Gaga, Oh LaBORING.

Stefani Joanne Angelina  Germanotta, what are we going to do with you?

Except fire you deep into space from a cannon, AMIRIGHT? No, no. I’m kidding. My niece would have a fit. As I noticed last week, the five-year-old loves nothing more than to thrust her way around the living room inviting people to join her aboard a disco stick to enjoy a sick beat.

As someone who likes to experiment with fashion and can, quite often, come out of the house looking like a blind kid playing dress up, I should perhaps feel a little close to the Gaga. But I don’t. And I shall tell you for why:

9 times out of 10, she’s being a massive tool.

My love affair with the 24-year-olHAHAHAHAHA, SORRY! I can’t even pretend to believe her publicist when she says Gaga was born in 1986. 1976 I’d believe. 1980 I’d believe. 1982 I might even believe but I think there’s more chance of me finding a leprechaun and a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow in Bristol than there is of Gaga being 24.

I DIGRESS.

My love affair with the ____-year-old began when Just Dance came out. My other female housemate and I would shower and then have pillow fights in our pants* to it before getting ready to go out on student night (ie  every night) when we lived in Bournemouth.

My love affair with her ended when she took a teacup onto Wossy’s chat show and managed to say nothing coherent or useful during her fifteen minute interview because, as it turns out, there is nothing but hair grips and sequins in her head. My love affair spiralled into a burning hate when the world’s teenagers wet themselves over how quaint and quirky she was for taking a floral cup everywhere even though when I take my special mug and teabags to my friend’s houses I just get called a twat. Not fair.

I think I’d like her more (I probably wouldn’t, but for argument’s sake) if she just admitted to being a really big try-hard, stopped pretending like it’s just in her soul to wear glittery lobster masks out for dinner – the bitch ain’t no Grace Jones – and was generally just a bit less…alive.

This is Grandma Gaga at the weekend. Or some time fairly recently going to see a baseball match. Maybe some other sport. I didn’t care enough to research.

Ugh.

OK. I can overlook this.

Studded bra in public? During a baseball match? With a fair few people in attendance? I can even overlook this. It looks a bit chilly but I suppose one must suffer for their art.

But starting to throw a bitch fit when someone with a camera takes your picture and a bunch of baseball fans shout things like** “Gaga! You cunt!”, “Put a top on, bitchtits!” and “Gosh, don’t you look silly!” is just being a tad unnecessary. Perhaps, if you didn’t want to be noticed, you could have come in a casket. Just a suggestion.

Woe is you, Gaga. Woe is you.


*Sorry, this never happened

**I’m just speculating

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