If you’re a regular visitor to the Arena blog you’ll know that this is the place for insightful creative writing, stories written to the highest journalistic standard, unparalleled incisive opinion and humorous comments on the way we’re living our lives.

Then again, we spot a picture like this of Salma Hayek at a press conference and all that goes out the window. Just look at those whammers. Thank you.

I can’t have been the only one to have spent the last couple of years lamenting Britney Spears’ plummet from ‘red-hot pop vixen in bikini top and snake draped over her shoulders’ to ’sloppy velour tracksuit-wearing chav mum’.

The one-time sex goddess had gone downhill so fast you would have been unsurprised to find a jetpack on her back and rollerskates attached to her pink jelly shoes.

Thank God, then, for her impending divorce from dancer-cum-rapper pond-life K-Fed, which seems to have shaken her out of her rissole-quaffing malaise and transformed her from fast-food-munching maggot into the big-breasted butterfly we’ve all come to love.

These recent pictures of her snapped out in LA are clearly those of a woman sticking two fingers up to her soon-to-be ex-husband: back were the naughty fishnets, back was the Agent Prov bra – albeit probably holding in a pair of breasts overly heaving with milk to feed her eight-week-old, but you can’t win a coconut every time.

With an album scheduled for early next year, get ready for the Britters comeback in full. We are.

Watching your girlfriend suck some other guy’s cock has, it seems, jumped the shark.

Calum Best (below), arguably the benchmark for tragic uncool, was papped recently at a London orgy. The ‘scene’ traditionally frowns on any sort of celebrity attendance, the thinking being it’d draw unwelcome attention to swingers that desired complete discretion (which is pretty much all of them).

Moreover, the scene itself is becoming infested by wannabe organisations (you may have read about them in your girlfriend’s Grazia). Some of these hardly demonstrate the sensitivity and attention to detail one demands from one’s sex-party organiser.

For example, the much-hyped Killing Kittens – which, it must be said, is a very good name – is fronted by Emma Sayle, a lady who describes herself as “the face of posh swinging”.

Sayle will be known to anyone who’s attended Fever, the original orgy for the under-35s. When she worked as the Fever hostess one night, she installed secret cameras and sold the shots to the Sunday Mirror, which the newspaper ran on the front page. She also arranged for Mirror journalists to work as bouncers.

But never mind the extortionists; bandwagon-jumpers kill any scene, as anyone who’s watched their favourite club night slowly die will testify. Much is made of the ‘elitist’ swinging movement’s ‘vetting’ of candidates according to how good looking they are, but what they actually judge you is on is sincerity, enthusiasm and manners. Qualities that are often difficult to find in the kind of individual who takes inspiration for their leisure activities from Calum Best.

Magnificent news for readers in long-term relationships whose partners want to “come off the pill because it makes me feel sooo hormonal”. You won’t have to go back to using hated condoms because Seventies contraceptive device ‘the coil’ is back.

For anyone who doesn’t remember the diagrams from their GCSE biology textbooks, the coil looks a bit like those pictures The Sunday Times wheels out every now and then of basic forms of life found fossilised on Mars. This can put off some city chicks (country girls will be fine) – as could, back in the Seventies, the coil’s propensity to dislodge and go missing up inside the womb.

(Is it just us or does this look a bit like two aliens kissing? Anyway…)

The coil is a small piece of copper that a doctor inserts into the womb through the fanny. Once installed it not only helps to prevent sperm from getting to the eggs, but also stops any successfully fertilised ones from settling in the womb lining, working as a relentless thankless-screaming-thing terminator (but well before they start developing little arms and eyes).

The materials used to make 21st-century coils are far more reliable and the wearer can now tell if it’s come out of place, whereas previously they’d need regular check-ups. In our visual age they also look (slightly) less terrifying. If your partner’s NHS GP is one of those who either genuflects himself or tries to scratch out his own eyes at the slightest mention of a ‘genito-urinary issue’, Same Day Doctor will whack one up for a very reasonable sum.

The most incredible press release I’ve received today was from GNER, which obviously has no qualms about getting a pretty lady with big bosoms to wear a swimsuit in a cold train station. Then ask her to carry a surfboard. God bless them.

Just in case you didn’t understand the angle it was coming from, here’s the press release:

“SURF’S UP FOR A HI-TECH TRIP! ALL A-BOARD!
This girl’s got the message to beat the wet and windy British weather… with east-coast train firm GNER’s new wireless wonder. Model Becky Burrows braves the chilly winds on London King’s Cross station as GNER announces that all of its trains now have wireless internet on board. GNER says picking up emails and surfing the ‘net is easy and fun on its trains… and with Becky hopping ‘on board’, there’s even more reason to be chuffed!”

Brilliant.

God love them. The dirty girls who follow Kate Moss’s cultivated lead like grubby lemmings over the cliff, not realising they don’t have the million-pound parachute.

They crawl on their carpet-burned knees through a better-than-average comprehensive, or possibly a private school, where they nail their A-levels (and much more) with concealed but vigorous effort. Then they head to university with a pat on the arse from their slavering fathers.

In the safety of others’ nervous conformity they perform a wire-walk between social acceptability and being naughty enough to make others’ jealous of their bohemian life – drinking a lot, but not enough to get fat, and looking a bit ill.

They’re eager to tell you that their dress only cost £8 in Primark. And it looks really fucking good because they haven’t eaten chips in their life, except for once in a take-away shop to prove that they eat chips and don’t care about looking thin. They swallowed them, which meant they couldn’t eat the next day.

They’ll tell you they hate Russell Brand, then give a blow job to the first guy they meet who can fit into a women’s size-eight jeans while back-stage at a gig featuring the latest band in their pre-T4 appearance period. There may even be some penetration, but not too much, lest the bassist not be able to assert his dominance over his adoring masses completely. Condoms will not be worn.

Then it’s heroin or nothing. Dirty drugs in dirty toilets in some slum bar they once got drunk in with an ex-television presenter cokehead. She’ll read Heat with overt enthusiasm, because the rat-race lifers pretend not to.

They are the slum-posh indie sluts. And we all want one.

Having previously reported on the phenomenon of hot girls and computer games coming together, I’m pleased to report that it’s catching.

Nerdcore’s new calendar features all manner of ‘Eurasian girls next door’ wielding robotic hands, gaming consoles, etc (below).

Admittedly, you’ve never, ever seen a woman who looks this hot sitting on a biscuit-encrusted couch playing computer games, but it’s nice to dream…