From what I can ascertain, everyone in Britain is perpetually in a good mood. (And, yes, that’s despite the lackluster weather.) I used to think it was because they spiked their adored tea with copious amounts of Prozac … or Cognac. Maybe it’s some sort of government mandate that you have to be in a better mood than the queen … who often sits around regal and stone-faced, like a beloved, blinking toad.
Want to know the real reason Brits are oft giddy and joyous? I’ve deduced it’s because of England’s fascination with trashy tabloid magazines. I only had to flip through two or three pages before I suddenly realized how much better my life was than anyone featured in these rags. One of the most popular magazines across the pond is OK!, which spotlights and showcases folks who are anything but. Drug-riddled pop stars. A U.K. soap opera actor accused of pedophilia. A rugby phenom who got fat. (“HE’S THREE STONE HEAVIER THAN EVER!” read a headline in a competing publication.)
Pitiful, I thought. I’ve got it so much better than them. No wonder Brits buy tabloids by the gross. It’s cheaper than anti-depressants — although probably more addictive.
Right now I’m reading about how Danni Minogue has suffered through the worst year of her life. First, heartbreak … THEN a health scare?!? The magazine’s name? Fabulous. After reading the article I’ve decided they should rename it Despondent. First off, is Danni Minogue really worthy of my time? I would gladly read about her sister Kylie who used to be splashed across the pages of tabloids back in her heyday. But reading about Danni seems rather moot … like trying to care about Michelle Obama’s great-great-grandfather or Paula Abdul’s cousin by marriage, Lolita.
Publishers have the magazines down to an almighty science. They put just enough dirt in the magazine to get readers to salivate and come back issue after issue. Slick pictures. Glossy pages. Even the varying use of font type was intoxicating. Currently, I can’t get enough of Tulisa, a beleaguered pop tart whose Amy Winehousesque antics have gripped the country. I love to discuss her problems in depth, like someone on PBS’ McNeil/Lehrer report can expound upon oil embargos.
It’s truly become problematic.
Instead of getting any grocery shopping done, I’ll often just head to the magazine counter with a bag of crisps. “Mmmm … clearly Tulisa is bloated because of her cocaine use,” I said to a woman shopping for baby food in Morrisons. The woman looked at me like I was a crazy person, like someone worthy of a back cover story. And yet she agreed and told me, in no uncertain terms, that Tulisa’s father is concerned for her well being. Another gentleman chimed in that she’ll be dead before the year is up. I nodded and began wolfing down a couple caramel biscuits that I’d pinched in aisle four.
I must have spent about two hours perusing all the stupid British tabloids in the shoppe that day. I ate breakfast, lunch, high tea and dinner in that span of time, paying for a bunch of empty wrappers when I left.
Sure, shopping at Morrisons can be expensive, but think of the money I saved NOT buying those insipid magazines. I’ve only been here three days, but I can already tell I’ve put on some weight. “OBSESSED U.S. TOURIST FIGHTS BULGING WAISTLINE THANKS TO TABLOID FEEDING FRENZY”, is what the headline better read. Are you listening OK?