::As part of my job, I read style and fashion magazines and analyze press coverage for big fashion companies. So invariably I'm up to date on all the latest celeb gossip (I know far too much about Jordan to admit) - not because I want to be, but because it's a by-product of reading about popular culture from 7am to 3pm. To counter this, in my spare time I read Dostoyevsky and Karl Popper and do Italian and French verb conjugation drills, but that's another story.
I am inundated with news about Katy Perry on a daily basis. Various vacuous quotes fill my head, thanks to Mrs Brand. I know that she has a cat called Kitty Purry. Do I want to know this? You can guess my answer. Don't even get me started on her Purr perfume. Invariably, I have developed a deep hostility towards Katy with her immaculately coiffured hair, double sets of false eyelashes (seriously Katy - false lower lashes too?), annoyingly horsey and overconfident voice, and general smugness. She's up there with Angelina in the smugness stakes.
Who I am not inundated with quotes and pictures of, is the divine Eva Green. Look at these two pictures! Look at the class and sophistication she possesses, the kooky-in-a-good way dress sense (take note, KP), the ability to hide her substantial bosom behind layers of chiffon rather than get them out at any chance in trashy sequined numbers. Note the absence of jowly laugh lines, which Katy can't hide with her primer/concealer/foundation/more concealer/highlighter combo. Note the lack of transvestite eyebrows and blush.
Katy looks like a discount, Barbie doll, Americanized version of the glowing, radiant and effortlessly beautiful Eva. If I have to read one more time about how happy she is with Russell, I will eschew my work forever and retreat to a monastery in Siberia with a rucksack full of Russian classics, posters of Isabelle Adjani and my pride. Good choice of a wife, Russell Brand - you're known for your crassness and being a purveyor of bad taste - thank the heavens you've found someone who shares those exact values. I can't wait till the pages of Hello and (probably) Grazia are filled with images of your brood and quotes from Katy about diet plans, collapsed sex organs and Jesus or Buddha or whatever. Only images of the celestial Eva Green provide me with some relief, allowing me to slip into reveries of chain smoking at a cafe on the Seine, whiffs of Dior Poison (possibly), and the most perfect blue eyes I've ever seen. Then I turn the page of Hello! at my desk at work, and my dream comes crashing down, when I see pictures like this -
|You're not Lucille Ball, but you could pass for Kathy Griffin....?|