Strictly fans convinced major announcement set to take place TOMORROW amid cocaine probe
ON THE BEAT Strictly fans convinced major announcement set to take place TOMORROW amid cocaine probe
STRICTLY Come Dancing fans have become convinced a major announcement is imminent.
Ahead of this year's series, fans think an announcement is set to take place TOMORROW.
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The casting announcement for Strictly 2025 is imminent
Credit: BBC
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The announcement comes amid a probe into two stars allegedly taking cocaine on the show
Credit: PA
Posting on Reddit, one fan wrote: "Seeing as the first announcement last year was on the first monday in august (the 5th) surely we should be getting the first announcement(s) tomorrow but there's been no mention of upcoming reveals from the BBC so far..
"any ideas on when they might start? the suspense is killing me!"
While some agreed, some believe the show will halt the announcement due to the cocaine probe involving two of the show's stars.
"I think it will be next week. Strictly would have posted a 'reveals starting on Monday' post by now if reveals were on Monday," one responded.
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They added: "I think they want to calm the alleged cocaine use story before the reveals."
"Either tomorrow or from the 11th (so next Monday) as everything is seemingly pushed back a week?" said another.
"Probably from the 11th now would had heard something if the reveals were starting tomorrow," said another.
Currently, rumoured additions include Doctor Who and ER's Alex Kingston, Down's Syndrome model Ellie Goldstein and England rugby ace Chris Robshaw.
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Dani Dyer is also believed to be heading onto the show, as is The Traitors winner Jake Brown.
But ahead of this year's casting announcement, Strictly has already found themselves dealing with behind-the-scenes drama with two stars accused of taking cocaine while on the show.
BBC launches inquiry into damning allegations of drug consumption on flagship show Strictly Come Dancing
The Sun on Sunday revealed that the BBC had been forced to launch an investigation using external lawyers to look into allegations of drug use.
The Sun revealed today that the people in question are set to be offered rehab to take the issue.
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Last night, a source said: 'The BBC is taking the allegations really seriously.
"Bosses are aware of the two stars in question and have a duty of care to make sure they're OK.
'As per BBC policy, the option of specialised professional support is on the table and will be offered.'
Execs are also considering adding random drugs tests on next year's Strictly tour — where after-parties are known for wild scenes.
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Irish Times
an hour ago
- Irish Times
Alison Spittle: ‘I'm treated more like a human being now I've lost weight'
Alison Spittle is so competitive, she's had to apologise to people after board games. It's one of her worst traits, but she's also 'kind of proud of it' and knows that 'if you're not competitive, you don't win as much'. When she won the trophy on quiz show Pointless Celebrities , her family took pictures of her with it 'like it was the Sam Maguire'. An official BBC clip shows Spittle explaining she's a superfan, then screaming as one of her early-round answers is revealed to be pointless (the best outcome). Her elation is pure. But the episode, which aired in January, was filmed two years earlier, and Spittle now feels deeply protective of the person she was then, which is to say the same person, only 'significantly fatter'. READ MORE 'When Pointless came out, I watched it with people who were like: 'Oh my god, you are half the size you were then, look at you there.' And I'm looking at myself and I'm thinking, 'That was the happiest day of my life.'' What she regretted about her appearance on the show was that she and fellow comedian Fern Brady didn't win the elusive charity jackpot, not her size. Now the feelings elicited by this encounter with her past self are at the crux of Spittle's new stand-up show, BIG, which comes to the Dublin Fringe Festival in September after its current, month-long run in Edinburgh. 'I really don't like the idea of denouncing myself,' she says. 'I liked the person I was. I did, and I know I f**king did, and that's the annoying thing about losing weight. You're expected to denounce the person you were.' Being a 'public fat person' has taught her that there are others who will do the denouncing for her anyway and she's sad that poster rules at the Edinburgh fringe mean she couldn't use her original title: Fat Bitch. Alison Spittle was eight when her family settled in Ballymore, Co Westmeath. Photograph: Karla Gowlett 'If I have a bad interaction with a stranger, there's always a 'fat bitch' in it, and sometimes I see it as a trophy. Like, 'You've resorted to that, I've won'.' Whenever she went on television, the online comments would either be women – mostly thin women – declaring 'go girl, you're an inspiration', or they would be men harassing her by demanding to know what she was putting on her bread and accusing her of glorifying obesity simply by being on TV. 'When I got messages like that I would wake up over a toaster and be like, 'Little do they know, the more they attack, the bigger I become'.' In the show, she talks about how she started 'roaring and shouting' at one man who called her a fat bitch on a train, embarrassing him in front of other passengers. He hadn't been anticipating a confrontation. 'He thought he could just dismiss me with 'fat bitch',' she says. ''Fat bitch' is like 'goodbye' for a lot of people.' The worst part about losing weight is noticing how strangers are nicer to her: 'People treat me more like a human being now, which is messed up.' A lot of thin people who have a go at me about being fat, they think they're better than me She never wanted to change for the benefit of 'a**holes' who would only afford her dignity if she was a certain weight. 'People would keep telling me I was not conventionally attractive, and, like, it wasn't an interest of mine to be conventionally attractive. So that was kind of my process. My process? I don't know, I've been fat since I was eight years old.' She hung on to an 'element of defiance', she thinks, in order to reject the validation of the sexist, classist comedy culture she came of age in – one in which women were there to laugh, not make others laugh. 'That's what I loved about being on telly. Men would get angry with me because they weren't being titillated. Their erection wasn't being catered for on mainstream TV.' Recently she was crying on the couch to a fat female friend about the emotional fallout of weight loss. 'She goes to me, 'I hate to break it to you, Alison, but you're still fat'. And I said, 'Thank you'. I was delighted.' But she has lost a lot – with the aid of Mounjaro injections – since the trigger of a health crisis. She contracted cellulitis, which led to septicaemia, hospitalising her. 'Ireland's too small a country to have a women's weekly gossip magazine.' Photograph: Karla Gowlett 'The doctors were like, 'You do have to lose weight now'. And when you're attached to a drip and you're not able to move for weeks, you're like, 'Okay, fair enough, yeah'.' Our interview takes place over a pot of late-afternoon tea in the top-floor bar of the Aloft hotel in Dublin 8. It's her first caffeine on a day that has so far involved a missed flight, rebooking drama and two podcast recordings and will end with a gig at Iveagh Gardens. 'It's been a mad one, a mad one!' She's snacking on popcorn – 'which is funny' – but only because she's hungry. Before, her eating would go beyond hunger, beyond comfort; she would eat until she was uncomfortable. 'I would eat until I couldn't feel anything any more, because I didn't like feeling the way I felt about stuff, so the feeling of being overly full overtook everything else. It was like a comfort blanket, an anxiety blanket.' [ Alison Spittle's Spotify playlist: 'I love Kanye. He's an idiot, but I'm overwhelmed by his talent' Opens in new window ] Mounjaro has suppressed her appetite, meaning food is just fuel now, and she does sometimes miss the dopamine aspect. 'It's like doing your laundry, you're not eating for pleasure any more.' She has no time for celebrities who 'suddenly found willpower' just as medicines such as Ozempic and Mounjaro came to the fore. 'They go, 'Oh, it's the power of walking'. You're on the jabs, just say you're on the jabs,' she says. 'I tried losing weight without the jabs and couldn't do it, so I'm on the jabs, and if you are the same, you shouldn't feel ashamed. 'This whole idea of attaching morality to the size of your body absolutely disgusts me and now the idea of morality attached to the way you lose weight as well, it makes me so, so angry.' She knows she has a 'full-on addiction to food', and it's still there, unfixed, even if the self-injections are preventing her from acting upon it, but she had to sort her health out before it got any worse, she says, and she's scathing about people who insist weight should be lost the 'natural' way. 'They're just telling a fat person they should be in pain as punishment for being fat in the first place. Why do they want that off a person? It's very Calvinist or something. It's very Opus Dei, like whipping yourself on the back. I'm like, no, I'm not going to do that for you. I don't you owe you pain.' BIG is at Project Arts Centre, Dublin, September 16th-20th, as part of Dublin Fringe Festival. Photograph: Karla Gowlett It's not hard to understand why Spittle was compelled to devote a show to this subject yet is wary of the personal risk it carries. 'It is very vulnerable putting your wares on display and saying, 'Consume this, review this!' I'm very scared about that aspect,' she says. 'Even when I'm talking to you, I can feel myself getting animated. I can feel myself get emotional about stuff, and that's only with us chatting.' There are, she stresses, 'loads of jokes' in the show. Our conversation is joyously soundtracked by the bar's penchant for Noughties classics. Identifying them – which music fan and trivia-master Spittle can do within seconds – becomes her occasional side-quest as she tries to explain how she feels. Her sense is that stand-up is the 'one and only medium' where she can truly do that. People mistake her choice of 'loud' clothes for confidence, but she doesn't feel confident most of the time; she just likes colour. With stand-up, that's when she's at her most powerful. She has the microphone, she has the control. 'I can never get across how I feel about stuff, properly, unless it's through stand-up.' It would be mad to say I'm happy with my life, because I don't think anybody is happy with their life She has 'built a whole career', she tells me, out of being the funny friend. Born in London in June 1989, Spittle moved around a lot when she was kid, including a nine-month spell in Germany, as her father, a builder, sought work. It meant she was never the 'established friend' in a friend group, which prompted the discovery that making people laugh was the quickest way to befriend them. 'A lot of thin people who have a go at me about being fat, they think they're better than me, but the thing is I had to develop a personality when I was younger. 'They're f**ked! They have absolutely nothing now. And I feel sorry for them, because there's going to be so many fat people getting thinner, they won't know what to do with themselves.' She was eight when her family – she has four siblings – settled in Ballymore, Co Westmeath, where there was 'a definite pecking order' on her council estate. Being 'fat and eccentric' was her way of removing herself from it. To be 'valuable', she became 'the nice one, the people-pleaser'. She felt she didn't have the option of any other identity. [ 'My motto for life is, be sound' Opens in new window ] She 'fecked up' her Leaving Cert, but this turned out to be serendipitous. During a media course at Ballyfermot College she did work experience at Athlone-based iRadio, where comedian Bernard O'Shea was DJing. He told her she should try stand-up and booked her a gig, giving her two weeks to prepare. 'He said do your funniest joke at the start, so people trust you, and do your second-funniest joke at the end, so that's what I did, and I loved it. I had this massive rush coming off stage. I had so much adrenaline, I felt like I was in love.' 'So I moved to Dublin then, and ... Aw, I love this song! Sorry. It's Nelly Furtado, Turn Off the Light!' In Dublin, not far from the Noughties-loving bar where we meet, Spittle rented a box room for a cheap rent from a non-gouging landlord, making it possible for her to live in the city while she performed stand-up and wrote plays. After encouragement from a producer who saw her at the International Bar, she and her boyfriend, Simon Mulholland, wrote a script for what became Nowhere Fast , a sitcom that aired for one season on RTÉ in 2017. 'I was a baba. A little baba. I had people coming up saying, 'Oh my god, you're making this and you're this age'. When you're young, you don't realise that you're young. Nobody's going to say that to me now!' In 2018 she and Mulholland moved to London, from where she has developed her stand-up career and scratched her old radio itch through podcasting. A BBC-commissioned podcast, Wheel of Misfortune – she presented it first with 'best pal' Brady, then with 'icon' Kerry Katona – means people in the UK sometimes recognise her when they hear her voice. It's over now, but she has a new one called Magazine Party, where she and co-host Poppy Hillstead dissect the wild stories contained in That's Life!-style magazines and compile their own 'Women's Bleakly'. 'Ireland's too small a country to have a women's weekly gossip magazine. You'd read a story that goes, 'I slept with the ghost of my husband,' and you'd be like, 'That's Mary from down the road, I knew that'.' [ Alison Spittle's Christmas: I'll explode if I get another bath bomb Opens in new window ] She would 'totally love' to emulate Brady and star in a series of Channel 4's comedy gameshow Taskmaster – 'I would kick a child to get on Taskmaster' – but Pointless Celebrities hasn't been the only TV outlet for her competitive spirit. She also flew to Glasgow to film five episodes of Richard Osman's House of Games in one day. 'I fell down the stairs at one point, out of excitement, and made my shin bleed. We had to pause filming for 10 minutes while we found another pair of tights for me.' Swooning reviews for BIG have since poured in, but as we speak she's still a week away from the start of Edinburgh and so conscious of her desire to do her show justice, she's waking up every morning with a pain in her chest telling her to get out her Post-it notes and work on finessing it. [ Women in comedy: 'We're not allowed to be okay... It has to be good' Opens in new window ] 'My problem is structure. I have several bits of the puzzle that I'm still working out now, and I'm moving house as well, so it's ... Dido, Thank You.' We listen to the mildly depressive first verse of the singer's 2000 hit. 'Very chill. Very pre-September 11th, an innocent time,' is her verdict. She wasn't 'a learned scholar of the craft' of stand-up. Her approach used to be 'just be as funny as possible with what you can remember'. Being around other comedians, and their love for the art of comedy, has inspired her to distil what she wants to say into a narrative and hone her onstage persona. 'My persona is I am becoming less of a people-pleaser, and I think I need to become even less people-pleasey, because it doesn't do my comedy any favours. Likeability can only get you so far.' I compliment her on a photo shoot for BIG in which her head emerges from a triangular cloud of multicoloured netting. She made it herself by ripping apart shower puffs and attaching them to a bridal petticoat using a stapler and hot glue. 'There is a part of me that just wishes everyone was like a floating head,' she says. She sings along to Kids by MGMT as she checks what time she's meant to be at Iveagh Gardens, then we talk more about her show – her walk-on playlist will be entirely women artists who have been labelled fat – before leaving the bar. The hotel wasn't open in her Dublin 8 days, though as we look down Mill Street, she gets a nostalgic thrill when she sees one stretch of wall is still home to the painted outline of a bear asking for a hug. 'It would be mad to say I'm happy with my life, because I don't think anybody is happy with their life,' she had said in the bar. 'But I really like the turns my life has taken. I couldn't really imagine it happening before.' Alison Spittle's show BIG is at Project Arts Centre, Dublin, September 16th-20th, as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025. Details at .
Irish Times
2 hours ago
- Irish Times
‘It takes a week to learn the rules of whatever office you're in. Some of the things, I was, like, what the f**k is this?'
Caitríona Daly originally wanted to be an actor but fell into playwriting at the age of 10 out of necessity – 'because even at that age,' she says, 'I knew there weren't good parts for women'. She first made waves in student theatre, with Sluts, a biting, fast-talking comedy about the labels women throw at each other and the double standards that let men off the hook. Its combination of righteous anger, whip-smart intellect, unexpected tenderness and lacerating humour has become Daly's trademark. The 37-year-old Dubliner has written for stage and screen, including a stint on the long-running BBC daytime drama Doctors, for which she won a Writers Guild of Ireland Zebbie Award. Soap, she says, taught her a huge amount about story and structure, and its role as a tool for public empathy and education deserves more respect. 'It's the most accessible art form we have,' she says. 'Its reach is huge. I remember the storyline about Todd being gay from Coronation Street in the early 2000s – that was huge. I don't think I ever really knew what being gay was before that. Similarly, with the teenage pregnancy, it can take a topic that is divisive in society and help society to understand it a little bit better.' READ MORE What unites all of Daly's work, whether on a BBC soundstage or in a black-box theatre, is her commitment to moral ambiguity, emotional nuance and sharp absurdity of modern life. In her breakout play, Duck Duck Goose , which ran at Dublin Theatre Festival in 2021, Daly tackled the social impact of sexual violence from a rarely seen angle: that of the bystander. Loosely inspired by the nine-week Belfast rape trial of 2018, it features a protagonist, Chris, who is neither accused nor accuser but a friend of the accused, slowly unravelling under the weight of what he knew, what he didn't and what he refused to see. 'I felt very strongly that if every story we see around rape culture is from a survivor's perspective, we begin to think it's the survivor's problem. And it's not,' Daly says. 'We have to be having the more difficult conversations.' The play became an international success, with acclaimed productions in Bulgaria, Australia and New Zealand. But at home the reception was more complicated. 'We were very well reviewed, which was great,' she says. 'But I found some of the reactions quite held back.' [ Duck Duck Goose: An uncomfortable, insightful portrayal of sexual violence's social impact Opens in new window ] Part of the unease, she suspects, came from its proximity to the real-life case – the four defendants were acquitted – and the discomfort of unspoken social truths. 'It brings in the question of doubt and the question of redemption, or whether you want to believe in it,' she says. 'I left the play ambiguous, because I wanted there to be space for conversation. If we're to take men on the journey with us, we need to have room for their voices in it too.' Daly's latest play, The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4, strikes a different tone – chaotic, comedic, full of noise – but the questions at its heart are no less urgent. Set at a bland corporate firm, it centres on three employees spending the company's social-responsibility budget. Their lunch hour becomes a warped gameshow of points, prizes, dress-up and one-upmanship. Water pistols are drawn, spinning wheels spun. Wrestling matches unfold on a boardroom table. The play quickly unfurls from office dramedy into a satire about power, survival and the rituals we invent to endure capitalism's grind. The absurdity is deliberate, but so is the recognition. Daly first seeded the play in 2010, during the economic crash. 'I was working in an office that was pretty much abandoned,' she says. 'It was on St Stephen's Green. This entire block of offices being used by the company I worked for. Such a desolate place. And I had this idea where a load of workers re-enact The Late Late Toy Show . 'It was about millennials and how we all grew up being told we could have anything, and we could do anything we wanted, because the world was such a rich, plush place in Ireland in the 2000s. And then the crash happened, and all those dreams of Barbie cars just went out the window.' Daly has always been drawn to that collision between expectation and reality, between the self and the system. Lunch Punch extends that, exploring coping mechanisms, language games and power plays that flourish when actual power is scarce. 'The play's really trying to explore the things we do to feel like we might have some power over something,' she says, 'even though most of us don't have much power over the structures in place.' The setting is Gresham Professional Services. It's entirely fictional but also a recognisable kind of nowhere, with rigid structure and absurd stakes. The rules, Daly says, are familiar to anyone who has temped or worked in an office. 'It takes you a week to learn the rules of whatever office you're in, and they're not the written ones. Like, you can't do this, or say that. Some of the things I had to do in offices, I was, like, what the f**k is this?' A receptionist named Jess becomes the audience's entry point. She's a smart, curious outsider with a PhD in anthropology and an interest in the individualistic construction of western identity, who is both underestimated by and quietly threatening to her colleagues. Daly, who has temped in countless offices over 15 years, brings a lived-in authority to Jess's role as observer. 'I love reception work. I've done it in so many places: doctors' offices, cement companies, law offices. The receptionist is always a silent observer, rarely noticed. I used to love going into new worlds and figuring out how people work together. The pettiness is incredible. Like, in one office, at least once a month a woman would come out and tell me there was poo in one of the toilets.' If Duck Duck Goose dealt in silence – what isn't said, what isn't acknowledged – Lunch Punch is awash with language: jargon, acronyms, appropriated anthropology, and pop culture. Daly took inspiration from the choreographed fights of professional wrestling and the conflict-heavy theatrics of reality TV. 'I worked with people who thought they were in a video game or in The Real Housewives ..., by how they spoke. You can feel someone doing a dramatic pause. Nobody knows how to do office culture naturally – it's performative. 'There's a line in the play where Jess asks about a no-uniform day, and they say, 'We don't have a uniform.' But of course they do. Office culture is performance: costumes and scripts.' The scripts extend beyond offices to modern life. 'The play's littered with references: The Real Housewives ..., Come Dine With Me, Father Ted, Arrested Development. They're not obvious. They're diluted, so you don't really know where they came from. But that's where we're at. TikTok is this stream of references. We're living in a Jenga tower of weird meta existence.' Despite its satire, Lunch Punch resists cynicism. 'I didn't want it to be cynical,' Daly says. 'The world is difficult enough. If you wanted to die by cynicism right now, you could. I want this to be semi-uplifting, while being truthful about the world we're living in.' The play shares thematic echoes with The Good Place , Mike Schur's TV series, which explored ethical complexity in a broken world. Daly welcomes the comparison. 'You've nailed it,' she says. 'What I wanted the end to feel like was the end of the first season of The Good Place. It's an empowering ending. They won't be shut down, you know?' [ Why we love 'The Good Place' and its star Kristen Bell Opens in new window ] That instinct for resistance, both political and emotional, pulses through Daly's work. She cites Ursula K Le Guin's idea of the artist's treason: that we've been taught that only pain can be intelligent, that joy is naive. 'I see joy and playfulness as everyday resistance. That's what I was trying to get across with Lunch Punch – just finding pockets full of joy. We're taught that happiness is stupid, and artists often deny us the banality of evil and the boredom of pain.' Resistance has limits, of course, especially in Dublin. Daly speaks frankly about the precarity of making art in Ireland: the economic hostility; the shrinking opportunities; the cultural ambivalence. The play touches on this and on the often-forgotten struggles of those outside the capital. 'I'm very seriously concerned about our country,' she says. 'Everything is entirely Dublin-focused. We've left most of the Midlands without an industry. With the closure of Bord na Móna's ESB plants, a lot of young people had no choice but to leave. I used to mention that to people in Dublin, and they'd say, 'Oh, did they? What's that?' We can be in a bubble – myself included.' What keeps her hopeful? Daly doesn't hesitate. 'We're very resilient. I'm hopeful for some kind of creative revolution. Bureaucracy is killing theatre. I'm looking for punks. I'm looking for some punk stuff to happen soon, because it's important.' She smiles, the conviction steady beneath the humour. 'The win is getting to do what you love,' she says. 'That's it. That's the whole thing.' In a world built on distraction, exhaustion, productivity and profit, choosing to keep making art and telling stories might just be radical. The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4 is on the Peacock stage of the Abbey Theatre , in Dublin, until Saturday, September 6th
The Irish Sun
9 hours ago
- The Irish Sun
Oasis Wembley gig in major security breach after at least 200 ticketless fans were sneaked in for cash via disabled door
WEMBLEY bosses are ready to call in police after hundreds of ticketless Oasis fans are said to have used a security scam to get into one of the band's gigs. As many as 200 were asked for £350 each to be snuck in via a disabled entrance, The Sun was told. 6 Wembley bosses are ready to call in police after hundreds of ticketless Oasis fans are said to have used a security scam to get into one of the band's gigs Credit: Alamy 6 The Sun's Ellie Henman at Wembley for the Oasis gig Credit: Simon Jones 6 Two punters told The Sun how a large group were able to all use a copy of the same ticket to get into the North London stadium through a disabled entrance. They were then handed wristbands giving them access to the VIP area at the front of the stage as Liam and Noel Gallagher banged out hits including Stand By Me and Slide Away. The two women masterminding the scam are said to have told them they had 'ten groups of 20' waiting — meaning around 200 are likely to have been sneaked in. One of the fans told us: 'We were given our tickets, which were all the same, and a woman drew a shape on our hands. 'We were told to go to the disabled door at entrance M, even though our tickets said entrance F. 'We showed our stamped hands to the person on the door, they scanned the tickets, even though we all had the same one, and let us in. 'Another member of staff then handed us a golden circle wristband and that was it. There were zero security searches. We just walked straight in.' Last night Wembley said cops could be called in to investigate. A spokesman said: 'Entering Wembley Stadium without a ticket is a serious offence and we are investigating these allegations. 'If they are substantiated, we will refer our evidence to the police.' Incredible on stage footage shows thousands of Oasis fans going wild at sold out Wembley gig The Sun has tracked down the two women who appear to be running the scam but we have chosen not to name them. Using Facebook groups dedicated to fans buying and selling tickets for Oasis shows, they approached numerous people desperate to see the band. There were zero security searches. We just walked straight in Fan One message reads: 'Hey if you're still looking for tickets let me know I can meet you in person and no payment until you're inside!' The punter who told The Sun about the scam said he was contacted on social media and told to pay a £10 deposit into one of the scammer's Monzo bank accounts. Once it was paid, he was put into a WhatsApp group. 6 He explained: 'Everyone in the group was told to go to the Sainsbury's shop at Wembley Way on Saturday. 'There were so many people there I got talking to them and we were all there for the same reason. 'Two women came and met us. They drew a shape on our hands and then a ticket was put into the WhatsApp group which we were to use. One of the women told me they were in a hurry because they had 'ten groups of 20 people' to get into the stadium. "They told us all to go to entrance M and head to the disabled entrance.' Hey if you're still looking for tickets let me know I can meet you in person and no payment until you're inside! One message The man, along with a friend and others in his group, went to the area at 5pm. He claims they were ushered inside after their tickets — all copies of the same one — were scanned with no questions asked. He added: 'A girl scanned my ticket and some bloke inside gave me a wristband and that was that. 6 Liam and Noel Gallagher on stage at Wembley Credit: Supplied 6 Fans packed out the stadium for the reunion tour Credit: Alamy 'We were supposed to pay inside and transfer the money to one of the women's Monzo bank accounts but loads of my group didn't do it.' A message shared with The Sun from the WhatsApp group reveals one of the women giving her bank details again, along with her full name. She writes: 'Transfer to these details once inside. Don't forget. 'Someone is waiting inside and one payment is made you're free to do whatever.' The second woman, believed to be a relative of hers, then asks the group: 'Did all u lot get in??' We later contacted one of the scammers to ask about getting into Sunday night's Wembley gig. Two women came and met us. They drew a shape on our hands and then a ticket was put into the WhatsApp group which we were to use Fan Using encrypted messaging app Signal, she said: '£400 a ticket but I'm taking payment before anyone goes in! Yesterday was a f***ing s**tshow. Not doing that again.' Another punter, who bought tickets for Sunday night from the same scammers, told The Sun they were told to go to the disabled door. And a gig-goer told us their brother used the scam on Saturday night, paying £350. They said: 'Apparently loads of people didn't pay when they got in.' The Sun understands the ticket scam did not work on Sunday evening for the people we spoke to. Wembley has suffered security scandals before. In 2021 a steward helped ticketless fans into England's Euros footie final clash with Italy. Last night Oasis played their first of three shows in Edinburgh.
