Cheryl Plans Ghastly, Nouveau Riche Divorce

CHERYL Cole last night unveiled plans for a lavish and vulgar divorce involving lots of matching suits and a really big smoked salmon.

The nation's sweetheart announced her separation from some footballer yesterday followed by what experts described as an 'absolutely hilarious' request for privacy.

Prime minister Gordon Brown and Conservative leader David Cameron have both telephoned the singer and agreed to set up a cross-party commission to explore ways of helping her cope.

Meanwhile thousands of Guardian readers are today expected to make a rare visit to the websites of the Sun and the Daily Mirror in a bid to discover what the Cole split says about society.

Cheryl fan Wayne Hayes said: "I just feel so sad for her because her life has just been getting better and better since she knocked the shit out of that black woman in a nightclub toilet."

According to friends of the X-Factor judge the divorce negotiations will take place at a beautiful country house hotel in the Cotswolds, with guests including Christine Bleakley and Frank Lampard, selected cast members from The Bill and the Gary Linekers.

Cheryl's lawyers will be wearing matching Burberry tartan suits and bowler hats and will use their Burberry umbrellas to form an honour guard for Cheryl when she arrives wearing a beautiful Burberry two piece and carrying a £12,000 Prada bag full of Chewits.

For the issuing of the decree nisi the High Court in London will be decked out in beige roses and Burberry taffeta and the final terms of the divorce will be sung by Michael Bublé to the tune of R Kelly's I Believe I Can Fly.

The guests, including Sharon Osbourne, the cast of Ready, Steady Cook and the Gary Nevilles, will then each receive a glass of Cristal champagne and a deep fried prawn.

Celebrity marriage analyst Joanna Kramer said: "At the end of the day we must all remember that this is really about two lovely young people who were once very much in love and now have to face up to the emotional trauma of a failed relationship."

She added: "That actually sounded quite convincing didn't it? Fuck their privacy."


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One Woman's Week: It Could Be Me

NO doubt when Britain's latest Euromillionaires have completed their cider-fuelled celebrations they will say a prayer to Jesus, Vishnu or whatever pagan wicker god they worship in Gloucestershire. But little do they know that the force of nature they should be thanking is me.

Let me put it this way: I never give money to British Heart Foundation collectors when I see them begging in the street. This is because I carry out weekly benevolence of a different kind: I am able to clairvoyantly predict the lottery numbers before they are drawn. Yet, like some kind of wonderful saint, I stand aside and let others claim the winnings.  

I first realised my clairvoyant ability one night when John Lennon appeared to me in a dream and told me I was more powerful than I could possibly 'imagine'. He then sang Imagine three times in a row. Even though we never met, John and I have always had a special connection – like he did with Yoko, only better – so I knew I had to take this seriously.

Come that week's Saturday night draw, I sat in front of the television and focused my mind. Suddenly the number 19 came to me. Sure enough, when the first ball dropped, it was 19. All at once I could see my power mutating wildly beyond my control and I realised I must stop myself before I became a danger to humanity. Like some kind Native American Indian, I snapped out of my trance-like state. But as I walked through to the kitchen to make a cup of green tea, I knew all those balls were dropping in accordance with my unconscious telepathic instructions.

As the weeks have passed I have grown ever more concerned that the people who win my millions are stupid. That's why I now believe they should be thoroughly vetted before receiving their funds. All it would take would be for one of these people to go out and buy a million copies of Everybody Hurts, thus making Simon Cowell the most powerful man in Britain and leaving him free to create some horrific new Saturday night programme where people with regional accents sing the collected ballads of Whitney Houston while running head-first into a wall.

Often when people claim awesome supernatural powers, they are sectioned. That's why you'll never catch me bragging about my skill and how I'm obviously some sort of god. It is a sad and lonely existence and I frequently find myself wishing, like Scott Bakula from Star Trek, that my next leap will be the leap home.

The only comfort I have is knowing that I am probably the future of human evolution. Pray to me, if you must.