Have You Ever Been Shagged by a Celebrity?

That’s the question we here at Sleaze Diary want answered - have you been shagged by a celebrity? We’ve all seen those dubious kiss and tell stories in the tabloids, but can you really believe them? After all, these so called ordinary punters spilling the beans have been handsomely remunerated for their stories. So, just to ensure that any stories we print here at Sleaze Diary are authentic, we’re offering no cash whatsoever for any stories submitted in connection with this competition. There will, however, be a fabulous (non-monetary) prize awarded for the best! Whilst I cannot claim to have been shagged by a celebrity (to the best of my knowledge), I did once know someone who was shagged by someone else who was famous for five minutes. When I was a student one of the girls in my history tutorial group spent the night with Andrew Ridgeley (the one out of Wham! who didn’t give Ronaldo a rub down in his local public toilets). She sold the story to a newspaper for a few quid (a handy supplement to her student grant - those were the days when we actually had grants, not loans). However, we don’t want to hear about any shabby liaisons with has-been micro-celebs. Oh no. We want the full details of your sordid assignations with real, major league, household name celebrities. We want to know if you’ve ever been in the passionate embrace of Brad Pitt or Sandra Bullock. Maybe you’ve spent the night polishing Captain Picard’s dome in a plush hotel room or taken it up the council gritter from Michael Barrymore in some seedy backstreet public toilet in Lambeth. Has George Clooney ever propositioned you in the men’s toilets at Waterloo station? Has Harvey Keitel ever offered to show you the head on his handy shandy and then invited you back to his place for an S&M session? Have you been chained to Sharon Stone’s radiator whilst she whipped your naked bottom with a cat o’nine tails? Maybe you’ve yodelled in Britney Spears’ canyon or yaffled the yoghurt cannon of top gay icon Leonardo Di Caprio. What about group sex? Have you ever had a gang bang with the Backstreet Boys? Perhaps you’ve been rogered by all four Baldwin brothers in alphabetical order (Alec, Daniel, Stephen and William). Why stop at the human celebrities? Ever had a tryst with Lassie? How about that grizzly from “Gentle Ben”? Champion the Wonder Horse - just what made him so wonderful? So, if you’ve had any of those experiences, or anything similar - we want to know. However, be warned, fantasies are not acceptable - we want some kind of proof that it actually happened. Maybe you took photos or video taped it all (purely for blackmail purposes of course). Maybe you kept a memento (Christine Aguilera’s knickers or a cast of James Garner’s penis, perhaps). We want to see them! The best celebrity shag stories received will probably not be published here (for fear of libel action), but will receive an e-mail of one of our fine collection of monkey pictures - it doesn’t get any better than that!

The Glastonbury Experience

You've probably noticed that so far this year I haven't moaned about the Glastonbury Festival. There are several reasons for this: firstly, the BBC didn't run those bloody patronising adverts implying that everyone who lives outside of the M25 is a yokel; secondly, I didn't have the horrible experience of seeing (and hearing) my trumpet-playing twat of a neighbour in the audience during the TV coverage; thirdly, I decided that this year I'd get into the spirit of it all and try and enjoy the 'Glastonbury Experience'. Obviously, I wasn't actually going to attend Glastonbury in person - I don't like tents, I don't like drunken hippies of their faces on coke and I didn't have a ticket. Instead, I decided to recreate the whole thing in my living room. This was actually easier that you might think. I just stuck a bucket of shit in the corner of the room, lit up a barbecue in front of the TV and didn't wash for three days. Combined with crapping out of the window (the bucket was full), this provided me with all the authentic smells and inconvenience of the actual festival, as I settled down to watch the BBC's extensive coverage. Thus, I was able to watch the ever-lovely Lily Allen threatening to fall out of her outfit, the ever-weird Lady Gaga shooting flames from her breasts amongst other highlights, without having to leave the relative comfort of my armchair. OK, it took four days to get the stench out of the house and the environmental health people are threatening to prosecute me over that pile of shit outside my living room window, but overall, I feel it was a big success. So much so that I'm going to do it again next year - but better! Maybe I'll replace the living room carpet with thick mud...

Whacko Jacko Whacked by Grim Reaper

With the 'King of Pop' barely cold on his mortuary slab, speculation as to the manner of his demise is already rife. "I heard he was whacking off over a stack of child pornography and the excitement was just too much for his heart," claims internet muckraker Hernandez Savoy, who claims to have impeccable sources. "Apparently he suddenly leapt up, one arm thrown upwards, the other hand clutching his groin, shouting 'Owww', before collapsing. At least that's what the sister of his maid's best friend's cousin told me - and she's as good as an eyewitness!" There have also been a plethora of bizarre stories concerning the fate of Jacko's body. "Repo men have already gone in to to seize all those prosthetic bits which were stopping his face from collapsing," confides Savoy. "For the past five years, all his cosmetic surgery has been done on credit, and he was way behind in the payments." According to Savoy the star's collection of child pornography has also been seized in lieu of debts. Despite a post mortem finding that Michael Jackson died of natural causes, some members of his family have declared that they suspect foul play and believe a cover-up is in progress, and the LAPD still wants to interview Jacko's doctor. However, some sources are claiming the star might not be dead - that the whole furore is a result of mistaken identity. "When they carried out the autopsy the pathologists were amazed to find that the body wasn't even human - it was a chimp," says an excited Savoy. "It's all true - some guy who cleans the pool of one of the lab techs at the morgue has even got some photoshopped pictures of what it might have looked like!" Savoy's 'reliable sources' believe that Jackson may have switched places with the chimp as long ago as 2004, in an attempt to escape the bad publicity surrounding the court case in which he was acquitted of child molestation. "It would explain a lot of his weird behaviour in recent years - picking his ass in public, crapping all over the furniture and stuff," muses Savoy. "It would also explain why his doctor's only medical qualifications are in veterinary science!" He claims that, even now, the police are searching zoos and homes for retired chimps all over California, in the hope of finding Jackson. Despite their obvious credibility, Savoy's exclusives - aired on his eponymous blog - have been dismissed by fellow bottom-feeders. "It's all nonsense, this crap about apes and fatal ODs on kiddie porn," declares rival celebrity blogger Ronnie Quim. "Isn't it obvious what's happened? Jacko spent years establishing an alternative identity - his 'sister' LaToya. The 'LaToya' persona has now become the dominant personality! Nobody died - except that down and out he murdered to provide a fake corpse."

Father, Son and Holy Car Dealer

Church leaders disatisfied with Pope Benedict XVI's highly conservative papacy are reportedly already lining up potential successors. "He's no spring chicken," observes Bishop Jim Bazonga, a prominent member of the Roman Catholic Church's liberal wing. "He could pop his clogs at any time - we need to be prepared!" Perhaps most surprisingly, Bazonga and his colleagues are currently favouring an outside candidate from a breakaway Catholic sect - the West Midlands Catholic Church. “Their thinking is that this sect’s leader will be untainted by the Benedict regime,” explains top theologian Billy Wotters. “He would represent a clean slate and an unprecedented opportunity to modernise the Church with fresh ideas.” The West Midlands Catholic Church leader, Adrian Clapster, a second hand car dealer and self-styled Pope of Birmingham, would represent a radical change of direction for the Vatican if he were to become its leader. He has already courted controversy with his beatification programme, which included making the late Princess Diana the patron saint of adulterers and Gary Glitter patron saint of child pornographers. However, he has built his reputation upon the miracles he has regularly performed on his Stourbridge car lot. Mrs Sarah Hindside, a parishioner, recalls: “I once took back a Vauxhall Astra I’d bought from him, it was clearly on its last legs and I was preparing to complain to Trading Standards. But Pope Adrian opened the bonnet and laid his hands on the engine and cried out to the heavens ‘Lord, I implore you to restore this good woman’s vehicle to life - heal its worn pistons and frayed hoses and make it whole again!’ Incredibly, it then started first time and ran perfectly for another six days!” His Holiness has apparently been happy to keep Mrs Hindside’s vehicle going through regular ‘services’ at his ‘auto-temple’, for a modest contribution of £20 an hour to church funds. Many of his congregation have similar stories to tell. Wotters recently caught up with Pope Adrian at the Birmingham Vatican - a modest semi-detached house in Sutton Coldfield - where he told the theologian that he was looking forward to the challenge of modernising the Roman Catholic Church. In particular, Pope Adrian believes that the church should become more involved in the media. “The Pope should have a regular TV show on which he performs minor miracles and ordinary worshippers come on to show their stigmata- it’d be an incredible ratings winner”. He also believes that the church could generate more funds by endorsing suitable products and selling some of its services. “Its a great brand image”, he enthused. “Instantly recognised throughout the world and inextricably linked with Ultimate Good!” Whilst many Catholics might baulk at the idea of a used car salesman becoming their spiritual leader, Wotters believes that stranger things have already happened at the Vatican. “Let’s not forget the case of Pope Simon XXIV - when he died in 1532 it was discovered that he was a horse,” he muses. “At least Pope Adrian would bring some solid spiritual values back to the Church, not to mention a fantastic vehicle breakdown and recovery service for Catholic motorists.”

Death to Celebrities!

Competition time again! Interest in serial killers has never been greater with books, newspaper articles, films and all manner of memorabilia appearing - one manufacturer is even planning to bring out a series of ‘Great Mass Murderers’ lunchboxes, flasks and backpacks for kiddies, featuring the likes of Fred West, Jeffrey Dahmer and Dennis Neilsen. Today we’re giving you the chance to become the envy of your friends by winning a genuine body part taken from the notorious Moors Murderess Myra Hindley. By special arrangement with a team of crack grave-robbers, we have obtained her skull, brain, heart, right hand and left foot, and are offering them as prizes in this issue’s fantastic competition! Imagine, you could be using the brain-pan of one of Britain’s most reviled killers as an ashtray! Or you could have the chance to examine the warped brain that masterminded some of this country’s most sickening child murders! Or perhaps it is her heart which is the true source of Hindley’s evil. Is it truly black, (actually it is, and shrivelled and decomposed, but you know what we mean)? You can judge by seeing it yourself! Feel the thrill of caressing yourself with one of the hands that committed brutal child killings! Wonder at the foot that undoubtedly stamped down the earth over her victims’ graves! All you have to do to win one of these fabulous artefacts is tell us which minor celebrity from the list below most deserves to be murdered by a serial killer, and then arrange the rest of the names into the correct order in which they should subsequently be horribly killed! The first five answers matching that of our expert, (condemned US killer Dick Lance, the ‘Meat Cleaver Maniac’ of Old Baltimore, responsible for at least seven dismemberments), will each receive one of Myra Hindley’s body parts! All will be delivered with a complementary jar of formaldehyde. The list of potential victims (in random order) is as follows: a) Paris Hilton b) Danny Baker c) David Hasslehoff d) Jeremy Kyle e) Perez Hilton f) Anthea Turner g) Pamela Anderson

Celebrities or Cretins?

Continuing my anti-celebrity theme, I’ll briefly tell you another thing about the bastards that really gets my goat. Remember when you were a child, and there was always that other kid in your class who get away with blue murder? Or that sibling who could apparently do no wrong? You know what I’m talking about – if you played some sort of harmless prank, like setting fire to the school bike sheds, it was treated as a crime, if they did it, then it was praised to the skies as some masterpiece of installation art. It would be just the same if you finally achieved some goal. They’d always trump it somehow with some act of exhibitionism and steal the limelight. Well, that’s the way I feel about celebrities – I just hate the way large sections of the media and public are always rushing to proclaim them as some kind of genius whenever they do something that is actually stupid. Just about any kind of moronic behaviour on their part is forgiven on the basis that they’re somehow ‘special’. You know the sort of thing – if you or I wrecked an hotel suite, blowing up the toilets and marching through reception dressed in Nazi uniform, we’d be charged with criminal damage and denounced as fascist thugs. However, when Keith Moon did that sort of thing it was hailed as the work of an eccentric comic genius. Only today, alleged musician and self-styled rapper Mike ‘The Streets’ Skinner was showing off the crop circle he’d created in a field in Glastonbury. If a non-celebrity had done that they’d be dismissed as some kind of crank, not to mention a vandal. But, of course, Skinner is feted as a ‘cheeky celebrity’ having a ‘bit of fun’. The vainglorious bastard has even made the crop circle in the image of his own face. Jesus, what an ego! But, hey, that level of what would be called arrogance in anyone else is OK – he’s a celebrity!

Just Say No to Newspaper Columnists

Having dealt with my hatred of the world of celebrity in my most recently published editorial over at The Sleaze, I thought I'd continue in the same vein and give an airing to another of my current pet hates - bloody journalists. To be precise, it is really columnists, the cream of the crap in the journalistic world, who have really been irritating of late. Don't misunderstand me - it isn't any specific columnists, or any particular subject any of them have pontificated about recently which have gotten my goat. No, it's just the whole concept of columnists which has annoyed me. It's this whole idea that they're actually experts on whatever they're writing about, that their opinion is any more valuable than that of any of their readers. It's the absolute certainty with which they write, putting forth their opinions as if they are facts, using the fact that they have a captive audience who can't answer back directly, to bulldoze their message across. Ultimately, it comes down to the fact that they seem so damn sure of themselves, when, in reality, they know no more than I do. Indeed, in many cases, they know even less than I do, ( a fact which is painfully obvious when they decide to write something on one my specialist subjects). Their TV equivalents are even worse - far more ignorant, interested only in catchy sound bites and unsubtly ramming home every point with meaningless graphics. However, I have grown tired with being told what to think by pillocks on a daily basis. Consequently, I've decided to start saying 'No' to columnists. It's really easy and very liberating. When you next come upon one of those opinion pieces in your newspaper, just say out loud: "No, I don't agree with you. I'm sorry, but I think that my opinion on this matter is just as valid as yours, even though I don't have access to national newspaper in order to promulgate it." If you read a bit further and they're still irritating you, just declare: "No, I think you are completely wrong, and I don't have to listen to you." As I say, it is a very liberating experience. After a while, you realise that you can safely ignore the columnists in a national newspaper, that you just skip on past their columns and instead formulate your own opinions based on the actual news reported elsewhere in the paper. Trust me, it's great! Clearly I'm not the only person irritated by columnists - just look at the reader's comments to their columns on the average newspaper's website. Only today, someone wrote into The Guardian complaining about how rude and vitriolic posters on the paper's 'Comment is Free' section of their website when responding to columnists. Now, while I generally don't condone the kind of moronic swear-fests which usually pass for debate on message boards, in this case I do have some sympathy. Is it any wonder readers resort to abuse in the face of the pompous pillocks who are allowed to air their opinions in newspapers, completely unchallenged? Nevertheless, whilst sympathising with their feelings of impotence, I really do think they would be better advised to adopt my approach - just assert the validity of your own opinions and ignore the bastards. With any luck they'll get the message and piss off...

The Morning After the Weekend Before

I always thought that weekends were meant to be relaxing, leaving you refreshed and ready to face the new week with batteries fully recharged. I've started this week feeling completely exhausted, leaving me wondering if my mini French film festival had been such a good idea. Finding myself with an entire weekend to myself, rather than get outside and enjoy some Summer weather and some much needed exercise, I elected instead to spend from Friday evening to Sunday night watching subtitled films. Fuelled by a case of that cheap French supermarket beer and dry-roasted peanuts (not distinctively French, I know, but I like them, the alternative was buying a packet of Gauloises, except I don't smoke), I kicked off with Days of Glory, a terrific war movie about North African soldiers who fought for the Free French in World War Two, on Friday and concluded with In All Innocence, a contemporary tale of crime, lust and mid-life crises (which had fortuitously been showing on BBC2 in the early hours of Sunday morning and which I'd recorded), on Sunday. In between these I managed to schedule Melville's masterful (and incredibly downbeat) Le Circle Rouge - another great crime drama - and the historical epic The Horseman on the Roof, (from which I learned that vigourous breast massage is apparently an effective treatment for cholera). I wasn't able to fit in another viewing of 36, a fairly recent policier with Gerard Diepardieu, or any of my Belmondo collection. Maybe next weekend. As you've probably gathered, I'm something of a fan of French film. It's refreshingly different from the Anglo-American product. It isn't just the language, it's the whole look and approach, good and bad aren't so clearly defined and the film's often refuse to take a clear moral stance, leaving the viewer to make up their own minds. However, the vague impression most people in this country have of French cinema is that it is either pretentious, or raunchy. Indeed, this was the reaction I got at work today, upon mentioning the fact that I'd spent the weekend watching French films - all knowing winks and innuendo. Upon mentioning that you actually had to wait right until the end of Horseman on the Roof for a decidedly non-erotic nude scene, I was simply confronted with more gurning and innuendo. And the morons I work with wonder why I try and avoid speaking to them...

Nude Mobbing

A Buckinghamshire branch of the furniture retailer Ikea recently found itself temporarily overrun by nudists. “Ten or twelve of them at a time were leaping onto the display beds and indulging in wild an energetic sex,” claims Ralph Milner, assistant manager of the Swedish chain's Quainton Road branch, who suffered third degree friction burns to his groin when his polyester trousers were ripped off by a naked reveller. “The springs just weren’t designed to take that kind of thing -they all collapsed!” Milner admits that he remains mystified by the whole incident. “At first I thought it was some kind of performance art thing, where they get all those naked women to tun up. Then I realised that there were blokes with this lot, and a lot of them, both male and female, were bloody ugly! I don’t call that art!” Police suspect that the Ikea store incident was another example of the so-called ‘Nude Mobbing’ craze. “It’s like ‘Flash Mobbing’, where large groups of people would be organised by mobile phone to just turn up at a particular location for a few minutes,” says Inspector Tim Carling of Bucks Constabulary. “This new activity seems to be aimed at creating an affront to decency through mass demonstrations of public nudity!” Carling himself has first hand experience of ‘Nude Mobbing’, having been caught in an earlier incident on London’s Westminster Bridge. “I was driving to Scotland Yard for a police conference one Monday morning, when scores of pedestrian commuters suddenly tore their clothes off and started jumping all over vehicles,” he says. “They were pulling people off of buses and forcibly stripping them! I found my car immobilised by some fellow sticking his todger up my exhaust! When I got out of the car to remonstrate with him, I found myself overwhelmed by the mob and my uniform being pulled off! Before I knew it one woman had my truncheon between her legs, whilst another one squatted over my blue helmet! It was most humiliating!” Like the Ikea riot, the Westminster Bridge incident ended as abruptly as it started, with the participants putting their clothes back on and melting back into the general populace. Whilst the authorities suspect that militant naturists, determined to force a change in Britain’s public nudity laws, could be behind this new craze, others suspect that more sinister forces could be involved. "Mark my words, this is all down to 'Police State Britain'," opines top conspiracy theorist Tommy Dodd. "I have it on good authority that these 'nude mobbing' incidents are the result of a faulty batch of those ultrasonic devices they use to drive teenagers away from shopping centres. If the sonic resonances they put out are even slightly off-frequency, they interfere with the parts of the adult human brain dealing with inhibitions, inducing an urge in anyone standing close enough to tear their clothes off and copulate wildly!"

Talking Dirty

One of the things I thought that I'd miss when I abandoned cable in favour of Freeview were those ten minute previews the adult channels used to run around midnight. I swear that all the 'highlights' of these channels were packed into those ten minutes - quite why anyone felt the need to subscribe for more was beyond me. Whilst programmes with titles like The Adventures of Walter Clitty might seem amusing when you only have to see thirty seconds at a time of them, I can guarantee that having to endure the full thirty minutes would have been agonising. One thing I learned about pornography at a very early age was that it is extremely boring in bulk. The novelty very quickly wears off. Porn films, in particular, are utterly tedious. There are only so many times you can watch the same people humping in different positions. Besides, for the male viewer heterosexual smut always carries the risk of seeing exposed male genitalia, which is a huge turn off, (not to mention the fact that those hugely hung porno actors always make us feel inadequate), that's why we prefer full-on hot lesbo action. Anyway, getting back to the point, of late we Freeview viewers have been treated to two late-night non-subscription channels featuring semi-naked young ladies writhing about on a bed as they talk on the phone to punters. That's how they make their money - idiots, (presumably back from the pub and pissed), calling or texting them. Just lately both channels have been running in split-screen, presenting two-for-the price-of-one (or, to be more accurate, in view of what most men will be focusing on, four-for-the-price-of-one), and, presumably, twice as many idiots prepared to call a premium rate phone line for the privilege of talking to some bird with her norks out. Increasingly, I've found myself wondering what exactly is it that you are meant to talk to them about? Is it a bit like one of those telephone enquiry services where they answer your questions? In which case, should I call in tonight and see if any of the topless beauties can enlighten me as to whether a Jaffa Cake is a biscuit, (actually, it isn't, as biscuits are hard-baked)? Or perhaps they could give me an answer to that other burning question - other than clay and grass, what other surfaces is tennis played on? Maybe I can finally get an answer to that great philosophical conundrum - if a girl gets her norks out on TV, but there are no drunkards viewing, is she still being exploited?