Reading Tedious Bollocks So You Don’t Have To: Thank Me Later.

I’m a magazine fan; music magazines, fashion magazines, gossip magazines, science magazines. I’ll read anything, even Woman’s Own. I read about 80% of them with a disgusted look on my face recoiling in horror at all the reader stories like “HAVING A BABY WITH MY PARAPLEGIC DAD” or “I STILL BREASTFEED MY THIRTY YEAR OLD SON” and tut at the absolute mediocrity of (faux?) celebrity news stories like “CHERYL COLE SCARED ASHLEY WILL START DATING AND HAVE GENDER REASSIGNMENT SURGERY” or something.

Page-filling bullshit aside, there’s one thing that really gets on my nerves and that’s celebrity columnists. I’m quite happy reading potentially libellous and salacious gossip articles about your deepest, darkest secrets but I really don’t care for your watered down version of your not particularly exciting life. I’m looking at you, Peter Andre. I’m also taking a sidewards glance at you, Kate Garraway. Most of all, my fist would like to meet Kelly Osbourne’s face.

I defy all of you not to have to same urge after looking at that.

Anyway, I’m not a great fan of the Osbournes. I hated their TV show and I once saw Sharon waddle out of a jeep in a Toys ‘R’ Us car park in Southampton when she was embarrassing herself in panto. I find Kelly being a ‘celebrity’ a bit sad seeing as she’s just the inanimate product of a rock star and a woman who whores her family out for money. She’s been addicted to something, fucked a few musicians and dropped a few hundred stone. Big whoop.

So, I was perusing this week’s Closer when I stumbled across her page of cack. Something about some TV programme she loves, something about the reason why her arm is in a cast (unfortunately, not a funny story about over zealously reaching for the cookie jar) and something about some party she attended. She managed to squeeze in a little something about her toyboy other half too. You know – the one who looks like he’s just coming up to his twelfth birthday and the one who is a ‘model’. The is what she had to say:

I flew to London last week to surprise my fiancé Luke…
Oh, I bet he was just thrilled. I know I would be.
…I hadn’t seen him for six weeks because he’s been working here while I’ve been working in LA.
I call bullshit on ‘working’.
His agent told him to go to a hotel for a modelling job…
Sounds legit.
…but when he got there I opened the door – he was shocked!
I fucking bet he was, love. Gutted, absolutely gutted.

Just to quickly summarise the rest of the account for you, it ends with “blah, blah, blah. Sense of self-entitlement, blah, blah, blah”.

Well, thanks Kels. Thanks for being as boring as ever.

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