The Bastard Lounge

Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.

Fame.

I would like to begin this article by offering my sincerest apologies for the lack of content recently. Aside from ripping off Charlie Brooker’s writing style, I’m also a member of my University Student Radio Station, and this week I’ve been very busy conducting interviews with semi-famous people; which quite frankly makes me better than you. I actually have Piff the Magic Dragon‘s phone number. So yeah. I’m something of an A-Lister now.

The idea of being famous is an intriguing one. On the one hand, I’m a shameless egotistical twerp desperate for recognition and praise of any kind. On the other, I fundamentally dislike people and everything they represent, so the idea of having to actively engage with even more humans than is totally necessary is not appealing whatsoever.

I remember as a child being forced by my mother to ask World Cup winning rugby player Ben Cohen for his autograph in Waitrose. It must have been an equally surreal experience for him as it was for me; signing an autograph for a small child whilst his mother giggles away to herself like a schoolgirl.

Autographs have always struck me as being slightly strange. An unreadable squiggle, begrudgingly scrawled across a napkin in Frankie & Benny’s by some semi-notable figure will go for hundreds, if not thousands of pounds on eBay. For people to do what with exactly? I understand the appeal of taking a photograph with the celebrity. It’s the simplest way of saying “Look! I met such and such” and having some form of evidence. Anyone can fake a signature. Unless you actually saw him sign the shirt, you have no idea what David Beckham’s signature looks like. For all you know, that signature was written by some work experience kid called Terry, doodling on replica shirts in JJB.

It’s pretty well established that all paparazzi are morally bankrupt lecherous talentless fuckbag vultures, but I imagine that being followed by them must provide one with a perverse sense of accomplishment. Here is a crowd of people, all desperate to find out and document every single thing you do, from the cafés you frequent to the toilet roll you wipe your pompous arse with. And not only that, the reason they’re doing it is because there is a market out there for an even greater number of vapid morons all desperate to find out the intricate details of your pathetic existence.

I’ve previously touched on this weird obsession we have with famous people and how, according to the media, the average person is just gagging for the latest news of which actor has dared be seen in public with sweatstains whilst out running, or which freshly waxed popstar has seemingly forgotten how to put on knickers. Surely such publications are an insult to reasonably intelligent people? What these abhorrent gossip-mongers are openly saying is that there are people on this planet that genuinely have an interest in such drivel, and therefore it should be considered newsworthy.

I would argue that there should be some form of microchip inside every copy of Heat, which, when purchased, activates an alarm and informs all reasonable human beings in the  vicinity that it is perfectly socially acceptable (nay, mandatory) to bludgeon that person to death with whatever blunt object is closest.

But of course, there are some people out there who actually think that some insignificant thing done by a person they have never met is the single most interesting piece of information ever to force itself into their skull. And all because that person is on telly. Take Harry Styles from plastic pre-teen fanny-magnets One Direction. He recently got over 65,000 retweets and almost 71,000 favourites for Tweeting:

“Yes I’m wearing my long johns today, thank you for asking.”

Seriously.

Now, that isn’t strictly his fault. Over the past couple of years, the guy has almost certainly become a millionaire with millions of fans worldwide. And as manufactured and soulless as you may consider his career to be, there are few amongst us who can say honestly that we wouldn’t be tempted by it. It just so happens that a by-product of this success is that a bafflingly large number of misguided mouth-breathers happen to have developed borderline-pathological parasocial relationships with him.

The ideal level of fame is probably one where you have all the wealth and influence, and none of the hassle. Where people will recognise you wherever you go, but wouldn’t dare meet your gaze. I suppose what I’m suggesting here, is that we should aspire to be a murderous fascistic dictator. At least that way, anyone that gives a shit what you ate for breakfast would be removed from society. For the greater good.

DPJ.

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One comment on “Fame.

  1. Pingback: Blame the Parents. | The Bastard Lounge

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This entry was posted on February 15, 2013 by and tagged , , , , , .
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