The top bun that killed all top buns.

There was much hilarity to be extracted from the two tarts who got caught with a couple of stones' worth of coke in their bags as they made their way through Peru's airport. The best lol of all though was surely Michaella McCollum Conelly's hairdon't, a donutted mega beast that makes it look like she's got another noggin growing on top of her own empty one. She has yet to be pictured over there with a different style. Really, what's she hiding in there? Is it stuck, like Princess Anne's? Perhaps the only thing holding it up is the collective will of an entire nation (Ireland). Let's hope the police did the sensible thing and got Officer Sniffy to give her giant plop knot the once over - though possibly the only suspicous white powder in there is heaves of dandruff. Eww. But we can only pity her. The gobby Northern Irish slattern has bigger things to worry about - like how to avoid the shower block for the next 30 years.

Speaking of dire trend overkill, Cheryl Cole took the tattoo thing further than most by getting her back, sack and crack - and possibly arsehole, too - covered in the sort of design that adorns 18th century canal boats. Sadly it looks more like a huge infected bed sore. No wonder the poor thing can't keep a man for five minutes.*

*Sorry

#famzoned

So remember my Chat shit post about my chats with really annoying, hungry guys on a popular language learning app? Basically, I ended up talking to just one in particular and douchebag is so green he uses his real full name email address as his username - so it only took the top Google result to find out he is married with a baby. This was a few months ago and, as he was far too eager, I put him off by not replying for a few days. He seemed to take an absolute bitchfit at this and I didn't hear from him again for a month or so. 

One day I got bored and thought I'd message him again for shits and giggles, and a while later got a reply with all insecure shit about how he thought I was bored with him blah blah. Anyway, we've talked loads since then. He is of a nationality I have always found fascinating and exotic but boy has he put me right off them. He's taken the magic away. He is so boring and self-centred, ranting on and on about how awful his dad was to him and other topics that really shouldn't be brought up on a popular chat app. Our chats are so mundane it actually makes me LMAO. I make up tons of crap to tell him, because little white lies hardly compare to a wife now, do they? It was funny when I asked him if he would stay in the UK for a long time and he was like, "It's actually a tricky question because I met someone over here and we had a child. But we don't get on and are breaking up." 

Let me assure you, one look at his wife's FB page tells me that is very much not the case. They look like any other annoyingly smug, lovey-dovey couple who can't stop putting their baby as their profile pic. I suppose I could end his marriage, all it would take is some screenshots and one email to wifey. JK. I'm not going to do that because he annoys the shit out of me. She must be blind, deaf and dumb not to see what an epic c-to-the-unt her chap really is. She seems totally blinded by the "OMG look everyone, a hot-blooded foreigner fancies me" apsect that a lot of women get taken over by. It's not something I understand - a twat is a twat no matter the accent. I actually enjoy showing him how much I don't care about the stupid, cheesy compliments he showers me with - shit like: "Men should have to queue up to be able to talk to you", "You're so funny/clever/cute" and that we have so much in common we must be soul mates. As if, bastardo. He even acted like he had never heard of my first name before, going, "OMG such a beautiful name, I love it" - but I know for a fact it's also his wife's BFF's name. Ha ha ha.

I totally get it, his wife's past 40 while he's 34, she looks like shit since she had a baby and can't stop going on about breastfeeding. It's exciting to talk to a girl like me in my 20s, impulsively nipping to Gregg's, going HAM over the new Jay Z album. My world is completely different to his. Men are men and they like excitement in their lives. If you stop washing and can't get over the fact you had a baby, of course a man is going to want to cheat. It's dumb to pretend otherwise. Maybe I should send this blog post to his wife.

Anyway, I may or may not have invented a new way of srsly putting him off me. I like to call it putting him in the famzone. I continually call him "my brother from another mother" and tell him how much he is like my brothers. Trust me, it works. It makes men feel too weird to want to sleep with you any more. Brills.

Master baker indeed

There's something deeply weird about people who get off watching TV chefs prep food, imagining rudies as Nigella, Jamie et al kneed their buns and lick dripping tomato juice from their well-oiled fingers. Granted, Mr Oliver can't even traverse a kitchen without chuntering one of his dribbly innuendoes but really now. Your love life has to be seriously barren to get turned on by someone with a utensil in one hand and a tea towel in the other. Greg Wallace? I'd rather slit my own throat. But you know what Mumsnetters are like. Paul Hollywood takes the current top spot in this genre - or at least he did until he started doing the old pestle and mortar with some random and everybody's fantasy died a little. 

Mr "not big in" Hollywood became an overnight baking reality TV behemoth UK-side and, quite creepily, his delicate ways with the dough translated into raw sex appeal for Middle Britain housewives. He was burly yet gentle at the mixing bowl, a Mary Berry charmer, his soft Scouse accent just rough enough, eyes of chipped ice. His wife and child put him in the safe fantasy zone, while his stinging culinary critiques added a potent layer of mystique. 

The Beeb got cock-sure and sent the darling of Bella magazine across the pond where his reality-buns format flopped, though he found solace in the arms of his none too special co-host, Marcela Valladolid, and all with a wedding ring on his finger. Gulp.

Suddenly everybody came to and noticed Paul's debonair beard was actually a silly little grey goatee, that his paunchy, short stature and 36C boobs held little charm, and that his aloof "I'm going to judge your cupcakes till the tears run down your face" persona was actually rude and annoying. And during his Marbella rendezvous with Marcela (pictured above), her son and his friend, and a huge gang of their chums - classy - he came up for air in, oh no, mirrored sunglasses that screamed Hulk Hogan '95. Dead? The fantasy was buried. He even risked stealing the tabloid title of the man known as Love Rat Darren Day for the last twenty years.

Yes, it turned out we'd all been looking at Paul through the circus mirror TV affords its talent show judges, a lethal combo of good lighting and power, whereby something quite average is distorted into an icon. Someone I know met him not so long ago, around the time he capitualted entirely in fact, and not only was he a rude prick who flounced off mid-pleasantry, he also drives a life crisis Aston Martin with a stupid number plate like "BAK3R B01" or something. 

It took a hard dose of red-top speculation to reveal the real man and let us glimpse the mega ego that lurks beneath. I suspect all this is a mere blip in the nation's affection for El Hollywood, and that after the first episode of the new series of GBBO next week they will all be back to imagining him massaging their baps. 

Frankly you'd be better off dreaming about a bearded Jeremy Paxman brutalising you over the Aga.

Kirstie Fills Your House For Free

"Hello poor people! It's realleh very easeh to fill your house for free. All you do is phone Harrods and say, 'Hi, this is Kirstie Allsopp, I need some things,' and they bring a lorry-load to the estate within the hour. Totes brill!"