Posh has had a secret boob job
I apologise in advance to the people reading that think this blog is about travelling and useful tips. Mostly it's just about the random thoughts that occur to me in the shower, and occasionally I'll make a travel segue to show off a photo.
Today's rant comes about from the low quality of trash mags in the UK. I realise trash mags are meant to be low quality, so I'm aware of the irony here.
In Australia I was the trash mag queen, I admit it openly. I knew more about the C-list 'celebrities' in Australia than I did about my own family at various times. I didn't buy them all, preferring to read them while in supermarket queues, although I did subscribe to one, bought purely for the post Oscar/Emmy frock photos. Trash mags to women are like porn to men.
So, while travelling I suffered greatly from the lack of english language mags. Having to resort to buying an English version of Hello in Portugal, which featured a long article about how the girlfriend of the non-nazi prince was normal because she bought her underwear from M&S, and an even longer piece about Charlotte Church, who is no longer the voice of an angel but was trussed up to look like a baudy wench, disturbing me slightly.
This mag should have been a heads-up of things to come. So, am now in London and in my first week I resumed my slightly way-laid hobby of trash mag consumption by buying one with the killer headline in 72pt fire engine red "Posh has had a secret boob job."
Who is unaware of this secret? She has cleavage starting just below her clavicle! Surely the only person who would be surprised by this secret is someone like Jordan, who presumably can't see magazines or newspapers because of the large quantity of Fraser Island currently embedded in her cans.
And while I'm on Jordan... a friend sent me this link, which I encourage you all to visit. Make sure you listen to the song by pressing play. http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,20590041-5006002,00.html
Yep, it doesn't get much better than that, does it? And for those of you who think you have a crap job, consider the sound engineer and mixer that had to listen to the many many takes that this required to get into single form. Sadly of all the Disney catastrophes I had to sit through with the devil child, Aladdin was the one that didn't make me gag, until now.
You can almost hear the dogs howling in the distance, and Rumple the house cat is cowering in a corner looking startled, and puffed up in self defence, as I write this.
My friend, who provided me with the link, which I listened to during an insomniac moment and then had to check to see if blood was leaching from my ear drums, is of the opinion that it's a pisstake. I am less confident, in fact deadset dubious about the attempt at sardonicism in the single.
The Brits, especially the Brits whose sole job seems to be appearing in trash mags (aha, full circle!) take their jobs very seriously. It's porn star poses, acrylic nails and nylon hair extensions a go-go if you're a C-lister here.
So, I find myself hopelessly adrift in a sea of Big Brother and Popstar has-beens and never-will-bes. No one seems to care about whether Paris has has had another home video 'stolen' or if Nicole has injested something this decade as they have their own Nicole who is refusing to eat due to some break up with some bloke from some reality show.
I'd provide more details as to who, what and why but I simply don't know. The trash mags here treat everyone like Madonna, in that everyone has a single name moniker and there's never any background as to who they are or why I should care.
All in all, I'm not happy. I really don't care if Kate Moss "designs" something for Top Shop; Pete Dougherty looks like he could use a bath more often and the only antipodean stars to get a run are either expats like Peter Andre or stars from neighbours.
Either way, I'm totally out of my depth and having to resort to well written mags with actual features. This clearly will threaten my outstanding knowledge of all things trivial and useless and possibly means that I'll be able to have conversations about world politics and the like. While I promised not to return to Australia with a tosser accent, if I return a well read and knowledgable person, does that matter?
I suppose I could read e online.
Today's rant comes about from the low quality of trash mags in the UK. I realise trash mags are meant to be low quality, so I'm aware of the irony here.
In Australia I was the trash mag queen, I admit it openly. I knew more about the C-list 'celebrities' in Australia than I did about my own family at various times. I didn't buy them all, preferring to read them while in supermarket queues, although I did subscribe to one, bought purely for the post Oscar/Emmy frock photos. Trash mags to women are like porn to men.
So, while travelling I suffered greatly from the lack of english language mags. Having to resort to buying an English version of Hello in Portugal, which featured a long article about how the girlfriend of the non-nazi prince was normal because she bought her underwear from M&S, and an even longer piece about Charlotte Church, who is no longer the voice of an angel but was trussed up to look like a baudy wench, disturbing me slightly.
This mag should have been a heads-up of things to come. So, am now in London and in my first week I resumed my slightly way-laid hobby of trash mag consumption by buying one with the killer headline in 72pt fire engine red "Posh has had a secret boob job."
Who is unaware of this secret? She has cleavage starting just below her clavicle! Surely the only person who would be surprised by this secret is someone like Jordan, who presumably can't see magazines or newspapers because of the large quantity of Fraser Island currently embedded in her cans.
And while I'm on Jordan... a friend sent me this link, which I encourage you all to visit. Make sure you listen to the song by pressing play. http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,20590041-5006002,00.html
Yep, it doesn't get much better than that, does it? And for those of you who think you have a crap job, consider the sound engineer and mixer that had to listen to the many many takes that this required to get into single form. Sadly of all the Disney catastrophes I had to sit through with the devil child, Aladdin was the one that didn't make me gag, until now.
You can almost hear the dogs howling in the distance, and Rumple the house cat is cowering in a corner looking startled, and puffed up in self defence, as I write this.
My friend, who provided me with the link, which I listened to during an insomniac moment and then had to check to see if blood was leaching from my ear drums, is of the opinion that it's a pisstake. I am less confident, in fact deadset dubious about the attempt at sardonicism in the single.
The Brits, especially the Brits whose sole job seems to be appearing in trash mags (aha, full circle!) take their jobs very seriously. It's porn star poses, acrylic nails and nylon hair extensions a go-go if you're a C-lister here.
So, I find myself hopelessly adrift in a sea of Big Brother and Popstar has-beens and never-will-bes. No one seems to care about whether Paris has has had another home video 'stolen' or if Nicole has injested something this decade as they have their own Nicole who is refusing to eat due to some break up with some bloke from some reality show.
I'd provide more details as to who, what and why but I simply don't know. The trash mags here treat everyone like Madonna, in that everyone has a single name moniker and there's never any background as to who they are or why I should care.
All in all, I'm not happy. I really don't care if Kate Moss "designs" something for Top Shop; Pete Dougherty looks like he could use a bath more often and the only antipodean stars to get a run are either expats like Peter Andre or stars from neighbours.
Either way, I'm totally out of my depth and having to resort to well written mags with actual features. This clearly will threaten my outstanding knowledge of all things trivial and useless and possibly means that I'll be able to have conversations about world politics and the like. While I promised not to return to Australia with a tosser accent, if I return a well read and knowledgable person, does that matter?
I suppose I could read e online.
