There she was. Bold as tarts. Saturday night prime-time. Spilling her guts about her nuclear marriage fallout from Peter Andre. Trying desperately to get her Diana Panorama Moment. Yes, there was Jordan – for Jordan she will always be despite her best efforts to rebrand herself as the nominally more wholesome Katie Price – in all her gory glory. The synthetic hair. The Cuprinol tan. The trout pout. The cartoon tits, naturally, or rather unnaturally.
Most of all, there were those familiar dead eyes. I mean doornail dead with no chance of resus. She was talking about the supposed biggest emotional maelstrom of her life and her windows on the soul were as soulless as silicone. OK, they did shed tears, but she even managed to render them CGI-superimposed, more worried about her fake eyelashes falling off despite talking about a recent miscarriage.
It’s the thickness, of course, that does it. The kind of thickness that runs deeper than her tan. You could see it in her Pete-left-me! attitude throughout the much-hyped Piers Morgan interview. It was a Vicky Pollard yeah-but-no-yeah display of self-justification without one iota of self-awareness. Clearly, it never enters her ugly, little head that, yes, he might have left her, but maybe he left for a very good reason, that possibly she had a tincey-wincey part to play in the breakdown of her own marriage. Oh no, that couldn’t be the case. It wasn’t her who belittled and humiliated her husband as cringingly witnessed on their various reality – if reality can ever be captured on camera – vehicles. Like a guest on Jeremy Kyle, she is too thick to take responsibility for her own behaviour.
But why would Jordan question herself? After all, we live in a culture that revels in thickness, venerates vacuousness. The empty head is something to be revered these days, not hung in shame due to its dimness. That’s why Jordan is considered such an icon of our times. Even brains that really should know better hail her as someone to ape. Is this the best we can do? Lionise a person solely because they look good – massively debateable, if you ask me – and have the street smarts to get rich? Why has the yardstick of contemporary success become the bra size and the pound sign?
People have told me that me hating Jordan is down to my snobbery and elitism, a posh distaste for the taste of the masses. If liking knowledge, education and being challenged mentally makes me a snob or an elitist, then I’m guilty as charged. Anyway, we’re all snobs and elitists: we make judgements and decisions about what we like and who we like everyday, we’re just not always aware – or willing to admit – we’re doing it.
No matter, though, because I’m the one who’s wrong. I’m in the minority. After all, thickness dominates and any detractors have to accept the pea-brainers’ modus operandi and talk to the hand while they scream inanities like “He dumped me!” until they’re Botoxed in the face.
Soon it won’t make a difference. We’ll all be Jordans, too thick to care. But then, as she said herself in the interview she hasn’t murdered anyone so everything’s tickety-boo, innit?
The Thick Of It
Most of all, there were those familiar dead eyes. I mean doornail dead with no chance of resus. She was talking about the supposed biggest emotional maelstrom of her life and her windows on the soul were as soulless as silicone. OK, they did shed tears, but she even managed to render them CGI-superimposed, more worried about her fake eyelashes falling off despite talking about a recent miscarriage.
It’s the thickness, of course, that does it. The kind of thickness that runs deeper than her tan. You could see it in her Pete-left-me! attitude throughout the much-hyped Piers Morgan interview. It was a Vicky Pollard yeah-but-no-yeah display of self-justification without one iota of self-awareness. Clearly, it never enters her ugly, little head that, yes, he might have left her, but maybe he left for a very good reason, that possibly she had a tincey-wincey part to play in the breakdown of her own marriage. Oh no, that couldn’t be the case. It wasn’t her who belittled and humiliated her husband as cringingly witnessed on their various reality – if reality can ever be captured on camera – vehicles. Like a guest on Jeremy Kyle, she is too thick to take responsibility for her own behaviour.
But why would Jordan question herself? After all, we live in a culture that revels in thickness, venerates vacuousness. The empty head is something to be revered these days, not hung in shame due to its dimness. That’s why Jordan is considered such an icon of our times. Even brains that really should know better hail her as someone to ape. Is this the best we can do? Lionise a person solely because they look good – massively debateable, if you ask me – and have the street smarts to get rich? Why has the yardstick of contemporary success become the bra size and the pound sign?
People have told me that me hating Jordan is down to my snobbery and elitism, a posh distaste for the taste of the masses. If liking knowledge, education and being challenged mentally makes me a snob or an elitist, then I’m guilty as charged. Anyway, we’re all snobs and elitists: we make judgements and decisions about what we like and who we like everyday, we’re just not always aware – or willing to admit – we’re doing it.
No matter, though, because I’m the one who’s wrong. I’m in the minority. After all, thickness dominates and any detractors have to accept the pea-brainers’ modus operandi and talk to the hand while they scream inanities like “He dumped me!” until they’re Botoxed in the face.
Soon it won’t make a difference. We’ll all be Jordans, too thick to care. But then, as she said herself in the interview she hasn’t murdered anyone so everything’s tickety-boo, innit?