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Did you hear? Katie Price and Peter Andre have split? What, I’m behind the times and this happened ages ago? As a matter of fact, I don’t care.
And thus the thesis of this article is presented. This time round I’ve set my sights on the real demon of our culture: celebrities. These days they fit into many categories, A-Z in fact, usually depending on their profession and ability: from Johnny Depp to that bird who showed us all her downstairs on Big Brother.
You see, I don’t care about either or any of the daft sods or sodettes in between. I don’t care who they are dating or if they take cocaine off a hooker’s booty every night. I don’t care if Britney Spears is now a size 12 or whether Cheryl Cole may or may not quit The X Factor.
It’s baffling really, that somewhere, out there, amongst the millions of ITV2 viewers, many people are wondering, what did Katie do next?
While I’m watching a documentary about Stephen Hawking’s views on string theory.
It’s not just ITV2: newspapers (admittedly mostly the red head papers) and magazines are all swooning over the red carpet when Perez Hilton rolls up in a bright pink tank spraying marmalade over the crowds at the latest, who-cares-awards-ceremony. The magazines show reams of pictures of celebrities either too fat or too thin with nothing in between – and judging them however they look. Looking to create and then satisfy a need to feel better about yourself at a “celeb's” misfortune – having, in the previous week, been jealous of their perfect “beach body”.
The pictures are provided by the paparazzi who are often tipped off by the celebs themselves into photo opportunities to raise their profile at a crucial time or the snapping wonders take about a thousand pictures of a celeb coming out a bar and then use the one where they blinked so it looks like they’ve had one too many VKs.
We, and by we I mean you, continue to provide a platform for these useless ragamuffins and create shows to replace the Z-listers we are now bored with. It’s a cycle of horror which ends with kids having their ambitions ‘to be famous’ - not for any great achievement, but just for hell of it. Little girls wanting to marry footballers instead of wanting to be doctors; not wanting to create something for themselves but to throw feminism back decades by looking to define themselves on what their husband will do.
Frightening, and surely I’m not the only one who realises this?
Readers, I urge you, rise up, throw down your glossy mag, turn off I’m A Celebrity and say no, these people do not deserve this coverage and our society does not need you any more Paris Hilton. Break free of the tabloid mould. If you agree, I’d recommend Charlie Brooker’s “Screenwipe” and the films “Network” and “Star Suckers”
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