Pete Cashmore: Justin Bieber barbs, sexist ski slopes, ball pits & a Bale out

But to kick things off, the world of showbiz is precisely where we are headed, to pay a visit to Justin Bieber, a young pop music performer of some note, so I am told.

Justin, it's fair to say, is a complicated young man, by which I mean he is an obnoxious little snot who would benefit from a good walloping. If he's not berating his crowds for having the temerity to cheer during his concerts, he's telling jokes that might be politely described as 'off colour'. He's horrible, is what I am trying to say.

One person who can attest to this is Bieber fan Keith Casey, 27, from Dublin. Keith actually spotted the Bieb coming out of a tanning salon – where else? – in his home city this week, and, stunned, decided to capture the moment for posterity on his cameraphone.

He was met with a response from the pop star that might best be described as 'unfavourable' – in other words, Justin tore several strips off him and sent him packing with a flea in his ear.

"He used aggressive body language and said, 'dude, stop filming me!'," sobbed Keith afterwards. "His attitude was terrible. There's no need for it. It's just not fair. I'm in shock."

I am, frankly, astounded by all of this. I'm not astounded by the fact that Justin was rude to a fan, as indeed Keith himself ought not be – being rude to his fans is what Justin Bieber does. No, what amazes me is that there is a 27-year-old man in the entire world who a) likes Justin Bieber enough that he wants to take a photo of him, and b) is willing to actually go public about the fact. Keith, be aware that it's nothing personal and it would have happened to anyone else the same way. Now please, PLEASE take this as a sign and get yourself some better music taste.

I don't know Justin Bieber – clearly we don't go to the same tanning salon – but something about him tells me that he probably enjoys skiing.

All that money and free time, plus he's from Canada, where that kind of thing is popular.

Well, I'm here to tell you that, in enjoying skiing (which he definitely does) Justin is reinforcing sexism. Yes he is! Because the latest thing to be branded 'sexist' by academic types with way too much time on their hands is the ski slope.

Take a moment, let that sink in. Ski slopes are sexist.

This is according to someone at the University of Newfoundland who published an article in the International Review For The Sociology Of Sport stating that ski slopes are 'masculinised spaces', meaning they give rise to aggressive, risk-taking behaviour that is inherently male in nature.

Now, the temptation here is simply to yell, 'WHAT A PILE OF MOULDY BANANAS!' and vow never to visit the University of Newfoundland if that's the level of fun on offer there. But I'd go further and argue that it's the silly study itself which is the sexist one, because who says that it's only blokes who are capable of skiing really aggressively and take risks? I'm willing to bet that all you lady skiers out there find this study as preposterous as I do – indeed, if you are a lady skier, then feel free to vent some of your aggression by emailing me your objections and I will print the funniest ones.

This means that, in the last few weeks alone, we have had sexist ski slopes, sexist dog fancy dress and fat-shaming coffee shops, all apparently offered up as actual things without a hint of apparent irony.

And they dare to say that we, as a species, need to grow a bit of backbone. Absurd.

And yet, no matter how ridiculous people get, you can always count on someone to be that little bit more absurd in London.

Good old London. I used to live there and, well, 'never again' doesn't really cover it.

Up until recently, the innate preposterousness of London could be summed up by Cereal Killer, which is a cafe in East London that only sells breakfast cereal. Despite this, Cereal Killer was such a success that a second branch is now set to open in Birmingham's Bullring, so we in the West Midlands will soon be equally to blame.

Cereal Killer, though, seems positively sensible next to the latest establishment set to take the capital by storm – the nation's first 'ball pit bar'. In other words, it's a licenced drinking establishment that also contains pits full of brightly coloured rubber balls of the type beloved of small children. Which means that punters can pop along, have a few drinks, and then throw themselves around in a ball pit. What times we live in.

Oh, and as if all this wasn't bad enough, the bar is going to be called 'Baller McBallerson'. There is a special circle of Hell reserved for whoever came up with that name.

We don't cover showbiz much in this column, like I said, and we don't cover football much either, but this is clearly a week of firsts because we're finishing on a football story.

Gareth Bale is apparently about to sign a new contract for Real Madrid, which guarantees him £650,000 a week for the next six years. That's the best part of £200 million, which is not a bad little earner.

As part of his contract, Gareth will agree to a release clause of one billion pounds, meaning that anyone who wishes to buy him will have to pay a billion squids for the privilege of even talking to him, effectively pricing him out of the market forever.

A billion pound release clause is, of course, absurd, it's merely a totemic gesture that says: "You cannot afford this man so don't even bother."

But since nobody will ever pay it, I think that Real should go even further and make his release clause a squillion quid – in other words, a number so ridiculous that it doesn't actually exist. There's exactly the same likelihood of it being paid, and Real get the kudos of saying: "Look, our players are so amazing that they cannot be valued by actual numbers. We have to make them up!"

Gareth, interestingly, actually trademarked his own goal celebration, where he makes a heart shape with his hands and sticks his tongue out. Truly, the game has gone as utterly insane as sexist ski slopes and ball pit boozers.