It seems that the 'Spice Girls' and 'Run the World's' messages have been shredded by PR.
In 'Naked Ambition' I stated sex, shock and risk sell; acute Beyoncé seems to have exasperated these ideas after the birth of a certain Blue Ivy Carter last year.
Miss Knowles is eternally one sexy beast, and could easily wow wearing an Amish gown accessorised with an army of acne spots. Though the Christmas bosoms tell another tale.
Under-boob exposé GQ covers; HnM swimwear campaigns; plus, the sheer, feathery Haute Couture Givenchy dress that barely covered her supposedly insured a*se, indicates Mrs Carter is trying a pinch too hard for a sexy je ne sais quois.
Becoming an auntie soon, I see happiness and excitement during the last part of my sister-in-law's pregnancy, but soon post-baby weight pressures will kick down the door of self-esteem. Admittedly, her future strain will never amount to the broccoli, weights, and personal trainers balancing on Beyoncé's shoulders.
Throw in being one of the world's most perved over women, and you have a dodgy Pepsi advert with an abysmal 'Bow Down (Bi**hes)' soundtrack.
No matter the nerve cringing new single and glistening nips, The Mrs Carter show will be amazing. But for god's sake, travel back to the Beyoncé that hypnotised me into shaking my boney a*se to 'End of Time.'
Please, I beg you not to follow the Barbadian competition of Rihanna! Put some clothes on and make Jay Z step away from Chris Brown's wardrobe.
As the Emma Stone of the music world, women hate you and still want to know where them shoes are from.