Katie Hopkins writes in this article for Dailymail;
Angelina is divorcing Brad.
And I can guarantee you the first reaction of many will have been ha! Serves her right! Little Miss Perfect Pants is not so perfect after all.
An entire army of women whose husbands have left them for a younger model or boyfriends have dumped them for someone prettier will be feeding on this news like nectar.
Even if you’re comfortably married, putting up with the fact your washing machine beeper is at a pitch inaudible to the male ear, or your two kids fight like hell, this is something of a petty triumph.
I think we’d argue what goes around, comes around. She stole Billy Bob Thornton from his fiancée just as she stole Brad from Jen. Miss Not-So-Jolie-right-now is collecting divorce papers as fast as she collects kids.
Never having been forgiven for wrenching Brad out of the arms of Jennifer Anniston – who was somehow perpetually diminished by the whole affair – the thought that Angelina would be left weeping into her Saint Laurent power suit is utterly delicious, a cold compress on the bruised pride of divorcées worldwide.
I should know. I borrowed my first husband from his first wife. Happily whizzing off to New York together for four years, unconcerned by the fact he’d disappeared out of his children’s lives, selfish and ignorant in my own pursuit of happiness.
Less than a year after we married he left with his secretary and never came back. Ever.
And despite my burning desire to hire a hit man rather than go through the expense of a divorce, I came to see I’d brought it entirely on myself. I deserved it. Guests at my wedding hadn’t even given it a year. And they were right.
Jen says the Brangelina split is Karma.
Angelina pinched Brad on a movie set. No wonder Angelina reportedly believed he might be pinched from her by Marion Cotillard on another movie set.
What I can say for certain is that public sympathy for Angelina will be borderline zero.
I’ve always found her to be irritatingly perfect at the best of times.
It was not enough for her to act in movies; she had to write and direct them as well – probably with a GoPro stuck on each bullet-hard nipple to capture the action.
Swanning about the globe collecting kids like keyrings, she seems to measure motherhood by quantity and variety, when most of us normal mums go for health and happiness. Or not losing it completely in a shopping mall.
Pouting her way through war zones and minefields and wafting about in refugee camps, she is always immaculate in white. The unofficial peace envoy for the globe, a soft-porn version of Lady Diana, with pneumatic boobs (real or replaced) and lips more full than my freezer.
Conveniently brushing under the carpet the other Angelina of a time before, the one who had sex in the limo off the red carpet and carried phials of Billy Bob’s blood around her endless neck, with naff tattoos which needed changing every time she pinched someone else’s man.
Not to be outdone on the bravery front, she shared intimate details of her double mastectomy to protect her kids from her risk of breast cancer, smoking all the while
My divorce lawyer says, no matter how wealthy you are, with divorce it always comes down to the last silver spoon.
And so it turned out.
The day I found myself haggling over a set of crystal glasses, I boxed them all up, sent them to his solicitor and took my little daughters for a push in their double buggy to remind myself of what matters in life.
Given the fortune amassed between Angelina and Brad I have little doubt their story will be any different.
Divorce is a great leveller. No matter how rich or poor, how many kids or cars, we all end up wanting to kill each other.
You will row over access to the kids. Hate the handover. Berate the ‘other cow’ for cutting your child’s hair.
Your kids will get twice as many holidays as they should and loathe dad’s stupid new girlfriend and the new baby she was desperate for but no one else wanted.
Perhaps some of you are still on Team Angelina? She has cited irreconcilable differences and requested physical custody of her vast gypsy brood: Maddox, 15; Pax, 12; Sahara, 11; Shiloh, 10; and twins Knox and Vivienne, 8.
This should make her the Fairy Ubermother in this pantomime as it plays out in the press.
But I side with Brad.
He may have been unfaithful. That cannot be new news to her. She’s indulged in that weakness herself. She stole herself a little treasure, and paranoia should have told her that one day another sneaky little pickpocket would steal him again.
When I borrowed my current husband from his wife, she sent me a card to our home – a picture of a leopard – to remind me that men never change their spots.
I think it made her feel better. She is my Jennifer. But with less good hair.
I don’t believe in karma. But instead spend all my spare time with my husband and my family, mostly dressed in comfy pyjamas. I hope it will be enough.
Perhaps if you are too busy simultaneously trying to be a low-rent Amal Clooney, hauling a rainbow nation around the globe and looking unfeasibly fabulous for the camera at a Sexual Violence Summit in London, you don’t have much left to give to someone else’s man you thought you loved.