Jools Oliver makes me puke.
First of all: yes, we know “Jools” is a nickname. We’re not bloody stupid, your eternally annoying spouse has only been braying that silly word into the camera for nigh on hoary years. Second: if you couldn’t find book for your little girls, you should have asked a librarian. Just because you’re too big of a gidget to find decent books for five-and-six-year-olds doesn’t mean they don’t exist, you brainless boob.
And what was with the fashion spread, and all the more-than-we-wanted-to-know about the “loads of women” with which your husband works? We’re all mean to believe you’re just this fresh-faced example of the “simple British mum,” um, yeah. Right. Like everyone has the nanny and the time to dash off trite little children’s books while someone else cooks up the wholemeal bread and makes sure Daisy’s new dress is freshly pressed. Oh, yeah, we knew Madonna was a plank or two short of a bridge when she announced her bimbette ambition to write. But insanity, Jools-darling, just looks so much worse on you. The Adventures of DOTTY AND BLUEBELL!?! Seriously!?!? Oh, God save us.