Published on February 17th, 2010 | by Lisa McInerney2
Surreptitiously knowing who Tila Tequila is, so you don’t have to.
There’s something about the middle of February that makes one think of lurve, is there not? Cupid’s arrows, gay Paris, two-person snuggies, last rolos, finding your tongue halfway down an Arts student’s throat in a traffic light disco… Valentine’s Day, you say? That would be it, alright.
Well, you’re not alone. There is a yawning chasm between us Normals and our fame-swollen heroes at the best of times, but you can hardly call drunk-texting and crying in a karaoke booth to Mariah Carey’s “Without You” the best of times, now can you? You are never closer in your orbit of the stars than you are on Valentine’s Day, because, as I’m about to show you, even celebrities can’t resist making twats of themselves for l’amour.
And if you define l’amour as “that funny feeling you get in yer kecks when presented with the readily busty”, then you’ll find so example as fine as Ashley Cole, football star and husband of the unfortunately prolific Cheryl “Ah’v got goosebumps, me” Tweedy. Ashley’s landed in hot water feet first for sending a glut of full-frontal photos to a convenient glamour model, who has since claimed she’s been smuggled into hotels for nights of anonymous passion with him. None of this is remotely interesting in and of itself; Ashley Cole has always been about as faithful as the common cold, and wherever there are horny athletes, there’ll be horny glamour models willing to do the business with them in the name of The Horn. What was notable, and feckin’ hilarious, was Ashley’s oven-ready excuse – he’d been snapping himself in all his glory due to simple boredom, forgot about the photos, and gave his suspiciously pay-as-you-go phone to a prankster friend, who then sent the willy shots to some random person who happened to be sexy for a living. Stranger things have happened; I mean, I read this one time about a live frog being found in a lump of coal.
Ashley’s not alone in his making a nunky out of himself over textual intercourse. TV presenter Vernon Kay, who’s very married to TV presenter Tess Daly, is also under fire for sending saucy messages to a string of boobalicious “beauties”. There’s something in the air alright! I think they call it, “I’m a sexy fella and the buxom only love me” Disease. Warms me cockles, it does.
Now, you might gather from the “news” above that English gentlemen are world-class gobshites when it comes to driving the opposite sex to defenestration, but both Ashley and Vernon have a lot to learn yet, and it seems US musician John Mayer is the man to take ‘em by the hand and lead them through the Streets Of Moron. That I must point out that John Mayer is a US musician is telling; I had no idea who he was until he started dating every human woman in existence. Seriously, the boy’s been linked to everyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if they caught Twink creeping out of his pyjama bottoms in the dead of night. Anyway, sick of bedding everyone, John has recently segued into insulting everyone; he’s been tearfully apologising to all and sundry since his recent Playboy interview, in which he called his penis a “white supremist”, made ex-girlfriend Jennifer Aniston out to be a dinosaur, dropped the n-word, offended the gay community, and made us all throw up in our mouths with the revelation that Jessica Simpson is “sexual napalm”. And Ashley Cole sent willy pics to a glamour model. Puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?
Someone we can’t blame for a loss in perspective is eternally-harassed hunk, Robert Pattinson, who I’m starting to believe is most, most awesome. Speaking of a recent photoshoot in which he had to pose with a number of naked models, Robert expressed his discomfort with a succinct, “I really hate vaginas. I’m allergic to vagina,” leading to a synchronised dive into Prozac by Twilight Moms the world over. Robert explained that he hadn’t a clue how to deal with all the nekkidness, and added, “Thank God I was hungover“, as if honking of vodka and fags and being ill into your sock is in any way a boon when dealing with sexy ladies with no bloomers on. Then again, we are dealing with the ways and means of a man who called Twilight author Stephanie Mayer “completely mad”, claimed he couldn’t be arsed washing his iconic hair anymore, and all in all appears to be morphing into Dylan Moran. See for yourself.
Robert Pattinson, everyone. Not my type, but Christ, if he’s not deliciously bonkers.
Other delicious things include food, something Southwest Airlines feels director Kevin Smith eats far too much of. The Hollywood heavyweight (sorry) was recently thrown off a flight for being too fat; the powers that be apparently felt that as a “customer of size”, he was a safety risk. Which is fine and dandy, but Smith stated afterwards that he was able to put down his armrests (not being able to do so seems to be the airline’s standard indication that you have progressed from being a “customer who could lose a few”, to a “customer of SIZE duh-duh-DUUUUH”), and that he was seated and buckled in. It seems that the fact that the flight was overbooked was the real reason Silent Bob was fecked overboard, but rather than admit full responsibility for this error, the airline continues to imply that Smith was just a lardarse who had it coming. Smith, an active Tweeter and blogger, has noted that most people are on the side of the airline in this one, which is indicative of two things – one, that the regular folks love to see the little guy (who in this case is a big business) sticking it to Hollywood, and two, that people are arseholes who think that fat guys are heinous, greedy, and always in the wrong.
Which is an unpleasant point to finish up on, come to think of it. Crap. I’ll have to think of something less depressing. Oh, how about the news that Sandra Bullock had a misadventure with her front bottom?!
Sandra decided that it would be a nice treat for her husband if she styled her pubic hair into a pink heart for Valentine’s Day, but as she’s not naturally … er … pink-haired, she had to bleach the area first. With bleach. In the area. Unsurprisingly, this stung like bejaysus.
“There’s something about bleach that feels like acid,” says poor Sandra. “Then I had to shave it. I was in so much pain, but I kept going and put the pink dye on and it went the wrong colour.” Christ, the things a woman will do for her beloved. Sounds like a Robert Pattinson job, for God’s sake.