JOY.” And it is one she seems keen for each of us to experience.
And not least to all husband Guy Ritchie, whose 39th birthday she has been celebrating in Claridge’s hotel.
A “hotel guest” tells the paper: “Maybe she just wanted to ram home the point that she is the boss in their relationship.”
Batteries not included.
But a flick of the page and readers are affronted not with Her Poshness’s appendages but “Peta, 20, Essex”. Peta would rather go nearly naked than wear fur. She tells us how wonderful it is that a hard-up family has won £8.5million on the Lotto.
Says Peta: “This is exactly what the game is all about – it really makes you think it could be me.”
The game is not football, but the Lotto. And Peta dreams not of being a Wag and so gaining access to untold riches, but of winning the Lottery.
But enough of Peta. We want to know what’s become of our Vicky?
It is only on the Sun’s Page 21 that we get to see Sticky Vicky. In “TWO POSH”, reader learn that Vicky has worn not one but TWO dresses on ONE day.
The Mirror trumps the Sun and does position this happening on Page 3. That Vicky should cut down on her dress intake is admirable and worthy of our support.
The Mirror shows that Vicky’s dress number one is a £2,000 Vintage Herge Leger dress. It’s purple with a criss-cross grey top, a design popular with the Godolphin racing stable.
Dress number 2 is an Oscar de la Renta creation. It costs £3,450. As one observer writes: “Her dress would also look better on the floor, with a coffee table in the middle of it and two loveseats flanking it.”
David and their kids are not in the shot but are thought to be right behind Posh’s efforts…
The Mirror says Her Poshness is in New York for Fashion Week.
She is also wearing “her trademark oversized sunglasses” that cover the greater part of her face.
For anyone who wants to experience the Posh magic up close and personal, the Express says Vicky is auditioning for a “plummy-voiced male nanny”.
Says Vicky: “I watched the film Vin Diesel started in as a male nanny [The Pacifier] and just loved it and thought that men can be just as good as a nanny as women.”
Indeed, what are the films but a fly-on-the-wall docu-drama of everyday Los Angeles life?
Some would go further and say a father can be just as good as a mother at raising their children. And with Day-vid hardly kicking ball these days, he’d be wise to consider a career away from football.
“While I love it here in the States,” says Vicky, “we are not Americans and I want my boys to keep their British accents and roots. It would be unthinkable for them to lose it.”
In which case we urge Vicky to reconsider and hire a man with a reedy voice or else urge the manny to inhale copious amounts of helium and learn how to roast a kee-barb…