Eminem

"Check this out, yeah, I'm a rapper, but I'm also white. That's well good, innit?" Yes yes yes, we get it, you're boring now. The fact of the matter is, your mate 50 Pence has been shot eighteen times this week alone, don't you have some catching up to do? Someone get this man a gun...

Predictor: Alistair Reid, Brighton
Mortality Status: Alive

Boy George

I can hear you chuckling already. I know what you're thinking; "Is that grotesque, wobbly old monstrous mess of a man pictured above the former lead singer of Culture Club?" Sure is. Funny isn't it? Go on, have a good look. It's as if an elephant gave birth to an unshaven tumour, right? Yeah. Might I suggest that someone, somewhere, preferably someone a little unhinged, kidnap this hideous freak, handcuff him to a radiator and fist his arse hole for a good 24 hours whilst screaming "How do you fucking like it?", until eventually smashing his swollen skull into a thick paste with a massive hammer? Just a thought.

Predictor: Luke Clothier, Brighton
Mortality Status: Alive

Patrick Moore

Is it 'Game Over' for the Gamesmaster? Well he is very fat and very old, so the answer may be yes. Ha.

Predictor: Dee Swan, Crawley
Mortality Status: Alive

Bobby Charlton

This is the second Geordie football player to enter the Celebrity Cemetery, so take that as fucking career advice, Newcastle. Rumour has it that when he and his brother Jackie stand next to one another, astronauts have mistaken their glorious slap-heads for an enormous pair of upward facing tits the likes of which the world has never seen before. But does that mean that Bobby deserves to puke up God's life sandwich into the bucket of eternal sleep? Let's wait and see...

Predictor: Tom Bowen, Brighton
Mortality Status: Alive

Bruce Forsyth

Like an abandoned drunk granddad left swaying around an empty dance floor after a wedding, intermittently vomiting up slurred, incoherent nonsense about "going higher or lower", belching ludicrous catchphrases at a non-existent audience, 'Brucie' can still be seen presenting mainstream TV programmes such as BBC One's awful celebrity 'talent' show, Strictly Come Dirty Dancing Ballroom On Ice Got Talent Factor, which is nothing short of a fucking miracle given that he turned 146 years old last week. With this in mind, surely it won't be long till he attempts his infamous and much-loved 'macho-man' pose, simultaneously causing his spine to snap, his heart to pop, his brain to melt, and his fucking head to topple to the ground and burst into a dust cloud of old skull and hair.

Predictor: Marc Redhead, Seaford
Mortality Status: Alive

Michael Stipe

AIDS-ey REM singer Michael Stipe has always looked a bit peaky, but is it enough to shove him through the door of life down into the deep, dark wine cellar of death? Let's wait and see, eh?

Predictor: Alistair Reid, Brighton
Mortality Status: Alive

Dennis Hopper

After four months of living with a prostate riddled with cancer, Hopper has recently declared that he is "ready to die". Well, what's keeping him? Come on, Dennis, do me a favour, give it up.

Predictor: Dr Seamus, Brighton
Mortality Status: DEAD

Lewis Hamilton

Him wot used to be good at driving, but now sits behind the wheel like a total nonce on a Sunday afternoon in Eastbourne town centre, Hamilton's washed up career as Britain's only black driver successful enough not to be arrested by British police officers for, oh I dunno, drugs or summink, won't stop him from smashing his £6 billion car into a wall of tyres and 'doing a Senna'.

Predictor: Bill Swan, Crawley
Mortality Status: Alive

Drew Barrymore

Drew 'Head-Like-A-Fucking-Alien' Barrymore (no wonder she got on so well with that fucking ET chap) has had her fair share of controversies in the past. Smoking weed at 12 years old, snorting coke at 13 and in and out of rehab throughout her teens, Drew's due a good, strong relapse, don't you agree?

Predictor: Emily Malbon, Nottingham
Mortality Status: Alive

Kerry Katona

The Astronomic Kitten star recently lost her lucrative deal with well-known chav supermarket chain Iceland, after journalist investigations uncovered evidence that she is really fat and really annoying. Oh and she's got a cheeky penchant for snorting coke (and eating cakes), which has led to fears about her health. If only it were possible for people to drown on their own stupidity, she'd have died months ago.

Predictor: Luke Semlekan-Tansey
Mortality Status: Alive

Ken Dodd

By the looks of this photograph alone, buck-toothed, feather duster-wielding, old-school comedy madman Ken Dodd is as good as dodd... Haha! What a silly mistake! I mean dodd. Fuck I did it again! Haha! Oh dear! Let me try that again...

By the looks of this awful, haggered, pasty photo of Ken, he looks fucking DEAD already. Ken Dead.

Predictor: Will Dobson, Brighton
Mortality Status: Dodd (Dead)

Woody Allen

You can say what you like about Woody Allen. You can say that he's a pervert, or a sex-pest, or a paedophile. You can say that he's a talentless, neurotic, self-indulgent twat. You can say that it was disgusting that he took naked photos of his step-daughter. You can say that he was sick to then have a relationship with her. You may well say that he is a sad old freak who should have stopped making films thirty years ago. You may say that Melinda and Melinda is one of the worst things you've ever seen in your whole fucking life. You can say what you like about him, but at the end of the day... hm, I forget my point.

Oh that's right, I remember, he's probably going to die soon. Whoopee!

Predictor: Dr. Seamus, Brighton
Mortality Status: Alive

Queen Elizabeth II

"God save our graaaay-cious Queen, long live our loooo...oh dear, someone's shot her."

Predictor: Gemma Blows, Brighton
Mortality Status: Alive

Jimmy Saville

I can see it now; Jimmy staggers to bed one night, drunk on his own dementia, jabbering to himself about "fixing it" for a bunch of children. Neglecting to remove his crusty shell-suit, his cigar teetering dangerously over his bottom lip, he slips into a blissful state of pissed-up unconsciousness. A final murmur of "now then, now then" emerges from somewhere deep in his throat, causing the still-burning cigar to drop graciously from his mouth onto the nylon kindling of his shell-suit. Within seconds Saville is aflame, and the room fills with the acrid scent of hot skin bonding with melted nylon. He doesn't have time to scream.

Now, 'ow's about tha' then?

Predictor: Laura Swan, London
Mortality Status: DEAD