By now we’ve established that there are a lot of things I just don’t understand. I want to add to that list my perplexedness at the whole Oscars red carpet thing. It’s almost as big as the actual getting of the little statuette, isn’t it, this posing for the camera thing, and the endless replays of famished-looking actors standing awkwardly in really ugly clothes.

And that’s where I’m confused, because by no Earthly standard is this a nice frock:


But nobody is saying it. People should be screaming, ‘Oh my god, kill it with fire!’ This dress looks like a christmas decoration from 1963 that several generations of cats have used as a chew-toy. Maybe that’s why she looks so unhappy. In fairness, I have no idea who this woman is, so maybe this is a good day by her standards. Weekdays, she might be one of these Walmart people we see hunched over a trolley at the register, loaded up with bulk-buy toilet tissue, dog food and an economy 24-pack of potato chips.

While the disaster above may be something a d-grade nobody can get away with, what was Halle Berry thinking?


Halle reminds me of a fishing lure I used to own:  Caught a ‘Sergeant Baker’ with it once off a reef just outside Sydney Heads. What an ugly fish.

But what really stops me in my tracks is her hair, which looks like it caught on fire in the limo on the way to the awards.  Now, Halle Berry is prima facie stunning, but on this occasion she looks like something a homeless guy pulled from a dumpster thinking he might pawn it for a couple of bucks.  She’s half-smiling, so maybe she’s wearing this dress on a dare?  ‘You people are so fuc*ing clueless it makes me want to puke!’ she’s thinking.

But at least her look is original.

If you ever asked me, who would win a nude jelly-wrestle to the death, Scarlett Johansson or Charlize Theron, my answer is Who the fu*k cares? Ding-ding, Round One!

I think it would have been entirely appropriate if Scarlett and Charlize had squared off at twenty paces and started throwing pointy Louboutins at each other, instead of fighting over the same hairdresser. Why Scarlett would go anywhere in a dress that makes her look like a toilet cosy is as confounding as why Charlize would wear a dress made out of recycled bin liners.

Small mercy, but at least we can’t see their vajayjays.


This at least makes sense.

If you are a d-grade celebrity wannabe you could do worse than to shoplift a dress from Carolina Herera on Rodeo Drive, sprint like the wind until the steroidal doorman runs out of puff, then treat yourself to a five-finger discount at Ferregamo’s a little further up the street.


Your red-carpet outfit is complete.

Now all you have to do now is slip under the barricades and strut your stuff on the carpet of dreams.  If you’re really set on being the next it-girl, then just ditch the underwear. Everyone knows that shameless (as Lily Allen once put it) is how to get famous. Shameless, and no class whatsoever.

But to be honest, it’s not like everybody fails.


There’s lots of I don’t understand.

I don’t know why I like my martinis dry and dirty.  I don’t know why I prefer stripes over spots.  Vanilla, over chocolate.  There’s no point overthinking it:  what I do know, is that from a man’s perspective standing beside a woman dressed like this, you’d be feeling damned pleased with yourself.

It might be hot as shit inside that thing, but you’d be happy knowing you’re raising the temperature for everyone else as well.

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