Seen GQ recently? No, why would you. Terrible writing, even worse fashion, draped in a whole load of heterosexual pretension and with the sort of cultural insight we haven’t seen since Channel 4’s Sunday Brunch. It’s all very foundation course.
Last night saw its annual GQ Men of the Year Awards, which happens almost every year. Absolutely every London cunt you expected to turn up *checks notes* turned up. It was like the Mary Celeste in the Chiltern Firehouse apart from the tumble weed, which just turned out to be Princess Beatrice in Lanvin.
Cara Delevingne – such a scream! – arrived sucking a pin, David Gandy turned up wearing the same old self-importance, and Daisy Lowe cemented her utter irrelevance by being utterly irrelevant in lipstick. Those who can, teach.
Then it came to the awards, which just goes to show if you fawn enough they will come. Best this, that and the other went to the sort of people who like Ant ‘n’ Dec would’ve phoned in for – him off Doctor Who, the one in the car who’s schtuppin’ her off the yoghurt adverts, John Bishop. Even André Balazs got ‘Entrepreneur of the Year’ (if you build Chiltern Firehouse, they will come), which just goes to show, it really does. So far, so vanilla.
Then it came to the controversy, which had GQ’s press department slipping off their designer-imposter Eames. Take ‘Philanthropist of the Year’, awarded to God-fearing, Cherie-apologising, war-mongering Roman Catholic Tony Blair. There were boos and hisses. Dylan Jones probably felt like he’d had a hit of poppers.
‘Woman of the Year’? Why, none other than international fame-whore and working mum Kim Kardashian, whose greatest work to date is a sex-tape and an arse the size of Germany. It’s the new age of enlightenment!
Which just goes to show, kids, if you’re a cunt everyone on Twitter will talk about you. But they probably won’t buy your magazine.
GQ. What a bunch of cunts.,