Yesterday once more

As Sandy Denny once sang, "Who knows where the time goes?" Maybe she also spent the Christmas holidays in a drunken fog, just outside of Sheffield. Either way, that's the reason that p0pvulture has been quieter than the output of Cheryl Cole's microphone for the last few days. But now we're up and running again, and counting down to the New Year.

So with that in mind, I thought it might be a good idea to review 2010 and take stock of the weird and wonderful things that the world of popular culture has thrown our way over the last 12 months. I've done my best to document it all, so now let's take a look back and see what went on. Well, if it's good enough for Clive James...

Hollywood was abuzz about two movies as 2010 kicked off. Avatar was packing them in, with its promise of eye-watering visuals and eye-straining 3D effects. Further exploring the technology's ability to damage eye-sight, the porn industry decided to take a leaf out of James Cameron's book, by applying an extra dimension to its own Pandora's box of tricks.

Cinemagoers always had the option of checking in with everyone's favourite detective instead, as Guy Ritchie shared his vision of the unique relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Unfortunately, many people found their mano-a-mano relationship to be a little too heavy on the mano, making it feel like a two-hour game of soggy biscuit.

Meanwhile, the Daily Mail was busy getting its bully on, taking potshots at the underdressed, the overdressed, and the wombling free. And it wasn't just the women who found themselves squirming under the spotlight, Cristiano Ronaldo's ad campaign for Armani underwear showed off his distinctive tackle.

Jennifer Love Hewitt spoke proudly about her confidence in using a glue-gun on her unmentionables, whereas Heidi Montage revealed the results of her extreme makeover, which were just, well, unmentionable. Lady Gaga inspired a whole bunch of video tributes, Taylor Momsen showed off a personality as dark and messy as the shit around her eyes, and Bear Grylls rinsed his out with a makeshift enema.

GMTV was also focused on cleaning house, as it turned the world's cosiest sofa into an ejector seat. As viewers placed bets on which presenters would face the axe, the show's hosts attempted to smile through their upset, much like Boyzone, who reformed for the world's most morbid pop video.

Rather predictably, February followed January like Kerry follows Jordan. And so we plunged head-first into the eighth and final season of 24, to see Jack Bauer working through more rubber hose than an out-of-town B&Q. Sadly, Jack's love of torture seemed to catch on, as a military man was found to have waterboarded his step-daughter in order to 'encourage' her to try harder in school. As an aside, she may also have confessed to an attempted plane hijacking in 2007.

Jack wasn't New York's only problem this year, as the race for the Governor's office saw a notorious Manhattan madam starting up her own campaign. In fact, February seemed to be all about the change of pace, as Dennis the Menace finally went soft, and the Pope turned wannabe DJ, with his recommendations for the best rock albums of all time. Even Desert Island Discs decided to change things up, by taking a more populist approach in selecting its guests. Listeners complained that this was the radio equivalent of mutton dressed as Spam.

But the most shocking image overhaul of the year took place on the golf course, as one of the world's most celebrated sportsmen showed an entirely different side to his personality. It turns out that countless women had enjoyed a Tiger in their tank, and as a result none of his former sponsors wanted to see Woods for the sleaze.

Ashley Cole didn't fare much better here in the UK, as he broke the heart of the Nation's Sweetheart by cheating on her with a bunch of BOGOF slappers. We all knew that he'd done it, because he didn't have the brains to cover his tracks. It probably didn't help matters that he'd sent a bunch of incriminating pictures and texts either.  If only he'd watched the highly publicised live episode of EastEnders, which finally revealed that Stacey was Archie's murderer - a secret that the show's producers had managed to keep for months.

Another long-suppressed secret from within the corporation's vaults finally saw the light of day, as it was revealed that the makers of Doctor Who occasionally used political subtexts in their storytelling. The Daily Mail was delighted that it had finally found the smoking gun sonic screwdriver it needed to prove the BBC's long-standing left-wing bias. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had simply rolled its eyes and moved onto the Sarah Jane Adventures.

But perhaps the most momentous event in February, was the first birthday of this blog. Although it sometimes feels like an albatross made of binary code and hyperlinks, it's actually grown into something I'm quite proud of. It's an outlet for my frustrations, and a forum for discussing the things that capture my imagination. And I'm thankful that I have a handful of committed readers who bother to check in every day. Tomorrow, March and April fall under the microscope.

Poetic justice

Back in the sixties, Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone made TV history by surprising viewers every week with its ingenious concepts and morbid sense of humour. The trademark of the anthology series was its twist endings, which usually came in the form of a bitterly ironic pay-off designed to show each episode's protagonist the error of their ways.

Although this old black and white show looks like a grainy historical relic now, many of the allegories and parables it depicts have stood the test of time. From The Sixth Sense, right up to this month's Shutter Island, the box office has shown that we never really grew out of our love for a good twist in the tale.

So it's to be hoped that someone, somewhere is taking notes, because the Ballad of Cheryl and Ashley would be a dead-cert ratings winner if the Twilight Zone ever makes another comeback.

Just imagine - the domestic bliss of a young, successful couple is exposed as a sham. Despite outward appearances, the husband is a serial philanderer, who uses an unregistered mobile phone to keep in touch with a string of would-be mistresses.

Wary of being caught out, he decides that the safest bet is to send texts and MMS picture messages to his 'happy slappers'- that way he can conduct his affairs right under his wife's nose. The affairs continue until his cover is blown, when the seemingly trustworthy mistresses go public with the gory details and pixelated pictures.

But then his phone rings one last time. It's another text, but this one doesn't come with a video-taped audition for Television X. It's from his wife, and it simply reads "Move out. It's over."

Forget about disappearing limps, retrograde amnesia or Raquel Welch posters, that's how you end a story.

However, I still think Cheryl missed a trick. After all, she made it so easy for us to conjure up headlines featuring 'Fight For This Love', it's just a shame that she couldn't also find a way to dump Ashley in 3 words.

She'll fight for this love

Given that 2010 is a World Cup year, we shouldn't really be surprised that the papers are full of action packed stories of our most celebrated footballers. It's just a little depressing to discover that none of the stories are actually about football.

If the papers are to be believed, most premiership players prefer to warm up for the big game by spitroasting a glamour model, rather than jogging around the pitch. It doesn't help that John Terry has gone from England Captain to a one-size-fits-all punchline for any joke about marital disharmony, in a matter of weeks.

According to American sports sociologist, Jeff Benedict, "Almost across the board, professional athletes have a warped perception of women because of what they are exposed to: women approaching them, offering to have sex with them, sending them their underwear in the mail." I guess sometimes the temptation is just too great.

Look at Ashley Cole (if you have to). He's already managed to elevate his wife to the status of 'national treasure' by cheating on her once. With the revelation that he may be playing away from home yet again, Cheryl is likely to be made a Dame of the British Order before the year is out.

This time around, he's been taking pictures of his little striker and sending it to a 'glamour model' called Sonia Wild. The only thing more unlikely than Sonia's conveniently saucy surname, is Ashley's preposterous explanation of how his extremities ended up on someone else's phone.

Apparently, Ashley took the pictures just for fun on an unregistered pay-as-you-go phone, then gave it to a friend to use up the remaining credit. He just forgot to mention that the phone's memory was full of low-resolution amateur porn. Like you do.

This inconsiderate pal discovered the gallery of images, and decided to send them on to a topless model from Hull. Turned on by the fact that she was getting pictures from a 'soccer star', she reciprocated: "I sent back video footage on my phone of myself naked and doing sexy things. At the time it was a laugh and a bit of a thrill for me." Almost as much of a thrill as going to the press with an SD card full of celebrity wang.

Whether you choose to believe Ashley's imaginative explanation is of little or no consequence. It's Mrs Cole that the foolhardy footballer really has to answer to.

Cheryl has forgiven Ashley before, and successfully leveraged her broken heart into a career-making accessory. But hell hath no fury like a woman scorned second time around.

She may be little more than a Girls' World mannequin who talks like Paul Gascoigne, but Cheryl packs a mean punch - as bathroom attendant Sophie Amogbokpa can confirm. Suddenly, that ankle injury is the least of Ashley's worries...