An insider's look at the glamorous world of the celebrity through the ever watchful eyes of a fictitious showbiz reporter...

Published on my MySpace and collated here.

Chris' Claws 23
Saturday February 9th 2008

Which hot blooded celebrity chef uses his left over sauces from his exclusive London restaurant to cover himself whilst performing on webcam to anonymous pieces of puff pastry around the world?

Considering that the pig gear lover scours various adult chatrooms for other oiled up fusion followers to share in his unusual fetish, I’m surprised that he hasn’t marinated himself into a tender piece of rump by now. Even if his sausage in batter has been shrivelled up from all that deep fat frying.

Though going by his hits counter on his profile on www.dudesandfood.com, it seems that the middle aged chef will remain raw and in the fridge for sometime. Well it’s not surprising as he looks as if he’s been bobbing for chips.

If you’re going to show the world and its mother your balanced diet: a hamburger in each hand and a bun clamped around your frankfurter covered in mustard and onions, then please do it in style. Experiment with food by all means. That’s what expected from a top international chef. But the sight of nouveaux cuisine across a flabby hairy chest is not everyone’s cup of tea.

And if I’m tempted to eat in your establishment, please remind me of this saying. The hair of the dog is one thing, but hair of the moose?

I shall say no more!

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Chris' Claws 22
Thursday 31st January 2008 

Poor J.J. Morgan. Desperate to be clean for his 'come back' performance at this year's Brit Awards, the fading rock star has checked himself into The Chandler Clinic for the 'Don't Do Drugs' detox programme and for the spiritual colour therapy treatment that's to aid inspiration, clarification and to realign the aura's imbalance and impurities.

According to my sources, the northern rocker has been ordered by his record company, 'Deadly Nightshade', to sort himself out from his downward spiral of self abusive behaviour which he tends to live out in the headlines of the tabloids.

Apparently, I've heard that if there are any more mess ups, his re-launch will be cancelled, his contract will be ripped up and he will be kicked up the arse so hard that his piles will end up in his mouth to resemble a cluster of grapes trapped within in his veneers.

Ironic as that may sound, the organisers at The Brits have already booted him off their play list. Not just because in previous years where J.J. has caused so much trouble back stage with all the other artistes that he had to be segregated into another part of the complex, but now, his fellow artistes refuse to acknowledge him. He thinks they respect him so much, that they are treating him like a Rock God. How deluded can one person be?

So much so, that prior to this year's event, a clause in everyone's contracts, co written and motioned by all the relevant agents regarding their clients, has been added, stating that if J.J. plays at the show, the other stars can and will refuse to perform and can, and will walk out at anytime, even if it means they will be sued by the production company.

It's one thing for A-List stars to have hissy fits and diva demands about what colour dressing rooms they must have and at what temperature their water must be. But it's another thing when there are millions of pounds at stake, invested in a brand that's world famous for producing a well oiled show bursting with talent, pizzazz and a bit of controversy.

Annoyed for having to succumb to any rock legends' demands as their Calvin Klein covered balls were clamped tight in a proverbial leather studded glove, the organisers had no choice but to drop J.J. as if he was a used tissue from a one night stand who had a chronic case of crabs clamping around the castanets.

It's a shame that nobody has told J.J. yet. He's completely unaware of what's going on. I've heard that the poor schmuck has been going on for days about his new album, the fabulous launch party and all the fit girls he's going to bed.

Sadly there's not going to be a new album. 'Deadly Nightshade' have him under contract for a three month trial period with only a single release in that time span. That's if, if his performance went well at The Brits. And, unfortunately, that's not going to happen.

I do feel sorry for J.J. It must be hard for a rock legend to have fallen so low. I mean, he had a huge following back in the eighty's and nineties. Numerous platinum discs, top hierarchy in the celebrity status and plenty of fans that adored him, worshipped him and would do anything for him. Now all he has left are memories and dreams.

But that's what happens when fame goes to a person's head. Without the right people around for grounding, support and love, too much sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll will take its toll on anyone, however strong they maybe.

But one thing's for sure. I'm going to have a blast at The Brits this year. Oh what fun it will be as I partake in the free Bollinger whilst sitting at one of the top tables surrounded by the best in the music industry and watch a fantastic line up on stage.

Would you like to swap places with me? I should co-co!

Although, we all know someone who would. Don't we?

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Chris' Claws 21
Friday 11th January 2008  

Paul Sawyer, the 22 year old actor from Majestic Television's top soap, Studio 7, has been given top billing as the centre spread in a magazine this month.

And? So what's wrong with that? Nothing, that's what we expect to find in our celebrity hungry culture: a glittering, never ending showbiz conveyer belt that spews out stars, wannabes and has beens, all desperate to be photographed by the paparazzi.

Except that this minor star, doesn't want to belong to that gang of I-love-me-who-do-you-love at the moment. He wants to blend into the background and be unrecognizable. Incognito. But that's not going to happen.

You see, Paul is headline news.

Caught on a camera phone with nothing on except for a manky old football top in the back of his silver Hyundai Coupe, Paul's contorted body is featured heavily in Guvn'r, an alternative lifestyle magazine for the mature man.

This is not what Paul had envisioned when he and his friend thought that they had found a secluded spot deep in the woods for a fixture or two. When in fact, they had parked in the centre of a notorious dogging area in the heart of Epping Forest.

Poor lads. The pictures will certainly raise a few eyebrows and Jockey shorts around the world.

And if Paul plays his cards right, he could make a fortune out of this experience and become a bigger star than any other good looking actor that graces our screens.

Then again. As he's not the brightest bulb in the box, he's easily going to become another chewed up statistic that's destined for years of obscurity as tomorrow's fish and chips paper.

So Paul, if you don't grab the bull by its horns, you'd better get used to your face being splattered with salt and vinegar as millions of people say, 'Would you like them open or wrapped?'

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Chris' Claws 20
Monday 04th December 2007  

British fashion designer, Philippe Mercredi, was taken into hospital last night after crashing his brand new Lamborghini into the back of property tycoon Marcus Rayman-Legg's Porsche.

Not only is the outrageous, 'Designer Of The Year', suffering from a blow to the head, but the poor sucker is undergoing treatment to reconstruct his manhood, mangled by a model's perfect pair of capped porcelains.

Unfortunately, I can't give you a blow by blow account of what happened outside in the car park, due to the fact that I was wedged against the free bar at VIP! Magazine's annual Black And White Ball with a glass of Bollinger clasped in one hand whilst TV presenter Bradley Walters and international rock producer Avon Duke shouted over the milky tones of pop diva Charmaine Crystal's new release, 'Whispers In Tears', about the pressures of being famous. But my spies tell me that Philippe was chomping at the bit, having vacuumed a mountain of Colombia's finest marching powder before leaving the celebrity strewn party.

But I must say, that even though his brain wasn't on this planet, it's a good job he was sensible enough to wear some sort of protection. Only that sort of protection, his seat belt, didn't save the sexual predator from obtaining a torn todger.

Its a pity that his brainless, though glamorous companion didn't follow the trend, for once. If only she had been more careful, the stick insect wouldn't have to take a trip to the dentist and forgo several exclusive contracts, including a mega deal with an international cosmetic company, due to her gnarled gnashers.

Well I think Philippe should foot the dentist bill as he was to blame, wasn't he? If he had kept his eyes on the road and not on the top of the blonde's head, he wouldn't be in this predicament, would he?

Saying that, his comeuppance has been coming for a long time. I mean, it's great to be irresponsible on the runway, but not on the highway.

Come on Philippe. You know what you have to do. Check into rehab, detox those demons and sort yourself out.

Being a living legend is one thing, but being a dead one is so last season!

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Chris' Claws 19
Monday 22nd October 2007

Which sharp suited politician is living in a fantasy world of champagne dreams but on a Shandy shoestring?

According to the rumours floating around Celebrity Ville, all that glitters is not gold, as the smooth talking, silver haired man is on the brink of becoming bankrupt, even if he still has a £2m sprawling estate in Surrey tucked under his paunch.

True, his beautiful house, professionally decorated by Lady Georgina Whitestaff, a top interior designer, is poised for the likes of Hello!, OK! and VIP! Magazines to pop around for the obligatory photo shoot. But that will only happen in three rooms: the drawing room, kitchen and bedroom. The rest of the mansion is a dilapidating shell, a skeletal structure containing essential pieces of furniture that cling to the bones of the overbearing carcass like leeches to rotting skin.

And now that his Hugo Boss blinkers have finally fallen away from his grey temples, the perma-tanned politician has been forced to keep up the payments on his house by selling his beloved Aston Martin, his Rolex and the family's stunning châteaux that's situated in the heart of Provence.

But to his annoyance, his shopaholic wife refuses to recognise their family famine and continues to spend a fortune as if there's going to be a drought in Dior.

So whilst she continues to sport the latest £2,000 handbag from the crook or her Cartier clad arm, the politician, imprisoned by his dutiful public image and his inability to control his wife's hunger for a more glamorous lifestyle, ploughs his way through the muck racking tabloid headlines by the only way he's been trained to do. And that's by flashing his perfectly orchestrated HOPPS: Houses Of Parliament Plastic Smile.

And with a blood thirsty mob of young contenders chomping at his black leather Savile Row Company brogues, it seems its going to get even darker for our friend, according to the pre-election referendums. Well, he should have upheld his policies and not have neglected his constituents, shouldn't he?

Poor sod. He had such a promising career when he first started out. But then the monsters, Mr Greed and Mr Power possessed him and his good intentions disappeared for the chase of fame and fortune.

I wonder what he'll get from his colleagues as a leaving present? The Learndirect phone number embossed on a gold card perhaps? A chance to swap his demanding, high maintenance wife for silent, yet useful blow up doll? Well he's used to a lot of hot air. Or a set of keys for another addition to his property portfolio, a mouldy old caravan parked underneath the bowels of Spaghetti Junction?

But whatever he gets, it won't be a memorable as what I'm going to give him. What? I hear you cry. Yes, that's right. I'm going to give him a leaving present too.

Don't worry. It's not going to be extravagant. All I'm going to do is give him a cheap plastic pen that I will pick up from the local bank the next time I'm in there.

And what's with the kind gesture? It's so that he can practice his autograph.

We'll he's going to need it when he signs on the dole next week, won't he?

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Chris' Claws 18
Monday 17th September 2007

Is healthy living all that it's cracked up to be? I'm not sure, but Benedict Menova, Majestic TV's health and fitness guru believes so. And so he should, as that's what he tells his avid viewers each week on his Menova's Makeover TV show.

I expect you think that a fitness regime is paying a fortune to go to a plush gym for a couple times a week or prance about in front of the TV, following a perfectly groomed, money grabbing size zero Z list celebrity who struts about in their lycra clad body armour in front of a troupe of toned dancers?

Well, Benedict believes that too, in his own peculiar way, as he has his own work out DVDs stacked up high on the supermarket shelves, all ready for the Christmas rush.

But the muscle bound gym bunny doesn't just pump iron like anyone else. In fact, he prefers to work out in a much more avant-garde way.

Not content on having to share his health and fitness knowledge with his loyal army of housewife fans, who all fantasise about what they would like to do with the six foot, blond hunk behind their suburban lace curtains, Benedict also likes to share his bodily fluids with the caring, sharing what's-mine-is-yours fraternity when he visits his exclusive 'health' club, Penny Tration's.

Though I wouldn't call it a health club, more like a setting for uber rich adults who appreciate an alternative way of exercising and socialising without having their Norland Nannies scowl at them whilst trusted up like masked vacuumed packed PVC clad turkeys in slings made from leather and chains.

Going for the burn is one thing, but hanging from the rafters with hot wax dripping onto his tossed salad is defiantly not what I have in mind when he tells us to 'reach for the stars!'

And when Benedict tells us there's 'no gain without pain', I shall smile sweetly as I sip my Bollinger in front of the TV, knowing that the phrase has a different spin to it these days.

Well you can keep his DVDs. I'm not into the healthy lifestyle as yet, which I'm sure you can gather. I can happily live with a few extra pounds for now. No one's going to see my love handles when I perch my Calvin Klein covered bottom on the dimly lit banquettes which are hidden behind a wall of champagne flutes.

And anyway, I do enough exercising on a nightly basis when I jump out of all those black cabs and dodge the Rolex and Cartier bling from damaging my nocturnal complexion as I dart into the VIP corners of exclusive nightclubs, where whispering lips, viscous tongues and scandalous gossip await my hungry ears.

What more can a showbiz reporter want?

Now that's a loaded question, isn't it?

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Chris' Claws 17
Thursday 06th September 2007

Using the same scenario to fool the paparazzi, which Hollywood A-Lister rolled out of Tantra night club the other night with two women clinging onto his third leg, only to discard them for a ‘pick me up’ that lurked in one of the fast food joints on Piccadilly Circus?

Not wanting to soil himself with the female liggers, the all action hero tossed the disgruntled girls onto his leeching entourage and turned his attentions to the bit of trade who was more than happy to guzzle down his bottle of Bollinger.

Then as soon as he was used and abused by the 19 year old scally, the Hollywood hunk threw him out of his limousine and back onto the streets with a bundle of notes protruding from his tight Levis jeans.

I’m surprised that his Grammy Award winning pop star wife hasn’t found out about his ‘spiritual enlightenment’ jaunts to London. But then again, why should she care when she plays away from home too!

Apparently, his love of rent boys is the best kept secret on the showbiz circuit, especially when there’s always one by his side, known to all as his ‘personal trainer’. That’s why he treats his body like a temple, making sure that there’s a queue of rancid rent boys eager to penetrate his sanctuary, kneel down between the pews and worship at his alter. And I bet his ‘congregation’ have to clean his organ and keep it in tune too!

Although I’ve heard on the grapevine that his instrument isn’t as shiny and tuneful as it used to be. It seems that the mechanical marvel that it once was, is now flat, dull and needs some outside stimulation and chemical intervention to get it back up on form.

I’ve always wondered why the actor walked funny in his films and on the red carpet as though he’s got ants in his pants. But I don’t think you can call them ants, do you?

Now that explains everything.

Now we all know the real reason why the actor looks as if he’s been riding a horse, don’t we?

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Chris' Claws 16
Saturday 18th August 2007

It’s no wonder that rock producer, Avon Duke is back on the lash. Having found out that her husband, rock singer Turq Acer from the band Radical Alliance, has been dipping his dinky dipstick in a twenty something, peroxide blonde’s paint pot, the affair has sent the recovering alcoholic back to square one.

From what I’ve heard, I’m surprised that the coke head’s manhood hasn’t changed colour yet from all that midnight poking about within the eager to please groupie’s creosote covered crevice, which is apparently so dark and crusty from having been out in the sun for too long, the girl looks as if she’s sporting a slither of Dunlop between her legs instead of a neatly trimmed lady garden.

I’m not being funny love, but you should have used some decent SPF lotion instead of baby oil. I know us guys like to jump on a bouncy castle once in a while, but if we’re going to be sick, then we’d appreciate a receptacle to do it in and not splash it all about over a hard surface.

But on the other hand, if the fading rocker had covered up from the splatters of love like he was told to do by one of his roadies, then Turq, real name Tarquin, wouldn’t have caught something distasteful on his over exposed piece of flesh and have to be secretly treated by a STD doctor.

I do feel sorry for Avon as she’s such a lovely, caring woman who’d do anything for a friend. But don’t be fooled by her generous nature. Yes, the five foot five beauty may look fragile and innocent. But underneath that immaculate designer exterior, the Smirnoff breathing dragon certainly knows how to stand up for herself. Never, ever cross Avon Duke as she packs one hell of a punch!

And knowing that, it never puts Turq off his business. It must be a masochistic kind of thing. A never ending cycle of lust, fear and pain. He’ll never learn though. He’s far too set in his old ways to change now. And anyway, he never listens to his brain, only to his shrivelled up balls.

But that doesn’t stop Avon from teaching him a thing or two. And she certainly knows how to hurt her philandering husband, and that’s by using his Black American Express Card at Cartier and Van Cleef & Arpels.

If he thinks it’s ok to be hit in the wallet, I shudder to think what he classes as painful! Ouch!

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Chris' Claws 15
Friday February 23rd 2007

To the amusement of her jazzed up travelling companions who frolicked about in the back of a black taxi, which pint sized WAG hitched up her Julien Macdonald gown and did an impromptu lady sprinkle into her Chloe Paddington bag the other night?

Considering that she had only just left one of London's fashionable showbiz haunt's, Noo Noo's, why didn't the perma-pouting red head release her bladder properly in the nightclub's V.I.P. washrooms?

Why? Because the married woman was far too busy jigging about in one of the lavish men's cubicles with a scrawny blonde guitarist from a top boy band, that's why.

If the shoppaholic used her Louis Vuitton monogrammed brain and did her business in the proper manner, instead of plucking the petrified guy's plectrum with her two-timing, hungry front bottom, then she wouldn't have to bare her knicker-less, air conditioned unit and ruin a perfectly good bag, would she?

But does she care? What do you think? With her mountain of money burning a hole in the ozone layer, the first division wife certainly knows how to spend a penny. In more ways than one!

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Chris' Claws 14
Friday November 17th 2006

Shocking TV Land with her new dramatic image, soap actress Savannah Lake shimmered with shame on the red carpet this week at the VIP! Magazine TV awards, sporting a long sequin head scarf that covered up her black cropped hair.

And thank goodness she did!

Due to several mistakes with the hair dye and a drugged up, scissor happy friend, Savannah is suffering from what we called in the industry a 'Worzel Gummidge', complete with scabby scalp syndrome. But what seems to have cost her more pain to her Prada purse, is that she has been savagely dropped from her golden advertising deal with eco friendly label, Star Shampoo, along with her long luscious blonde bangs of curls that line the bottom of the rubbish bin.

I don't think her personal hair stylist is too pleased with her either. He's going to kill her when he gets his philandering hands on her. That is, once they've recovered from their usual one-on-one-romp-in-the-towels consultation in the Mayfair salon's backroom.

But that's not all for the social climbing starlet. With her scarlet scalp beaming like a beacon across the glossy pages of the weekly magazines, Savannah's not only suffering from a bad hair day, but her cuckolded husband, top comedian Danny Richard, has started divorce proceedings and is believed to receive a pretty penny. I gather they didn't make a pre-nuptial agreement then? How quaint!

So succumbed to wearing different types of hats and hair pieces to cover up the hair raising experience, it won't be long before the nation can sigh with relief when we see Savannah gracing our screens in our favourite soap, Studio 7.

But I wonder what happened in that bathroom that day? Why didn't her husband stop her from what she was doing? Could their possibly be any added ingredients in the hair dye as she wasn't quite 'with it' when she was playing with the home kit? Or was it just a simple mistake made by a simple girl?

Whatever it was, she's certainly in a bit of a lather now, isn't she?

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Chris' Claws 13
Friday October 27 th 2006

Living up to the Prima Donna, fag hag that she is, soul diva Charmaine Crystelle screamed the house down at the UK film premier of Diamonds Don't Die last week in the middle of a crowed Leicester Square.

Stealing the limelight from the film's leading man, heart throb Danny Randall, the wig wearing star monopolised the paparazzi as she not only swanned down the red carpet in a stunning white, Swarovski encrusted, Olivia Charlotte original full length gown, but next to her tottered the ultimate showbiz fashion accessory; Miffy, her fluffed up white Pomeranian.

Oblivious that a poor flunky had to follow behind the pampered pooch and pick up Miffy's little soggy golden nuggets with his handkerchief, Charmaine continued her publicity parade until a beefed up security guard thrusted his hand into her reconstructed face and stated, 'No dogs allowed!' I wonder which one he was talking about?

Not accustomed of being greeted with a 'No', the international singer let out a string of expletives, which can only be heard after the nine o'clock watershed, as she violently attacked the stunned guard with her red nylon talons that were attached firmly to her Cartier clad wrinkly fingers.

With the conflict caught on camera, Charming Charmaine stormed out of the festivities and back into her waiting limousine, dragging the miniature yellow brick road maker behind her.

It's a pity that she didn't step into the sparkling foyer and meet a diamond drapped Lily Savage look-a-like, who was there to meet and greet the VIP's. I'm sure they would have lots to talk about, like swapping phone numbers of their wig makers. Charmaine can do with a new syrup as I believe it wagged it's tail at me.

Hey Charmaine. Let me have a word with the fabulous Paul O'Grady and see if he can spare some clippings from his dogs Olga and Buster. As they're only tiny, you won't need much fur to cover that bald head of yours. Then again, as your head's the size of a small country, we'd better shave Digby, the biggest dog in the world! What a hair raising thought!

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Chris' Claws 12
Friday October 13th 2006

Whilst having lunch at Ishy's restaurant with my friend, the recently crowned 'Hairdresser Of The Year', I have to admit that I enjoyed her delicious backstabbing gossip as it flowed from her perfectly painted Lancôme's lips and penetrated the sparkling bubbles of my Bollinger as they popped over the glitterati audience.

As her white, venomous veneers flashed with malice, the woman, who shall remain nameless, told me in the strictest of confidence and not to print a word of her story, even though her Cartier clad fingers were obviously crossed, about her husband's alternative behaviour in the bedroom department. Would I go against my friend's wishes? No. But then she did have her fingers crossed, didn't she?

Making sure no one was listening to our conversation, as she wanted me to have the showbiz scoop, the beautiful brunette told me about the going's on at her husband's lavish 45th birthday party that happened a few weeks ago. As I was there, the party was fabulous, but what my friend told me will make you curl up and dye.

Held at The Grange Hotel in Notting Hill, the husband, who is also a celebrity hairdresser with a showbiz clientele that's as long as his black, flowing hair, left his party early, claiming that he had a headache.

Lowering her voice somewhat as she continued with her story, she then went on to say that she went upstairs to see if he was alright. Expecting to find him in bed in a darkened room, the Essex Boy was chained up in her bed wearing her La Perla underwear, as a 60 year old leather clad man stood over him in a pair of 6 inch high animal print boots, so this season, and welding one of their own 'branded' hot curling tongs and a hand held whisk!

Confirming her suspicions that the trust up turkey was having an affair, she was surprised to find it was with the handy man who serviced their UK salon dryers. Would sir like a blow dry with that?

Not put off by the shocking scene, the woman threw out the old man, grabbed the hot tongs and clamped The Rocky Horror Show wannabe's straightening iron in the metal contraption and squeezed it with all her might.

Screaming in agony, well you would if you had a hot piece of equipment ruin your shampoo and set, the man pleaded for her forgiveness. But the woman didn't listen.

Apparently, as he struggled on the bed, the woman pulled out her mobile phone and took several 'glamour' shots, for insurance purposes of her strapped down beloved, before executing an extreme financial make over on him.

Wanting the over processed crimper to suffer for his huge faux pas, the woman happily gloated to me as she cut into her sausage and mash, that she demanded a bigger 'perm'anent percentage of profits from their international salon chain, their successful retail product range and their London and New York training academies.

Not in a position to argue about her fringe benefits, the perma tanned stylist agreed immediately to her ball breaking conditions. Can you imagine if he hadn't? Ouch! I shudder to think.

Pleased that the deal is finalized and the contracts have been signed by both parties, my friend is now looking much happier, healthier and wealthier. Unlike her poor husband. What? I hear you cry. Are they still married? Yes. But just. I don't think the crispy crimper could afford a divorce. He has already put his prices in his Mayfair salon up to pay hush money from keeping the photos off the internet.

And if the pictures are something to go by, I saw them over our incredible dessert, he'd certainly make a few hand held friends shout for joy with his lacy wrapped fried chicken plastered on some dodgy website.

What an advertising campaign that would make?

Herrington's ceramic heat range. Don't be tied down to the same style!

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Chris' Claws 11
Sunday September 17th 2006

Having seen Honeysuckle Rayman-Legg in a position only her gynaecologist should be privy to, can seriously change your perspective about the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Considering that Honeysuckle was a guest at her friend's, rock chick Natalia Rundelle's 18th birthday party held at Below The Belt, a dungeon style nightclub where cyber Goths and punk bunnies pound their multicoloured peacock plumed heads about to mechanical music in cages laden with whips and chains, it didn't take long for Honeysuckle to steal the limelight and eclipse Natalia's moment of glory.

Doing the spread eagle under a battered table, the sleeping socialite gave the alternatively dressed party crowd a bit more than they had bargained for.

Not only was Honeysuckle's Anne Summer's maid outfit hitched up around her miniscule waist, perfectly framing her triangular trimmed privet that hid behind Melody Starr's 'Red Carpet' black lacy g string which was strung across her knees like a poised catapult, waiting to twang her thang.

But she had one manicured hand clasped around the neck of an empty vodka bottle whilst the other one was trapped within the flies of a brainless, flaked out male model's trousers. Talk about being ambidextrous!

I bet her daddy, property tycoon Marcus Rayman-Legg is proud of his 'talented' daughter. Especially when he has spent a small fortune on her to have piano lessons. Well, they've certainly paid off as she's mastered that famous tune, 'The Five Finger Shuffle' from having tickled hundreds of ivories to create an explosive crescendo!

Let's hope there'll be many more tunes to come out from the old fiddler.

Though being classically trained by the best that money can buy, she has done well for herself. I mean, staying back to do extra studies hasn't saved her quaver.

With eager teachers on hand, she has learnt to blow many trumpets under their tutorial guidance. So much so, she has racked up enough members of her exclusive club to form her own brass band that's as big as The Royal Philharmonic. What a mouth gasping achievement.

Saying that, if she continues to study crotchets long and hard, she'll be well on her way to have a whole orchestra under her.

Silly me. That's already happened.

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Chris' Claws 10
Friday September 8th 2006

Heidi Green, casting director to London's major West End musicals, was caught, somewhat unaware, at her best friend, Trudi Lane's birthday bash at the exclusive Ishy's restaurant this week.

Knocking back the free Bollinger and Vodka and Red Bull like 'Greased Lightning,' the petite star maker, who sat opposite me, gave a unique performance of one of Andrew Lloyd Webber's classic musicals, as Joseph's technicoloured vomit covered coat gushed out of her mouth and onto everyone's previously delicious dessert.

Devastated by her platter sized sick gracing the table, Heidi paid for everyone's meal before her Starlight Express exit. Well, it would have been Wicked of her to have left everyone feeling Les Misérables, wouldn't it?

And anyway, Heidi wouldn't dream of doing anything like that. She's the most generous person in this industry that I know. If she had a Spamalot of money, she would share it with you. No questions asked.

But I don't know why Heidi would want to share her Whistle Down The Wind with us? The lush can normally hold her drink. So what went wrong?

Perhaps she's on one of those fad fingers-down-the-throat-and-chuck-up-to-a-slimmer-you kind of diet? Or possibly she's swallowed something dodgy that her boyfriend had given her earlier that day? Or most probably, she's overdosed on toxins in her liquid diet which has caused a chemical reaction with the previous salty substance that's still swilling about in her stomach.

Whatever she's on, I don't think that top agent, Trudi Lane will want another present like that in a hurry. A pearl necklace or a ruby ring perhaps. But not a regurgitated puke print top.

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Chris' Claws 9
Tuesday September 5th 2006

Taking a quick pit stop in the gents at Noono's nightclub, I was surprised to see Lee Phillips, Formula One racing driver still standing from partying all night, having won the Dane Archer Foundation charity race.

Although given that the womanizing, multi millionaire always looks immaculate and polished in the papers and magazines, it was such a disappointment to see the style icon looking chequered out and dishevelled.

That's not surprising as the petrol head and his friend, rock star Pikk Freshman had been speeding along a set of white lines, and I'm not talking about the ones in the road!

Not only did the tanked up pair openly snort Charlie up their already decomposing noses, but Pikk's fiancée, teen rebel Anastasia Planter-Bloom popped in and joined the men in the disabled cubicle for a lap of honour.

I wonder who was in pole position in that threesome? Did Anastasia have a grandstand view over the men? Or did their champagne bottles burst and dampen the celebrations?

Whatever happened, the well know saying is correct. Everything comes in threes!

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Chris' Claws 8
Friday September 1st 2006

Travelling first class back to London on a high speed Virgin train, legendary TV presenter Serena Goldmaster was far too busy bobbing up and down behind the seats with her secret girlfriend to notice me pummelling away at my laptop.

Instead of munching on the salad that sat before her, the 50 year old vegetarian noisily munched away at her lover's all American beef curtains, to the delights of a blushing twenty something year old business man who's pinstripe encased playmate spurted its appreciation for the floor show. Flange for the memory, I believe?

Considering that Serena's image is, somewhat 'family orientated', I'm surprised that the showbiz veteran would dare to soil her perfect persona with her rendition of doing Beaver Las Vegas in such a public arena.

It's a good job that her TV crew weren't there to surprise someone with their regular reunited-with-the-family slot for her top rated show, Serena's Summertime Special.

Can you imagine the look on Serena's face if she had been caught? It would be rather fanny. I mean funny! But I don't think that she would have been too embarrassed. Far from it. In certain circles, the lady garden grazier is known for openly lap up tart's, tart's sauce, eat fish fricassee and stuff her face with muffins.

Well I hope she's not going to be the cabaret when we both go to a charity bash next week. I understand that she's presenting the event, and she will do it magically as usual, but I hope she'll refrain from the finger dips until the evening is over. Any more battering the cod will surely affect the ice cream on her pancake.

It's like mixing the grape and the grain. Do it at your own risk! Until I see you next Tuesday Serena, front bottoms up!

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Chris' Claws 7
Thursday August 24th 2006

Premier league footballer Martin Mingley and his stunning wife, Fallon, were arguing not so discreetly in the VIP lounge at Noo Noo's nightclub the other night about another one of his unabashed front page sordid affairs.

This time, the poor lad has really put his size ten, sponsored by Reebok boot in.

Apparently, as I happened to have been standing within ear wagging distance of the spitting couple, his wife has just found out that he has fathered a child by a media hungry space cadet from the million pound, hyped up, mega flop TV show, Model Moments.

Considering his past disposable conquests, his latest fling has certainly caught the sex crazed man offside.

Not only is the gold digger intent on fleecing him of every penny he has, and he has plenty to go around, but she is also going to cash in on the birth by doing the rounds with her kiss and tell story. Classy!

Well don't look this way, as VIP! Magazine doesn't want your trashy tale to dirty out fabulous magazine, even if your unscrupulous PR guru is begging us for the exposure. Sorry love. If you're desperate for fame and fortune, try somewhere else.

There are plenty of shelves stacked with sad rags who'll be eager to print your pap. So don't tout your business our way or my editor will gladly crush you from a mighty height and burst those two silicone weapons of mass destruction with her spiky Jimmy Choo's.

And anyway, your scam isn't going to work as one of my reliable sources has told me that the baby isn't Martin's after all. Well Martin, in an odd way, you can congratulate yourself on not scoring your first goal this season as the dark haired beauty queen has been seen popping into a sperm bank on numerous occasions. Tut! Tut!

When this hot information zapped across my BlackBerry screen, I immediately told the footballer that he has been given a second chance. But I don't think his wife will see it that way. She's not going to forgive him that easily, knowing her.

Instead of sending him off with a red card, I bet she's going to nutmeg him with a hefty shopping bill on his black card. His black titanium American Express card, that is. That'll teach the striker not to play the field.

So Martin. When your loins are desperate to go into extra time again, think about the consequences and your devoted wife. She'll be watching your every move from the VIP box. And so will the rest of us!

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Chris' Claws 6
Wednesday August 16th 2006

Lounging around the plush indoor swimming pool at The Friary, a luxurious playground for the rich and famous in the heart of the Surrey country set, I drank up numerous showbiz secrets and scandals that slipped out from underneath the fluffy white towels which molly coddle the sanctuary's pampered guests from behind the barricade of my Gucci shades.

For instance, a well known fashion editor from one of my competitor magazines, who's here for her regular liposuction appointment, had no shame in scoffing a large plateful of chocolate delicacies, smuggled in by the gardener. I hope he's charging her a small fortune for the service. She can certainly afford to loose a few pounds. And I'm not talking in the wallet department!

Not only is the gardener lining his bulging pockets from her payments, he's also supplying extras for a certain footballer's wife who's here for her usual alcohol detox programme. The bony, brassy blonde extensions-to-the-hilt WAG, showed us more than we bargained for when she did an impromptu dance routine on one of the dining tables the other night. Let's just say, if the perma tanned lush had fallen on to one of the velvet covered chairs, she would have been stuck to it for days with her Velcro styled muff.

I can't believe that someone who's in such a prominent position would display that amount of abandonment. The publicity hungry shopoholic is known to have an army of PR soldiers telling her what to do, where to go and what to eat. I'm surprised that they haven't said to her, "When you're drunk, flash your bits in front of a reporter. That should fill his column inches."

Saying that, she wasn't the only one letting the fresh air get to their nether regions.

Assuming I was asleep, sorry guys but I saw the whole performance, a major TV executive writhed with pleasure in the Jacuzzi with his rotund stomach breaking the water like a hippopotamus, whilst his bathing partner, a famous young actor, continued to add more bubbles to the hotpot of debauchery.

Sure, discussing your flagging career over an expensive meal with a hound of Papps waiting outside to chomp on their piece of flesh is one thing. But blowing some old guy's trumpet in front of a well connected showbiz reporter is definitely way below the belt.

If you need to get ahead Mr. TV soap star, get a room. Even if it does cost £500 a night. And that's without 'extra' treatments. But you're getting all that for free as the TV executive is footing the bill. So you don't have to worry your little blonde cropped head about that.

Although the old guy should be worried. The TV soap star's 'so called' girlfriend told me, in the strictest confidence that he's a lousy lay. Never mind Mr. TV soap star. Don't let the gossip knock you down. Keep your pecker up.

With that titbit poised for publishing and with all the 'behind locked doors' stories going on, I must say thank you to all the wonderful staff at The Friary, who have made my stay as comfortable and relaxing as possible. Even if my lap top didn't have a holiday, as it's been working overtime with the gossip mill running on full throttle.

But having had such a fabulous time that weekend, especially with all these stories injected in between my aromatherapy massages and fitness training sessions, I believe that I will have to book another stay at The Friary. For research purposes, mind. I don't want to let you, my loyal readers down on the showbiz gossip, do I?

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Chris' Claws 5
Thursday August 10th 2006

Which blonde, motor mouth of a kid's TV presenter has caught a dose of the clap from having a threesome with her rock star boyfriend and his adventurous personal assistant?

The PA in question, has apparently spread the love to her husband, who is one of London's top showbiz accountants. And according to my source, he is the process of suing the leather pants off of the former member of Mid-Drift, UK's top 90's boy band.

That's charming, coming from the accountant who has been databasing the rock star for the past few months underneath his satin spreadsheets, unbeknown to his wife.

Saying that, if the boys have been playing around without any consequences, then who has the PA been seeing behind her husband's back for her to receive that delightful present?

Beats me. But one thing's for sure. If the Carousel of Clowns continues to spiral out of control, then keep an eye on the clinics for a few more celebrity casualties. I'm sure there will be a mountain of bruised egos to come.

Which reminds me of that well known poem:

Swap your partners in the bed,

And ride each other 'till you're red,

Itch and scratch the whole night long,

As no protection is always wrong!

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Chris' Claws 4
Wednesday August 2nd 2006

The grand re-opening of art dealer and queen of the social scene, Phyllis Harrison-Smythe's revamped art gallery, Decoupage on the King's Road, was deemed by many a huge success.

Greeted with a glass of Bollinger and an array of delicious nibbles, curtsey of TV celebrity chef, Maxwell Ontel, I swam through a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and swanned about between the three large rooms, swapping pleasantries with a smattering of famous faces who turned out for a refined, few hours of intellectual conversation.

Admittedly, intellectual conversation was probably way off most peoples agenda that evening as, in my opinion, it was considered to be far too complex for some of the guests' air filled, self centred heads.

As I worked the room looking for some gossip, I managed to have a chat with West End producer Perry Homer about his latest musical, The Demon King. And in the process, I acquired some complimentary tickets for the opening night gala and an invitation to the after show party. Well a party wouldn't be a party without Chris' Claws column from VIP! Magazine there, would it?

But considering that I was there with the crew from VIP! Magazine, the party didn't have any showbiz pazzazz to it. Not wanting to sound bitchy and ungrateful, but this party seemed to lack something and ended up just like every other repackaged and remarketed showbiz bash that I've been to recently.

For instance. At these kind of events, one will undoubtedly stumble across a gaggle of Z list celebrities, all desperate to climb the social ladder whilst trying to fast track their mediocre careers under the influence of alcohol.

Then there are others, who are merely there to be seen. God knows why? With having so many face lifts and Botox injections, the ugly bitches look as if they all have red hot pokers stuck up their tight arses. If I had my way, I'd shove a set of love eggs right up their front bottoms. That'll make them smile!

But what really makes the residents of Celebrity Ville smile, are the freebies that are thrown at them. Celebrities cannot get enough of that. Trust me. I should know. That's why on occasions like this, every tight wad who's ever had their fifteen minutes of fame will crawl out of their crusty beds and chuck on their glad rags, just so they can feast on the free food and drink that's always on offer.

Fighting for a space along one of the buffet tables for 'my' free food and drink, I managed to squeeze in between an odd looking couple: a fat multi millionaire rich bitch and her twining husband, who is still having an affair with his wife's best friend's twenty year old son. Poor lad. I wonder what he sees in the old guy? Perhaps the reason is hidden in the trouser department? Well he's clearly not after him for his good looks and charm! Do we think that the old guy has money and it plays a part in this relationship? I think so too.

Having grabbed a plateful of crudités, I headed off towards the main room, as a hum of classical music wafted over the arty farty coiffured crowd with heads motioning to each other, not dissimilar to a hound of nodding dogs.

Needing someone to chat to, I sidled up next to a lost looking soul, who was pleased to see a familiar face. As I stood next to the harassed TV presenter, Bradley Walters, I studied the garish pictures from different angles, just as an art lover would, and pretended to know my stuff. But I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking at. Neither did Bradley. So after a series of comedy snipes about the pictures and some of the weird looking guests, we both came to the conclusion that art is in the eye of the beholder.

Though in comparison to the ghastly paintings, interior designer to the stars, Lady Georgina Whitehstaff, had done a stirling job with the décor. By using the crisp, elegant lines of the building as a blank canvas, Lady Georgina has released her inner artist and has created a working masterpiece.

I don't know how she managed to decipher Phyllis eclectic style, but somehow, Lady Georgina did by peppering sumptuous swathes of cream drapes in between the artwork, eliminating the geometry of the perfectly aligned paintings whilst cleverly softening the hard wooden floor underneath our footing.

With spectacular fountains of white lilies cascading out of tall gold jardinières and gold painted chaise-longs scattered in between tiny baroque style tables, Phyllis' take on the gallery's style is, some would viciously say, a Georgian boudoir meets an Essex Wives wedding reception!

Talking of Phyllis, the uber successful fifty five year old business woman looked absolutely stunning in a classic black Chanel suit, which perfectly set off her precision cut asymmetric silver bob.

And being the social butterfly that she is, Phyllis displayed her flirtatiousness by flitting around the room and 'mwah-mwahing' all her guests, making sure that she never left any traces of lipstick on any of the recipients cheeks.

Unlike her sullen looking toyboy. He sulked in the corner of the room all evening, clutching his glass of wine like a baby's bottle. I'm surprised that he's old enough to drink alcohol, let alone be out so late after dark. Well, Phyllis does like her men young. The cradle snatcher!

But what I can't understand is that why would this handsome popular soap actor want to 'see' Phyllis? I mean, she's old enough to be his mother! Isn't she? He could have anyone he wants. So why settle for her?

Saying that, if the rumours are true, the poor lad is contacted by his PR company to spend some time with Phyllis. So much so, that it throws off the scent of his sexuality. The prime time soap in which he stars in, needs him to play it straight for the ratings. That says it all, doesn't it?

Then again, when the PR machine starts rolling, anythings possible. Partnerships are arranged, scandals are twisted out of all proportions and showbiz secrets are swapped from one camp to another, bartered by Machiavellian PR people, only to be momentarily filled away, in earnest for the 'scoop' to be released at the right time on an unsuspecting gossip hungry public.

Putting that aside, it turned out to be a rather pleasant evening. I left with a fabulous goodie bag containing an assortment of Harrods' finest food and drink. What more could I want?

Though having peered at all that contemporary stuff all evening, I'm still not convinced that I've learnt anything about art. What is art? How can I decide if it's art or crap? Who knows? Who cares? As long as I've been fed and watered and have my goodie bag, I'm a happy bunny.

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Chris' Claws 3
Sunday July 30th 2006

If the rumours are true, VIP! Magazine have allegedly paid a handsome sum of money for the footage of two premier league footballers, caught on CCTV playing the field outside the five star hotel, The Grange in Holland Park, in the early hours of Wednesday morning.

Having had the privilege of watching the illicit meeting between the two millionaire footballers, I must say that they knew how to play a good defence by scoring a few home goals.

Thank goodness that the Brazilian's pregnant wife didn't see the graphic display of team building, otherwise she would have gone into labour well before half time.

Look lads. Just because you weren't good enough to be picked for the England squad and play in Germany this year, it doesn't mean that you can do a paddy and run amuck around London. An affair is an affair. And the consequences are far greater than the initial thrill.

So if you want to milk the mid fielders, then get a room guys. Leave the sex scenes to the professionals. They get paid to do that. Apparently, you get paid to play with balls!

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Chris' Claws 2
Thursday July 27th 2006

The launch of the pampered pop pooch, Melody Starr's new lingerie range 'Red Carpet' wasn't what you can call understated. On the contrary. Staged against a back drop of a gothic castle, a bevy of beauties clambered out of a large red satin covered bed, signalling the start of the show.

Housed at the lavish Majestic TV studios on Londons South Bank, La Starr and her record company and sponsor, Deadly Nightshade, didn't scrape the barrel when it came down to throwing money around.

And with a generous donation from the CEO of Majestic TV, David Normanski, we, the guests were entertained with an abundance of food and drink, unlike some fashion houses I could mention, and were given the obligatory converted goodie bag.

Inside The Melody Starr bucket bag, we were given: a bottle of Melody Starr's new perfume 'Lush'. We had a MP3 player with Melody's albums already downloaded on to them. A bottle of Bollinger, a mini Majestic TV logo splattered television. Two 'Red Carpet' outfits and £100 of food gift vouchers to spend at Harvey Nics.

I saw another showbiz reporter take two bags. Then again, shes always been a greedy cow. That's why shes the size she is!

Focusing back on what was loosely termed as her 'debut' lingerie collection, Melody when out to shock and provoke, yet again. Well she is the Queen of publicity stunts, isn't she? Remember me reporting about her 21st birthday party? Say no more.

Through the trappings of lace and satin, camisoles and panties, I'm sorry to say that a meagre collection paraded before us, hanging off a series of awkward looking models to the dreadful sounds of Melody's new album, 'Travel To The Sun'.

Though it's not surprising that none of the models were smiling. Apparently, one of them had caught lice from swapping outfits during the dress rehearsals that afternoon. Don't these coke sniffing, clothes hangers believe in wearing knickers? Apparently not!

So why on earth does Melody Starr need to shove another range of her branded merchandise down our throats? Let her shove it down her own gob and recycle the crap. She already spits out plenty of rubbish from it that could easily bung up a land fill site. So what's the difference?

Isn't it enough that we have to suffer her dreadful tat that's already destroying our environment?

And with her range of clothes supposedly walking off the shelves at Top Shop, I feel sorry for the concession girls who have to wear that crap, why was Melody let loose to design another line? Why? Because of the money, that's why.

Slipping 40% of the profits into her Prada purse is always a good move. Especially when a pair of her diamonté jeans costs about £100. Not bad for a girl who's dad abandoned her when she was young?

And how do I know this? One of my spies happen to over hear a bitter conversation between her secret designer and his boyfriend behind a rail of clothes. Now ladies, don't get your knickers in a twist!

I supposed the lingerie line is going to be another hit. How could it not fail with all those money men backing her? Let's hope the next season collection is marginally better. It had better be, as I'm going to be right there on the front row with my poisonous pen poised at hand and my claws sharpened, ready to rip apart another catastrophe on the catwalk to Hell.

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Chris' Claws 1
Wednesday July 26th 2006

Propping up the monstrosity of the ever changing light display of what is 'affectionately' called a bar in the distasteful VIP lounge at Blazes, the new night club just off Regent Street, I watched with delight as a top daytime TV presenter furtively followed a Page Three stunner into the ladies toilets.

Mentioning no names, this years winner of VIP! Magazine for 'Hunk of the Year', reappeared just after five minutes, with a big smile slashed across his face and his tight Calvin Klein jeans flying low.

But that wasn't the case for his leather clad comrade. Oh no. Her face was a picture as she stormed out of the toilets. Although, I don't know how I could tell with all that Botox pumped into her face. But I can let you into a secret, Picasso would have been proud to have created that. It was a sight for sore eyes.

I wonder what happened in there? Did they swap surgery details? Or perhaps he didn't reach the parts that other men can reach? Or it could be the results of sniffing too much jazz that made him perform under par?

With so many questions spinning around my Bollinger filled head, my claws were sharpened to perfection as later on that evening, the woman in question drunkenly told me in the strictest of confidence, that she won't be sharing a cubicle with the six foot womanizer again in a hurry.

Poor sod. His brief partnership with the buxom blonde is well and truly down the pan!

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DISCLAIMER

The characters, companies and theatrical musical events in Chris' Claws column / blog are fictional and created out of the imagination of the author. If the characters bear any resemblance to specific individuals, either living or deceased, it is a matter of coincidence and not of intent. If any companies or theatrical musical events Chris' Claws column / blog bear any resemblance to specific theatrical musical events or companies, it is a matter of coincidence and not of intent.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or author.