Yes, Samantha, I’m as beautiful as they say

DEAR me, but my heart goes out to that poor Samantha Brick.

If you had no idea who Samantha Brick actually was until you heard about her tragic predicament in the Daily Mail, you will already be gushing empathy. As, of course, I am. For the past few days, Twitter has been buckling under the weight of poor, beautiful Samantha Brick and her story of misfortune, as outlined in her feature. The headline reveals her plight: “There are downsides to looking this pretty — why women hate me for being beautiful.”

I know, Samantha, I know. I get that all the time. It can be so lonely, being this ravaged — I mean, ravishing. And so depressing too — just like you, I have men sending bottles of champagne to my table in restaurants, men rushing to buy me train tickets in railway queues, airline pilots sending me more champagne on planes; it never stops. Like you, I am chased down the street by men desperate to give me flowers, like that Impulse advert from the last century. Men just can’t help themselves when they see me. You and I are kindred spirits, Samantha.

But, of course, you and I both know how hard it is being so transcendently beautiful. I mean, just look at my byline photo — slowly, if you’re a woman, so that you don’t send yourself into a frenzy of crazed, hopeless envy, and even more slowly if you’re a man, so that you don’t burst into flames from sheer molten lust. I know what you’re thinking: if on ly it were a full length shot, so that you could see my entire fabulousness. You’ll just have to imagine me instead. Try not to hyperventilate.

But like Samantha, I find being this gorgeous very isolating. “Over the years I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves,” she wrote pitifully. “If their partners dared to actually talk to me, a sudden chill would descend on the room.”

I know just how you feel, sweetheart. It’s gotten so bad with me now that women just burst into tears whenever I walk into a room, and beg me, like Dolly begged Jolene, please not to take their man. The men themselves don’t say much, because they have been reduced to dribbling insensibility by my charms. I may not be tall and blonde like you Samantha, but what I lack in height I make up for in Body Mass Index and hair dye.

You say you long for wrinkles to help you fade into the background so that women will stop hating you, but look at me, Samantha. Look at me. I have those wrinkles of which you speak, yet I still render grown men to mush and their wives to seething cauldrons of resentment.

You were quite right to respond to all those horrid people who were astonished at your claims – because of course they were jealous. We beauties must stick together. God, I’m gorgeous.