Kelly Brook fascinates both sexes. Men want her and women want to look like her, especially in THAT trikini

By Jan Moir

Another day, another trikini: Kelly Brook doing what she does best for the photographers


Here is Kelly Brook, hard at work. She may have sand between her toes and not much more between her gorgeous ears, but our Kell is toiling away at the rock face of life.

Her adorable button nose to the grindstone as she brings home the sun-kissed bacon. What is Kelly doing? She is wearing a bikini. Simple as. End of. Cheque, please.

Don't mock. Don't say that it is not a proper job, because it is. Wearing a bikini is what Kelly does best; in fact, she has turned it into something of an art form, not to mention a business.

So she can't be that dumb after all, despite being fired from a couple of television shows for not being able to read big(ish) words on the autocue or properly sentence a string together. And you have to admit that she wears it well. Nobody does it better.

This week the actress, reality TV star, failed talent show host, occasional swimwear designer and sometime lingerie model has been strutting her stuff on the beaches and teak yacht decks of the Caribbean.

Ostensibly Kelly is on holiday, getting over the break-up of her romance with rugby star Danny Cipriani. However, look closely and you may see another agenda playing itself out under the sun.

Each morning, while employing an interesting strategy to ignore the paparazzi ('Cooee, I'm over here!'), Kelly skips along the beach in a different swimwear confection.


The green one and the pink one: Brook's bikini choice is documented daily


No one needs that many beach outfits for a short holiday, do they? Not even Miss K. Brook, the self-same woman who stars as bikini-clad Danni Arslow (I'm not making this up) in this summer's upcoming blockbuster horror film, Piranha 3-D. Sample dialogue: 'Aaaaargh!' Which even Kelly could manage without making a mistake.

Yet so far this week, under the guise of innocent holiday fun, Miss Brook has unleashed an eye-watering bikini blitz on the watching world. So far we've seen the green one, the pink one, the animal-print one and the blue cut-away one, which - apparently - is technically known as a trikini.

Now, not many ordinary women could get away with the terrifying sculpted skimpiness of the unforgiving trikini. But Kelly Brook, as she proves morning after morning on the white Barbados sands, is no ordinary woman.

That the 30-year-old model is in great shape is a given. Yet there is something much more to her global appeal than merely a deep and pert cleavage or cellulite-free thighs.

For Kelly Brook has a body that fascinates both sexes; she is astounding, on so many levels. In some archaic way not often seen today, she exudes an aura of wholesome innocence; of giggles and compliance, Parma Violets and dimples.


The blue one and the animal-print one: How many bikinis does one woman need?

There is nothing threatening about Kelly and her curiously old-fashioned curves; she has full breasts and hips, but a tiny little waist, like a violin.

Also, she has none of the chilly androgyny of the catwalk, nor the blanched and unhappy mien of sizezero models. Neither is she a Madonna hardbody nor an Elle-type giantess. In Kelly-land there is no
hint of threatening muscle, no hillocks of bicep, no thick knots of calf or knobbled six-packs that suggest female strength and power.

Kelly was born to wear sweetheart necklines and have some big, stupid, lovesick fool take care of her. She looks as though she might buckle under the weight of a tray of her freshly made cupcakes, just pulled from the oven.

She would be the ultimate star of the girl-in-peril movie, the one whose kitten heel gets caught in the storm drain as she runs away from King Kong. Men want to love and protect her. Women want to look like her. Especially on the beach.

For every year around this time, Kelly is a timely reminder that our own holidays are on the horizon. She is like the first cuckoo of spring,as much a reminder of summer as shark sightings off the Cornish coast and watery Wimbledon strawberries.

Here she is, the ultimate beach body - the perfect fleshly reminder that wearing a bikini isn't easy. If it was, there would be no need for Special K, FitFlops and that thing you put between your knees and then press hard. No, not a horse. Nor a bottle of chardonnay with a recalcitrant cork. I'm talking about a Pilates exercise ring, people.

For every year, around this time, just at the moment when Kelly is climbing into her first swimming cossie of the week, we are bombarded with the diets and exercise programmes to get bikini-ready.

What about tankini-ready? Does that count? I climbed into a tank last week for the first time this year. Yes, it was a bit of a tight fit, but that's the Panzer for you.

However, these snaps of Kelly in Barbados serve as a reminder that we need, apparently, to get slim, fit and smooth. We need to get like Kelly. So every year we try.

We rub some coffee grinds onto mottled, bumpy thighs. Drink a gazillion litres of water every day. Buy into the Dukon diet, the 28-Days-To-A-New-You, the 10-Day Diet plan.

It's a kind of a delusion, a seasonal madness. It seems to suggest that we have spent all winter not realising that the giant thing following you around, that great shadow that blocks out the sun, is one's behind.

Then just when you get around to thinking that you might drop the potato from the potato salad, when you just might really go for it and not eat the bag of free pretzels with your cocktail on your holiday flight to Wobble Beach, enter the Kelly.

Enter the Kelly in a bikini. And as she does so, a million carby snacks halt in mid-air, a thousand loaded potato skins stall on their journey mouthwards.

Gulp. Or rather, don't gulp. Yet I fear that any abstinence or miracle keep-fit routines at this stage of the beach game is too little, too late.

And even if we all lived in a spa and lived on thimbles of elf juice and acorn mousse, would we ever look as good as Kelly in a bikini? I doubt it.

She's a dream, the kind of girl they used to paint on the sides of wartime planes. From here to all eternity, we'll never be able to compete.
You know what's wrong with Kelly Brook on a beach? Nothing.

source: dailymail