BORING –
July 2, 2026 – Today, our Hollywood stars are in a grim, competitive sprint to see who can lead the most sterile and joyless existence possible.
Look at any red carpet and you’ll find a parade of gaunt, unhappy faces: a pageant of actors, actresses and pop stars suffering from socially acceptable anorexia courtesy of fat-loss jabs, masochistic morning ice baths and aggressive teetotalism. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse.
It’s evident that we have reached peak wellness – the most insufferable and middle-class of modern afflictions, where Pilates and wild swimming are favoured social activities, entire food groups are villainised (carbs and fats are evil; protein is God), and people shell out thousands on lymphatic-drainage massages and therapy in the hope that their life will suddenly have purpose – when the rich and famous are spending their evenings at home, nursing a sugary mocktail instead of drunkenly stumbling out of limousines parked in front of exclusive nightclubs.
