Your man being punched in the face by washed-up footballers - Al Likilla.
Barry Bethel's Dogging Mishap
To the dimly-lit back roads of the Cotswolds, where the fortunes of once-famous
diet-endorser Barry "I Can't Believe I Was That Fat!" Bethel, have taken a distinct turn
for the worse. Barry (58, 20st) was once a little-known but incredibly heavy disc jockey
spinning new romantic tunes at eighties weddings, until one night his life was changed
forever. The turning point came when sweat from Barry's blubbery body dripped onto his
turntables, fusing the equipment and resulting in a minor explosion which singed his eyebrows and upset a
Badly injured, and bedridden for days with the shock, Barry's wife was forced to finally confront the horror.
Beryl Bethel came to see exactly what the incessant pies and pasties had done to her husband, and she decided to take action. Knowing her partner's predilection for milky drinks, Beryl hurried down Londis to buy up their entire stock of the new-fangled 'Slim-Fast Shakes', a development in dieting technology loud-mouthed neighbours had mentioned to her over the garden fence.
Within a few months of subsisting solely on this strange concoction, a chemical slop which swells in the human stomach to make a flabbo feel full and a bit like John Hurt in Alien before the monster bursts out of his chest, Barry was as skinny as Jose Mourinho and happier than a sandboy. On hearing this amazing story of fatboy triumph, the Slim-Fast publicity department recruited Barry to star in a prime-time advert which gained iconic status throughout the nineties.
"I can't believe I was that fat! Me! Barry Bethel!" These words resounded out of TV sets across the UK, inspiring millions of porkers
to down revolting pink concoctions in the hope of magically shedding a few pounds. Barry milked the ensuing fame
dry, appearing in panto and on celebrity cruises, minor celeb spoils which combined with repeat fees to pay for the
Bethels' dream home, a cottage at the foot of a limestone hill in picturesque Gloucestershire. Sadly, after a
few years of this idyllic lifestyle, Barry's wife began to notice something wrong. Her husband had become
increasingly withdrawn, spending whole days on his computer and sometimes disappearing in the middle of the
night without explanation. Only after the police called to say Barry was in hospital suffering from exposure and likely to be charged with multiple lewd offences, did Beryl finally discover the truth.
Following a trawl of his sexy web-site favourites last Wednesday, Barry arranged to meet with a group of like-minded men in a darkened lane on the outskirts of Bath to watch a couple of exhibitionists 'do the nasty' in a parked Saab. A few minutes into these naughty dogging antics and several middle-aged individuals were gathered to observe the man and woman inside, a couple who suddenly halted their foreplay to produce a pair of shotguns from the back seat. These weren't willing doggers after all, but professional hold-up merchants Trevor and Julie Backwash, two armed chavs who make a career from preying on the foolish and sexually weird of Western England.
The now-flaccid doggers were ordered to give up their wallets and mobile phones before the criminal
duo made them strip at gunpoint, stole their clothes, then tied the men up before driving away
giggling. The naked perverts were finally found five hours later by a passing milkman who took several
polaroids before alerting the authorities. Barry now faces months in prison for indecent behaviour as well
as a stay in hospital to treat his pneumonia. Meanwhile Beryl has gone to stay with her mother for an
indefinite period and The Sunday People yesterday bought the rights to several photos of a blue-tinged
Bethel hopping around ploughed fields in the nod. These photos will accompany a major story in the
paper this weekend, under the headline 'Once-Fat Dogger Loses Everything - Amazing Exclusive!'
Bethel: "Multiple lewd offences"
Dolores O'Riordan Iraqi Peace Mission
This winter we travelled to the outskirts of Tikrit, where former Cranberries lead singer, Dolores 'Catholic
Breeding Machine' O'Riordan, is touring the country's trouble spots, attempting to bring peace to the
Iraqi people through the sheer force of her will.
"Thanks to her acute and moving depictions of modern warfare in songs like 'Zombie' and 'Bosnia', Dolores
has as much influence on modern-day peace processes as any political statesman or world leader."
Said a spokesman for her record company called Stiv. "Now this esteemed singer-songwriter brings her deep
understanding and limitless empathy to the war-ravaged Middle East, easing tribal tensions to help the kids. Anyone who claims this is just an attempt to find something useful for Dolores to do while she fails to complete that solo album she's been working on since 2003 is an evil liar."
O'Riordan was born into a Pope-loving Irish family where contraceptives were but a distant dream in 1971. The youngest of seven children, she grew into the warbly frontwoman of The Cranberries and quickly married Duran Duran's tour manager. In the late nineties this peacemongering singer found herself making a profound impact on the political situation in her native Ireland, helping militant groups realise the folly of their ways with lyrics such as:
"With their tanks, an' their boms, an' their boms, an' their guns,
In yer 'ed, in yer 'ed, they are fightin'!"
We caught up with Dolores just outside Falluja where the forgotten pop star was riding a British Army tank while simultaneously breast-feeding her daughter, Dakota Rain.
"I wrote 'Zombie' to raise a mirror on the troubles of Northern Ireland and end my nation's religious hate." O'Riordan told us as the desert sand swirled around us and her baby sucked eagerly on a nipple. "Soon after that the Good Friday agreement and a full ceasefire came into place. I've done this before and I can do it again. My visit to Iraq has taken in discussions with civilians as well as trips to see budding insurgents, and yesterday I sang at a Shia-backed protest against the American occupation. That was a real eye-opener. I've been very inspired by it all, and I'm writing a new song about the things I've seen here. It's got the working title 'Robot', and I just need to witness an actual suicide bombing before I finish the chorus."
Our conversation was then interrupted by the tank on which we perched launching an enormous missile in the direction of some shifty-looking Iraqis and, as they were obliterated from the face of the earth, Dolores clutched Dakota Rain to her breast and began to weep the lyrics from classic Cranberries song, 'War Child':
"There are babies in their beds,
Terror in their 'eads,
Rummm-patilum, traboo, traboo, traboo"
Following our report in the last update on follically-challenged TV knobend Ross Kemp and his misadventures
with seized drugs, the past couple of months have seen further mishaps in the lives of Eastenders' erstwhile
Grant Mitchell and his brother, Steve McFadden, and it would trouble our collective conscience here at HDUK
to allow these incidents to pass without comment.
It all started so well, the baldy halfwit's reappearance in a failing cock-er-knee soap revealed as a desperate and
successful attempt to shore up falling ratings, while his role in Ricky Gervais' Curb Your Enthusiasm-esque
cred-com 'Extras' proved once and for all Kemp couldn't act, but at least had a sense of humour about it. The forty-one year old faux-hardnut was on a high, and on the evening of Wednesday the 2nd November Kemp was happy to accompany his wife (pinch-faced Sun editrix Rebekah Wade), to a party thrown by Rupert Murdoch's daughter and her husband.
Keen to get thoroughly lubricated as quickly as possible, the booze-hungry couple met with disgraced Cabinet Minister David Blunkett for a few early-evening boilermakers at fashionable Hoxton ponce-bar 'Coalmine'. Once there, Blunkett's legendary capacity for the pleasures of the flesh meant the couple's attempts to keep up with his exorbitant alcohol intake were misguided, to say the least. By the time the couple left the former Home Secretary to travel on to Matthew Freud's birthday party they had to lean on each other in order to stand.
Although Kemp subsequently called a halt to this binge, claiming a "dicky tummy", Wade, who is said by friends to have "the stamina of a racehorse and looks to match", continued consuming cocktails, Southern Comfort, and the occasional pint of cider, all the while accosting revellers with a none-too-flattering impersonation of her bonehead husband. After eight hours of continued indulgence, this wide-hipped harridan was eventually bundled into a cab and, once back in their Battersea flat, Rebekah (who by this time had consumed enough alcohol to floor several Paul Gascoignes), opened up more wine and cognac while Ross pleaded
with her to get some sleep.
Kemp's refusal to carry on drinking wasn't the only sticking point. Indeed, his inability to become tumescent when
the unpleasantly ginger Wade began drooling on him in a bout of passion soon led to a furious row. During this
argument an out of control Rebekah trashed the flat while screaming a variety of words you'll never see in the
pages of the Sun. Then she repeatedly bitch-slapped her shocked husband about the head and gob.
Horrified at this evil harpy unleashed in his home by the demon drink and bleeding profusely from the mouth, Ross locked himself in the bathroom to phone the police. When they arrived the authorities only obvious course of action was to throw a woman once called "the biggest menace to the UK since Myra Hindley" into prison so that she could sober up. Sadly this incarceration meant Wade missed her lunchtime appointment at the following day's 'Woman of The Year' lunch because she was too hungover to see. Meanwhile Ross remained at home, cowering and frightened under his favourite blanket.
From there word quickly seeped out that this supposed hard-man couldn't take a smack in the teeth without weeping like the petticoats of a big girl. Much national ridicule followed and now Kemp can no longer look the cast and crew of 'Extreme Force' in the eye. Yet his extremely unattractive wife has no remorse, boasting to female friends how she gave her hubby "a nice fat lip to go with his big fat head".
Coincidentally, a few hours later that same night Kemp's brother, Phil Mitchell, also succumbed to a beating
by a puny woman, punched repeatedly in the face by a girl who then proceeded to stand over his
gutter-collapsed form and yell, "you want some more you twat?" Could these assaults be the start of a new
attempt by crazed women to overthrow the male hegemony? Will future years see a pattern, as empowered
post-feminists kick the shit out of their hairless, mongoloid lovers? Write in and tell us what you think.
Kemp: "Big, fat head"
Andi Peters Begins New Life As Horse Thief
Finally we travel to BBC Television Centre for the inside knowledge on the latest career change of former television
presenter and 'Top Of The Pops' destroyer, Andi 'Blue' Peters, a man who is said to have spent the last few
months at rodeos across America in preparation for his new life of crime, rustling champion racehorses and prize
studs from wealthy businessmen across ruling class England.
The faintly effete Peters began his television career in the BBC's 'broom cupboard' where he was frequently
outwitted by charisma-free glove puppet Edd The Duck. From there Andi's easygoing on-camera style and novel spelling of his Christian name led to a meteoric rise through the ranks, becoming presenter of 'Live & Kicking' and 'The Ozone' before developing T4 for Channel Four and creating Vernon Kaye using a child's chemistry set. Returning to his publicly funded broadcasting home in July 2003, Peters was appointed 'Executive Editor of Popular Music' and set about trying to revive the fortunes of the BBC's flagship pop show.
What followed was a litany of disaster which still makes aging fans of the once-classic weekly want to rip Andi's head off and puke down the neck-hole. Top Of The Pops was merged with it's nostalgic sister show, 'revamped' to be more like CD:UK, then shifted through the schedules until even the most eagle-eyed music fan could hardly remember when it was on. Inevitably ratings slumped, down from six million to a few hundred Sean Paul fans living near Kilmarnock, so Peters was forced to do the decent thing and fall on his sword. Sadly not literally.
During the brief stint presenting a daytime reality show about hospital porters that followed Andi was at a low ebb, drowning his sorrows every night with endless WKDs and wondering how his glittering career had evaporated so quickly. That is, until one fateful night, when Peters was approached by a large man in a cowboy hat and leather chaps, a figure who can often be seen whirling a lasso around his head on the dance floor of 'alternative' Camden nightclub Browneye. After time in the man's company Andi began to believe his future lay as a modern-day cowboy, all thanks to this persuasive character that turned out to be Yeovil-based sheep rustler Adrian 'Tex' Inglewood, a man who quickly took up the role as Peters' mentor and shag-friend. Next Andi watched Brokeback Mountain several times at the cinema and soon he felt ready to travel through the American Midwest and learn how to 'rope a steer'.
On his return to England Peters is runoured to have assumed a new identity and dropped off the media radar,
but some say evidence of his changed lifestyle can be seen in the increased incidents of horse-napping
around Sussex. Indeed, just last week a daring dawn raid on Alex Ferguson's stables which bore all the
hallmarks of Andi's swashbuckling style was only foiled when a stable hand (who had passed out on the
straw next to the intended victim) was able to drive the raider away with a metal horseshoe on a stick.