The Unbearable Smugness of Being

Hello.  I return.  I return with inspiring counsel shared by humble, down-to-earth everywoman,  Gwyneth Paltrow.  In this article she modestly speaks of the hard work and self-sacrifice she put in to acquire her tremendous arse. (To clarify, the arse of which she speaks is not sour-faced,  mung-bean bothering whinger Chris Martin.)  Apparently, the secrets of Gwyneth's fresh faced beauty and lithe physique are:

• Daily 90 minute work-outs.
• Kale juice and coconut water
• A diet of raw almonds and agave

Dear Gwyneth,  CAN YOU FUCKING HEAR YOURSELF?  CAN YOU?  You are a vacuous, patronising, humourless ninny.  May I suggest that you are in desperate need of a reality check.

Just in case you are interested, Miss Underscore's own weary-faced beauty and gently rounded physique can be attributed to:

• Half-hearted circuits of a litter-strewn municpial park, with two daft, tatty lurchers.
• Yorkshire tea and cheap gin.
• A diet of buttered crumpets and scampi in a basket.

Joining Gwyneth on Planet Bonkers is Germanic queen of dead-eyed blandness, Claudia Schiffer.  Claudia has designed a range of cashmere separates for the ordinary 'working mum'.  Check them out here. Now, I am not (sadly) a mum.  But, I do spend my days in the company of 28 ritalin-addled junior hellions.  My clothes are, therefore, constantly smeared in unidentifiable, toxic grubbiness.  I would have thought that the two most important words, in relation to a working mum's wardrobe, would be MACHINE WASHABLE.  A price tag of £1200 is also somewhat out of the range of your 'ordinary working mum' Claudia.

I have an idea though.  I am not much of a fan of reality tv, BUT, how about a show where Gywneth/ Claudia swap lives with a gentle and impoverished, Northern primary school teacher?  Wouldn't you be fascinated to watch Gwyndia:

• de-lousing lurchers 
• shopping for acrylic separates and £9 ballet pumps in Tesco
• lunching on a Greggs' steak bake (with a peach melba dessert)
• teaching equivalent fractions to 28 mini-miscreants
• snoring and drooling through one of Pompous Pilate's epic after-school meetings

Of course,  I will move into Claudneth's London mansion home, swathe myself in expensive cashmere and establish myself as a sanctimonious swami of style.  I draw the line at kale juice mind.  And shagging Chris Martin.  Sweet Jesus.  I imagine he is a practitioner of 'Lib Dem' sex.  I wrote about that here.  It is really not my kind of thing.

What a fascinating programme it would be though.  (I can almost TASTE the BAFTA.)  I have a name for the show,

Gwyneth: The Unbearable Smugness of Being.  


So, my dear reader, Easter holidays are upon us.  I shall attempt daily posting again. I predict that I will run out of ideas by Tuesday.  Tomorrow though I shall tell you a tale of horror and tragedy from the School of Hard Knocks. This week your saintly protagonist was summoned into the lascivious lair of the beetrooty buffoon (Pompous Pilate).  There were tears (mine).  And swearing (him).  The police were called. . .