Celebrity journalists and the sad fact they can breathe

I see that Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin have split up. *shocked face* Well I never.

I don’t actually know them, per se, but I’ve seen her in a few films, and I know he’s in Coldplay. I don’t really like Coldplay that much. I haven’t read Gwyneth’s blog, and I’m sure she hasn’t read mine, but I imagine she did that blog on their separation because she knew some people would have questions they wanted answering, you know, their children and their families. Yes, that’s why she did the blog, for her nearest and dearest.

Of course not, how silly of me. She did it for people that didn’t know her. People who have never met her. People to who her separation is FUCK ALL TO DO WITH. People who are nosey bastards. And more people that don’t know them whose job it is, is to tell other people that don’t know them what they think about them.

That blog, I gather, asked, in a very polite way, for people to leave them alone, and give them space.

Could they? Could they FUKKERSLIKE

The Sun

I saw this in the sandwich shop. They had to go snooping. The thing is, that’s their job, and what a job it is.

Detritivores – animals that feed on shit, that’s what gossip journalists are. Pretty low down on the evolutionary scale.  The thing is, insect detritivores aerate the soil, they restore and recycle nutrients, there would be a lot of rotting shit around if they didn’t do their thing. Gossip journalists though, serve no purpose. Some might say they entertain you, that you can’t beat a good break-up.

Well in that case, I’ll tell you about mine. It was fucking awful. When you break up with someone, and their is a child involved, it is awful. Horrendous. That person you thought you knew so well, who you have shared the miracle of childbirth with, all of a sudden, you don’t. You say you’ll be friends, you have a parting hug, but it doesn’t stay like that. You have doubts; were they seeing someone else? What if she meets someone else and they hurt the kids? What if she moves away and I can’t see the kids? What if they don’t want to see me? What if, what if, what if.  You can’t help the questions, it’s a defence mechanism, plus, you’re irrational, your whole life has changed in a day, and nothing is real any more. Then someone “helpful” says “I saw you’re ex yesterday. Aye, she was with someone”.

Nice that, whether you give a shit or not, whether you hate them, whether you want them back, you want to know what that “someone” will be like, because that “someone” could be around your kids, and you, for a long time.

I lost 2 stone with worry in a few weeks. As it turns out, there was no need to worry. We weren’t meant to be together. We’ve both been with our respective partners a long time now, and she let me see my daughter whenever I wanted. It was hard at times, and there were arguments, but my daughter is 19 now, and her mum has brought her up well. I’m very proud of her, and I’m very grateful to her mum, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Whizz back 18 years. If someone had said that to me then, would I have believed them? No I wouldn’t.  So what would be the last thing I wanted? That “someone” telling me everything that I was scared of, and guessing the answers to all my doubts. Even worse, if that “someone” was dozens and dozens of “someones”, all trying to find out, dig for dirt, talk to my mates, bribe them, bribe her mates too, and then let millions of people read about what they had discovered.

So tabloid journalists, I hope it happens to every last one of you, you worthless pieces of shit. I hope you have a little face asking you why you don’t live with your mummy any more.  I hope you question yourself, almost 20 years later, as to whether you did enough for your daughter, whether you should have done more. Whether the childhood you gave her seeing her only on weekends was enough for them.

And I hope you sit alone one night, wishing you could tuck your daughter into bed and read her a story, but you can’t.

And I hope it rips your fucking heart out.

Now go write your shite.

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