Yesterday, our favorite superhero gossip- duo Rush and Molloy reported that international pop superstar Seal popped the question to Teutonic Ubermodel and Halloween Party connoisseur, Heidi Klum. How jet set is that? The big fat juicy tabloidal trend continues now, because according to Hello!Magazine:
"Female movie fans would be forgiven for feeling a little melancholy today, because Jude Law is officially off the singles market. A spokesman for the handsome actor has confirmed that he and girlfriend Sienna Miller are engaged to be married."
As we speak, there is probably a collective collaborative mourning in the Conde Nast cafeteria, who are already probably shattered at the loss of wafer-thin James Truman, whose job description as the formidable sounding "Editorial Director of Conde Nast," a title the legitimately internationalist intellectual Alexander Liebman wore with swellegance. We never quite figured out what Truman was paid to do, except that he got to go to interesting places, like Iran, and kind of hang out and discuss design and culture and, we guess, "give back," to the Conde Nast titles. or something like that. And what not.
Too bad Avedon isn't around to chronicle this grieving process in high heels, well toned personally trained bodies flush from the mornings exercise, and the perfectly understated dress. Cool demeanor notwithstanding, predatory Editrixes seem almost clad in rich ermine robes sipping mulled clarets in bejeweled cups, one can almost hear the icy blasting of the French hunting horns in the emerald-green distance, the hounds barking, the game's afoot -- Jude Law, the nimble fox, has outwitted the jocular aristos -- ambitious editorial assistants/Medieval Courtiers, interns, all pretenaturally thin, we believe, can now be seen actually weeping against the billowing, contoured architectural glass (The Corsair gnashes his teeth).
Hot Conde Nasty tears are being sprayed upon the blue titanium (The Corsair rends his garments).
There is bawling amongst the curvilinear banquettes.
The Stages of Grief at Jude Law's Impending Nuptials (with kudos and love to Diztopia):
Stage 1: Denial. "This can't be happening to me, I'm a Conde Nast editor! I am at the top of the food chain! I am at 350 Madison Avenue, motherfucker! I need to yell at my Assistant!" One denies that the loss has occurred. One ignores the signs of the loss. No crying. Not accepting or even acknowledging the loss. One goes looking for the former spouse in familiar places, like the Serpentine Gallery Summer Party in London, or the premiers of Jude's various films. To no avail. The shit is beginning to hit the proverbial fan.
Stage 2: Anger. -"Why me? I've never failed to get my man in my life." One becomes angry with God, or, in the case of the properly subservient Conde Nast employee, Si, and, of course, with ourselves, or, less rationally, with others over our loss. "I need my Limoges teacup with Earl Grey. This is going to be a long morning" One encounters at this stage feelings of wanting to fight back or get even with Sienna ("that whore!"), blaming her for Jude's leaving.
Stage 2: Bargaining. Bargaining often takes place before the loss. Wishing, begging, praying for them to come back ("I promise to not eat any pastries or sweets for a month if you bring back Jude"). Attempting to make deals with the spouse who is leaving, or attempting to make deals with God, or, in this case, Si, to stop or change the loss.
Stage 4: Despair We become overwhelmed by the hurt of our loss. One encounters at this stage feelings of hopelessness, frustration, bitterness, self pity, mourning loss of person as well as the hopes, dreams and plans for the future ("We were going to be married in a castle"). Feeling lack of control, feeling numb.
Stage 5: Acceptance. Well, at least there is always the debonair perennial Conde Nast fallback, George Clooney, but George -- reasons the Conde Nast mind -- doesn't have the British accent and New Yorker ennui, the caddish nature, the blondeness, the general "Eurogodliness" that all good Conde Nast editors try to affect the manners of, hire to man the phones, or, quite simply, marry into, that Jude Law has. Jude Law was the perfect Conde Nast object of affection, he will always be remembered. Ah well, but in the end, there is Orlando, there's Heath, and besides, we're Conde Nast -- it's our job to manufacture Eurogods for the masses to worship, we discover, and if we cannot discover, we manufacture the beautiful people. C'est tout!
"... In a romantic moment fit for one of his movies, Jude popped the question on Christmas Day by surprising the New Yorker with a huge diamond ring. The photogenic couple, who first met on the set of the film Alfie, are now celebrating with a holiday in the Seychelles. The pair are yet to set a date for the wedding, but their spokeswoman has confirmed that they plan to make their vows soon.
"'It's true they are engaged,' revealed Caira Parks."
The Corsair offers free tissues to Conde Nasties.
"'Jude has bought Sienna a big cluster diamond ring. He asked her to marry him on Christmas Day ? they spent Christmas together in England. They have told their families the news and they're thrilled, as are Jude's children. They love Sienna and can't wait for the wedding.'
"'No date has been set yet and it is not known whether it will be this year. The date will depend on their filming schedules ? they are both very busy at the moment.' Jude's ex-wife Sadie was among the first to offer her congratulations.
"'I am delighted for him and Sienna,' she said. 'I wish them all the best for the future.'"
And to seal the jet set marriage trifecta, a little something The Corsair, in the tradition of Bennifer, would like to dub "Grant-Jemima":
"It has likewise been reported that Hugh Grant is planning a trip down the aisle, after his partner Jemima Khan was spotted wearing a diamond ring on her wedding finger."
Ah, doesn't it just warm the cockles this holiday season that a even a manwhorish slab of beef like Hugh Grant can climb every social mountain, till he finds his dreams?
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