I don't often write about those brightly-coloured magazines you see forlornly scattered and dogeared on dentists' waiting room tables - I'd rather spend an afternoon looking up the goatse man's arsehole or gazing at the exploded entrails of a recently-run-over badger - but the front cover of Closer magazine this week really caught my eye:
You'll see from the headline at the bottom that Cheryl has apparently cracked and turned to a psychic to help - next to a photo of her looking pensive, possibly wondering whether she's left the iron on, or, more probably, why there's some bastard with a fucking enormous camera following her around everywhere she fucking goes, whether she likes it or not, wondering whether she'll ever be able to have a normal life again, forlornly recalling those times when she could pretty much exist like a normal person without men with enormous fucking cameras chasing her around, taking pictures of her looking slightly pensive so they can be placed next to complete cobblers about her calling in a psychic for some bloody reason or other. But if she did call in a psychic, I wonder why she didn't just ask Closer magazine instead, seeing as they can actually look inside people's brains.
The bit I'm talking about is the bright yellow stuff next to Charlotte Church - and a photo of her on a holiday - or HEARTBREAK HOLIDAY as it's described. (Don't know about you, but I wouldn't go on a heartbreak holiday myself. Think I'd probably prefer a Warner Mini Break. Or a night in Prestatyn. Fuck it, even half an hour in a Travelodge would be better than a Heartbreak Holiday.) Now it's not a heartbreak holiday because she's trying to relax on a beach, but knows there's some cunt on a boat / in some bushes / hiding somewhere else with a massive camera taking pictures of her in a bikini so that mags like this can take the piss out of her bingo wings, or tits, or whatever it is about her body that's too fat / too thin this time around. No, it's because of her recent relationship split.
And look, she's comforting herself with cigs and white wine! Imagine that! An adult human being drinking alcohol - white fucking wine, at that - and smoking cigarettes. Jesus! Call social services! Call the police! Human being in "drinks and smokes" shock! Not just that, though. Not only do we know, somehow, that Church is drinking and smoking to comfort herself on her Heartbreak Holiday, but:
Secretly fears: "Who'll have me now?"
What the hell...? I wonder why the scientific community haven't been informed of the powers of Closer magazine to get inside someone's brain, just by looking at long-lens paparazzi pictures of them while they're on vacation, and find out what they're secretly fearing. Not just fearing - I mean that would be amazing enough a breakthrough, to be able to pinpoint someone else's emotions - but secretly fearing. Secretly! Just by looking at a picture of someone on a beach, you can tell what they're secretly fearing, Closer magazine? Bloody hell!
Maybe next week's Closer will have a picture of me, sat at my keyboard typing this, snapped by someone who's sneaked onto the roof of the building opposite. VOWL COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH COKE ZERO AND A FUCKING TWIX! VOWL GETS OVER LUNCHBREAK MISERY WITH BLOG WRITING AND MAYBE A CUP OF COFFEE OR SOMETHING ROUND ABOUT THREEISH!
Or even VOWL SECRETLY THINKS CLOSER MAGAZINE IS A CROCK OF FUCKING MADE-UP BULLSHIT!