Taylor Swift is not a lesbian – the sanctimonious New York Times is talking utter b*****ks
BIG congratulations to Taylor Swift, who has just had her sexuality questioned in front of the whole, wide world.
She is also indebted to the New York Times, who have saved her the whole problematic hassle of, ya know, telling friends, family and, er, herself first.
Yep, in its infinite, holier-than-thou wisdom, the sanctimonious publication, which prides itself in winning more Pulitzers than any other, boldly suggested that the American superstar is a lesbian.
Which probably came as news to Taylor and her American footballer boyfriend, Travis Kelce.
In a staggeringly gauche 5,000-word essay, a writer by the name of Anna Marks has taken it upon herself to question the star’s sexuality.
It is, of course, utter bs.
Taylor has documented the rise and fall of countless relationships with men in her heroic back catalogue.
She’s dated several high-profile male stars, including British actor Joe Alwyn for six years.
And that’s a LONG time to fake it.
I mean, if I’m so much as mildly bored after three months in a relationship I’m outta there before you can say “big gay bear”.
The New York Times has played Taylor at her own game, positing a series of “Easter eggs” — clues she has supposedly “hidden” in her artistry, detailing her true, closeted self.
They’ve essentially suggested Tay has been “queer-baiting” — getting the gays to worship her, buy her records, merch and concert tickets — while hiding her “true self”.
The possible reason she hasn’t sat down in front of Ellen DeGeneres and poured out her little lezza heart is because: “Her star — as bright as it is now — would surely dim.”
The piece adds: “Sometimes, Ms Swift communicates through explicit sartorial choices, hair the colours of the bisexual pride flag or a recurring motif of rainbow dresses.
“She frequently depicts herself as trapped in glass closets. She drops hairpins (hints) on tour as well, paying tribute to the Serpentine Dance of the lesbian artist Loie Fuller or referencing The Ladder, one of the earliest lesbian publications, in her Eras Tour visuals.”
Case closed, m’lud.
Money-making machine
She’ll be donning her DMs, eating tofu, driving a Jeep Wrangler and getting a cat any day now. (Oh, scrap that: She already has a pussy. Three, in fact: Meredith Grey, Olivia Benson and Benjamin Button. Yep. Defo gay.)
The paper earnestly notes that Taylor released a video on Lesbian Visibility Day, accompanied by a clip of her dancing at a Pride parade and turning down a man’s marriage proposal in exchange for a pet cat.
Which, let’s face it, is simply canny marketing from an incredibly smart, money-making machine.
She’s also tweeted in support of Black Lives Matter, yet the New York Times hasn’t, yet, suggested she is secretly Ghanaian.
Still, give it time.
Why we are even debating someone’s sexuality in 2024 is ridiculous anyway.
But were a tabloid to write such an essay, it would be hung, drawn and quartered — by the New York Times.
Taylor’s “associates” (presumably led by Taylor) have been quick to dismiss the bile, labelling it “invasive, untrue and inappropriate”.
The reality is that Taylor Swift is unbelievably progressive — a forward-thinking woman who defied her own PR camp to come out against Donald Trump, thus alienating all of redneck America.
If Taylor Swift was gay, quite simply, she would be.
Perhaps it’s time to boycott the NYT-owned Wordle.
Girls love Jeremy laid Bear
THERE really aren’t many hot Jeremys around.
(With the obvious exception of our very own Mr Clarkson, of course).
But Calvin Klein’s latest poster boy Jeremy Allen White – who won a Golden Globe on Sunday night – is causing quite the stir with his pant-wearing exploits.
The brand’s spring campaign showcases the Bear actor’s perfectly carved abs (again, probably much like JC’s) in a series of pant-wearing shots.
As one woman commented, without hyperbole: “Calvin Klein, I sincerely appreciate everything you’re doing for the world. This is the best day of my life and I’m not exaggerating in the slightest.
“Thank you, I owe you my life.”
Joey’s pitiful rants
TEN years ago I had the misfortune of sitting next to Joey Barton at an awards do.
Slightly improbably, he won an award for LGBTQ ally of the year (probably because he turned up).
He was actually pretty nice.
Disarmingly charming and softly spoken, we stayed in touch afterwards, when I asked him to do an interview.
He politely declined.
A decade on, what has happened?
He appears to be on a one-man mission to A) offend absolutely everyone under the sun and B) get a prime-time TV show on GB News.
The former Newcastle star, who was given a six- month prison sentence in 2008 for common assault, is now using his words as weapons.
His juvenile rants on female footballers are as misogynistic as they are pathetic.
After comparing commentators Eni Aluko and Lucy Ward as the “Fred and Rose West” of broadcasting – an analogy that works on absolutely no levels – he came out swinging again, this time accusing women footballers of “using their sexuality” to get ahead in the game.
Er, what?
For a start, a large proportion of WSL players are proudly gay (and wouldn’t touch Joey with a bargepole – sorry, mate).
And unlike many of the women I’m sure Joey flirted with in nightclubs back in the day, I’m not aware of many Lionesses going around in mini- dresses, pneumatic boobs and nailing shots of tequila in Chinawhite.
They are professional sportspeople who have devoted their lives to being the best possible athletes, fighting tooth and nail to be given the respect they deserve.
When Gary Neville waded in, succinctly and kindly defending female footballers, Joey then went for him, issuing a bizarre threat.
Women footballers aren’t the problem here. Joey is.
Lice-riddled cave dwellers
A SURVEY of 2,200 Brits has shown that five per cent of men wash their towels ONCE A YEAR.
Who, exactly, are these lice-riddled cave dwellers?
Sorry, Aunt Vivian
LAST week I started watching Saltburn, the Golden Globe and Oscar-nominated satire about class divide.
That afternoon, I met my elderly, widowed aunt – v posh – and suggested she give it a whirl.
A suggestion I soon came to regret upon finishing said movie.
In it, the main character, played by the brilliant Barry Keoghan licks a plug hole (don’t ask), masturbates on a grave and performs oral sex on a menstruating woman.
Aunty Vivian, I’m so, so sorry.
(We haven’t spoken since.)
No Chip off the old block
POSH athleisure brand Lululemon has been forced to distance itself from its founder, a bloke called Chip Wilson, after he suggested fat women shouldn’t wear the company’s trademark leggings.
It comes 11 years after he also suggested that lardy thighs “rubbing together” were causing the material to pill.
Panicked bosses, more concerned about seeing to be inclusive, woke and all about diversity, quickly condemned his remarks over the weekend.
But, let’s face it, the man is right.
No one wants to see ANYONE – male or female – wobbling around in skin-tight clothes, especially after breakfast.
Not PC, maybe, but entirely fair.
No post haste
WHY has it been left to an ITV drama to finally get justice for the operators of sub-post offices from the Horizon IT system scandal?
The Post Office’s barbaric treatment of staff, relentlessly pursuing workers between 1999 and 2015 despite knowing in 2010 there were faults in the centralised accounting software, is only now being re-examined thanks to telly drama Mr Bates Vs. The Post Office.
A petition for former CEO Paula Vennells to lose her CBE has now drawn more than one million signatures.
Too little, too late for those whose lives were torn apart – but it’s something.
Op and down
LEST it ever be said I’m in any way proud, or vain, on Friday I had surgery . . . on my varicose veins.
Firstly, I cocked up by forgoing the nil-by-mouth diktat pre-general anaesthetic.
So when the anaesthetist asked me when I’d last eaten, and I breezily replied “a couple of hours ago”, detailing my not un-hearty breakfast
“just some eggs, avocado and a spot of granola”, the hospital was forced to delay my op by five hours.
Then, as I was being wheeled down to theatre, typically, a big showbiz story broke.
Cue me lying on the operating table, phone in hand, bellowing “just two more minutes” as I frantically jabbed away, filing copy.
The by-now despairing anaesthetist forcibly removed the iPhone to sedate me.
(“It’s a good job they didn’t know who you were,” quipped my editor, sweetly, “or she’d have put you down there and then”.)
Anyway, I am now clad in hideous beige surgical stockings, both legs, for the next two weeks.
Yes, yes, I’m single . . . get ya bids in now.