Celebrity Worship By Michele Maatouk We all know that celebrity magazines are the literary equivalent of a latenight snack. We know it's wrong, and shameful, but we just can't help ourselves. I'd love to be able to sit here and take the intellectual high ground, dismissing them all as pure, unadulterated gutter tripe, but in truth I love them. There, I've said it now and it's too late to take it back. The whole process involved in the buying and reading of these magazines is completely mad; it defies logic. Every week I promise myself I'll be strong, and stay away from them, but once I'm in the newsstand and I see them there up on the shelves, all glossy and new, I'm like a kid in a candy shop. But every week it's the same story. I buy the magazines, I flick through the pages and within a matter of minutes, I've scanned every photograph, and read every last word from cover to cover. Yes, we all love a juicy bit of gossip, but to be fed the same stories every week? As a kid, I remember throwing hissy fits any time my mom would try to feed me the same meal two days running; have my standards dropped somewhere along the way? What's more, there doesn't ever seem to be anything of substance to actually sink your teeth into. These magazines - made up of little more than photographs and captions (and not particularly clever ones at that) â€“ aren't all that dissimilar to children's picture books. But again, for some strange and unknown reason, although I'm totally aware of it on every level, I can't seem to hold on to this fact for very long. This may well be far-fetched, but I believe there's something mystical and hypnotic about them. Only last week, I met up for coffee with a good friend of mine, who just happened to have two such celebrity magazines hidden in her conveniently oversized handbag. We sat down, and without saying a word, we each reached for a magazine, and started flicking the pages, transfixed.