Catherine Zeta Jones on casting couch for penury (Pub-friendly) [The Rockall Times]

Catherine Zeta Jones is an ex-filmstar who will never land a major role again after a long-suppressed family secret was unfortunately revealed. Persistent dark mutterings in the Mumbles concerning a murky incident that took place in the Swansea suburb almost 36 years ago have finally reached the poolsides of Beverley Hills after Mr and Mrs Prattle, former close friends and neighbours of the star's parents, took a trip to LA for a golden anniversary tour of the dream factory and spilled the beans.

Details of a shameful episode that occurred in a terraced house overlooking the quay in December 1968 have spread like the clap, conjuring up a vivid storyboard of unsavoury images in the listeners' minds.

Just after 10pm on the night in question Mr Dai Jones, confectioner, turned off the lights in the back parlour and retired upstairs to join his eager wife Pat in the marital bed. After a brief interlude of foreplay the lawfully wedded couple assumed the missionary position and commenced ritual thrusting unimpeded by contraception of any kind. Mr Jones brought the affair to a satisfactory conclusion, rolled off his accommodating spouse and was soon snoring contentedly.

The shocking tale bore almost no resemblance to the sanitised version peddled for years in the fanzines of a drug-laced wife-swapping binge with the Zetas, culminating in a four-in-a-bed romp between the Joneses and their outrageously fertile guests. But the Prattles were adamant. "There were never any Zetas down our end of town," they insisted.

There was only one inference to be drawn. The Welsh movie queen's glittering Hollywood reign was based on a false prospectus. A nagging sense of déjà vue descended on the coke-laden community. Back copies of Tinsel Tattle were passed around between snorts as producers and casting directors sought out the original porky, circulated at the time of the starlet's rise to prominence in the early nineties, in which rampant Greek seaman Mateo Zeta, on shore leave from the SS Stasis, had swept gymslip ingénue Pattie Jones off her feet in a whirlwind bonk on the quayside. That story too was discredited when records came to light that the Stasis had been undergoing repair in dry dock in Piraeus at the time of the alleged amorous encounter.

Ten years on, could an even better fairy-tale be unearthed to avert another crisis and save the star's plummeting career in the nick of time? Frantic agents clutched at a promising rumour of incest before realising too late it didn't suit the purpose, and with a final press release that their client was probably "toast", disappeared out the back door.

At a charity dinner hastily arranged to give the defunct actress a decent send-off the ever gracious Tom Hanks, co-star of her last vehicle, spoke for everyone when he said of the washed-up Welsh diva "All her star quality was packed into that one phenomenal crowd-pleasing attribute. Without it she's the pits." There was a murmur of dissent amongst the assembled glitterati. "More like the kiss of death!" one of them called out. "Box office poison on legs!" suggested another. Michael Douglas sat with head bowed, checking his pre-nuptials before slinking out to file for divorce.

With betrayed fans and film-makers demanding their money back, and no apparent insurance against the loss of her asset, Catherine Jones will need to find a new source of income soon.

Careers adviser Beryl Dross sketches out the options for the lumpen Welsh has-been: "Cosmetics consultant at Boots in Merthyr Tydfil at £16,000 per annum plus perks, a return to seaside vaudeville in the Mumbles at up to £800 a month in season plus cockles, or a complete change of gear and a move to downtown LA, with potential earnings of 200 grammes a month and a free aids test, as the low-budget porno-thespian art-house whore Z (the artiste formerly known as Catherine Zeta Jones)."

Catherine Zeta Jones on casting couch for penury

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