Greased, frightening

If there's one sure-fire way of guaranteeing yourself some front-page coverage, it's to get yourself involved in a 'gay sex scandal'. The lies, the deceit, the unflattering photos of you in an outfit you're twenty years too old for - it's the stuff that tabloid dreams are made of.

Here in the UK, the papers are falling over themselves to dig into William Hague's private life, as they delight in the fact that he appointed a 25-year old pretty boy as his 'special advisor' and that they often shared a room on the election trail.

There's something about the inherent hypocrisy of Conservative politicians preaching 'traditional values' Monday to Friday and spending their weekends in a leather sling that we just can't get enough of. In fact, the only thing we enjoy more than the tremulous quiver of a stiff upper-lip is the idea that some of our favourite alpha-male movie stars might be good with colours.

So let's hear it for John Travolta, who's managed to keep professional gossips in business for three decades now, with his less-than convincing portrayal of an avowedly heterosexual man. He's currently the subject of a 'shocking' expose that threatens to lift the toupee on his deceitful double life.

According to the National Enquirer, an author called Robert Randolph is lining up a new book for release, which promises to reveal the "underground secret world of celebrity gay spa sex" in Hollywood, the main target of which is the Saturday Night Fever and Pulp Fiction actor. Randolph maintains that he's come across (not literally, that would be tacky) the Hollywood star in his favourite bath-house on a number of occasions.

Ignoring for a second the tautology of an 'underground secret', it's hard to believe that Robert could ever score a book deal, when his revelations read like a thirteen year-old's bathroom wall grafitti - "I met John in 1998, after he had married Kelly. I believe the marriage is a total fraud because John is totally into guys and has been having sex with them behind Kelly's back for years." Time to start brushing up on that Pulitzer acceptance speech. Totally.

Equally depressing is the fact that the Enquirer considers news of John's man-on-man infidelity worthy of a 'scandal' headline. Even Randolph himself admits that John's "secret gay life is one of Hollywood's worst kept secrets". Surely the purpose of a shocking story is to surprise readers with things they don't already know?

It also doesn't help matters that Randolph attempts to empathise with Travolta's put-upon and pregnant wife Kelly Preston, saying "John should come out of the closet already and stop living a lie. His wife Kelly deserves so much better." He's clearly never heard of an arranged marriage, a beard or a pre-nup.

If John's sexuality is such an open secret, it's hard to believe that Kelly would be the last to know. She might not be the one that he wants, but I'm sure the benefits of their union work both ways.

Forgiven, but not forgotten

Anyone who claims to truly love movies has a special place in their heart for cinema's most egregious errors. We've all laughed at Faye Dunaway's infamous wire coathanger breakdown, or shuddered as Elizabeth Berkely danced like she was having an epileptic seizure in a whorehouse.

But for my money, the hotly contested title of worst movie ever has to go to the spectacularly sucky Battlefield Earth. Bankrolled by John Travolta's scientology pals, the sci-fi epic almost defies categorisation.

P0pvulture was fortunate enough to attend the UK premiere of this remarkable film back in 2000, at a screening introduced by JT and director Roger Christian. Premieres are supposed to be celebratory affairs, but following the film's appalling showing at the US box office, the movie-making pair couldn't have looked more nervous if they'd been named in the Hague Conventions.

As the film wore on, the audience became increasingly restless - even the Hollyoaks cast members in attendance looked as though they had better things to do with their time.

Every frame of the film was shot with a Dutch tilt. This isn't an obscure sex act involving a Grolsch bottle-cap, it refers to setting the camera at an odd angle. Christian's intention was to highlight the 'otherworldliness' of the action. In actuality, it just meant that half the audience needed to see a chiropractor by the time the credits rolled.

During its 118 minutes' running time (shortened to 57 if you ran all the slow-motion scenes at regular speed) the film staged a remarkable assault on logic and the acting profession as a whole. Chief amongst the film's many highlights was a scene where a rag-tag group of post-apocalyptic savages take some flight manuals out of the library and teach themselves to pilot a fleet of still operational (after 1000 years) jump jets.

After a decade of being everyone's punching bag, Battlefield Earth finally won a much-deserved award - worst film of the noughties at this year's Razzies. Now, with the tale of Psychlos and man-rats back in the public's consciousness (like the filmic equivalent of repressed memory syndrome), its writer has issued a public apology for his involvement in the debacle.

Writing in the New York Post, J.D. Shapiro alleges that he originally wrote a screenplay that was "darker, grittier and had a very compelling story with rich characters". He argues that studio interference "changed the entire tone" and ultimately killed the movie. Given that J.D.'s previous career high-point was the 'hilarious' Robin Hood: Men in Tights, I'm not sure that I believe him.

Whether or not Shapiro's original draft could have become the first great sci-fi movie of the century is largely irrelevant. What matters is the fact that he's happy to acknowledge his complicity in making the film happen: "Now, looking back at the movie with fresh eyes, I can't help but be strangely proud of it. Because out of all the sucky movies, mine is the suckiest."

This latest burst of infamy for the film is unlikely to trouble its producer Elie Samaha, who publicly stated that even bad reviews and Razzie awards gave the movie "free publicity". In his mind "the more the critics hit Battlefield Earth, the more DVDs it sells. It is the kind of film that makes a movie legend and we feel we have enough staying power to last long after the critics have quieted down." One day, Earth will be nothing more than the kind of post-apocalyptic wasteland depicted in Battlefield Earth - then, and only then, will this magnificent folly receive the recognition it deserves.

Peaches and Haggis

It's been a big news week for the church of Scientology. Ordinarily, L Ron Hubbard's sci-fi pyramid-scheme-turned-religion only hits the headlines when Tom Cruise picks a fight with post-natally depressed women or John Travolta attempts to reassert his heterosexuality.

Nowadays, it seems as though they're operating the kind of one-in-one-out policy normally found on the door of a nightclub that contravenes fire safety regulations.

At the start of the week, the big story was Oscar-winning screenwriter Paul Haggis leaving the church over its mistreatment of gay people. In a letter addressed to Tommy Davis, the head of Scientology's dubiously-named Celebrity Centre, Haggis accused the church of denying gay rights by sponsoring Proposition 8. The proposition was added to the California ballot in November's general election, to restrict the definition of marriage to opposite-sex couples only, in doing so, overturning same-sex couples' constitutional 'right' to marry.

In his letter, which was published on a blog about Scientology and has since taken the internet by storm like a drunk guy buying beer, Haggis also attacked the church's policy of 'disconnection', which involves severing all ties with people who disparage the religion. After 35 years of loyalty, Haggis has decided that he's undergone his last audit.

But it's not all bad news for the religion so weird that it makes the Mormons look normal. They may have lost one high-profile talent, but at least there's another one waiting in the wings to take his place. Failing that, Peaches Geldof is also free.

Sir Bob's pointless progeny, who must make the Hiltons feel like proud parents by comparison, has spent the last few months exploring her spiritual side and decided that Scientology is religion for her.

In an interview with hard-hitting journalist Fearne Cotton (Jeremy Paxman must have been busy), the Boomtown brat has been talking up her intellectual side. Keen to distance herself from her hard-partying image, she'd like to point out that she's more interested in Stephen Hawking and Richard Dawkins. Apparently, waiting in the doorway of Borders for the rain to stop is enough to qualify her as an intellectual.

More importantly, Peaches claims to have been a Scientologist for "a while now", since she's keen to make herself a better person. I'm just wondering whether the fact that I wish she was a better person makes me a Scientologist too.