We live in peculiar celebrity obsessed times. The Human Zoo.
A whole cottage industry of magazines, newspapers, media channels and TV shows have been created purely for 'celebrity culture'. The cult of celebrity has never been higher. I witnessed this at first hand yesterday.
It's not a new thing of course. Even as far back as the 50's, perhaps even earlier, you've always had entertainers to entertain the masses. Musicians, actors, comedians, creative types create entertainment for 'normal' people to take them out of their daily 'normal' existence. This this has helped create 'fans', which particularly took off in the 60's when Pop music became hugely popular.
It's been growing ever since, and as the media and digital TV and entertainment channels have increased. Satellite TV, more channels, increased magazines, media, social media etc - so has the creation and consumption of entertainment.
To be a celebrity is to be someone. Like a badge of honour. Feted Talked about. Dissected. Admired. Reviled. But always noticed. Of course in modern self obsessed 'look at me' times of the selfie and reality TV being a celebrity is the ultimate approval in 'look at me, I'm important'. Even so called 'stars' will have a team of publicists working on their image and media placing, in order to get maximum exposure. Nothing seems natural anymore.
In the old days you became a 'celebrity' or star because you had talent, were really good at something or had something to offer. It was essentially based on talent. As times have changed and the media and tastes have changed the net has widened. There are now different categories of celebrities - some highly talented, others 'd-listers' who are dumb fucks, but struck lucky because of reality TV. (and are desperate)
What I find nauseating is the sense of entitlement and arrogance that come with 'being someone'. I've seen up close the arrogance displayed by so called 'celebrities' because they are special and different and better than 'normal' people. The superiority thing really gets on my tits.
Having said that I have met some proper A-Listers who are as good as Gold. And to be fair I wouldn't mind it if they were proper arrogant cunts. They are proper A-listers and I would kind of expect that. But most I have met are proper good people, so I am not tarring everyone with the same brush. It's the B,C,D and Z listers with a superiority complex that wind me up.
Having said that. The consumers of this endless celebrity drivel get right on my tits too. The 'public'. Everyone who buys heat Magazine (or similar), watches reality TV, X factor or consumes any celebrity lifestyle media creation is all part of the same cycle and call all fuck off. (Granted I may have just lost 90% of my readers here)
My life is dull, there-fore I will watch, read, consume other people in order to look at, judge, criticise, have something to talk about- thus placing them (the celebrity culture) up there and me (normal people) down there. We are better than that!!!
We, are as much to blame, if not more so because we are the ones that consume the mindless shit. If nobody watched X factor there wouldn't be advertisers to fund the programme and it wouldn't get made. If it wasn't made, there wouldn't be winners every year who then appear on magazines for 5 minutes, become part of the 'celeb' merry go round and then get spat out the other end ready for the next one to replace them. It's so fucking dull and annoying and we have to take our share of the blame. Lets get off it. Stop watching this shit!
Do not engage with banal shit. You are then as much part of the mechanism as anyone else. Rise above it people! Don't watch the X factor or be part of Brand's revolution. He's as much part of it trying to sell books, fund tours and earn a pound note by being 'anti-establishment' - oh really?
If someone is earning then there is a motive. Simple.
So what sparked this rant? I was in a pub in Barnes last night, having a nice chilled late Saturday afternoon nosh up and drinks. It's a top little pub, The Sun Inn, Barnes Pond. It was busy, people were sat around having drinks, eating. Couples, groups of friends. Classic Saturday tea-time social time.
England had played that afternoon so South West London and particularly Richmond/Twickenham/Barnes is choca-bloc full of middle aged, middle class men in courdroy/Barbour jackets/ill fitting replica Rugby jersey's on the piss. Like a mass Dad convention sponsored by The Daily Telegraph. It is horrific.
So we're in the pub and Heston Blumenthal, Jack Whitehall, Austin Healey and a group of friends walk in. Talk about an odd combination. Plus the pub reacted like Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson and John Lennon had risen from the dead and walked in. Fuck me, it was insane. People reacted like Jesus had walked in.
They sat at a table next to us and started to sink a few beers and have a laugh. A Group of friends just having post Rugby banter together. It just happened that one of them was the owner and creator of one of the best restaurants in the world and a 'celeb chef', (though in my opinion the Ringers which was the pub before he took it over and called it the Fat Duck Inn, as me and my mates used to go there after school and drink Snake Bite & Black and get mullered before Heston bought it and turned it into a 3 Michelin star restaurant. Bastard. It will always be the Ringers in my eyes, hey Bray posy?) one was a comedian of exceptional talent if not a little annoying and another guy was good at throwing a oval shaped ball about and is on TV as a pundit. A peculiar combination indeed.
The table next door of girls got out their phones and kept looking over. People from other areas of the pub came over to stare. Because we were sat near them it was unnerving, we were in the eye-line and I got really fucked off.
What is wrong with people. OK, a quick glance up and 'fuck me its that chef, comedian and bloke who looks vaguely familiar', tell your mates have a look over and then get on with your own conversation. But to stare, come up, take pics, tweet it, Facebook it and make it THE central part of your experience for 2 hours. Are we that fascinated by celebrities lives that they become talking points of our own?
And that was it right there for me. That encapsulated the modern celeb machine, they were centre of most people's attention in the pub. I understood it there and then. In real life. The 'celeb' table were just having a good time. Yet they became stars of the human zoo as a lot (not all) of the pub became the audience and consumers. And thus created the hierarchy - them up there. us down there. They were the TV show, or magazine, or book and we were the consumers because we were fascinated. People annoyed me.
So my anger is not against the 'celebs' but the consumers of them. By the pub. By the 'public'. By the starers, the gawpers, the table next door endlessly looking, taking photos, talking about them. By us!
But why was I so annoyed? Why get angry? Why rant and write about it? What is behind that anger Nicholas?
Well, it's clear isn't it. Clear as day.
Because they weren't looking at me!!! The cunts were ignoring me and looking at the Chef. This self obsessed, arrogant, egotistical, look at me ego maniac alcoholic has been that never was, was bin the shadow of others. I never react well to that. My ego takes over and doesn't allow it.
Others in my vicinity were getting far more attention than me. My ego hated it. I wanted to be them. I wanted to be looked at, talked about, photo'd. My ego demands that. To be above, superior. Centre of attention.
My ego was jealous. And what happens when it gets jealous. It gets angry of course.
That I suspect is the brutal truth. Granted some people are morons and consume this cultural shit, but I have to own up to my part and when people were looking over towards me yesterday, they were not looking at me, they were looking OVER me to the chef, comedian and vaguely familiar looking bloke who used to play Rugby.
It's not that I'm jealous or have a deep rooted sense of entitlement myself. Oh hang on wait. it is and I do. Jesus, good job I'm not one. Could you imagine? I'd be a nightmare.
Nicholas E Evans
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