Reaching the half-way point

OK, so this countdown of the year is starting to feel like a bad idea, but I'm half cut on Fluffy Ducks, so let's soldier on and see if we can make it to the end of June

In May, Danny Dyer got into hot water for a misogynistic advice column, in which he told one magazine reader with a problematic ex-girlfriend to slash her face so that no-one else would want her. Donnie Osmond took a different approach, finding that the way to a woman's heart is through her vagina. Well, a rolled up poster of Donnie any way.

With the weather finally on the turn, it seemed as though everyone had sex on the brain. Westlife were promising their sexiest album yet (which admittedly wasn't much of a ambition), one enterprising young woman staged an online auction of her virginity (although it's not clear whether anyone sniped the highest bidder at the last moment), and a British Job Centre tried to recruit phone sex workers.

Sex was the last thing on Kevin Jonas' mind as he found himself occupying a separate bedroom to his new bride, thanks to his snoring. And anti-gay Christian activist George Rekers claimed that the young rent boy who accompanied him on his European trip was only there to carry the luggage.

Daniel Craig, Johnny Galecki and Chace Crawford found themselves fending off gay rumours, whereas the big outings of the month actually came as a genuine surprise - country singer Chely Wright and long-standing Sesame Street resident Bert.

Less surprising was the revelation that the Rolling Stones took drugs when writing music, which was a little like George Best admitting that he liked the odd tipple. This year's Eurovision also offered few surprises, once again displaying Europe's knack for key changes, glitter cannons and political back-stabbery.

Finally, May saw the end of two long-standing institutions - the Labour government and Lost. Both had spent years delighting, confusing and infuriating in equal measure, and both knew that it was time to go. In the end, it was the survivors of flight Oceanic 815 that were more likely to be missed.

As June rolled over the horizon, people seemed to be packing away the final traces of self-awareness like it was their winter wardrobe. Republican Aaron Schock denied being gay (and even announced he'd burned the outfit that caused people to speculate), Tara Reid lamented her party-girl reputation as she attempted to avoid spilling beer from a plastic cup, and Giles Coren typed furiously that he wasn't Mr Angry.

McDonalds shocked France with an ad that suggested gays might enjoy the occasional quarter pounder (who knew?) and Vermont Catholic magazine hit the news-stands with a surprising cover, showing a priest apparently offering a choirboy more than just his sacrament.

In the pop world, Beyonce complained that she was tired of the Single Ladies dance routine (despite Kanye west's vocal approval), and Katy Perry took time out from shooting whipped cream from her tits to moan about Lady Gaga's offensive videos.

Boris Johnson lamented the fact that The Wizarding World of Harry Potter had opened in Florida, suggesting somewhat erroneously that England could have done it better. I think someone needs to lay off the butterbeer before he opens his mouth. And Mad Men star January Jones was caught doing the walk of shame after a big night out.

David Cameron finally got his feet under the desk at Number 10, and was quick to send out invitations to Britain's most prominent gays for a damage limitation party. Speaking of which, the big story on everyone's lips in June was the terrible BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Big-hearted gays staged a sponsored oil wrestle to raise clean-up funds, Sarah Palin tweeted that we should all wait for God to intervene, and Kevin Costner invented a filtration system that he sold to the government. Well, it's not like he was busy filming that much-in-demand sequel to Dragonfly.

Finally, June saw the long awaited reveal and release of the world-conquering iPhone 4, although Carphone Warehouse decided that I hadn't waited quite long enough. But the less said about that, the better. Can anyone guess what months we'll be covering tomorrow?

Sympathy for the devil

It's a little depressing when our favourite trouble-makers lose the ability to shock. Once the the rowdy, anarchic yang to the Beatles clean-cut yin, the Rolling Stones have, over the years, grown into rock music's elder statesmen. These days, the only thing remotely upsetting thing about them is when one of them forgets to put on a shirt.

The rock 'n' roll ethos might be 'live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse', but that doesn't hold any sway with the Stones. At this rate they'd even survive a nuclear holocaust, along with the cockroaches and Twinkies.

But after half a century of strutting angrily around a stage, it seems as though Sir Mick Jagger might finally be losing his edge. Speaking to Absolute Radio this week, he found himself reminiscing about the good old days (presumably when the Earth was just a single land-mass).

In a surprising interview, Mick admitted that the group had written some of their biggest hits while 'under the influence of drugs'. I know, shocking isn't it? It's hard to know what to believe after a revelation like that. Next you'll be telling me that Jodie Marsh isn't good dating material.

"That was a period of time when everyone took loads of drugs, it was very fashionable, but I mean, we did a lot of hard work as well, so it was a bit of a party atmosphere, loads of visitors, you know, there was a lot of drugs floating around."

Whilst I'm sure that the world of music journalism is rocking on its heels at this news, it's probably worth remembering that it's almost forty three years to the day that Mick and Keith were first arrested on drugs charges. Or that Keith went on to become a heroin addict. Or that Mick has regularly spoken out about his past dalliances with illegal pharmaceuticals.

The worst thing about ageing rock stars is that they start to repeat themselves. First it's a lyric or two, then a guitar riff or melodic hook.

But when they start telling the world things that everyone's known for forty-odd years, it's time to start thinking about hanging up the skinny t-shirt and trading it in for a nice aran-knit cardigan. There's no shame in getting old - only in pretending you're not.

Oh Mandy

If the name Mandy Smith has you scrabbling for the Wikipedia shortcut, let me help you out. At the age of fourteen, the fame-hungry starlet and her sister started hitting the London nightclubs in search of glamour, notoriety, and someone who could buy their vodka and cokes.

It was at one of these clubs that Mandy met Rolling Stone bass-player Bill Wyman. The two dated for four years, eventually marrying when Mandy turned 18. Thanks to her tabloid notoriety, she soon found herself modelling and even tried her hand at pop-stardom.

No strangers to flash-in-the-pan celebrity (having worked with more flavours-of-the-month than the Covent Garden Soup Company), Stock, Aitken and Waterman found a few old demos down the back of their couch and decided to loan Mandy their already overworked Calrec Soundfield Microphone. The singles barely scraped into the charts, and the album did even worse, meaning that her music career was over almost as soon as it had begun.

Her relationship didn't fare too much better - Rolling Stones and monogamy are like nature and vaccuums. It probably didn't help matters that Mandy's mother started seeing Wyman's son, making for the kind of tangled family situation that even Stephen Hawking would have trouble figuring out. Sometimes I picture Mandy, standing sobbing outside Clinton Cards on Mother's Day, not knowing where to begin.

Mandy and Bill went their separate ways in 1991, only for her to enter into another ill-fated marriage two years later with Belgian footballer Pat Van Den Hauwe. Fifteen years have passed since that relationship hit the crossbar, and now Mandy's happily settled in Manchester, where she runs a PR company with her sister.

So why is Mandy on my mind today? It could be that I'm excited about the imminent arrival of her lovingly remastered CD (available to order here), but it's probably because she's done a big interview with the Mail today, reflecting on her years with Wyman.

Mandy became a born-again Christian several years ago, and puts her past experience to good use by counseling young women. But I'm not sure she's quite got the hang of it. The passage of time has clearly affected Mandy's memory: "I wanted a better life, but I saw that in terms of getting a job, a house, a husband. [Girls today] want to be Jordan. They dream about being with footballers and rock stars." Does Mandy even remember what her two husbands did for a living?

It's a classic case of 'Do as I say, not as I do' - Mandy says "I don't think most 16-year-olds are ready [for sex]. I think the age of consent should be raised to 18 at a minimum, and some girls aren't even ready then. I know, I know. People will find that odd, coming from me."

I think what's really odd, is the fact that Mandy's revisionist sense of history places a little too much emphasis on sex, and disregards all her other troublingly precocious behaviour.

Mandy may believe in retrospect that she wasn't ready for sex at 16, but she was ready to dress up as someone twice her age, lie her way into nightclubs, drink vodka and smoke. How much adult behaviour can one person indulge in before they start being treated as an adult?