I’d like to make a plea on behalf of Gwyneth Paltrow.

Well someone’s gotta do it. That poor (well, in some ways) woman is reviled by the press, hated by her peers, ridiculed by her own mother (I made that bit up, just for effect), pilloried by anyone and everyone who eats normal food, doesn’t spend $14,000 on a ‘casual’ wear outfit and fails to perform yoga for 9 hours a day.

And its simply not fair.

I’d like to start by saying that my wife is the most perfect woman in the world. Totally and utterly (parallel parking aside) the personification of the perfectionist paradigm for something beginning with ‘p’. She is my soul mate, my partner, lover, best (and probably only) friend and the the most wonderful person ever, till death us do part, blah, blah, blah.

But I am allowed to look at other women. In the same way I can look at a beautiful car, a stunning house, a wonderful piece of art, or anything else I can’t afford. I can’t help looking, it comes with that pesky y-chromasome. And those women who’s appearance I most admire are generally dark. Sultry brunettes, olive-skinned and… and… and…

Nicole Scherzinger. Penelope Cruz. Selma Hayek.

Not so dark that facial hair becomes too much of a problem. Nor hair on the back. Moustaches are tolerated within reason.

But then along came Michelle Pfeiffer, so many years ago, all fabulously Baker Boying and amazing and I abandoned my favoured stereotype. Temporarily. Until along came Gwynnie herself. The movie Emma introduced her and by the time Shakespeare was in Love with her so was I.

But this is purely about looks. That divinely fragile, delicate, ultra-feminine outer-casing. I don’t care what’s inside. I’m not interested in character, personality, how much they do for charity, nuffink. This is strictly 2-dimensional adoration. I’ve got a wife, thanks very much, this is merely something to look at and admire. The ultimate objectification of women. Well someone’s gotta not only do it, but own up to it.

Gwynnie married her rock star, spawned 2 little Gwynettes (I don’t know their names but rather than look it up, I’ll guess at ‘Karma’ and ‘Daffodil’) and then totally went off the rails. Not the normal rails that other rock stars and movie icons go off, but the other one, the one less travelled. She went… healthy.

Rather than sex and drugs and twerking and drunken knicker-flashes falling into a taxi outside Nobu, Gwynnie instead opted for a life of purity, of a type of living so clean, so pure, so fucking sanctimoniously aggressive-vegan, that she has become a hate-figure. But why? Just because she refuses to give her children things to eat that actually have any taste? Is that so wrong? Because she avoids meat, eggs, gluten, dairy and some kinds of water? Because she drinks only green slime and is boringly evangelical about it? Because she does yoga for 6 hours a day? If she’s hungry she’ll eat a wind farm. She has devoted her life to tantric tedium and we should admire her, not bury her.

But now she’s moved back to her native California. The place where superficiality is all. Where you are judged purely on what you look like. Which is where she should be. Back in 2-Dimensionland. Where we can admire her without having to listen to or read about all her bollox.

So please, leave poor Gwyneth alone. She still looks fab. Just don’t speak to her.

 

Happy monday

 

A xxxx