Monday, 31 August 2009
Now, as anyone who knows me will attest, I am not someone who is obsessed with the filthy rich and famous and couldn’t care less about this week’s celebrity darling, but I’ve recently stayed in a house which had a stash of Hello and OK magazines to read, and having a voracious appetite for information, and having already memorised the Frosties cereal packet bumpf. I decided to have a flip through some of the mags, and fuck me, what a pile of shite they really are; page after page of mind numbingly boring trivia about vacuous talentless so-called celebrities, their offspring and their various hangers-on.
I really couldn’t care less about the private lives of the recently separated Peter Andre and Jordan, who both featured about as heavily as Jordan’s fake tits in all of the magazines, nor whether Brad Pitt looked fitter 20 years ago when he sported a ridiculous mullet than he does now, or whether an image of Madonna, in her “like a virgin” era is preferable to her current “like a 50 year-old crack whore” phase.
And boo fucking hoo there’s Kerry Katona whinging on again alongside SHOCKING IMAGES of her gaining 3 stone despite £15,000 of liposuction a few months ago. No wonder she was dropped from the Iceland ads, she’d not be the ideal image for their healthy meals range, though I guess if she’d actually visited the country of the same name she may have been harpooned as soon as she landed at Reykjavik harbour. On the plus side - perhaps she’ll get a contract with Fat Face instead. I guess Brian McFadden had the best weight loss idea when he dumped that drunken, coke-addled lummox.
In one magazine a scintillating article was devoted purely on guidance on how to select a handbag to match that of your favourite film star, while a few pages later there was a piece about celebrity cellulite with pictures to match (with the offending areas highlighted in red marker pen in case you couldn’t spot them). How shocking; let’s hope the plastic surgeons don’t slip too badly putting those blemishes right.
It didn’t matter which one I perused: Hello, Now and OK magazines all contained similar page after page of articles about celebrity women who have gained or lost a few kilos of weight, or suffered the trauma of breaking a newly manicured finger nail. Vomit-inducing tales of marriage, featuring people who should never be allowed to breed getting spliced, alongside photographs aplenty of their big days; while divorces in the limelight followed a little later.
So who cares that Kelly Osbourne was on 50 Vicodin a day, although alas managed to survive rehab (although in fairness I would have probably turned to drugs if I had to put up with her family), and who really would have their imagination piqued by photographs of Stars minus make-up? I’d prefer to see most of them minus heartbeats - although some of them are so fake and plastic it is often difficult to spot if they are actually alive and breathing anyway.
Goodbye Magazine would be a more preferable read to me - one in which we can gloat over the recently deceased while watching the celebrity weightloss cremation diet, and mortuary fashions.
On the subject of death I see that Big Brother will be killed off after its current run. I don’t know who has been incarcerated in the BB house this year, but if past years are anything to go by it will probably be won by a bloke in a coma as previous triumphs have featured a post-op transsexual, a nun, a guy with Tourettes and a blind geezer. How else can they top that. I dunno but you can no doubt read all about it in a few weeks time.