Saturday, 18 April 2009

Don't Talk to the Hand. Coz Only My Publicist is Listening.

What a cliche. I can't even believe I'm about to say it. But here it is: It seems a damning indicament of the current celebrity-infatuated-media world we live in, when you read a news article on the BBC web site like this.
The story itself is alarming, with the behaviour of Police during the G20 protests needing, unquestionably, to be scutinised. A woman was hit by a policeman, and questions need answering. Was it necessary, was it a breach of regulations? It needs to be dealt with, and this isn't my issue.

But you do worry when you see the words 'Max Clifford' involved. And this is the rub. Why does Ms Fisher need a publicist? Is she planning on carving up a nice little media career for herself? Zelebrity Come Protesting On Ice. Are we to see her on the front page of Heat magazine next week along with 'G20 Star Favourite Hats' pull-out? Just weeks after we saw a rather peculiar media frenzy over the (admittedly very sad) death of a reality TV 'star' famous for...well, having no particular talent whatsoever, it makes you wonder how on earth we managed to reach this very strange point. It is so strange a point, it's not even pointy anymore, but interactive, digital and submerged with botox.

Imagine this bizarre celebrity-obsessed-culture had been so dominant during the 1950s. Perhaps Rosa Parks would have refused to relinquish her seat simply in order to achieve that elusive two book deal, calendar, album record and possibly a spin-off sit-com 'On the Buses'.

Let's go back further. Guy Fawkes might have tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament so that he could get a place on 'Ye Olde Bigge Bretheran', 9070910 inmates in Ye Workhouse, watched 24 hours by passing peasants and gentry, who threw rotten vegetables at the evicted dweller every Friday night. Tasks involve 'who can not catch thy pox'. Or achieve slap and tickle with the bawdy wench.

I bet even Chaucer wished he had had Gok Wan to advise on what sandals to address thine pilgrims in (who were all dying to know what diet he was on). His little known 'Ye X Facctore Britons Wyth Talente' Tale perhaps got lost in translation on Thy Memoree Styck (a twig) on it's way to Canterbury. Which was a shame, as the Wyfe of Bath could knock out a cracking rendition of 'I Wylle Syrvive: As long as ye hath mine pybliciste'.

BBC article

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