It's hard not to be unwholesomely fascinated by Gwyneth Paltrow. She's like a funny little ghost. So quiet. So pale. So cold. You think "She needs looking after". You think "Did they have to bury her up to her neck in the ground to do the box scene in Se7en?" You think "She wasn't there when you took the photo." And now, you think "Will she be any good in Iron Man?" Yes, Gwynnie really is absolutely everywhere at the moment: the Daily Mail is obsessed with her high heels, everyone else is amazed that she's eating normal food again, and Jonathan Ross is feeding her Guinness on his show tonight - which is brings me to the next revelation...
Gwyneth has changed, and not necessarily for the better. If anything, for the boringer. Heels? Pints? Balding English bloke? Might as well cast my neighbour, who at least has the common decency to shout at her boyfriend in the street outside my flat every Friday night. Oh, yes, it started with a pint of Guinness and a bag of chips for her too, you know, Gwyn. I don't want you to go down that route. You were much better as a spooky apparition in the distance, picking over some irradiated mung beans with a diamond fork.
So, for your own sake, please go away now Paltrow. We don't hear a peep from you for months, and now this. Millions of you, all coming at me at once. You're like buses, or the terracotta warriors.
