To a certain extent I have always defined people by their celebrity crushes.
If a grown man declares his dream woman to be Jordan I come over all elitist and assume he’s never read anything more substantial than the Daily Star. He probably also refers to Chris Moyles as a ‘ledge’ or ‘Moylesey’ and will invariably have motor oil beneath his fingernails.
If however a stranger professes to still hold a candle or two for Louise Wener from Sleeper I’ll wander over to put Inbetweener on the jukie and buy him a pint safe in the knowledge that our conversation will meander through such diverse topics as foreign films, reissued vinyl, and vintage sportswear. It may even end in a man-hug.
I place such emphasis on this rather trivial aspect of life because I have always considered myself to be quite cool in this area. I may not know my moombahton from my brostep – in fact I had to Google the first example in order to spell it correctly - and I’ve started to quite enjoy watching property programmes whilst wearing a comfortable pair of slippers, but when I open up a celebrity magazine at least my loins are usually fired up by the quirky left-field choices as opposed to more conventional tastes.
With this in mind you can imagine my horror when I woke up sometime last year to discover that I had fallen hopelessly, besottedly in love - and lust - with Gwyneth f***ing Paltrow.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to adore a straight-laced prom queen who once wept buckets at the Oscars like Carrie before the pig’s blood. A careerist luvvie who once said ‘I would rather die than let my kids eat Cup-a-Soup’. I LOVE Cup-a-Soup. It’s a nutritious meal in a mug. What the hell are my loins thinking of?
In order to fully explain my self-loathing it is necessary to briefly compare and contrast Gwynie to my previous imaginary flames.
First there was Ally Sheedy, specifically in the Breakfast Club with her sullen demeanour and probable dandruff. I wanted us to live in a bedsit wearing just the one massive over-sized sweater listening endlessly to The Cure’s Disintegration.
Then came Drew Barrymore during her f***able wilderness years.
The aforementioned Wener obsession ran parallel with a long-held wish to be Beth Orton’s squeeze and accompany her to the Heavenly Social where she’d get up on stage with the Chemical Brothers and dedicate a song to me. In code. So only we knew.
Even with supermodels I was instinctively attracted not to the obvious charms of Schiffer or Crawford but instead I nurtured a deep desire to one day date Helena Christensen. She was Danish and a bit arty. She would often be papped in funky markets wearing a beanie hat and you could imagine her in a low-budget indie flick with needle-marks puncturing her soft goddess arms.
Imagining being with that person forms a sizable part of my infatuations though I must state not in any delusional stalker sense. Because I value personality and talent over an abundance of flesh and an airbrushed pout mere pictures are never enough to satisfy my attraction. That’s what porn is for. Whereas my dream women are a lifestyle choice.
I’m Liam Gallagher dammit. I enjoyed drug-fuelled debauchery with Patsy Kensit before marrying an All Saint.
With ‘the Paltrow’ (for she is so uncool even her name has become an adverb to denote macrobiotics and a heretic aversion to fun, as in ‘I’ve over-done it this Christmas so I’m going to do a Paltrow for a couple of weeks’) the imagination immediately runs into trouble. Because that would make me Chris Martin and, in my head at least, I’m Liam Gallagher dammit. I enjoyed drug-fuelled debauchery with Patsy Kensit before marrying an All Saint. I don’t want to sit and strum insipid twaddle then enjoy my good lady wife’s mung bean and tofu salad.
But enjoy it I must, because this is the real deal. I recently found myself tapping my steering wheel in admiration to one of her country songs played on the radio. I’ve even tuned into Glee for f***s sake to see her play a sexy teacher. Oh dear Lord I’ve got it bad.
My Gwynie love wasn’t always so. In fact for a long time I was defiantly anti-Paltrow, hating her films and prissy demeanour.
There was always something a little grade-A student about her, a clever-clogs, look-at-me smugness with her perfect English accent and sensible career choices. I actually cheered Spacey at the end of Se7en. Act your way out of that box Miss Goody-Two-Shoes!
Sure she looked fine but any sex scenes were rendered null and void by a nagging suspicion that in real life she’d scrunch her face up in disgust at even the thought of performing oral. Most of all though she emitted a certain coldness. It would be like getting turned on by a tax return.
She was the icy blonde that even Hitchcock would snub his nose at.
Recently however she has noticeably relaxed. Loosened up. There is often a glint in her eye and a Guinness in her hand. She might even down a Cup-a-Soup in one if dared to. Furthermore she now looks hot. As in sizzling, milf-tastic hot. Even the sight of her bare shoulders makes me whine with frustrated lust whilst a suggestive half-smile reduces me to a man made of putty.
Perhaps it's motherhood? A contentment with her lot that’s released the shackles of conformity and her uptight need to be so perfect. Or maybe she just started to get bored with being boring?
Whatever the reason Gwynie is currently rocking it like never before; gone are the angular skin and bones brought on by relentless yoga sessions and eating nothing but organic dust to be replaced by a body built for sin and desire.
Brad Pitt once described his time with her as his ‘Paltrow period’ and as much as I hate myself for falling for such a mainstream, unhip choice of celebrity it seems I too am experiencing such a time. I may even watch Se7en again and this time boo the delivery van.
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