Who Reads This Crap?

Yesterday, my good lady, Mrs PM, bought a magazine called “Celebrity Pants” (or something like that). Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, I picked it up and was immediately struck by the fact that I didn’t know who half the people in the magazine were. Either that or I couldn’t believe that these people were still famous.

The magazine described celebrities, some of whom had achieved nothing more than appearing in a reality TV show baring all their emotional baggage for all to see, still in states of extreme trauma in their personal lives due to fashion disasters, excessive weight gain, excessive weight loss, boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife trauma (delete as appropriate), pregnancy, loss of confidence and displaying all the misfortune that we all have to suffer as part of our daily lives.

Who the hell cares?

I ask this question because quite frankly I do not care one iota and furthermore I can’t see why anybody else should care. I don’t go to a random town in England, stop a complete stranger in the street and say to them “I’m slightly overweight and am really struggling to shift those extra pounds – you see I’m addicted to bacon and eggs and can’t stop eating it. I think I might go into rehab …” They would be quite justified in telling me to eff off to be honest.

The magazine basically told me that Kerry Katona is gorging herself into ugliness and her bloke is telling her that she is a fat cow – including pictures of her scoffing a burger; that Letitia Dean is so slim now that she can attract a toy boy; that Jordan and Peter Andre are arguing all the time; that Kate Moss’s arse is getting fat; that Lembit Opik and his cheeky girl have split up; that other supposedly famous people are vaulting mountains to stay in public view.

I ask again; who the hell cares?I also have another question: WHO READS THIS CRAP?

Well I know that Mrs PM does – occasionally. She justifies buying such magazines, saying that she loves a little sleaze, a little juicy gossip, celebrity self-destruction and what some women are wearing.

I couldn’t give a damn. Why would I want to read about Jade Goody and her latest dress? This is a woman who is famous for showing us her worst side on national TV, not once but TWICE. What else has she done? If she faded into obscurity overnight would anybody care? To give Jade Goody her due, at least I’ve heard of her. But on the other pages in “Celebrity Pants” I found myself staring at images of wannabees and has-beens who are strangers to me. I’ve never heard of them. And when I asked Mrs PM who they were she struggled in a lot of cases to tell me (a) who they were and (b) why they were famous.

The magazine would have been as useful to me if it had consisted of a series of articles about random people in London, who they were shagging and what they were wearing. In other words it would be totally and utterly pointless; a complete waste of a tree and ink.

The sad thing is that these magazines are best sellers. People buy them and people love them. WHY?

I just don’t get it. What’s more, I don’t get why the national newspapers are submerged in the cult of celebrity either. The tabloids are full of this kind of nonsense and make these so-called celebrities even more famous.

You read things like “All eyes were on ”. Well let me tell you something; that is a lie. My eyes weren’t on whoever it was. If the person who finished fourth on Big Brother two years ago said to me “Do you know who I am?” I would say – “No – who the hell are you and why should I give you more than a nanosecond of my attention?”

It’s all gone too far in my view and I hate shows like Big Brother and the like that are fuelling this obsession with fame and being famous when the people involved have as much talent as my cat.

I would much prefer to read about unsung heroes and people who deserve the adulation that these so-called celebrities receive. It is these people who deserve the riches that come from celebrity not some former singer of a crap band from the eighties whose now so fat she can’t crowbar her bulk into a limousine, or a winner of a reality TV show whose only claim to fame is that he doesn’t know the capital of France.