21st century attention seeking.

Let’s have a round of applause, and a cinder block on the fingers, for Alecia Keys, who came up with the idea of raising money for charity by asking you to pay to see celebrity tweets and Facebook updates. On the face of it, this sounds like real progress – less Lady Gaga, more money for a good cause – indeed you could almost be fooled into thinking that social media has finally delivered some genuine value to the world, but then the truth comes out: Gaga will only deign to address her 30+ million online followers again AFTER they raise over €1m for charity.

The only thing more depressing than this innovative approach to fundraising is the likelihood, whether by novelty or loyalty, that it will work. People – strange, confused, lonely, young people – may be all too willing to donate money, so that a woman who wears a phone on her head will update her Facebook and Twitter again.

Cyber-sociologists say:

“The creation of social networks has brought millions of us closer together so that we can all have a good look at how lonely and needy we really are. User-neediness is quantified in terms of updates, friendships, followers and tweets and is then reinforced with a crude but effective numerical system. The more friends and followers you have, the better you are. The more comments you have on your update, or tweet, the better that comment is. At the heart of this dangerously flawed system is the premise that asserts your personal worth and self-esteem can only be measured in terms of other people.”

Please hastily post your own responses to this story, thereby legitimizing this reporter’s deep insight and rare understanding of human behaviour on the internet.

In real news, the legendary Leslie Nielsen has gone to the great comic in the sky.

Nice beaver.

Nielsen died at home following a conversation with his wife, during which he outlined his need of a hospital. A hospital? His wife said, what is it? It’s a large building for sick people, but that’s not important right now…

Sadly, it was important right now.

Rosanna Davison, son of nanny shagging crooner Chris de Burgh, and Glenda Gilson, of no esteemed parentage whatsoever, will battle it out in a caged arena at Dublin’s O2. The pair have been at loggerheads since one of them went off somewhere with the other one’s elderly property developer and extremely wealthy man friend.

Rosanna Davison practices her menacing stare

The drama has been built up by the Irish Independent in a series of increasly mawkish articles in which both ladies weep as they are being interviewed, trying to elicit sympathy from the general public who seem blind to the fact the whole thing is a ridiculous publicity stunt to keep two vapid, Z-list celebrities in the limelight.

Head of Sport at TV3, Ashley Grimes, told the Irish Sentinel this morning that they were expecting record viewing figures. “This might seem like something spur of the moment but we’ve done our research. Polls show that 87% of people would enjoy seeing Rosanna having her head caved in by a spiked mace while nearly 98% of people had no idea who Brenda Gilson was but would quite happily watch her being eviscerated by a razor sharp cutlass or have her legs blown off by a blunderbuss.

So, that’s what we’ll do. A selection of medieval weapons will be available to each combatant and the last girl standing wins the prize of a cover shoot for U Magazine, a post dedicated to them on Showbiz Ireland and a complimentary bottle of the finest Aspi Spumanti from Krystle Nightclub”.

Already bookies are making Gilson the clear favourite, suggesting her extra wide shoulders will inflict more damage on her opponent but insiders suggest Davison’s patented eyebrow waggle followed by a crunching headbutt move could make the difference.

The show begins at 10.30pm on Saturday night, hosted by Martin King and DJ Spiral, with an undercard of Nell McCafferty vs Tom Dunne’s Producer and Andrea Roche vs a mirror.

Cheryl slow on the take up

The Chelsea player has been the subject of widespread scorn and mocking as it became clear his union with one of the most beautiful women in the world was over. “Wot a tw@t”, said one poster to Chelsea fan site ‘Dennis Wise’s Taxi Ride’. “Cheryl is fit as fk nd them other bints are right dogs innit!!!!”

Yet the Irish Sentinel can exclusively reveal that Ashley had grown tired of speaking to his wife through an interpreter and was determined to bring things to a head.

“People are putting 2 and 2 together and making 3″, said the source. “Ash might be a little on the slow side but even he can see that Cheryl is about the hottest woman he could ever hope to be with, but beauty is more than skin deep. She’s a nightmare to live with, they barely speak the same language. His London ears and just not accustomed to that Northern drawl and he’s been trying to end things for some time.

He does care for her which is why it was so difficult. He couldn’t just sit her down and tell her face to face. He knew she’d fly off the handle and when someone’s screaming at you in a foreign language it’s quite intimidating.

So he knew he had to go about it a different way. He figured that by sleeping with other women, each one more hideous than the last, she’d realise what was going on. The first girl was a hairdresser who looked like she’d got her face stuck down the back of the couch before undergoing a TracyEminplasty. It was obvious from then but Cheryl never twigged. He had to keep plumbing the depths of the womankind until they got so ugly and so butch that even she couldn’t fail to see it.

Ashley is just looking forward to a quiet life now”.

A spokesperson for Cheryl Cole refused to comment this morning as John Terry issued a press release offering his ‘world renowned comforting service’ in her hour of need.

How Myers might look alongside Dunphy (proportions accurate to within 0.1%)

After Ireland’s defeat to France in the 6 Nations, Myers lambasted out-half Ronan O’Gara saying he was as weak as ‘Kate Moss after a weekend on the gicker’, prompting a furious response from the Munster man. He claimed Myers knew nothing about rugby and was in no position to make judgements.

“When I heard O’Gara say that Myers knew nothing about rugby I knew he was the perfect man for us”, said Nugent yesterday. “If there’s one thing we like here in RTE it’s consistency and since time immemorial we’ve had pundits who, as soon as they open their mouth, make it quite clear they haven’t the first notion about the sport they’re supposed to be commenting on. And I think it’s quite obvious from his appearances on ‘That’s all we have time for’ that Kevin is well suited to panel type shows … even if he does have to have all his ‘jokes’ written down on cards for him because he’s about as funny as infant leukemia”.

Myers himself refused to be drawn but suggested to the Irish Sentinel that he was ‘perfectly informed’ about ‘association football’. “You don’t need to be Einstein to know your way around this game for ruffians, sex pests and borstal boys. I know my Alex Fergunson from my Insane Wenger, my Phil Bruce from my Steve Brown. I know when a player is off the side and when a penalty ball should be allocated. I can tell you the main difference between a four-four-two and a three-six-five, the connection between Wayne Rooney’s brutish countenance and F Scott Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, and why Scimitar Bergkamptov is the best outside right since Alfred Finney.

And if I clash with Dunphy or Giles then it will simply be because they are wrong and I am right. They can accuse me all they like of having no background in the game but I’ve got a first class honours from the University of Kevin Myers. They have graduated from Bolton St VEC of thugball. One does not need to be a carpenter to see when one’s chair is incapable of supporting one”.

Reaction from football fans around the country has been mixed, with one poster on dangerhere.com saying “The one thing I always liked about RTE is that it wasn’t nearly as shit as ITV’s football coverage. Add this eloquent cunt to the panel and I’m gonna let Clive Tyldsley aurally rape me every time”.

Meanwhile RTE denied rumours that George Hook was to be removed from the rugby panel after upsetting Late Late Show host Ryan Tubridy by suggesting he was a Fianna Fail lackey. “There’s no truth to that at all”, said an insider. “Sure how could Ryan get upset by that? Everyone knows he’s up to his bollix with them and without the family connections he’d probably be a continuity announcer on TV3″.

Advertising about advertising – normally the preserve of dreadfully sub-standard national broadcaster Newstalk – has taken this turn for the post-modern more out of necessity than any self-referential insight.

Bravo boss-man Meredith Hennessy explains:

“People need something to lift them – what better than upbeat outdoor ads?”

Hennessy went on to outline the rationale behind his ads about his ads.

“It’s meaningless without being clever. Imagine a paper that said it was the last word in print – and you can have that for free!”

But before you could say, ‘run these cunts down with the props from Mad Max 2’, Bravo Advertising were hit with a law suit for their use of the word ‘last’. Today FM lawyers have served notice declaring their ownership of the word ‘last’ in order to top-load their programme names in some sort of empty theme that starts nowhere and makes zero progress.

The real news from Today FM however is that super-bland, if likeable, easy-listening Canuck jock Alison Curtis has been drop-kicked to the milkman shift from her 10-midnight slot. The Today FM Station Director, whose name is coincidentally not an anagram for ‘Denis O’Brien’s cum receptacle’, said:

“I guess she can carry on liking every tune in the world from 5am to 7am.”

Curtis - once unheard of, soon to be unheard

Meanwhile U2 front man Bono has announced plans to masturbate in space. The NASA-funded project aims to ascertain if the raw genetics of self-importance can compete against the classic Newtonian staples of galactic power such as gravity and light.

Sadly, MIley's eyes are already dead

Speaking to The Irish Sentinel, Avrid Singh, trichologist to  Pop Princess Cyrus elaborated: “She may live to the ripe old age of 92 before dying surrounded by strangers in a Howth nursing home. She may perish in childbirth at 34 while giving birth to IV induced octuplets or she may succumb next week, when a deranged scalp  expert finally sees a chance to obtain revenge for 6 months of  casual homespun southern racism and unreasonable attention to follicle detail, by kidnapping Miley and her daddy Billy Ray and attempting an unanaesthetised achy breaky heart transplant operation on the unlucky father and daughter pair. Either way, we know this much: Miley Cyrus will die. At some point.”

Among those expressing their shock and sadness at the unexpected news of Miley’s mortality were occasional co-stars The Jonas Brothers: “We just can’t believe it,” said Joe, Nick and Kevin, simultaneously. “We thought Miley would live forever, just like her career. And our careers. And us. Why can’t Miley live forever, like us?!” sobbed the trio.  A more measured response came from  Ms Cyrus’ godmother, Dolly Parton: “Whatcha gonna do?” Parton questioned rhetorically through a mouthful of baccy, “We all gotta go sometime! Well, all expect me! I got me a spare heart put in the left one and a spare brain in the right one during the last surgery. Am ah gonna do just peachy, darlin’!”

Mick Lally was unavailable for comment, but is thought to be relieved at his imminent reclamation of the Miley name.

Ordinary people, who days ago sent their affection and well-wishes in the direction of the deeply unfortunate Tomas O’Leary will, like Peter, find themselves denying their own kind many more than three times as the evening wears on this Saturday. Experts believe this is die to the periodic emergence of a baseless, gaelic-Catalonia, a self-aggrandising ‘nation’ of crimson, ruddy-faced, gurning frauds.

“Let them have their day,” said one Senior Judge from South County Dublin who refused to be identified on his way out of Kiely’s as he got into his jag in Donnybrook after a skin-full of pints in one of the country’s most well-served hubs of public transport. “The Cousin-fuckers need something to shout about, otherwise they might notice that they suffer under the worst gang culture in Europe, not including the UK, France, Germany and all of Eastern Europe.”

Indeed the country’s quiet ghetto-isation in Limerick has encountered something of a problem – an unidentifiable corpse in the rough, if you will – with respect to its policy to ‘grieve nationally’ while doing sweet fuck all about the execution of ordinary civilians. The rest of the country has been quick to not give a fuck about the same issue, in light of the past success of the national philosophy on the Troubles: ‘Have they calmed down yet? No?Has anyone asked if Iceland will take them? No? Well let’s just keep quiet and pretend it’s not happening so’.

This generation-defining movement of inactivity was characterised by a featureless, motionless, invisible and intangible, consensus of ‘I don’t care, it can’t be worth killing someone over’ that galvanised the people of Ireland to buy property and jaager bombs in record numbers over the last two decades.

Meanwhile RTE executives have been stroking each others’ crotches in self-congratulation following the news that Roy Keane will deign to speak on the Irish telly-box this Friday evening with Plank Kenny. Pat has been a bad boy recently, say insiders, so bad in fact that even this forum won’t risk the potential legal ramifications of unsubstantiated reports of something that rhymes with Spar-**** and snow-***. Back in studio however:

“Roy Keane is just electric,” said the Press office in RTE. “He’s a stark warning of how angry Irish people can become if they give up the drink. We’re just hoping he doesn’t have a snot and decide to leave halfway through the interview. There’s every chance that, as soon as he has had a pop at every major sporting figure in Ireland who didn’t quit when the going got tough, he’ll glower at the camera and rip his mic off before storming out in a fit of rage that only dog-walking can quell.”

Irish by birth, Munster by the grace of God. And there, but for the grace of God, go we.  

The North Korean Premier hopes to croon his way around any number of meaningless UN resolutions to secure a live performance in the BBC this September with a rendition of the Lionel Richie classic: ‘Herro, is it me youl rooking fol?’

Music industry experts were quick to ask: “All this for an Asian joke about ‘L’s and ‘R’s?” which prompted the response: ‘you betcha, its raff out roud funny’. The US State Department welcomed the move and Hillary Clinton was quick to support the development of an Axis of Soft Rock between North Korea and Iran, when it emerged that Iranian President Ahmadinejad was a big Kings of Leon fan. 

“This sex is on fffiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire,” hummed President Ahmadinejad, who also claims to be a fan of Prince, Christina Aguillera and Right Said Fred. “Oh yes! I’m… too sexy for this Mosque… too sexy for Israel… too sexy for this Burqha-derka-derka-derka…” 

Another surprise hit with Arab leaders is Northern Irish sex-toy, Eoghan Quigg, as Ahmadinejad explains: 

“I always wanted to go to bed with a 16-year-old boy who vaguely reminds me of Harvey Keitel.. or Martin Scorsese. What’s not to like?? My grandfather would have killed for those eyebrows.”   

“April Fools is the one day of the year when the Gods can walk amongst men. No matter what manner of miracles are wrought, humanity resolutely refuses to believe these incredible events are anything but a hoax. This helps the deities-that-be to really blow off a lot steam with some flamboyant displays of power.”

God himself though – GOD, God, if you will – is something of a a practical joker. Sources say that last year he turned South America upside-down for the day and one angel was happy to give an insight into the Almighty.

“God is a scream. It’s like – last October Zeus had a fancy dress party and God came as, get this, a Golden Calf! I mean you gotta love this guy. But all the central figures of the monotheistic faiths are pretty cool. Yahweh came as a Yeti – he spent the whole night saying ‘well no-one ever saw a Yeti, right? Right?’ and the year before he didn’t even show up but he still got half the party to pretend that he had just left the room when anyone asked where he was.”

But not everyone in paradise is happy with the festivities and there have been murmurings that God is setting a bad example for his only son our Lord, Jesus Christ. God’s only son has been keeping a low profile for the past couple of thousand years since it emerged that perhaps his resurrection was less miraculous than the bible’s version of events. 

A source, speaking on condition of anonymity, said: 

“Resurrection my ass – Jesus and his buddies got tanked at a cider party in the garden of Gethsemany and three days later he wakes up in a cave. We all had those kind of nights, but only Jesus claims he rose from the dead.”

The royal family of heaven refused to comment on the matter, but the rumours are that the divine drinks cabinet has been under lock and key since the ‘Old Testament-Gate’ scandal.

Friday, best known as a friend of Bono’s and for not being Simon Carmody, will travel to the world renowned Moyet Clinic, having grown unhappy with his lot as man in a man’s world. He will be seen by eminent surgeon Dr Lawrence Dickov and will return to Ireland to relaunch his career.

An artists impression of a post-op Friday

A Lillie’s Bordello insider told the Irish Sentinel “He has it all worked out. His triumphant return will be stage-managed to the Nth degree and he has plans to get off the plane and flash his gee at reporters, making him the first Irish woman to show her privates in public since Maud Gonne ran starkers down Townsend Street in 1947″.

But an even more inside insider revealed the cynical nature of Friday’s plot. “The only reason he’s going to turn himself into a woman is so he can pretend to have cervical cancer and get publicity like old baldy-whatserface in the UK. He’s going to be pictured smoking with his newly-created cervix, rubbing the cervix off mobile telephone masts and having sex with highly-irradiated Sellafield workers.

Then he’s going to shave his head, go on a crash diet, hire Max Clifford and milk the sympathy for all its worth. Then, right at the death, no pun intended, he’s going to have miraculous recovery and release a double-album entitled ‘Sir Vix-a-lot’, which will feature all his old tunes remixed by Carl Cox.

The public should know this before they become enraptured with the fragile beauty whose life appears to be ebbing away”.

A spokeperson for Friday said the idea was ‘ludicrous, crass and downright insulting’ but refused to deny the fact he was travelling to the USA.

“He’s going on a 49 state tour … erm … he’s going to sell some of his paintings to … erm … look, he’s just going to see some old friends”.