Take Katie Price [Peter Andre’s ex, Holy-Crap-Would-You-Look-At-The-Size-Of-Those, Jordan] – a woman on a hedonistic mission to make the world a worse place. Famous, to put it bluntly, for having a tiny waist and consisting of two parts plastic for every one part human. The extent of Britain’s pure, infuriating idiocy where it concerns celebrity culture is epitomized in the knowledge that she was voted Celebrity Mum of the Year 2007. The stupidity blows my mind.
Going off topic, I consider myself to be of relative intelligence. Nothing special, but not stupid – smart enough, on the rare occasion I find myself bored enough to flick through a narcissistic piece of barely-literature such as Hello at the magazine section of Tesco, to realize that at least eighty per cent of the bollocks I am reading is just that. Lies, mensonges, deceitful articles of utmost dishonesty – call it whatever you want, it's still just bullshit. Why is it, then, that so many of my female peers eat that stuff up like nothing else? Too many times have I walked into a classroom and immediately witnessed a sea of peroxide girls in varying degrees of hysteria, weeping with jealousy over Cheryl Cole’s new hair.
Celebrity culture has never been bigger, nor has it ever been as easy, nor as apparently desirable, to enter into. From the talentless winner of last year’s Big Brother to the legions of “Amiee-Louise, 21, from Manchester”s on page three of the Sun, it seems everyone wants a finger in the proverbial, disgusting pie that constitutes fame.
So, what of the effect this bullshit parade is having on the youth society? How about, I’ll rant about a problem becoming more prominent amongst Britain’s young adults today and preach about its connection to celebrity culture, and you nod in all the right places.
Anorexia nervosa, the relentless self-hatred that accompanies inaccurately believing oneself to be overweight, and an issue somewhat close to my heart for a few years. NHS statistics show this condition has been becoming more common over the last decade, with more people averaging at age sixteen being admitted into hospitals dangerously underweight and still insisting they’re too fat.
It’s a depressing fact that the constantly changing fashions have always, to an extent, dictated what body shape is “right”, dismissing any other as disgusting and wrong. It’s the year 2011, and, unfortunately, bell-bottoms haven’t been cool for decades. This is the era of the skinnies, of the camel-toe-inducing jeggings, of cropped tops to show off the inevitable bellybutton piercing, of pinching non-existent flab on our own upper arms and wailing about uncontrollable bingo wings to garner obliged compliments. [That said, I am guilty of the last one. Maybe I should shut up. Oh, wait - nope, not happening, I have more to rant about.] All the skinny models we see on the catwalk, in everything they wear, seem to be saying: “I am walking on a runway in these clothes, which makes them cool. Copy me to be so.”
It’s annoying – who’s to blame, when a normal size teenage girl turns on the telly and sees Victoria Beckham with her beanpole stature, Keira Pretty-Cow Knightly prancing around with no clothes in the Chanel adverts, any scrawny victim of fashion advisor Rachel Zoe and immediately begins to hate on the horizontal line that appears on her stomach when she stands up after sitting down for ages?
Think about it. The materialism and selfishness and individualism of teenagers today, in most cases, are directly affected by celebrities acting the same. This idea that a person is nothing unless they’re exactly like them starts when someone influential with a fanbase strikes a pose, does something new, something daring [when you think about it, it must have felt weird to be the first person to wear tights with short] and says, “I’m right. You’re so wrong it should be illegal.”
Really, when you take a closer look, this delicious pie of fame everyone’s desperate to take a bite of is the quintessential Fruit of Eden. Initially delicious, satisfying, everything you thought you could ever want – before it turns and bites you on the arse, saying, “Haha, I won, fool.” How many celebrities are really happy, and wish nothing had turned out differently? Very few, I’ll bet.
At the end of the day, it’s people who make give celebrities their definition. Regardless of their talent [or lack thereof], people are made famous because someone sees them and says, “Hey, look over there! They’re cool,” and someone else says, “Oh yeah! So they are!” and then another person joins in, and another, and another, until eventually they’re one of those faces people enter competitions and pay extortionate amounts of money to meet. It’s an odd thought, isn’t it – without us, there would be no Michael Buble, no Adele, no MJ – and no Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, no Jedward. Oh, where would the world be without their maddening, Irish, charmless idiocy. Anyone would think it’s not possible to get decent, famous role models without the inevitable bad eggs coming in to ruin it for everyone.
Maybe we should just choose our celebrities better.
Quote of the day: Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. [John Lennon]
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