I know I'm not alone in this, but I hate Oprah Winfrey. I hate her program, I hate her cloying, artificial television persona, I hate her anagrammed production company's name, I hate her magazine cover shoots that picture her laughing while surrounded by kittens or throwing handfuls of pink rose petals at the camera lens. My hatred radiates outwards – like a cloud of Agent Orange – and besmirches all things associated with her, such as Dr. Phil, chartreuse wrap dresses and book clubs.