I love Lily Allen

Now this may be controversial, but I Love Lily Allen. Not her music, or maybe not even her personality – I can’t really say having never met her. But I do love her general appearance. She is the exact epitome of a celebrity who I think is quite fit but not hot enough to be totally inaccessible. That’s not to say I think I could necessarily dampen a digit backstage at Lily Allen and Friends, but she has a definite tawdry edge. On top of that, I think she may embody the safe middle-class version of my mild fetish for sluts with lots of gold jewellery – like the girl who used to deliver papers on my street in Air Max 90s, a ton of gold, and a boob tube. But (I hope) without the chronic syphilis and gonorrhea that I am sure she had.

I love shitty magazines

My love of shitty magazines is what you would call a guilty pleasure. By shitty magazines, I mean the lower-end titles such as Closer, Reveal, Pick Me Up and Love It!. The ones that are around £1 or under.

I dearly love the random mix of celebrity insight, real-life scandal, fashion, and inane puzzles that fill their cheap glossy pages. My true soft spot is for the real-life stories from fruit and nut bars across the land desperate to share their tales of mortifying grossness and horror for £150.