Once I posed the question to Twitter about the most ridiculous thing people did during the course of a break-up (my answer? A spoof 15-minute make-up tutorial, titled ‘Break Up Beat’ which I entreated a long-suffering friend to watch in its entirety).
Responses varied but most, as expected, were pitiful rather than triumphant. Think things like ‘went on a summer girls hol… to Butlins’ and ‘sang Killing Me Softly at a uni freshers night, despite being 28’. No one, funnily enough, reported ‘flying to Italy with a reality star and making out with her on a yacht’. But that’s because none of the people who follow me on Twitter are:
a) Wildly rich
b) Miley Cyrus
Are break-ups easier when you’re famous? On the one hand, celebrities at their lowest ebb will experience an invasion of their privacy that can only be compared to that of a kangaroo in a Chinese zoo, pelted with rocks – or questions about their one-time paramour – in order to make them jump/die/say in a choked voice that “You don’t understand mate… I don’t want to talk about it,” as Liam Hemsworth recently did to a nosy reporter.
On the other hand, when you’re unbelievably famous you can just zoom off to an unbelievably luxe location at the drop of a hat, with the former wife of Kylie Jenner’s brother in tow, and tongue her publicly to show your ex exactly how you plan to move on, in no uncertain terms. It is certainly A Flex more powerful than putting up 20 Instagram stories of you pretending to have a good time at some sticky-floored bar, while really crying in the loos in between videos dancing to Rihanna.
I have never cared about Miley Cyrus particularly; didn’t watch Hannah Montana growing up (Freeview household), didn’t follow her music career (although 7 Things bangs) and actively blocked her out of my mind once she started doing up black cosplay in the most embarrassing of fashions.
Her pivot back to wholesome prairie maid also barely registered. But this? Reacting to the break-up of her nine-year relationship (and 10 month marriage) by hopping on a plane from LAX and flying straight to several days of fucking someone the media insists on describing as a ‘gal pal’ (yes… my gal pal… who I love to eat out… my dear platonic pal) is energy we should all aspire to channel. Bad break up? Board that Ryanair flight, spill out into the balmy air of Majorca and just fuck everything the light touches. Big mood.