Sorry Meryl.

How would you define ‘guilty pleasure’? Listening to ABBA? Stealing Pick’n’Mix? Cutting up orphans and dissolving them in an acid bath? Those are all valid examples of guilty pleasures, but now that Burlesque exists they only qualify thanks to the same sort of linguistic technicality which allows us to simultaneously describe both Ann Widdecombe and Natalie Portman as ‘people’. More addictive than crack and less than half as nutritious, Burlesque is a whole new filthy world of awesome.