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Cow tipping in Dyfed, with Zendaya

HEY everyone! Zendaya here. The most famous person in the world if you’re under 25. So famous I’m known by only one name, like Cher, Bono or Shipman. 

But I’m not here to promote one of my hit movies or dazzle on the red carpet. No, I’m here to make a confession. For many years now I’ve spent my free time cow tipping by moonlight in a very specific region of south west Wales.

Forget the Oscars, f**k the Emmys. You simply cannot beat the frisson of excitement you get from pushing over a large bovine on a farm just outside Haverfordwest then running off. Often to shoot a campaign for Hilfiger or Lacombe. 

My obsession started in 2017 just after The Greatest Showman when I was trying to depressurise after being contractually obliged to listen to Hugh Jackman sing for nine months. And now I’m an A-lister it’s not easy to find time between feature films like Dune 3 to keep my hand in at tipping. But I do my best. 

Plus there’s the more practical fact that I weigh six stone. Occasionally I’ve tried to take a co-star, but Timothee Chalamet just wasn’t into it. He stepped in a cowpat and cried for a good 45 minutes, the pussy. 

And things can get hairy. A few times a livid farmer has pulled a shotgun on me. I’m talking about Farmer Evans from Milford Haven and Farmer Jones from Carmarthen. If you’re reading this, buddy: F**K YOU! 

So sometimes I’m forced to use the badass stunt fighting skills I learned on Dune to incapacitate angry local hicks. Then I set fire to their barns and outbuildings to teach them a lesson. It’s gotta be done.

I can see not everyone might approve of cow tipping, but it isn’t like I haven’t tried to kick the habit. My secret fiance (whoops) Tom Holland tried to put me off shoving over dumbass dairy cattle in the dead of night by introducing me to other peculiar British pastimes: conkers, going ‘car booting’, shouting obscenities at the away team’s goalie on the terraces at Spurs. 

But nothing matches the high of toppling a bunch of dumb cows then legging it and hiding in a ditch while a confused Welshman goes mental. In this crazy Hollywood world, the simple things in life are precious to me. Sydney Sweeney has expressed an interest.

Mash Blind Date: can Elon Musk convert every woman in the UK to techbro-fascism by serially dating them?

BILLIONAIRE Elon Musk has fallen in love with converting Europe to fascism, and he is pressing his ardour. Will Joanna Kramer, aged 44, fall to his shock troops? 

Elon on Joanna

First impression?

Woman. UK voter. Nothing else matters. This is how I focus and win.

How was conversation? 

Unimportant, from her side. But from me flowed an unassailable stream of logic which left her in no doubt that freeing Tommy Robinson is the first priority of every Brit.

Memorable moments?

Several of the tweets I sent during breaks in my monologue should be printed out, framed and should replace the royal crest on government buildings.

Favourite thing about Joanna? 

I don’t have ‘favourite things’ about anyone with less than $500 million in assets.

A capsule description? 

I said. Woman.

Was there a spark? 

Physical attraction is irrational and deleterious to the earth’s future. I am developing mandatory breeding programmes.

What happened afterwards? 

I moved on to the next one.

What would you change about the evening? 

It would have been preferable not to look at her.

Will you see each other again?  

She’s converted now and will be voting for the Trumpiest candidate when I call this summer’s general election, so what would be the point?

Joanna on Elon

First impression?

It really is the dickhead from the internet. Hat and everything.

How was conversation? 

Nothing that took place could be described as conversation. He declaimed sentences in the brief intervals between far-right retweets.

Memorable moments?

When he explained why he only has babies via IVF. Sadly I’ve had to sign an NDA, but it is at least as mental as you’d expect.

Favourite thing about Elon? 

His money. There is nothing else one could conceivably like. And even that’s used for evil.

A capsule description? 

Prick acolyte of Trump locked into a spiral of drug-fuelled decline and determined to take the world with him when he goes.

Was there a spark? 

Imagine sitting across from a piggy-eyed man in a baseball cap barking staccato sentences like ‘Starmer must be jailed’ or ‘You are the media now’ between tapping furiously on his phone and receiving unspecified injections from aides. Then realise how ridiculous that question is.

What happened afterwards? 

I was ushered out after the starter and asked to give a binding declaration of voting intent. I refused and his staff said I had anyway.

What would you change about the evening? 

He would have suffered his inevitable brain aneurysm while I was there to see it.

Will you see each other again?  

Oh no. Oh definitely not. He’ll soon be in hell, you see.

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