Famous

What is the point of celebrities?

If you have a TV or read any newspaper you’ll know more than you care to about lots of nobodies.

Just now I saw an article about Geordie nightclub brawler, Cheryl Tweedy/Cole/whatever her name now is. Remember she was once in a “band”? Well she’s only gone and unfollowed one of the other talent vacuums from said “band” on Twitter. OM fucking G! How could we live without this knowledge?

I used to work with lots of people who I no longer talk to and, strangely, that isn’t news.

This is just the latest in a very long line of pointlessness that is forced upon us. I don’t care if “him from Hollyoaks” has just got engaged, or that “the one from TOWIE who’s slightly less special needs than the others” was eating in Nando’s, or that a “former chart-topper that nobody remembers, but who definitely once had a string of hits” had a minor car accident because they were screaming for attention.

Now that we’ve got to the point where most famous people are just famous for being famous, there’s no end to it. “MY *insert name of addiction here* HELL”, you might read in various “news” papers, as washed up soap stars try to squeeze one last drop of cash out of their nothing careers. Or perhaps a once-respected glossy magazine will pay them an obscene amount to take photos at their wedding, as long as the happy couple eat a chocolate bar in all the photos and then deny that there was ever a sinister sponsorship deal in place.

When did you last hear of somebody famous doing something good and helping others by using their celebrity status? Probably never, unless it was a chance to boost their profile and/or coffers. Tax-avoidance specialist Gary Barlow springs to mind here: “look at me organising a massive concert for the royals. I’m only doing it for the prestige. Now look into my soulless eyes and tell me how I can get this suitcase full of cash to the Cayman Islands.”

And what about James Corden receiving some sort of honour? What’s he ever done? Somebody who hangs about with other famous people and laughs at their jokes whilst having no discernible talent of his own. I can imagine the Queen handing over the OBE and saying, “frankly, I think you’re fucking shit, but I’ve got a warehouse in Romford full of these bloody things and I’ve got to give them to some cunt”. Or something.

We don’t need to allow these idiots to become famous. Stop watching Big Brother, stop listening to manufactured music and stop reading Heat magazine. Together we can destroy them.

Oh and a speaking of Heat magazine: they deserve a special mention for their ”Spotted” column. If you’ve never seen it, it’s where readers send in a brief comment about someone famous they saw doing something somewhere. “Brian Harvey outside a Spud-U-Like in Basildon, looking ill” or “Phil Collins looking at fax machines in Curry’s in Peterborough” are examples of the kind of dross they might print. The best one I ever saw, and this is real, was this: “Will Smith on the set of his new film”. That’s effectively the same as “man spotted in his own workplace doing his job”. The pinnacle of fucking stupidity.