As the whole world now knows, Gwyneth Paltrow consciously uncoupled from hubby Chris Martin yesterday. Unlike other people who do this kind of thing in their sleep.

For many of us it confirmed the suspicion that, consciously or otherwise, Gwynnie is not entirely coupled with reality.

There’s the naming of the first-born after a computer company (or a fruit that got us all kicked out of Paradise, take your pick). And the vegan birthday party for said first-born. Happy birthday, Apple, here’s your vegan sausage roll. With the sausage consciously uncoupled from the pastry. Mummy loves you.

There’s the recent detox diet of 300 calories a day that ruled out “dairy, gluten, shellfish, anything processed (including all soy products), nightshades (potatoes, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant), condiments, sugar, alcohol, caffeine and soda.” In other words, food.

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There’s the claim that she almost died from eating too many french fries and would “rather die than let my kids eat Cup-a-Soup”. The cookbook, It’s All Good, for which you need a second mortgage just to buy the ingredients and which one reporter said was “characterised by a complete fear of food”.

There’s the photo from The Talented Mr Ripley that she posted on the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman, of which she was the focal point. The claim she has “the butt of a 22-year-old stripper”.

There’s the listening to rocks on mountain walks, the ones that tell her: “You have the answers. You are your teacher.” And the divorcing, sorry, conscious uncoupling, with the assistance of a New Age guru, when most of us call a lawyer.

There’s the whole rock star groupie thing. Married a rock star, besties with Madonna and, when that soured, Jay-Z and Beyonce. As if she might be cool by association. There was the time she tried her hand at singing. I still have the ear worm that was her rendition of Betty Davis Eyes.

There’s the four-minute sobfest that was her Oscars acceptance speech. Even her mother looked horrified.

There’s the sharing of too much information, like the time she told Ellen DeGeneres on national television about the emergency bikini line trim she needed when she put on her see-through dress for the Iron Man 3 premiere. As if Gwynnie would let a twin blade anywhere near her bits.

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And don’t get me started on her sense of fashion.

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There’s her website Goop, with the insanely priced merchandise she’s sourced just for us. The assumption that the rest of us have the time an money for the kind of self-indulgence she peddles. Indeed, the passing herself off as an everywoman and then coming out with: “Sometimes Harvey Weinstein will let me use the Miramax jet if I’m opening a supermarket for him.” Yeah, me too, Gwynnie. Happens all the time.

And yet, Gwyneth provides an important service to the world. She unites people in their disdain for her. Many of my friendships have been strengthened by the discovery of a shared loathing for Gwyneth Paltrow.

And in our darkest hours, when we sometimes question our own grip on reality, we can look to her and comfort ourselves with the fact there is someone more far gone than we are.