Madonna at 60 – thank God it’s over
Had it escaped your attention – and, really, how? – Madonna turned 60 yesterday. There have been days, weeks, months of build-up to this event. The Queen’s 90th felt less fêted.
And, you know what? I don’t care. Not one jot. Madge acquiring pensioner status makes me feel neither old nor young, nostalgic nor incredulous, concerned, nor even mildly diverted. “Knock yourself out,” I want to say, “display your body parts, adopt another baby, just don’t make me read another piece about your seismic social significance.”
I mean, that film in which she plays a yoga teacher who gets duff-upward by Rupert Everett is so spectacularly awful that I may even treat myself to it again tonight. But, icon, feminist idol, countercultural insurgent?
Surely Ms Ciccone is just an extremely successful selfpublicist with a knack for filling a conical bra? Not that I’m knocking said bra, you understand, the bra was great. Fashion loved it, we all loved it. However, that doesn’t make her Simone de Beauvoir, and neither does masturbating on stage. Her singing is patchy, her lyrics so risible I admire the fact she’s prepared to mouth them in public. Madonna is a jumper on bandwagons, super-athletically to be sure.