Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Hate to love you.

Cosmo: A load of crap.
Women's magazines, aren't they just full of crap? I'm talking about the likes of Now, OK, and Star, not those mad true life magazines with stories titles like: "I just wanted some pizza, now I have no arms and legs!" or the sex obsessed magazines like Cosmopolitan that will teach you "The dirty secret that will make him beg for more." More? A dirty secret to make HIM want more? You can keep your secret thanks very much. No, those mags are pretty crap in their own right but for now I have a huge gripe with women's "celebrity" magazines. The ones that know what every Hollywood actress weighs just by looking at a photo of them. The ones that speculate on the imminent break up of every famous marriage until it happens, and it will happen. And they will have seen it coming first; another exclusive for Closer magazine.  Well, if you speculate on every marriage you are bound to get it right some of the time, after all nearly 90% of showbiz marriages end in divorce.

Lady gaga with gimp mask. Now where's that KY jelly?
Of course my hatred of celebrity magazines does not mean that I don't buy them. Sure why would I do that, I'd have nothing to complain about. I can't stomach some of the most dumb downed magazines though; Now, OK, Star; instead I get the most intellectually stimulating ones like heat and eh... Well you get the picture, I confess; I am an avid reader of heat magazine. Well, maybe avid is the wrong word.  I wouldn't say I am enthusiastic about reading heat. In fact, reading it sends me into a frenzy. I get angry, worked up, upset even. For example, this week I bought heat so I had something to read while having a coffee in the local cafĂ©. I took the magazine out of my bag and straight away I'm pissed off. On the front cover is a few celebs looking a bit porky and the caption reads; "Stars REFUSE to diet!" Now, if you're a reader of this shit you will know that invariably heat will have celebrities on the front cover looking either too thin or too fat. I mean, every week it's the same story. "Britney's midnight MacDonalds binges" or "Posh Spice warned - put on weight or you won't get pregnant." Seriously, it gets so fucking boring. And then you flick open inside and they'll have pictures of celebrities on the beach with either massive muffin tops or washboard abs. This week they had the weight, height and dress size of each one printed beside them. I suppose you could guess someone's height, but how in the hell do these magazines know what these girls weigh? It's such a load of bollocks. One of the girls was 5 feet 7 inches, the same height as me and her weight was 9 st 7 lbs, they said she was a size 12. Now I am 5 feet 7 and my weight is 10st 5 lbs but I am not a size 12, I am a size 10.  So how the hell could a girl a stone lighter than me be a size BIGGER than me? Man, I was ready to rip the magazine to shreds when I read that. But I didn't. I skipped to the next page which had a picture of Kate Middleton in a supermarket getting her shopping. It revealed the contents of her trolley; each one had an exclamation mark beside them, as if they were outlandish purchases but come on; Basil! Rock Salt! Chicken! Kellogg's Start! Shocking stuff altogether. If you ask me, unless it's super thick condoms! KY jelly! Porno DVDs! And a gimp mask! It's really not worth the exclamation.

A crotch worth watching? 
Another thing I hate about heat is it's devotion to reality television. They make gods of the casts of shows such as The Only Way is Essex, Geordie Shore and Big Brother. People with little or no talent. People who just want to be famous. Not famous for any worthwhile reason, just "to be famous". They put them on a pedestal, praise them, give them interviews allowing them to believe they have something worth saying. Until the show ends or viewing figures drop and then heat demotes them, sends them to the skip. Before they know it they're the "Crap Spot of the Week" on the Spotted page; a regular slot where readers tell the mag what celebrites they saw around town that weekend and what they were doing; Will Young looking handsome in Starbucks, Max George having a wee at the Specsaver's awards or Prince William shaving his balls on the tube. Who cares? Really, who cares about this shite? Flick on through the magazine until I get to "Manwatch; your essential weekly perv on a page" which includes such delights as Prawn of the Week; they pick a celebrity with a fit body but butt ugly face, Reader's Boyfriend; usually a pic of some scrawny git with a shaved head, and the most disgusting; Crotch Watch; an image of some mystery male celebrity's crotch close up, very close, so we can see the outline of a flaccid penis; it's up to you to guess who's it is. Yuck! At this stage I'm pulling my hair out with rage, huffing and puffing, sighing with despondency and generally really annoyed.

Please forgive me heat! I love you really!
So why do I keep buying heat? I don't know if I can answer that. I see the cover sometimes and think: "Oh, there's Katie Price acting the gobshite again, better find out why so I can laugh at the state of her." Or maybe it's the Hoop of Horror; the section of the magazine that exposes Cameron Diaz's camel toe, or Rihanna's sweaty pits. Always good for a laugh. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because I actually love heat. Truly, Madly, Deeply. With all of my heart. Could that be it? I hope not...

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