There’s only one thing worse than
being talked about... Being in show business can be tough. I’m in a band myself and sometimes I wish I could walk out of my front door in my man-uggs and an old hoodie and pop down the road for a packet of chocolate digestives without being constantly hounded by the paparazzi. I look at my life now; I loosen the belt on my smoking jacket whilst watching the sun glint off the bonnet of my stretched Bentley as it’s meticulously valeted by a former member of the boyband Bros (can’t remember which one) and I think ‘Wow. I was happier then, back in the day. Back when I had nothing. Fame is but a shackle around my neck’. And then I devour another tub or two of foie gras and a plate of allbutter croissants and, just occasionally, that eases the pain. I jest, obviously, but these days celebrity gossip is an enduring staple of our media diet. Remember children, you must always have your fivea-day (Cheryl, Paris, Kerry, Justin and Wayne, that is). And not only do we want to talk about these people, but we strongly feel that we have the right to, thank you very much. We have bought that right. We have purchased the magazines and newspapers and celebrity hardbacks and in doing so have selflessly bequeathed upon The Famous a strange kind of invincibility. This super-power is so extraordinarily potent that it often has the fortunate side-effect of distracting the celebophile from the staggering lack of substance
behind whatever product their chosen idol happens to be promoting at the time. I experienced this first-hand at a gig where we shared the stage with an act who, only months earlier, had shot to prominence on a popular TV talent show. I’d like to start by saying that they seemed like lovely people, and I still to this day sincerely applaud them for making hay whilst the sun shone. That said, I regret to announce that their act was total nonsense. Utter guff. And yet the crowd went WILD. I strongly suspect that the first human beings to glimpse Michelangelo’s masterpiece in the Sistine Chapel came not even close to frenzy of this magnitude. And here’s the thing. Even I experienced a tangible thrill when they walked into the room. Ooh, they’re off the telly, my heart said. How tiresome, replied my brain. They are monstrously devoid of talent. But I literally couldn’t stop looking at them. They’d been in the same room as Cheryl Cole. And watching them gad randomly about the stage like
the boys who are cast as sheep in the school nativity because they’re the sort of kids who eat Play-doh, everybody there was touched in some way by the queer grace of their celebrity. Television, The Great Validator of the modern age, had bestowed glory upon them. And, as if to prove a point, here I am today still talking about them. In conclusion, I’d like to make it clear that, should I be fortunate enough one day to bask even briefly in this wondrous celebrity glow, I intend to exploit it for entirely malevolent purposes. By which I mean a ghost-written autobiography fabricating a turbulent childhood and an almost painfully camp exercise DVD. Watch this space, people… Chris plays piano in South London power-pop band The Lightyears. The Lightyears, voted the UK’s BEST POP/ROCK ACT at the Indy Awards, have played Wembley Stadium, toured across four continents and released a record with Sting’s producer. Read more of Chris’ blogs and tour diaries at www.TheLightyears.com
by Chris Russell
THE CHANDLERS FORD DIRECTORY | kevin@cfdirectory.co.uk
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