Red Carpet Rumblings

Like most people, I believe what I see on television. Churchill can save me money on my car insurance, Ross and Rachel are so meant to be despite the fact that she's a cash-hungry temptress waitress and he's a rich doctor of museum stuff, and Karma balances out the good with the bad and visa versa.

Yes that's right, I'm talking about the fictional mysticism invented by the creators of My Name Is Earl. Except, I'm talking about a different sort of Karma. 'Cos unlike Earl's Karma, in which he does something good and is rewarded with goodness, my Karma involves me GIVEN something good and then having something bad happen to screw with me.

Example; I get some amazing news. If you're important to me you know what this news is already and if you're not important to me it's because this news means I don't need you any longer, you worthless bottom-feeders. So anyway, that comes in and I develop some kind of weird itis. Not isis, like the ancient-Egyptians, but itis as it, "It is so painful." I have to miss a stack of interviews and a screening of The Last King of Scotland, which I really want to see.

To add insult to injury, one of those interviews was with my wife-to-be, Gillian Anderson. So I'm thinking, "Good job, Karma, you NAZI. Something good happens to me through no fault of my own, and now I don't get to start my love affair with my future wife." And Karma's all like, "Oh no you did not just call me a nazi." So along comes friend-who-spills-stuff to bring me cup-'o-soup and Strepsils. Guess which one of those he spilled.

So, long story short, my life is about to change but I can't even process that right now 'cos I feel like shit and my carpet smells of powdered chicken.

Karma hates me. Well you know what, Karma? You're SHIT in My Name is Earl. Everyone knows Randy gets the best storylines, and you're just transparent and one-dimensional. Not to mention predictable. Go fuck yourself. The pleasure will force you to cut off your penis as a "balancing act." Prick.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 12:35 AM | Permalink | Comments

Red Carpet Rumbler is officially won over by the social networking bullshit. Was it MySpace? Obviously not. Was it Friendster? Definitely not. Was it Facebook? Oh no. Was it SuperFriendSpace? That DOESN'T EXIST.

No, it was last.fm, a site I only discovered existed this morning because, apparently, I'm slow to pick up on these things. All-the-G's, as mentioned earlier, clued me in during routine Mix-CD discussion and right now I'm listening to a custom streaming radio station made up of songs I like and songs that sound like songs I like. The internet is full of wonder.

Go, sign up, before I come and find you and FINISH YOU.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 5:46 AM | Permalink | Comments

Yes, folk, you totally read that right - Madonna, aka Looselegs, has totally revealed to the Red Carpet Rumbler the name of her new adopted baby. In an exclusive interview, to be serialised EXCLUSIVELY in The People, The Sun, The Daily Mail and The Independent on Sunday, and soon to be turned into a book, "Madonna: In the word of the Father" and a major motion picture starring Clint Eastwood as Madonna and Jamie Foxx as her adopted child, and also a viral campaign in which users will be asked to guess the weight of Madonna's child, Looselegs has spilled all and I have a cut of the interview EXCLUSIVELY on RCR before it spreads wide. Like Looselegs' legs. YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST:

RCR: Madonna, it's lovely to sit down with you.

LL: Thanks Red Carpet Rumbler. You're a true inspiration to me and a real friend and I only wish I was as amazing as you and we're friends in real life and you have my private mobile number and keys to my private mansion for use whenever you want.

RCR: That much is true, but so much gets written about you that even I, a close personal friend of yours, have a great deal of difficulty seperating fact from fiction.

LL: I know, it's difficult being you, even though you are amazing and so much more
discerning, sexually, than I could ever be.

RCR: Again, true, but my question is: I've been reading reports about your African lovechild adoptee, and yet I've been hearing denials from your camp so I don't know what to think. Now that we're here, in this interview situation set up so you could answer the question I'm about to ask, I thought it would be a good idea to ask you just where the truth lies; are you adopting a African orphan from Wales?

LL: Wow, I totally wasn't expecting that question even though I had been told it would come up and, in fact, requested such as the purpose of this informal chat which is actually an interview for major media. The good news is, your cheque - which I totally didn't realise you were giving me and now that I've mentioned it on the record I'll be donating 50% of it to an African orphan from Wales of my choosing, that being my African orphan from Wales - has totally cleared and I can confirm that, yes, I did have meetings with the African Prime Minister, Mr. Mandela, about lovechild adoptees and I have, in fact, bought one from the African branch of Ikea. You have to assemble it yourself but it only cost 10% of the price of a regular African lovechild adoptee so I'm quids in.

RCR: I'm shocked, even though I can now quite clearly see that you are carrying said African lovechild adoptee under your arm as though he were an overnight case or plush duvet. So I guess what the world absolutely wants to know, and I'm curious too being that I'm a curious person who's paid to be so, is what is his/her or their name or names?

LL: Well, in fact, it is a he and his name is Co Donna-Richie.

RCR: Any particular reason for that name?

LL: Well my trio of children, or tripod if you like such terms, are now Lourdes, Rocco and Co, or Lourdes Roccoco which, incidentally, is the design scheme I've chosen for my new penthouse in Bangalore which is a really up-and-coming place with many celebrity hangouts including Burberry and Raj's Indian Diner.

RCR: Why did you adopt an African when everyone knows the up-and-coming place to adopt children from is Yemen?

LL: I did make a trip to Yemen but unfortunately the one I really wanted, to match the drapes in my new Bangalorian palace, was out of stock. But more important I'm a set trender and people hear the name Madonna and they think "Cheap Slut" first but then they think "Set Trender and Fashionista Iconoclast." Also, what a lot of
people don't know about Africa, is that there is a real poverty crisis there and
my good friend, Bono, suggested that the best way I could possibly fix said
crisis, which plagues me on a nearly second-by-second basis, would be to steal
one of their children and raise them with my two biological children far from
his natural home while kitting him out in all manner of fashionable ensembles
and carrying him on my arm as though he were a fashion accessory to premieres
and all manner of shindigs.

RCR: Some claim that this is a cynical move, designed to rob your long-suffering husband, Guy Richie, of his manhood by suggesting that he is infirtile.

LL: *laughs* Oh Red Carpet Rumbler, who is my dear personal friend and not someone I've just met, would that this be the case. No, in fact, what a lot of people don't know about Guy Richie is that he had no talent before he married me and now he has even less because I am a talent-sucking harpy from the Clatuu nebula. Guy has much penis but I like a bit of variety in my life and, alas, he only fathers white children. Have you tried taking a white child to the cinema to witness a World Premiere with many paparazzi and fine journalists from the print and online press while wearing a black Chanel suit? I long to wear such outlandish and risque clothes and I really needed a child to go with such attire.

And you can read more of this interview, in which Madonna discusses such topics as the most fashionable way to sport your clitoris, her languishing career, and that tough time in her life during which she found herself addicted to Frosties, in all the places I mentioned ages ago.
But seriously though, folks, why is Madonna famous? She was shit in the 80's, she was shit in the 90's and she's even shitter in the 00's. Her music sounds like what one imagines it would sound like if you dragged a cat over a field of broken glass and children's tears and people only dance to it when they're steaming drunk. Or if they're from Ipswitch. And if I were from Ipswitch I would kill myself but not before taking out the people of HISTORY for creating such an unimaginable cesspit of nightmares. In this shocking photo of Looselegs, I reveal an until-now unseen high-resolution detail that you all need to be aware of:

In other news, Madonna has just signed up to play The Childcatcher in the newly revamped version of the classic - but shite - musical, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Suddenly that title has a whole new filthy and wrong meaning. She will also be the threat in a new series of 24, in which Jack Bauer has only 24 hours to stop Madonna from releasing another single and killing the world through noise.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 7:03 PM | Permalink | Comments

OK, so there was this movie released two years ago about these two stoners who wanted burgers so bad that they went out and got some. And on the way they did a bunch of strange shit and it took them the whole movie to get burgers. Last night I had that exact same experience except there were no hijinks to be had.

It was the end of a pretty shit day which included Ashton Kutcher, so it’s possible I was on a bit of a downer. On my way home from Kutchercide, I was reading thelondonpaper (because spaces are so 1997) and, in the middle of rush hour, charged into one of those “caution: slippery floors” signs. There’s no greater irony in this world than falling over a sign warning you not to fall.

So I was already pretty pissed off and I got home, watched the last hour of Taxi Driver on NTL on demand, and fell asleep. Woke up at like 9 and pissed about for a bit, trying to ignore the fact I was hungry. When I gave in, at 12 O’clock, I had a massive craving for Big Macs.

I desperately needed the taste of generic meat product right then and the only thing that was going to satisfy me was a Big Mac. Like you know how Jesus desperately needed to get crucified and rise again to take punishment for the sins of mankind? That was kinda me last night, only I didn’t want crucifixion, I wanted burgers. Jesus had days just like that but they got edited out of the bible in the 1860’s. It’s a big conspiracy and it’s documented in this true-life book called The Whopper Code.

I knew I had two options; jet to the McDonalds drive-in 5 minutes from my house and hope they were open, or go without, ‘cos my car had run out of petrol and I wouldn’t have made a longer trip. So I thought, fuck it, I’ll play it safe, fill up, and hit that one on the way to the one I know is open 24 hours in Greenwich, 20 minutes away.

So I filled up, £30, and headed to get my goodness. Turns out that McDonalds doesn’t open all night so I started off for Greenwich.

Now the Greenwich McDonalds is north of the river, and I’m south so that meant going through the Blackwall Tunnel. So I’m driving to the tunnel and it’s in sight when all of a sudden I see a red light. I thought it was weird ‘cos it was a pretty fast-moving dual carriageway (with slip roads) at that time of night and it’s so congested during the day that they don’t really need lights. But I thought nothing of it.

Two minutes later and I hear a voice. Now this was not the voice of God. I know this because God once asked me if he could steal a cigarette and I remember him sounding just like James Brolin. The voice was coming over an intercom system on the walls leading up to the tunnel. Now, I don’t like to point the finger at people when it could be entirely coincidental, but I’m pretty sure one of the people who work at the Blackwall Tunnel got bored one night and thought, “Fuck it, let’s blast some Aretha over this fucking thing.” ‘Cos, you see, when the voice started speaking it sounded like gravel. Not footsteps over gravel, gravel itself. Like if you could imagine a scenario in which gravel could talk, it would sound like this cat on the intercom system.

Ten minutes later and he’s on his fifth announcement and you can tell he’s getting pissed off because for the first time he’s actually legible. “Would the HGV Vehicle in the first lane please drive onto the sliproad as you’re too big for the tunnel.” Trouble was, the HGV driver was this fuck-off big Village People-esque trucker from fucking Germany with a giant handlebar moustache and an understanding of no English word longer than “punt.” So he doesn’t move.

Meanwhile gravel Aretha God voice is getting pissy because he’s not moving and calls the police. He urges drivers to get out of their cars and tell the dude to pull over but I’ll be fucked if he expects me to abandon my 1989 Honda Civic at 12:30 in the morning (yeah, I’ve been waiting twenty minutes at this point, but I’m still British) to tell a German truck driver who looks like he might either beat me or bugger me if I gave him half the chance to move on.

Now we’re in London, which is probably one of the smallest counties in the country in terms of surface area, and we have our own police force because there are so many people here. We also have police forces that deal specifically with fucking loitering so I’m almost certain we’ve got a lot of the fuckers. But somehow, for some strange bizarre reason, it takes a squad car a further twenty minutes to materialise, at which point I’m seriously concerned gravel Aretha God voice is going to have some kind of embolism.

I catch some of their conversation and the truck driver says he does the journey in the same fucking truck every single day and has done so for the last three years. Not a single one of the policemen sees the big fuck-off supertruck right behind him who was, in fact, the one who set off the traffic lights. But with innocent Village Person truck driver out of the way, the lights turn green and I go through. I look in my rear view mirror. The fucking supertruck is sparking against the roof of the tunnel. This country is full of incompetents.

So at that point I resolve to get through the tunnel as quick as I can and hope to fuck no-one gets stuck behind supertruck when he gets to a bend in the tunnel and gets proper stuck. And as I see the North of London for the first time, at 12:50 (oh I’m not joking) I’m thinking “Holy hell, I need me one of those fucking Big Macs right now.” Fortunately the McDonalds is only five minutes from the tunnel so I’m there pretty sharpish and I’m waiting in my drive-in line. Is there a fucking attendant? No, otherwise this story would have a happy ending.

So I circle the restaurant (during which I see a guy eating the face of a woman in quite the most revolting manner you could possibly imagine) and park up. I walk to the front door of the restaurant and it’s locked. So I go around the side and I see some people inside. I knock on the glass. “We’re closed,” comes the message. FUCK. OFF.

This has taken ten minutes, so by the time I’m back in my car and I’m circling the restaurant again to leave I see the couple once more and, I am not fucking joking, she’s sucking him off. This sight knocks me somewhat so I realise I’m driving past them really slowly, but they make no effort to cover up or tell me to fuck off or anything. I get a good look at the guy and, I’m telling you, Grant Mitchell is alive and well and getting fellated in Greenwich. And he has the smallest erect penis I’ve ever seen in my life. And I watch a lot of porn. When you look like me you have to.

So I nearly crash the car on my way out because I’m incredibly shocked that I’ve just been forced to endure a sight I didn’t want to see. I mean, I didn’t wake up and think “fuck it, I really need to drive to Greenwich to watch an ugly dude get fellated by a prostitute,” (she so was, by the way...) all I wanted was a bit of beef and some fucker decided it wasn’t going to be in a Big Mac.

I drive home and they’ve shut a lane of the Blackwall Tunnel southbound for engineering works so I spent about 20 minutes just trying to get back south of the river. Where people don’t get sucked off in public. I pull into Sainsbury’s, which is open 24 hours, and I do a weekly shop, including some of those microwave beef-burgers ‘cos I’m REALLY hungry at this point and I have less than no energy to cook. I come home, heat up the burger, and that’s when I realise that God really, really, really hates me. ‘Cos that sight I witnessed back in Greenwich puts me completely off my appetite.

Long story short, Weigh Watchers now wants me to front their new campaign; “I lost weight on the seeing-ugly-people-get-blowjobs-in-public plan.”

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 7:45 PM | Permalink | Comments

Now now, surfer dudes, I have some super-top-exclusive OC news for all you cool kids out there who like The OC, starring Mischa Barton, Rachel Bilson and two guys who no-one is interested in.

Clarissa Cooper is coming back... YOU HEARD IT RIGHT! Mischa Barton is set to return to the show she got fired from because everyone realised how many mindless drones she brought to the user figures! And I have the very first exclusive publicity photo from her return, in the Season 4 finale episode!!!!1

L to R: Marissa Cooper (Mischa Barton) is greeted by Seth Cohen (some guy) in the Season 4 finale of WB's OC on the CW.

But seriously, though, folks, how shit is she? I mean, the twig in the above still could do a more convincing job than her. In fact, equating to her to a twig deals a serious insult to the twig itself.

More to the point, is there a shitter show on television than The OC? I've just been watching a handful of episodes from Season 3 because everyone I know watches it and I thought, "They must see SOMETHING in it" but it turns out that no, it's shit. They're all called stupid names like Marissa and Seth and Sandy and Shanique and they're all white. Even Shanique. What kind of post millenial society are we living in where the best teen soap opera is made up of a bunch of rich white kids who think that the only way to escape a jail sentence is to sail away to Hawaii or somewhere else that doesn't matter? Some dude's answering machine is like, "Hey, it's 2005, you know what to do." IS IT? 'Cos last I heard rich black guys did actually exist. As did poor people.

This show's idea of diversity revolves around one desperately pretty character who goes to the same school Marissa gets forced into when she gets kicked out of her posh school for shooting someone. IN SELF DEFENCE. Anyway, aside from that ludicrous plot-point, Marissa's friend's uncle is a fisherman, 'cos they're poor, y'see, and he thinks that, instead of going to college and gets a degree, he's just going to become a professional surfer and get lots of sponsorship. AND THIS IS WRITTEN IN ALL SERIOUSNESS.

The OC is a blight on our society. It should be banned for crimes against humanity and its creators should be shipped off to Guantanamo Bay, 'cos they're the real terrorists.

But if we do ship Mischa Barton to Guantanamo, can I just ask, pretty please, if someone could arrange to have her torture video up on YouTube? A world of people are just dying to see it.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 6:38 AM | Permalink | Comments

Entertainment journalists get shit. We don't even need to blag it, it gets handed to us for free. Like, for instance, I did the press junket for The Lake House which is a really, really, really, really, really bad film that stars Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock who are really, really, really, really bad in it. So Warner Brothers, who realised it was really, really, really, really, really, terribly bad, did a gift bag to hand to journalists who'd actually bothered to go and find out from Keanu and Sandy just how really, really, really, really, really, awfully bad it really was.

In the gift bag (which itself was a gift, a summery handbag type thing with The Lake House printed on it which totally ruined it because it would be like walking around advertising a really, really, really, really, really, majorly bad film) was a leather-bound The Lake House A5 notebook. Because apparently no-one told Warner Brothers that journalists never carry pens.

Think of it like this: Your average Joe goes to the cinema with sticky floors and people who talk on cellphones while Keanu is telling Sandy how much he loves himself and pays £124 to see The Lake House (if they go outside of London, of course, because everyone knows cinema tickets cost £12,354 each in central London) then they come out and go home. Maybe they also spend £1653 on some popcorn too. Total expenditure: a lot.

Film journalist Joe goes to a private screening room in Central London and pays £0 to see The Lake House (which, to be fair, is more than it is worth) and, if he's really lucky, he gets to drink shit loads of free beer beforehand too. Even if he's not lucky he'll get a couple of bottles in, and let's face it, you need to be smashed off your face to see anything that stars Keanu Reeves and you need to be paralytic if it also stars Sandra Bullock.

Then, a couple of days after seeing said film for free in a plush screening room with seats big enough to sleep seven cats quite comfortably (otherwise known as: An Average American Ass or Quadruple-bypass-A for short) they go along to a five star hotel, dine on 5 star sandwiches and chips, drink more beer and then ask Keanu and Sandy, who are, like, there in person, what their motivation was in that scene when Keanu was admiring himself in the mirror. And then they get free shit which they can give as Christmas presents to people they don't like or like but not enough to make any effort with. Which, for me, is my entire circle of friends.

Now that's pretty fucking great. Of course, for all of this, we have to say what we thought about The Lake House (because Average Joe never has these conversations with his girlfriend who looks like a Devils Rejects reject) and then type up what Keanu and Sandy said to us about what they thought about The Lake House. So you can see how much extra effort we have to go to.

But I have one friend, Gig-Goer-who-Gets-Gratification-from-Gilmore-Girls, who works in music journalism. She spends her weekends getting lashed at festivals and spends her weeknights getting lashed at gigs. And during the day she listens to music at work unless I send it to her in which case she says she can't listen to it because that would be wrong. Everyone knows how amazing my taste in music is, but she's beyond listening to stuff I send her because she prefers to listen to bands whose only fans are their mothers and even they would prefer it if their children made music that sounded like Johnny Cash meets Frank Sinatra instead of that dirge that they pretend is thrash metal meets Kate Bush.

Anyway, GGGGG, who likes Gilmore Girls because she has no taste in television whatsoever, takes blagging to levels so amazingly outstanding that I have to bow at her altar. Except she doesn't have an altar because she lives in Peckham or someplace else that doesn't matter. Maybe if I get an altar in a goodybag I could give it to her for Christmas.

So I think it's only right I make a public annoucement to GGGGG. Make me a mix CD. She's always going on about how difficult her job is (actually, she's not, but I'm going to say that anyway 'cos it lends credence to my argument. Unless I do something stupid like mention that I'm lying in parenthesise, but what are the chances of that?) and so I want her to meet my challenge head on and tell me why her musical taste is better than mine. I mean, really, who doesn't love a bit of Avril Levigne?

No, I'm joking. On my path to hell, Avril Levigne will be taken down right after Lindsay Lohan.

Truth is, her musical taste is great and the one song she gave me yesterday I loved loads because it was really good and not at all crap unlike most of the stuff they play on iTunes. iTunes just plays the same tracks over and over again for some reason. It's weird. And they don't even have anyone talking on it. So, yeah, I want a mix CD 'cos I think I need to expand my musical horizons and who better to ask than the world's greatest musical blagger? Even if she is a Gilmore Girls fan... For the last twelve months I've been alternating between Imogen Heap, introduced to be my Zach Braff, and Stars, introduced to me by Daniel Radcliffe, and I think it's pretty embarrasing that I'm taking my musical cues from Harry Potter and a dorky doctor.

Which, by the way, is the official title of book seven.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 8:51 AM | Permalink | Comments

I took my Guy-Who-Doesn't-See-Celebrities with me to see a film last night. GWDSC's biggest celebrity-spotting to date was Robson Green but I had to remind him that Robson Green isn't a celebrity because, by definition, one must celebrate another's talents for said other to be a celebrity, and no-one who isn't in a coma things Robson Green is talented. And even those people find nothing to celebrate about what little talent he has.

So anyway, it turned out to be a cast-and-crew screening and you could tell that because not only did they applaud when the credits came up but they also clapped when they saw the gaffer's name, no doubt remembering that time on set when he accidentally farted during a really emotional scene and everyone laughed and then chipped in to give him a whoopie cusion at the gag awards ceremony during the afterparty. Because independent film budgets require spread investments on such luxury purchases.

Well one of the keywords in a cast-and-crew screening is cast, and there were some faces there, including everyone's favourite faun, James McAvoy of Narnia and Shameless fame. I also took GWDSC's to see Narnia and, also, Pirates 2, and Tom Hollander - even though he isn't in the film - was there too. So you can imagine how excited that made GWDSC who was able to add two names to his piece of paper with Robson Green's name on it. He also saw guy-who-looked-like-a-blonde-Harry-Potter and guy-who-teaches-James-McAvoy-at-Bristol from the film but he didn't know the names of these people. Nevertheless, he wanted to get their autographs because some people still believe there's value in scribblings in the age of eBay.

He was determined to hang around outside and see who else came out on the way out but I wanted to get home to watch Death of A President so I told him that if we waited any longer and missed the train I would have to kill him, take out the rest of the commuters waiting at Charing Cross and then, also steal a train so I could drive it home. But then he pointed out that I don't know how to drive a train so I suggested I'd have to settle for just flaying him alive at which point he realised it would be the smart move to come with me posthaste. GWDSC isn't a thicko, even though he looks it and occassionally smells.

The bad news is that tomorrow I have to interview Ashton Kutcher. If anyone has any weaponry suggestions, be sure to let me have them. Also, comments on questions would be great. So far I have:

Ashton, why are you so crap?
No, but really?
No, but seriously....
Punk'd!
No I'm not, you are crap.

And, as you can imagine, that'll barely take up five minutes. I was thinking I could just stare at him for the rest, but I don't want to go blind and I have it on good authority that if you look at Ashton Kutcher in the eyes for more than ten seconds he puts a gypsy curse on you.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 7:38 AM | Permalink | Comments

Do you remember Basic? I think it was called Basic. It was a program they taught you in computer science (after you'd passed through Basic Keyboard Usage and File Manager 101, of course, and got on to the cerebral shit) that could do amazing things like make a turtle spell out "shit" if you programmed it correctly. We giggled like arseholes when we did that but I always got sad when I shut the computer down afterwards because I knew I was taking that turtle's life.

Anyway, there were certain functions you could do, such as (and I'm remembering badly here, so if any Basic geeks want to write in and tell me how wrong I are, they can refer themselves to the last sentence in my very first post):

10 Print "Hello"
20 Goto 10

And that would cause an infinite loop that would do amazing things like blow up the computer. I did this a lot until my parents got a call from the school.

Well one time, I hooked it up to a device that could read my brain (because I was so much cooler than those jerks who thought the keyboard was the pinnacle of imput systems) and coded in:

10 Print "Thing I hate"
20 Goto 10

You can imagine how off-the-wall shit got. I hated so much that not only did I blow up the computer in front of me but I also blew up the school. Which was really sad because the canteen made excellent chicken burgers.

Yesterday I went to a controlled computer lab in Berkshire (all the cool kids hang out in Berkshire these days. They have more Starbucks per capita than any other county in the UK, dontchaknow) and repeated the experiment. This time the lab did not blow up and I was forced to use C4 after the fact. But before I did, I printed out the list and carried it home on a helicopter because it was that heavy. This is but 0.01% of the list...

• Paris Hilton
• Perez Hilton
• Lindsay Lohan when she's not acting
• Lindsay Lohan when she's acting
• The Wayans Brothers
• The Wachowski Brothers
• Michael Eisner
• Keira Knightley
• People who think Johnny Depp is the world's greatest actor
• Bono
• People who think Alanis Morissette only released one good album
• The tube
• The buses
• easyJet
• Ryan Air
• Especially Ryan Air
• Wales
• People who say "STFU" on message boards
• People who say "STFU" in real life
• Especially people who say "STFU" in real life
• Will Ferrell
• Ashton Kutcher
• Films starring Ashton Kutcher
• Films starring Ashton Kutcher as a loveable rogue
• Films starring Ashton Kutcher as a loveable rogue with a heart of gold
• Punk'd
• Big Brother
• Celebrity Big Brother
• Love Island
• Celebrity Love Island
• X-Factor
• Celebrity X-Factor Love Island Edition
• Celebrity Big Brother made up of people who became famous for being a contestant in Big Brother
• All other reality TV shows ever made, ever
• Any other television show that features a voting element
• Celebrity shows featuring celebrities no-one has ever heard of
• How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria (work it out yourselves)
• Graham Norton
• Russell Brand
• Pete Doherty
• Kate Moss
• Stories about Pete Doherty and Kate Moss
• People who iron their socks
• Local Radio
• National Radio
• Internet Radio
• Especially Internet Radio
• King of Queens
• Two and a half Men
• Three Sisters
• Snotty teenage chavs who think the world revolves around them
• The brats of Brat Camp
• Brat Camp
• Ryan Reynolds
• Films starring Ryan Reynolds
• Films starring Ryan Reynolds as a cheeky chappy
• Films starring Ryan Reynolds as a cheeky chappy with a heart of gold
• The Crazy Frog
• The Teletubbies
• Mobile Phones with cameras on them
• Sales people who laugh at you when you ask if they still make phones without cameras on them
• Lily Allen
• Keith Allen
• Four Poofs and a Piano
• Heat Magazine
• Magazines that wish they were Heat Magazine
• People that read Heat Magazine and/or magazines that wish they were Heat Magazine
• Parents who think their child's behaviour can be blamed on 9/11
• People who think everything bad that happens in their lives can be blamed on 9/11
• Orlando Bloom
• Harry/Hermione 'shippers
• People who think the world will change if the next Harry Potter book doesn't go their way, 'ship-wise
• Celebrities who think they're above publicising their movie when they go to a premiere to publicise their movie
• Publicists who think they're above publicising their projects
• Daniel Craig
• CraigIsNotBond.com
• livejournal.com
• elephant.co.uk
• confused.com
• Anything else that sells insurance with a domain suffix in their company name
• Sheila's Wheels
• Adverts for Sheila's Wheels
• The MPAA
• Daniel Bedingfield
• The fact that Daniel Bedingfield got a record contract before Natasha Bedingfield
• Films about animals that can talk unless they're done by Pixar and/or Disney more than 20 years ago
• Films about cars that can talk especially if they're done by Pixar
• Britney Spears
• K Fed
• TomKat
• Bennifer
• Brangelina
• People who christened TomKat, K Fed, Brangelina and Bennifer
• Especially Paris Hilton

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 7:50 AM | Permalink | Comments

If I saw that title without this exemplary post explaining it, I would be sceptical. Internet blogger is getting stalked by a woman? Not natural.

First off, Keira Knightley isn't a woman. She's skin attached to a skeleton. You think you can see a shot of her breast in that picture, but if you look closer you'll notice it's stuck on with sticky-back plastic and she learned the technique when she was 12 and they aired that really controversial episode of Blue Peter. I heard a rumour that they didn't use CG for the skeletons in Pirates of the Caribbean, they just took Keira Knightley's skin off and she played two parts and I believe it because it came from a reliable source who I totally trust.

But anyway, she's stalking me. I know I'm a film journalist and it's my job to find these people, but explain this sequence of bizarre encounters:

1. At the premiere of Pride & Prejudice I was behind a velvet rope stood still. She came up to me and started talking to me. NO LIES.
2. I went to a set visit in Wales or someplace that doesn't matter and she wasn't in the film but she was there. SHE WAS THERE, man.
3. At the premiere of Pirates 2 there she was. Right there. I was stood in that velvet rope arrangement again and she came up to me wearing what can only be described as a flannel with her "breasts" dangling in my face (I guess she needed some new SBP) and everything. And she was talking to me all over the shop. AGAIN.
4. Then she was there when I had my allotted interview time with her the next day. She'd turned up.

OK, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking the fact that Keira Knightley happened to fulfil her contractual publicity obligations doesn't mean she's stalking me. And if you're thinking that, refer to the last sentence in my very first post. Does point 2 not mean anything to you people? SHE WASN'T EVEN IN THE FILM.

Now I saw Pride & Prejudice and I hated it, as I was rightly supposed to. They made it because people need movies to hate, I read it in a secret document outlining the plan for making the film. She was as skeletal and crap in it as she was in every film she's ever made ever. She can't act, she just looks pretty (apparently) and gets Oscar nominations. The Bible folk were all like "Apocalypse in the year 2000" but, in fact, they were six years out. When the Oscar nominations were announced, that's when the world ended. We now live in a post-Apocalyptic society which, to me, explains Lily Allen.

But, what can I say, I guess she's taken a shine to me with all these encounters. And so I can't totally hate her because she obviously has impeccable taste.

Nevertheless, I'm taking out a restraining order because this is just getting ridiculous. I hear she's dating Rupert Friend to make me jealous. Apparently no-one told her that I've never heard of Rupert Friend before. If she really wanted to make me jealous she should start dating Gillian Anderson. But if she did that I would be forced to finish her.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 7:10 AM | Permalink | Comments

I'm just about the last person in the world who would ever read Heat. If there were an explosion on the Earth and everyone in the world died tomorrow except me, Heat's readership figures would be less than zero, because I would buy a copy of Heat, photocopy it, and then return both to the newsagents and demand my money back. And then God saw it and saw that it was good.

So why am I starting a blog called "Red Carpet Rumblings" if I hate celebrity culture and everything to do with it? Because the internet makes it OK for me to do so. But, mostly, because I'm a film journalist in good standing and so I spend my days around them and can't help hearing about their boob jobs and face lifts and new albums. Because they tell me about these things as they assume that I am interested.

I'm not interested. If there was a scale of interest, 1 being Not Very Interested and 10 being Very Interested Indeed, I would be at minus 12. Because I'm rebelliously not interested like that.

But they tell me anyway, because that's what famous people like to talk about. When they're not talking about the problems with the government and child poverty that is. And then you get the ones who think the problem with the government is that child poverty exists and they're even more boring, if you can imagine such levels of boredom.

Bono, I'm looking at you. We used to have Mother Theresa. Now we have Bono. Hey Bono, I liked your last album. I maybe listened to Elevation a time too many so that I'm fairly certain that were I ever to see you live I'd be able to sing along to the chorus without a lyric sheet in front of me. But were I to see you live I would no doubt have to endure your lectures about world poverty while waiting for you to sing Elevation. Because apparently paying £100 to see you sing about lifts isn't good enough for you - you jumped up Irish wanker - I have to listen to your thoughts on poverty.

Funny, Bono, 'cos last time I checked the rich lists they told me that you had more money in your bank account than the sum total of the 79,999 other "fans" - and they only call themselves that with the same level of irony as one who would listen to their slightly batty grandmother talk about how the Nazi's stole her cheese - standing around me. But God forbid you could share a bit of your personal fortune - no doubt handsomely supplemented by those iPod ads, because "People have a wroight to cloin warter. And oiPahds." - to fix this poverty crisis you imagine exists because someone told you about it one time. Oh no, let's have a concert to raise "awareness, not money."

Gee, thank God I went to that Live8 thing, because if I hadn't gone to see hundreds of bands play their greatest hits while off my tits on ecstacy and alcohol I would never have known about poverty. I think I'll listen to Elevation on my iPod while I get a taxi home. And then play some Sega. My eyes have truly been opened. I bet all those poverty-stricken souls are thrilled that they have plenty of awareness in their lives now. That's so much more useful than money. You tit.

So, to summarise, I hate Bono because he's richer than me. The poverty lecturing thing is just an excuse. Oh, and this blog is about how much I love and/or hate other people who are richer for me and about how much I really, really, really, really hate Heat magazine for making more money than I do despite being so shit that if I were to use it for toilet paper I would actually be wiping up my shit with someone else's shit. And does that make sense to you? No it doesn't. But I live in the first world (as Bono keeps telling me) and that gives me a right to have a blog in which I bitch about people with more money than me, because that's what the internet was made for and if you don't like it, you can fuck off.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 6:35 AM | Permalink | Comments