AA Gill on the devolution of the English Rose:
[N]othing could be worse than English girls when they make an effort, dressed up for a night out: it’s then that they reach the heights of precipitous frightfulness. The clacking cankles. The tortured hair. The evil clown’s make-up. Predatory breasts, like pink water bombs. Flapping arms and glistening chins, and second-division mouths. The farmyard aggression and the zoo sex. It’s not just a class thing; it’s not only chavvy ladettes in the provinces. Look at the state of the totty tumbling out of Boujis, or waving chipped-nailed fingers at Glastonbury. Go to any £1,000-a-head charity ball and see the English memsahib, 3st above her fighting weight, swagged in a gypsy’s shower curtain, with a barnet that might have been spun in a sugary centrifuge. The granny jewellery and the blue eye shadow, the unhumpable hell of them all.
Impressive, deeply impressive indeed. Makes one downright proud to be an American. Although, one has to note that on the very rare occasions that the English get it right, or rather, the two occasions named Kate Beckinsale and Elizabeth Hurley, they do a rather good job.