A word about Gwyneth Paltrow

Dear Gwyneth,gwyneth iron man

I’ve tried really hard to not find you totally and utterly irritating but to be fair, you make it absolutely impossible.

At best, I can block you out of my brain by focussing on naming all the American States or the capitals of every European city but then you appear on the red carpet, or worse, you open your mouth, and I immediately want to throw my breakfast in your face.

I’m not an angry or violent person but you have this uncanny knack of pressing every possible negative button that lives within every woman on the planet. Or at least, mine.

You are beautiful. That’s not the issue.

You are rich. Not an issue either.

You are married to a rich man and have two creatively-named kids. Again, good for you. Not a problem.

So I can only fathom that it’s the saintly, gooey, bucket of bollocks myth you have woven around your charmed life that makes me want to heave poached eggs in your general direction.

The gluten-free kids, the holier-than-thou health regimen, the cookery books inspired by your dad, the lifestyle website that makes Martha Stewart look like Lindsay Lohan.

It’s such a giant pile of sanctimonious guff, the very thought of it gives me permanent frown lines.

I’m just not interested but you keep foisting it upon us. There are probably four other women on this planet who have similarly charmed lives who might be curious, but for the rest of us you’re the equivalent of aspartame; sugary but not quite the real thing.

And then you wear THIS dress with the sheer side panels to the Iron Man 3 premiere, and love, if I were you I’d duck right now because my first meal of the day is about to be launched in the general direction of your dewy visage.

Gwynnie darlin, you might be the epitome of good living but I’ve worked out that you’re actually bad for my health.

Gloop off.

Spinny out.


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