Gordon Ramsay

Timed to perfection like a soufflé in one of his kitchens - on the odd occasion, that is, when Big Sweary isn't busy berating lesser mortals in theirs - up pops Britain’s most watchable TV kitchen nightmare since Fanny Craddock to banish those post-Crimbo blues. Best giggle of 2011 so far? Those post cosmetic-procedure pics showing what happens when vanity, ego, a brand to promote and money-no-object collide. You haven’t seen them? Think cabbage patch doll with a face swollen like a half-cooked Fray Bentos pie. When he’s not emoting - that hilarious, icky, open letter to Mummy-in-law - he’s off playing the manly chest-flashing action hero in Costa Rica, tracking down shady shark fin dealers only to be held at gunpoint and doused in petrol by the cheeky f*****  who presumably confused new improved white skin Michelin Man for a giant baked Alaska. Ramsbo, comedy legend, we salute you.  

Pete Doherty

Garrard, Asprey and Bulgari must be quaking in their Louboutin boots. The big jewellery news is that the nation’s favourite Babyshambles is doing a Jade Jagger, designing a range of luxury baubles in conjunction with Hannah Martin, late of Cartier. Given his street appeal, I’d have thought his collection, Albion Trinketry, would be perfect for Argos to add to the dazzling bling they offer from other latter-day Benvenuto Cellinis such as er, Justin Bieber, Lily Allen and Alesha Dixon, but it’s reported that the porky chops pork pie hat wearer’s gear is to sell exclusively through upmarket clothing chain, Joseph. Apparently, the muse for his collection is none other than Doherty himself, so expect vein (sic) urban junkies to be lining up in droves. There's said to be a selection of pins, cufflinks and the rest of the distressed dandy around town wardrobe staples but will he do spoon brooches? Whatever!  The good news is that if Pete works in tin foil, you’re unlikely to be mugged by some zonked-out smackhead fixing to flog it for a score at the nearest pawn shop.

Cheryl Cole

At 9.51 pm on Sunday, our queen of hearts made a decision that would affect us like no billions in Coalition cuts ever could. Now, 250,000 Facebookers are demanding ‘off with her head’ and death threats have been issued. Her crime? Putting two contestants through to the next round of a game show. Now, some may lambast X-Factor as orchestrated farce but, to Chezza - delirium, a side effect of malaria, possibly - it all feels real. Will promoting a hard-faced Machiavellian Madonnabe desperate to ‘be a legacy’ and some croaky wee anchovy who’d make an excellent lead in Mrs. Overall, The Musical (thanks to Marina O Loughlin for that apercu) prove more fatal than any mozzie’s bite? If the ambition of one modest wee soul with a big voice is really to be rewarded with a free one-way ticket to Harare, in Chezza’s shoes, I’d sod off to the States with SyCo. You what? Americans wouldn’t understand a single word? Better stay and tough it out, pet lamb. Cheryl Rocks? Not according to most of Scotland and all of Zimbabwe

      

     

Fergie

Welcome to the world of Fergie

Poor Sarah Ferguson is so broke - I use her commoner’s name on the assumption that Brenda and Phil will by now have had her stripped of the HRH bit, shackled in the Tower for crimes against the royal we - the ‘complete aristocrat’ is reduced to peddling dodgy cash for access deals. Boo hoo! But in my (bank)book, ‘not having a (Fabergé?) pot to p*** in’ doesn’t allow for a jolly to Naomi Campbell’s 40th birthday bash in Antibes. If only she were more like her hardworking ex, the industrious trade ambassador, obviously, not the joyrider duke of popular myth accused of flagging down jets and helicopters like they’re cabs for hire at our expense. How about Hollywood? Produce a warts-and-all sequel to The Queen giving us the real filth on the Windsors. You could pocket the leading lady’s fee too, playing your old toe-sucking self and wouldn’t Maxwell Caulfield make an ace Air Miles Andy? Box office gold. Future, sorted!   

Philip Treacy

I’m love-love-loving reports that mild-mannered Irish milliner, Treacy, is taking on a new intern. Step forward, Lady Gaga!  Apparently, the chapeaued-up chantoosay, who has worn everything from a telephone, a flying saucer, antlers and what appeared to be road-kill to a brown paper bag over her head - her most flattering look yet, according to bitchy detractors - is keen to master Phil’s craft. It’s a move that displays the Irishman’s shrewd business acumen. Their collaboration - a Gaga for Philip Treacy at Debenham’s range, perhaps? - could be a licence to print money. Can’t wait to see their outlandish creations on Scouse tea-bag tan trollops on Ladies’ Day at Aintree. It’s said Philip needs to assess the Lady’s sewing skills first but I reckon she’s a shoo-in, for isn’t the critical CV requirement ‘must be mad as a hatter?’        

Cynthia Nixon

I don't know why she looks to have been sidelined in the new film poster because Nixon’s screen character, Miranda, has always been the coolest of the Sex and the City girls;  ‘girls’ whose next film will, at this rate, be shot on location in The Hamptons retirement home for senile, sex-obsessed, Dior couture adult diaper wearers. Interviewed in the Advocate, Nixon relates how she dumped one PR hellbent on keeping her secret sex shame - as a certain fit-only- as-chip-wrapper red top would likely have described her burgeoning Sapphist tendencies - under wraps, hiring openly gay publicist Kelly Bush to get her news ‘out.’ Way to go, girl! Not for her, any South Park jibes about being stuck in Carrie’s closet. Now the actress is free to show off her other half, fiancée Christine Marinoni, not necessarily Nuts cover material and described, affectionately, by Cyn as ‘like a short man with boobs.’ On that basis, could Johnny Vegas be in with a shout if things ever go pear-shaped?   

Joni Mitchell

In a recent interview, having branded Madonna as ‘like Nero’ and Grace Slick and Janis Joplin, effectively,  as drunken slags, when the subject of Bob Dylan was raised, the usually retiring Joni branded the icon ‘a plagiarist, dismIssing both his name and voice as fake. Come on! With an eye on a rock stardom, would anyone stick with Bob Zimmerman as a handle? As for that voice; fake? Why affect an adenoidal whine that, at times, sounds like a Strimmer on the blink? If he’s such a plagiarist, don’t go covering various Dylan tracks such as Mr Tambourine Man, Joni! Could the lady's pique stem from rumours that, with Mitchell present, Dylan pretended to fall asleep, snoring, when previewing her Court and Spark album in 1974? Let’s hope that if the pair ever meet in France, they kiss (and make up) on Main street.