Published on November 3rd, 2009 | by Lisa McInerney10
Surreptitiously judging Colleen and Wayne’s baby-naming skills, so you don’t have to.
Whenever my taste in movies is judged snobby or snippy, I pull out my populist failsafe, Clueless, and wave it about like Jodie Marsh’s petticoats during a military parade. I do so love Clueless, as is right and proper when you consider that I was fourteen when it came out – to this day, I’ll forgive Paul Rudd anything. How could anyone stand by their calling me Count Snobula after I profess a love of Clueless? Clueless has gotten me out of quite a few witch-burnings, let me tell you.
But as much as I love Clueless, I’d never quite stoop to living by the Way of Cher; after all, Clueless was but a frothy comedy, Paul Rudd the most non-threatening dish outside of a bowl of mash. Neither movie nor heartthrob was ever supposed to be taken seriously, which is why I’m alarmed at how many high-profile ladies have taken Valley-Girl daftness to heart, soul, and tragically, head, this week.
Leading the parade, Taylor Swift, her of the Kanye-West-baiting award-winning ways, has been photographed at Katy Perry’s birthday party thusly.
Whoops! Bad enough that she got fried egg all down her frock, but to be photographed smiling like a lobotomised cat with such a … such a … I can barely bring myself to type this … such a nerd! “Dear Lawrd Jesus!”, as they say in Taylor’s Country Music circles; either that’s Patrick Wolf on the way home from night school, or Harry Potter’s been on the bulimia again. Taylor has been quick to offer excuses, stating that she had her photo taken with about a hundred people that night and had no idea who her geeky hanger-on was, but the damage has been done. Taylor will forever be known as the beauty who freely associates with dweebs. What would Maw and Paw say? Oh, and there’s a swastika on his chest as well.
Someone who could give Taylor pointers on how to really handle blonde moment confessions is actress Joanna Page, of Gavin and Stacey fame. In her interview for next month’s FHM, Joanna admits to mistaking Hugh Grant for a lackey and asking him to make her breakfast for her. Mortifying? Perhaps. It’s difficult to concentrate on Joanna’s faux-pas, though, as she’s in her kecks she’s cleverly used the same interview to make her From Hell co-star Heather Graham look a million times thicker. “She made a chicken salad,” says Joanna, of Heather’s hospitality skills, “but it gave me food poisoning. On the way home I had to stop the car and throw up.” See how it’s done, plebs? Confess to something embarrassing so as to maintain that girl-next-door image, but then quickly lash out a story about a Hollywood superstar trying to kill you. It’s called projecting, Freud fans!
On to the queen of blonde moments, Jessica Simpson, of whom a mere mention is enough to send most gossip hounds into uncontrollable spasms. Single Jessica has revealed that she bores easily, and so is looking for a man who intrigues and inspires her. “I love intellectual men,” she ponders, which is a little bit like Cliff Richard proclaiming a love for ketamine orgies; we know it’s desperate guff. Y’know, I wondered if I was being a bit mean here, picking on an innocent, shooting fish in a barrel … then I remembered that Jessica Simpson sanctioned a public persona that thought tuna clucked in a farmyard, and likened ownership of a terrier cross to motherhood. I’d wager that she’s no more sketching an ideal partner than the idea of a sketch show: Newlyweds 2 – The Brains And The Outfit. I’m not convinced.
Nor am I convinced that anyone could be quite as deluded as Rosie O’Donnell, who this week swore blind that she was once halfway into Angelina Jolie’s knickers. Says Rosie, “She gave me her phone number … There was a tentative plan to have dinner that never came through… I was a little afraid of her. She’s scary in a sexual kind of way.” Says I, This is so unlikely it might just be true. Seriously, no one could be that open to potential ridicule and public pishawing. The whole tale is more ludicrous than the plotline of the Bible, so it has to be true. I’m on Rosie’s side on this one, until Angelina counteracts with a snide statement that she mistook Rosie for Dan Aykroyd and her terrifying sexual presence was all a ruse to get him to unleash his Ghostbusters hoover. Or something. Look, I’m just trying to prove you couldn’t make it up.
Which is what I thought when I read about Kelly Brook’s blaming Ant and Dec for the decline in a career I had no idea she was cultivating. Kelly, who’s famous for … er … something to do with Billy Zane, or having great teeth or whatever, stated that her sacking from the judge’s panel of Britain’s Got Talent was nothing to do with her not being able to stop giggling/wiping away photogenic tears, and everything to do with the secretly-evil Geordie pair taking an instant dislike to her, which subsequently spread though Blighty like swine flu expelled from an untied balloon. “There was nothing I could do in this country after Britain’s Got Talent,” sniffed Kelly, to the dismay of who exactly? Her mum? Honestly, Kelly Brook is famous for two things, and they’re both constantly escaping from her bra. It’s projecting gone wrong, is what it is. Although I do like the way Ant and Dec are here made out to be more influential than Simon Cowell.
Kelly Brook was sixteen on the release of Clueless; she should remember how we booed Tai when she said Cher was just “a virgin who can’t drive”. Lesson here is that being bitchy never mixes well with being Clueless. Word.