She’s been hailed as the girl next door but, last time I peeked through the curtains, I didn’t live next door to a post-op Peter Stringfellow. From her slimy tan to her tacky extensions, her nasal whine to her shrieking vulgarity she may be living the life of a star but she behaves like she is in the gutter.

Everything about her is as fake as her acrylic nails. From her nuptials to that world class knob-end Ashley Cole to her day job appeasing Simon Cowell’s… tastes, Cheryl has more faces than Octo-Moms prenatal scan. The chav done good from Popstars the Rivals morphed into the WAG who loved to slag at the World Cup. She became one of the girls when Ashley couldn’t keep his cock in his jock before finally ascending to fully-fledged fashionista following her doe eyed stint on The X Factor.

If Cheryl opened her mind as often as she opened her mouth she might not be as unbearable but she seems to have a continuous bone to pick with (more often than not) women far more accomplished and far more talented than herself. Like most women of limited abilities she stokes the flames of others to ensure the embers of her own fame stay lit. And so she tears strips of Lilly Allen (who she unimaginatively called “a cock in a frock”), Peter Doherty (“that junky idiot”) and Charlotte Church and All Saints who she believes ripped off Girls Aloud’s sound. You know that ground breaking pop that they write themselves. Oh wait….

That’s another thing that pisses me off about Cheryl. She’s so ungrateful to be where she is today. Let us not forget that she ain’t nothing more than all singing, all dancing slab of meat culled from the cattle call that is reality television. And yet she had the audacity to piss her pants at contestants on last years X Factor who said they wanted to be as big as the Spice Girls.

She seems to forget that unlike Girls Aloud, The Spice Girls had to claw there way to the top of the charts without acres of free press that being on a crass karaoke competition gets you. They had to hire and fire managers, cultivate personalities and charm their way into producer’s studios, record companies and magazine offices at a time when nobody was interested in girl groups. They broke down the doors that Cheryl now only deigns to walk through and their glory days insured that the more alternative acts on their record label Virgin could  pursue a more creative path so long as the candy flowed from the Spice Girls Piñata. Yes they may have been manufactured and yes they may have sold out in the end but they didn’t rely on a team of songwriters to craft their sound without them and never resorted to dodgy cover versions to top the charts.

And they did it all without being charged with racially aggravated assault.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised that my adopted home should stoop to such lows in their search for a tenant in their affections. When being a spurned bulimic spouse and succumbing to a terminal illness elevated Princess Diana and Jade Goody to almost saint like status it’s no wonder this tarted up fishwife would be next in line to the throne.

But come on Britain! Pull your socks up…or at least your standards.

But what exactly does Oxegen have to make it deserving of this honor? It’s hardly in a scenic location, and it certainly isn’t cheap (€240 for a weekend ticket, €2.50 for a bottle of water; the look on your face when you get back to your tent and find its charred embers: priceless). So why after swearing on every grave in the cemetery that we’ll never go back do we pull on our wellies, collect our rape whistles and brave the elements for three days of fun without sun?

Perhaps it’s because in spite of the terrible weather and often terrible people it attracts, it also pulls together a terribly good line up. Perhaps the best in Europe. But if your idea of a perfect festival is meeting interesting people and doing interesting things in the arse end of nowhere: stay clear. All Oxegen has to offer is music.

But what sweet music it has. From Blur’s reunion gig (which dropped its pants and shat all over Hyde Park) to Nine Inch Nails retirement one (so filthy it gave me a kidney infection), my musical behind was ferociousy spanked by a line up that survived a third consecutive year refusing to put on Kings of Leon.

The Pet Shop Boys, with their glitter cannons and helium balloons, used every trick in the book to remind the pretenders to their throne (Lady Ga Ga, Katy Perry) that that’s all the are. Bloc Party, whose third album left me cold, went head to head with the stormy weather on the main stage on Saturday and stole much of its overbearing thunder with a set so tight and beautifully crafted it made me forget the onset of pneumonia.

Fever Ray brought some much needed peculiarity to the dance arena on Sunday, with a spectacular light show that was wasted in its afternoon time slot, while Jane’s Addiction got my bum shaking and my belly aching with their hilarious and exuberant set.

The only disappointments were the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and TV On The Radio. The former had to contend with a disinterested crowd who were merely escaping the weather, while the latter’s set which was devastatingly dull – even if they looked all the hotter for being windswept and rain-bitten.

Old age caught up with me as I failed to get down with the never ending supply of Next Big Thing’s at the festival. Crystal Castles were like a bag of cats sharing a bath with an electric alarm clock, and Florence and The Machine sounded like she was having her lady parts torn apart by a crowning baby.

And while great Irish acts were on short supply, despite the same old, haggered, repetitive faces thrilling the kids (The Coronas, The Blizzards, The Script) Dark Room Notes, The Chapters, Messiah J and the Expert and Carosel all proved that there is some musical decency left in the country. You just have to look for it.

Not long at all. Sickipedia, home of the crudest, rudest and most inappropriate jokes on the internet has already crashed, such is the thirst for slags about the King of Pop. Facebook statuses, at first professing shock, have started to mock. As the sun rises on each Jacksonless dawn, mobile phones alight with witty one-liners about the Peter Pan of Pop. And deadmichaeljacksonjokes.com has finally got round to mattering.

The public deals with the death of a celebrity in three stages. At first there’s shock and sadness that another human being has passed on, no matter what the circumstance. Notes are taken of present surroundings, stored up to be unleashed in faux tragic voices when asked: “where were you when…?”

Then there’s the morbid fascination. Eyes are Pritt Sticked to the TV, afraid we’ll miss the money shot of a sobbing spouse, sentimental superstar or bulging body bag. Every new nugget of information is dispersed in whispered tones as if the person beside you hasn’t heard what’s just been said.

Then come the claws and the comments. A visceral fray to be the first with the pun or the put down that, despite the wails of “too soon” from titillated colleagues, opens the flood gates and drowns common decency in a sea of sarcastic shit-stirring.

They say laughter is the best medicine, and I’m usually the first with my arse out for a shot. But there’s something about the death of Wacko that catches in my throat. Is it that it’s the first truly iconic legend that’s died in my lifetime? (If you mention Diana in the same breath I’ll smash my novelty memorial plate over your head). Or could it be that it was all so horribly inevitable?

Perhaps it’s just that now the king is dead, there’s no sign of a new one to carry on the legacy. With Jackson gone and Prince in serious need of surgery, it seems our generation has spent so much time looking over their shoulder that there is no one to fill the shoes of those gone by.

The most innovative work Justin Timberlake’s done is sticking his dick in a box. And the only remarkable thing about him and other contenders for the throne, is the sheer commonality of their personas. You just can’t imagine them sleeping in oxygen tanks, dicking Brooke Shields and shaving a monkey’s arse.

I guess that’s the problem with the youth of today.

The movie boldly goes where it’s never been (Beastie Boys songs, product placements), and you can hear the cogs moving in the screenwriters’ (Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman) heads as they try to spectacularly emulate the revivals of James Bond and Batman.

The cast, too, is excellent. Chris Pine is lively as James Kirk, Zachary Quinto is geeky as Spock and Simon Pegg livens up any big screen. But they’re let down by a script that over-eggs familiar comedy, making every second line a pun or an aside. It’s so flippant you stop believing in the characters: initially so well drawn, but finishing the film as caricatures.

It’s also sad to see Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry’s idea of an enlightened future pissed away in favour of cheap laughs and un-Star Fleet behaviour. It’s as if the team behind the Enterprise’s latest reinvention has turned its nose up at the lineage of the series in favour of dropping their knickers for the multiplexes.

There is a lot to enjoy here, though, particularly if you’re a teenage boy. And I’m sure when I’ve got over my high horse collapsing under the weight of my own Trekkie expectations, I’ll be able to excitedly pant at the sight of warp drive as it’s never been screened before. The visuals are undeniably stunning.

But despite Abrams pimping Star Trek up for the younger generation with big laughs and bigger bangs, he’s failed to create anything of real value. Star Trek First Contact filled in the back-story. Star Trek Nemesis tied up the loose ends. This will pass an hour or two.

I often wonder what the point is in reviewing movies like Quantum of Solace. If you’re the type of person who goes for maniacal muscled men doing dastardly deeds to one another- and to the women that cross their paths – then there is nothing I can say, nothing I can do, that will stop you from seeing this movie.

But prepare to be disappointed. For Quantum is the dumbest, dullest and driest Bond yet, doing little to endear itself to the paying public and nothing to live up to the excellent Casino Royale.

From the off you are flung into the action with no explanation as to why you are there and where you are going. If you haven’t seen the predecessor then you are up shit creek and even if you have, the screenplay by Hollywood’s current belle de jour, Paul Haggis (of awful race turd Crash fame), is so convoluted that you simply switch off your brain and go with the flow.

Unfortunately it flows nowhere, and hops from one eye-catching location to the next, piling on sub plots and excess action sequences that add little to the story or the genre. Bond is out for revenge, hunting down and killing members of the evil organisation Quantum who blackmailed and murdered his first true love, Vesper Lynd.

Unfortunately he’s killing them before MI6 can extract any information from them, forcing the scene-stealing M (Judi Dench) to cut Bond loose and leave him to his own devices. So far, so Licence to Kill. But what isn’t so familiar is his behaviour.

All sense of charm is erased from Craig’s anarchistic Bond, with withering put-downs and suave asides dropped in favour of excessive and senseless violence. There’s no “Bond, James Bond” until the final line. No “Shaken, not stirred” at all. And no Q, no gadgets and no getting the girl.

Gemma Arterton as Fields (just Fields), the sluttier of the two Bond girls, is simply required to titillate, which as a titty-mag favourite shouldn’t have been too much of a challenge. Her climatic nod to Goldfinger is appreciated but an original send off would have made her character seem less gimmicky and rammed home the meaning behind her death, as voiced by M to Bond.

Seeing as the whole movie is motivated by revenge I’m not crying salty tears over the lack of nookie. But I would at least have appreciated a bit of chemistry between Craig and leading lady Olga Kurylenko (the vengeful Camile) as they trot around the globe baring their souls, wreaking havoc and fuelling each others fantasies of revenge.

Elsewhere, Haggis is so determined to drag Bond into the current century that he has written his most realistic and dull villain in the series history. Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric) is a paper pushing environmentalist who helps the CIA and their cherry-picked dictators overthrow democratically elected governments in return for the countries natural resources.

With action movies, you are asked to suspend disbelief. With Quantum, you suspend interest. It takes itself so seriously and tries to be so realistic it forgets completely to entertain. Despite being the shortest Bond of all, feels like the longest.

Seriously! Does Transport for London release some sort of chemical agent into the air that makes us all go a little Margot Kidder in the mornings? Or is there something inherently wrong with the human race which prevents us from travelling sanely with one another?

Since I’ve moved to London I have watched with increasing alarm the risks my fellow passengers are willing to take to ensure they get from platform to carriage on the first attempt. Just to be spared the embarrassment of having to wait the two minutes it takes for the next one to arrive.

With scant regard for their own, or anybody else’s safety, kamikaze commuters fling themselves at carriage doors, more willing to risk serious injury (or at least mortification) than gamble with being five minutes late for their soulless nine to fives.

With their briefcase and Starbucks raised above their heads, they charge at the speed of light towards their metal nemesis, ducking and diving between Zimmer frames and wheelchairs, pausing only when they reach an escalator, where they’ll patiently stand until they reach the
top or bottom, and take flight once more.

It’s as if all the workers in the city have been pre-programmed to revolt whenever they hear the words: “Stand clear of the closing doors.” Like Old Blue Eyes in the Manchurian Candidate, once uttered, usually reasonable commuters lose all sense of reason and launch themselves, like heat-seeking missiles, at already swollen carriages, crashing into startled old ladies whose own position is secured by the most perilous of finger clenches.

So why do they do it? Do they get some kind of sexual thrill bouncing themselves off metal? Do the sliding doors provide some sort of kink I have deprived myself of? Or are those extra few moments in bed or on the couch with Fiona Phillips (RIP) really worth risking life and limb
for?

For while I can understand the desperate need to put as much distance between oneself and the pig ignorant underground staff, enraging a carriage full of overworked, under paid commuters can’t be the best way to start your day.

Worse still, should you miss and get pulled under, you are just going to further delay the poor buggers on the Circle Line who have already waited through countless signal failures, a struggle to remove a series of chronic masturbators and a rouge bag of groceries apprehended at Monument and suspected of containing enough explosives to blow up the entire system.

Tucked away in the back streets of Holborn, Bar Polski is not so much a blink and you’ll miss it as a stare and you’ll pass on it kind of place.

A giant, garish rooster holds court on the otherwise bare, grey  walls while the uncomfortable, metallic furniture make it resemble a train station waiting room rather than a trendy Eastern European bar.

A quick look at the clientele fails to still your beating heart. Nervy, academic types clutter in groups and compete with nondescript music for aural appreciation.

But wipe the sneer off your face and your feet on the welcome mat and enter a world where angels spread their wings at the back of your throat. Treat your inner drunk to a fantasy world of flavoured vodkas, cheap Polish beers and traditional Eastern European snacks all priced as if the Iron Curtain never opened.

You haven’t started your first drink before your eyes lustfully glance at the well stacked menu for another. With 45 different flavours of Vodka to choose from, split into “dry and interesting” and “nice and sweet”, a little division of labour between you and your partner will let you sample as much of the menu as possible – without slurring your words and hitting on the bar stool.

My favourite was the Krupnik – a honey and spiced vodka with ginger ale. A culinary Cluedo, a gustative whodunnit, you’ll be too busy draining your glass to scratch your head, its hidden appeal so frustratingly locked on the tip of your tounge.

The Wybrowa (dry green apple) and the Jurzeback (Rowan berry, vine and fruit) are also highy recommended though Zlota Woda – vodka flecked with gold leaf, infused with aniseed and herbs- is not for the faint hearted.

At £2.50 a shot, Bar Polski is the perfect place to instigate the inebriation. Just don’t expext to pull anything tastier than a pint.

11 Little Turnstile
Holborn
London
WC1V 7DX

Opening hours:

12pm – 11pm Monday to Friday
6pm – 11pm on Saturdays
Closed on Sundays

I see Jordan has got her knickers in a twist over being blackballed from the Cartier Polo International Event.

Poor lamb. It seems after years of flashing her gash, all the cash in the world can’t buy her her way into the high society she so desperately wants to be a part of.

I mean one really should feel sorry for Jordon, Katie Price, whatever to fuck she’s calling herself now 　(you can call this rose by any other name, she’ll still a vulgar carp in my eyes). Having written a series of books on horse riding for children, ridden herself from a young age and competed at a series of events in the past 12 months, her interest and dedication in the sport cannot be denied.

But I don’t have a shred of sympathy for her. It is a long deserved comeuppance for a woman whose actions have decayed social norms and helped British society take another step down the ladder. Perhaps next time she opens her mouth she might think about how many doors she’s slamming in her own face.

Dragging herself up the celebrity food chain by dropping her knickers, this plasticine piss ant has no discernible talent, aside from pissing me off. From glamour modelling, which fed off the pricks of Neolithic cavemen, to her television shows catering to the mindless masses, there’s been books (actually written by Rebecca Farnworth), products ( a hair-care range) and a music career which fortunately died at birth.

But what truly pisses me off is her big, feckin’ mouth. Riding Posh Spice’s coat tails to fame (who ever heard of her prior to the Dane Bowers fiasco) she smeared herself across the front pages with one horrific revelation after the other. From the size of her lovers appendages to her abortions to her miscarriages to her surgeries to her rivals, on and on and on the stories come, making her look like some kind of pornographic Walter Mitty.

Jordan would sell her own if it guaranteed her the front page… and so she has. On a regular basis we are regaled with tales from her crass home life. From her marriage to that tangerine tosser to her unfortunately monikered spawn (Princess Tiáamii, Junior Savva Andreas), if one so much as farts, Heat stops the presses.

So it is for this reason that Jordan has been sent to social Siberia. Not because she has reportedly had more cock then a hen house. Not because she made her dough acting like a ho. It’s because she has blabbed about it and hence cheapened, by association, anything that has come in contact with her.

Cartier and Chinawhite, for their part claim that wires have been crossed and that the only reason the model was refused entry was because there were no tables left.

” Chinawhite didn’t receive any money from Katie – the claim that we took her money and then decided she wasn’t good enough just isn’t true“

“She’s also saying she gave us £6,000, but tables only cost £5,000. She gave the money to a third party to book a table for her, and they were unsuccessful because the tables were already sold out. They’re clearly going to rip her off a grand, so I hope she gets a refund.”

I’m sure Katie will consider the coverage more than enough compensation.

Where once it was used to stop the hands of time pawing at young flesh, cosmetic surgeons have come up with a new way of filling us with poison.

By inserting a mild dose of the toxin Botox to affected areas, they have managed to reduce the amount of sweat that has been pouring out of the British public during this record summer.

Nicknamed Sweatox, the injection temporarily paralyses muscles and stops the body over reacting to heat. Demand for the drug is up three fold since the summers start as sweaty Betty’s cross the land try to avoid the nightmarish sweat patches and liquefied tube rides that have become de jure.

One shot costs £550 and lasts six months, but some patients have experienced an increase in sweating in areas that haven’t been injected.

A case of trading a sweaty pit for a sweaty arse.

The holy troika of sun, sweat and sores ensure it’s a miserable time indeed for those with delicate British skin..

We spend the entire time anticipating her arrival and the moment there’s but a gap in the clouds, out come the corn beef thighs and Bermuda shorts, with acres of pimply skin on display for all to endure.

Then the sun actually shows up and we start to sweat like the pigs who know they’re dinner.

Struggling to remain upright and impersonal on public transport, we drip like condensation and fan our selves with crumpled up free sheets. Sliding up and down the pole like dole scum, eventually we collapse on top of one another, bitching bitterly about this accursed weather and dreaming of cooler climes.

All fashion taste goes out the window as we desperately try to naturally attain what fake and bake has been doing less than adequately all year. Tight t-shirts and short shorts on a well toned 18-year-old maybe delightfully indecent but on a middle aged munter it is ungodly.

As the heat swelters, perspiration soaks through the cheap Primark clothing and the city becomes a menopausal wet t-shirt contest, with limp hair, sagging chests and valiant attempts to remain composed as the very foundation of their being melts away.

Overdosing on vitamin D, our skin burns and blisters, then snap, crackles and drops off our body. Sun stricken commuters pass out on tubes, causing untold delays to the more weather wise. While picnics in the park or ‘barbies’ turned out to be nought more than culinary Russian roulette.

We push ourselves to the limit, trying to make every moment of the sunshine count, storing up memories like nuts for the winter. Holidays from hell are grinned and bared, festivals survived and even the crusties emerge from their squats to clog up local parks with their tuneless banter and dreadlocked drivel.

And then there are the bugs. Like winged Shylock’s they have come for my blood and take it with interest. My backside is like Checkpoint Charlie. A tense stand off ensues between my hand and my heiney, a desperate urge to scratch only prevented by the red blotched devastation that would ensue. Cream is applied, prayers unanswered and, while the lambs may be silent, that never ending buzz rings out into the night. Taunting me. Threatening me.

So forgive me if I’m counting the days ’til that burning ball of brightness disappears once more and we are poaked and prodded by the wild whims of winter. Until the freckles fade from my arm, the colour from my cheeks and the sweat induced hump from my back.

Till then I’ll just have to rely on my trusty sumbrella to get me through.