‘Fame... what you get is no tomorrow’

Either my television is playing up or the candidates on BBC 1’s ‘The Apprentice’ - at least the female ones - have undergone some strange facial metamorphosis; there are so many trout-pout lip-fillers and peculiar brow-lines on show that it looks like an advert for the SeaLife centre or an episode of Star Trek.

Other people have taken to social media to suggest that the obvious ‘tweakments’, elaborate personal grooming* and general demeanour of the contestants are more appropriate to ‘Love Island’ than a to process to select Lord Sugar’s next business partner - an impression borne out by the words ‘Reality Entertainment’ which appear on screen at the end of the programme.

The programme was always intended to be entertainment first and foremost - Wikipedia defines it as a ‘talent game show franchise’ - but the wanton cruelty of tasks where the participants are set up to fail (not least by being unnecessarily turfed out of bed at 4am) and made fools of on national television has, by series 20, weeded out all but the most arrogant, delusional or cynically fame-obsessed.

While the winner gets a business investment from the man himself, any candidate who makes it onto the show has the chance to achieve media fame - the Holy Grail of our time. From the Mail’s sidebar of shame to guest spots on TV via Instagram and TikTok, there are a myriad opportunities out there to find followers and monetise your status once you have established yourself in the public eye.

It would be interesting to know how many of these wannabe entrepreneurs have previously applied to appear in other reality shows. In a culture where a significant number of children surveyed say their main ambition is to be famous, as if it were an end in itself, I should not be be at all surprised if they had tried other options before. After all, the stakes are high; it would appear that sponsorship deals and lucrative endorsements beckon on every side once household name status has been achieved.

I wonder if there is a limit, a number of ‘celebrities’ beyond which the whole system overloads and breaks down. At present, it appears that the appetite for celebrity gossip is insatiable and that every new reality show will bring a fresh crop of potential Z listers to the ranks of the famous, but surely it can’t go on for ever - not least because there is surely only so much sponsorship or product placement to go round.

We are closer than ever to Warhol’s prediction of fifteen minutes of fame for everyone. If I were a more cynical and mercenary type and wanted to solicit a business investment from Lord Sugar, it would be for a TV production company, a year or so hence, specialising in ‘Where are they now?’ features on all the hundreds of reality show ‘celebrities’ who, having had their brief mayfly moment in the sun (or The Sun), will have sunk without trace back into obscurity.

*Though we have yet to be treated, as in the last series, to the bizarre spectacle of a sleeping  candidate’s hair extensions neatly laid out on the carpet beside her bed like a docile pet; O tempora, O mores!

(My thanks to Bucko at fuelinjectedmoose, whose comments on the previous post inspired this follow-up ramble.)

Polishing a Turd

Like that last clinging smear on the shoe you thought you had meticulously cleaned, serial bus-stop Lothario Keith MacDonald has this week made another public reappearance.

It seems that, since he was last in the news, his attempts to turn the Sunderland gene pool into a cesspit have continued unabated; the tally of his alleged offspring now stands at 15 or 16 which, in tabloid terms, officially entitles him to the epithet 'feckless'.

It also means that he qualifies to take part in Channel 5's latest freak show along with a collection of similarly fecund specimens dredged up from the Jeremy Kyle standby roster. However, if the Mail - don't go there; it's horrible! - is anything to go by, his usual modus operandi of chatting up women (and occasionally impregnating them) on buses doesn't seem to be working any more:

He says he finds it hard to meet new women because of his reputation in Sunderland and is shown in the programme going to Birmingham to 'pull girls'.

...despite his most recent partner being heavily pregnant, he tells programme-makers he is still desperate to meet new women - and is even shown trying to chat up love interests at a bus stop.

I'm not entirely sure what this televisual feast is intended to achieve but it raises the appalling and very real possibility that MacDonald may launch a media career from it and, worse, that having appeared on TV may even enhance his appeal to the less discriminating single female.

Since he currently has nothing to offer the lucky lady apart from the occasional go on his X-box, any further reproductive activity will add to the burden his progeny currently place on the taxpayer. Moreover, if his children share their parents' casual attitude to conception, the fact that the older ones are now in their teens will surely compound the problem in the near future.

In the run-up to the election, politicians take note: a system of benefits and tax credits, to say nothing of housing allocation, that allows MacDonald to pursue his self-indulgent, exploitative, idle lifestyle while a dozen forsaken young women bring up his children at public expense is surely a system broken beyond repair.

Double your money

Looking for a new investment opportunity in a growth industry?

How about this one, endorsed by no less than an associate professor at the University of St Andrews School of Business Management?

“It's a brilliant business model because it creates its own demand.”

And what is this sure-fire success story? Those cynics still in possession of all their marbles* may not be surprised to learn that he's talking about tattoo parlours which offer a removal service as well.

We've commented here before on the rise of the tattooist on Britain's high streets; now, with the advent of mass-produced laser tattoo removal equipment, you can now pay someone £100 to ink Miley Cyrus onto your left buttock, then pay the same person ten times that amount to erase it when the embarrassment gets too much (although, by all accounts, you won't be able to sit down for a week afterwards).

The future pain, however, is irrelevant; in much the same way that the advent of the gastric band appears, for some at least, to be a licence to overeat in the certainty that a perceived quick fix is available should they require it, laser tattoo removal offers the possibility of indulgence today and redemption tomorrow, possibly even at public expense.

This, presumably, is why we are seeing headlines like 'What is tattoo roulette? Fearne and McBusted lay down the rules'. Who Fearne and McBusted may be I neither know nor care, but 'celebrities' drawing lots to decide which one of them gets a silly tattoo is an idea with Zeitgeist written all over it and will doubtless be emulated in bars up and down the land.

As fashions change, all those oh-so-trendy early 21st-century doodles are going to start looking decidedly out-of date and inevitably, as time (and gravity) takes its toll, that deliciously ironic My Little Pony peeping coyly over your waistband will begin to resemble a leering elderly cart horse in drag.

If you can get rid of it, you probably will, which is why tattooists everywhere are investing heavily in expensive removal equipment. With surveys suggesting that 17% of people with tattoos subsequently regret them, there's going to be plenty of work out there.

While an average-sized tattoo will set you back around £50-£150, removing it may well run into the thousands. It's a win-win situation; studios can happily cater for the most egregious whims of their clients secure in the knowledge that every tattoo today is a potential goldmine ten years hence.

 *a story handled with efficiency and style in Bucko's post and the attached comments



UPDATE: While we're on the subject, from today's Metro:

A woman who set up ‘the world’s first tattoo parlour for children’ was surprised to receive genuine enquiries from parents keen to ink up their kids.

Sadie Hennessy created the thought-provoking art project by placing an ad outside a high street shop in Whitstable, Kent. Her aim was to incite discussion about the sexualisation of children, but the controversial ‘business’ actually had ten genuine requests.

Hubris writ large

For anyone who despairs of the self-publicising antics of today's celebrities, I offer a 26-year-old news story I stumbled across this weekend that somehow appealed to my sense of the ridiculous.

Plus ça change...

A splendid, eye-catching floral display intended to advertise Linda McCartney's current prestigious photographic exhibition in Bath was dug up by order of the Thames Valley Constabulary on February 27th, just two days after it was planted.

The 20,000 highly colourful primulas and hyacinths spelling out 'Linda McCartney' adjacent to the M4 motorway were so eye-catching that they caused a four-vehicle pile-up during the evening rush-hour on February 26th.

Several casualties were admitted to a hospital in Slough. The flowers were dug up at first light the next day and were sold off to aid the Great Ormond Street children's hospital.

(The Beatles Monthly: April 1987)

Here we go again!

Thanks to some over-enthusiastic hammer-wielding as part of the Tavern refurbishment, I'm laid up with a bad back this evening while the Spouse is off to a party.

A resulting trawl through the evening news shows that Jeremy Clarkson has provoked yet another media storm, or rather that the Telegraph is doing its best to whip up a frenzy following his latest gaffe.

In a column for a tabloid newspaper, Clarkson mocked the sport of synchronised swimming as "Chinese women in hats, upside down, in a bit of water", adding: "You can see that sort of thing on Morecambe Beach. For free."

Crass? Definitely. Tasteless? Certainly. But is it really news? Was it necessary for the Telegraph journalists to scamper off in search of quotes from 'a Morecambe town councillor' and 'a member of the Chinese Lib Dems'?

Two predictable but gratifyingly quotable reactions later, a story is born, though, given Clarkson's form, it's debatable whether this one will run and run or fizzle out in a flutter of raised eyebrows and a yawn - not Clarkson again!

As Diane Abbott found out this week, the price of the Faustian pact of fame is eternal vigilance; every word you utter, type or text can be scrutinised and pulled apart in search of offence. Every lapse of taste, every error of judgement is writ large for the world to see.

It is, in a way, the intellectual equivalent of the magazines that gleefully highlight the cellulite and bulges of swimwear-clad celebrities for the delectation of the masses; Clarkson's fame makes him fair game for a high-profile article because his name guarantees column inches and ample cause for righteous indignation.

Clarkson's status as national enfant terrible means that a story like this falls firmly into the category of 'Dog Bites Man'. Surely the Telegraph can find something more interesting to offer its readers on a Saturday night.

For goodness' sake - it's only meat!

'A lamb which was dumped in a wheelie bin has found a new home - with comedian Paul O'Grady. The month-old lamb, named Winston, was found in the rubbish in Manchester on April 18.

After hearing about its plight*, O'Grady, who already has a small flock of sheep, volunteered to re-home the animal.

The lamb received treatment for an ulcerated eye but was otherwise unharmed. It was bottle-fed by a fosterer around the clock before being transported to O'Grady's property in Kent last week.'

At last, a happy ending; O'Grady, readers may remember, tried unsuccessfully to step in when Marcus (or Market), a sheep reared for meat on a Kent primary school farm, was due for his appointment at the local abattoir and a parent objected, precipitating a media storm.

I think this calls for a song....

A poor little lamb's in the news today,
Baa, baa, baa,
For Paul O’Grady’s got his way,
Baa, baa, baa.
This time he’s pulled all the strings to see
The lamb will be given its liberty
Instead of ending as fricassee,
Baa, baa, baa.


*I have corrected the original Press Association press release which contained - sorry to say - a misplaced apostrophe. What are the requirements for working for a press agency these days?

Bruce Dickinson, you tart!

Bruce Dickinson surely qualifies for the status of Rock God: expert fencer, qualified airline pilot and lead singer of Iron Maiden - the band that has been combining heavy metal with the A-level Humanities syllabus for the past 36 years.

As if that were not enough, he also made what my 14-year-old self would have called the best TV programme ever - 'Bruce Dickinson Investigates Spontaneous Human Combustion'.

Dickinson has been in the news a lot recently - yesterday's Sunday Times carried a behind-the-scenes magazine article following the band on a recent tour and a piece in the main newspaper on one of the other strings to his bow.

He has been backing a British aeronautical firm who have just secured a contract to supply airships for the aerial surveillance of Taliban activity in Afghanistan - something he describes as a prelude to energy-efficient mass air transportation.

Oh, and a plane from the airline that employs him - with Bruce at the helm - is to be leased for commercial flights to Iceland and Denmark this Summer*, according to several recent reports including one in NME.

I have no doubt that all this is newsworthy stuff but why now? The answer is in a link in the NME article, and it's a depressing one. It seems Bruce, like almost any other celebrity suddenly thrust into the limelight, has something to sell - a 'Greatest Hits' compilation - their fourth - out next week.

I have to admit I'm puzzled; after all, it's not the sort of thing Auntie Margaret's going to pick up on a whim. The market for it will consist almost entirely of existing Iron Maiden fans who would surely spot the thing as soon as it came out anyway.

But these days the Juggernaut has gone well beyond reason. Any celebrity with something to sell is trotted through the hoops of chat show, magazine interview and the inevitable incongruous TV appearance - given the timing, my money's on Dickinson appearing on the BBC's coverage of the Chelsea Flower Show.

It's all part of the Faustian pact that is PR - agencies will do anything to get their clients in the public eye and these days, for the cynical at least, the question that springs to mind whenever a celebrity appears is "What have they got to sell?"


*Mind you, given the Scandinavian passion for heavy metal, I doubt he'll be announcing the fact - unless they are prepared for the cockpit to be besieged by hordes of fans demanding to sit on the captain's knee.

Fame - at any price?

"The time was once when thou, unurged, would'st vow
That never words were pleasing to thine ear,
That never object pleasing to thine eye,
That never touch were welcome to thy hand,
That never meat sweet-savour'd to thy taste
Unless I spake, or looked, or touched, or carved to thee."

The unhappy Adriana, in A Comedy of Errors, describes the all-encompassing love her husband used to profess for her. To modern eyes, the expression may sound rather florid, but the concept is alive and kicking. The British public have an insatiable appetite for the endorsement of the famous - at least if the news media are to be believed.

Consider, for example, the 'Delia Effect', or Jamie Oliver promoting Sainsbury's food, or perhaps the lustre added to perfumes and cosmetics by a smiling celebrity. Even breakfast cereal gets in on the act; no product, it seems, is so mundane that a sprinkle of stardust won't help it sell.

Almost anything the advertising industry tries to sell us has a celebrity on hand, to speak, or look, or touch, or carve for us. And when we're not being enticed to buy, we're bombarded by the media with endless personal information. Even the supposedly highbrow BBC has a good line in celebrity gossip cropping up in unexpected places.

Take for example a series from the news pages in 2006 - linked to in an article about Claire Rayner. Entitled 'Celebrity Health', the features interviewed such diverse characters as Sir Stirling Moss, Rabbi Lionel Blue and Britt Eckland about their health. Now call me a cynic, but are someone's gallstones really more interesting if they have been on TV?

The development of mass media in the 20th century means that many of today's celebrities were born to the purple, children who neither achieved fame nor had it thrust upon them but who were simply born famous. Trying to compete with the offspring of Rod Stewart, Mick Jagger et al drives aspiring youngsters into ever more extreme behaviour to get noticed.

All of this is fed by a public avid for more information, and it's getting nastier, if the covers of the magazines are anything to go by. 'Overdoses!' 'Divorce!' 'Cellulite!' the headlines shriek - human life played out for entertainment to accompany a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.

The whole thing reached its apotheosis in 'famous for being famous' - the darlings of the gossip column who enjoy a brief ubiquity with no-one knowing exactly why (although a cynic might make some shrewd guesses).

The unexpected result of this is a generation of schoolchildren whose stated ambition is 'to be famous' - nothing more, not 'famous' for anything - just 'famous'. Ask them to define fame, and - along with a fair few blank stares - you'll get the answer 'it's everybody wanting to know all about you' - a truly horrible concept.

All of which is a long-winded way of getting round to the concept of anonymity; in the days when the Bronte sisters were Acton, Ellis and Currer Bell and books were written by 'A Lady' or under pseudonyms such as 'Saki', 'BB' or 'Sapper', no one seemed to mind that some writers preferred not to be publicly recognised, now it's almost unimaginable.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not suggesting bloggers are the equivalent of the great 19th century novelists, though I bet Mrs Gaskell or Anthony Trollope would have been prolific and entertaining bloggers - but in this fame-obsessed society, Andrew Marr makes the common mistake of attributing a sinister motive to all of us who choose to hide behind a pseudonym, whatever the reason.

(H/T for inspiration to The Appalling Strangeness and The Cynical Tendency)


Fascinating Aida have their own take on fame - though, in the words of Dillie Keane, "Those of a sensitive disposition - leave now."

Resting in peace in a theme park

For those who prefer rapiers to clubs, at least as far as satire is concerned, a great literary work of the 20th century was brought to mind by today's news headlines.

In Evelyn Waugh's 'The Loved One', a cynical young Englishman discovers the florid and artificial world of the American cemetery when he visits Whispering Glades, the apotheosis of the mortician's art and a monument to pompous euphemism. The cemetery's extensive acreage abounds with meaningful statues and pseudo-cultural artefacts such as the Wee Kirk o' Auld Lang Syne (complete with authentic inscription in Scots) and the pre-recorded beehive sound-effects on the Lake Isle of Innisfree.

The real-life counterpart of Whispering Glades is, of course, Forest Lawn, final resting place of Michael Jackson. Nowadays a chain of Forest Lawns exists across America to help you 'memorialize your Loved One', but purists will be pleased to know that the original location in Glendale Ca. still boasts the artistic attractions immortalized in Waugh's satire including the Wee Kirk o' the Heather®, 'a faithful rendition of the village church at Glencairn, Scotland, where Annie Laurie of Scottish lore worshipped'.

It is somehow fitting that Michael Jackson should end up in this Never-Never Land of the departed; a theme park in the literal sense of the term where you can choose to rest in one of a multitude of carefully structured environments completely isolated from the outside world.

Anyone who wants to join him there to await the last judgement will be pleased to know that Forest Lawn offers a handy online planner to coordinate your Before Need Reservation.

(For anyone who enjoyed Waugh's book, I thoroughly recommend 'The American Way of Death' by Jessica Mitford - a sort of 1950's 'Fast Food Nation' for the dismal trade.)

Update: While working on this post, I was presented with this tasteful prospect by Google Ads -

Ashes into Glass
Cremated ashes to beautiful glass "Keep the memory".
http://www.ashesintoglass.co.uk/

Angelina's little angels...

It's been a bad few days for Angelina Jolie. Not only was she pipped at the post by Audrey Hepburn for the title of ultimate Hollywood beauty, but while she and Brad Pitt were at the BAFTAs, their children set about winning friends and influencing people by running amok in the hushed surroundings of the Dorchester Hotel.

It appears that Maddox, Pax, Zahara and Shiloh Pitt (haven't these people heard of spoonerism?) spent more than an hour running up and down in the corridor and shouting, provoking complaints from other guests. While the good folk of Newgate sympathise with the nanny left to supervise four over-excited children in a foreign hotel, surely a better outlet for their energies could have been found.

The cult of celebrity is thriving through the sustenance of the internet and the children of the famous have never before been subject to so much scrutiny and publicity. It remains to be seen whether this generation of gilded moppets can progress through adolescence and the transition from designer-clad accessory to independent adult while still developing a sense of social responsibility and good manners.