Let me introduce you to The Londoner, ‘a lifestyle blog’, if you’ll believe the twee cursive subtitle. It is quite uniquely dreadful.

A glossily hipstagrammed opus marking the absolute apotheosis of post-everything vacuity, it is a towering monument to the emptiness of existence; a sleek Weblog-of-Dorian-Gray masking a black soul slowly fragmenting on some hidden hard-drive partition in its awful curator’s vastly expensive Macbook Air.

The blog is a collage of vogueishly prepared nibblies basking in the handsome glow of tasteful iPhone camera aftereffect, shiny rich-person arsehole-couture draped over an elongated 21st Century sloane-borg with a magic Kate Middleton backcomb, and myriad tantalising glimpses of butter-tanned rear-end.

It drips shi-shi awfulness like a dying cormorant drips crude oil, its hundreds of interminable backposts boiling down to photograph after photograph of a slender, leggy, mumfaced social media executive, who is half a dozen notches less pretty than the endless hand-on-hip Tatler model poses might suggest she believes she is. Like, there’s no actual chance she eats any of the food she’s fucking well photographing, because if she did, she wouldn’t be so pleased to display so many of her buttocks with such peach-furred prominence.

It has categories for easy navigation. These categories are sensational: ‘recipes’, ‘fashion’, ‘travel’, ‘restaurants’, ‘lifestyle’, ‘DIY’ and ‘the slow heat-death of every cultural achievement humanity once held dear’. ‘DIY’ is a bit misleading; it features exactly as much muffin-baking nail-art dickery as all the rest of the site.

In ‘lifestyle’, meanwhile, our protagonist visits Downing Street, at which she wears a dress over the course of many, many pictures. She doesn’t explain why she’s there, but she does confess to be excited about it, as she’s a ‘die hard Tory girl’, which is a lovely little bonus factlet. In ‘recipes’, there’s a divine recipe for ‘slutty brownies’. The only evidence she’s eaten any of them is the full-body spoon-licking pose she strikes at the end of the entry, because she’s a vapid asscloud of hairspray and ugly Italian shoes.

In fact, the entire category structure is misleading. Each section is as much a vehicle for as many pictures of her stupid face in all the boho-plutocrat happenstance as the very Internet will sustain. Sadly, the Internet is built to withstand an awful fucking lot of pictures of lantern-jawed brunettes, and this deleterious narcissism will persist forever.