DORIS here at the office, our designer Doris, came through to my office last week with an advert she’d designed for the Vryheid Herald’s Cansa Shavathon on March 7. The advert included a picture of a woman with a shaven head. I said, “That’s Natalie Portman”, and Doris was extremely impressed that this boring old fart could actually recognise this woman, and could remember her name without an extended session of nut (or nuts) scratching.
To be honest, I surprised myself, and have no idea why I remember Natalie Portman because I could not name you one tennis championship that she’s actually won. Thing is, see, I scorn modern celebrityism, I do, and I think it’s pathetic that so much media space is occupied by sneak insights into celebrities’ lives.
But you can’t escape it. You can bury your head in the sand, but it will permeate through like a botox rupture. Meditating yogis in seclusion on the heights of the Himalayas, out of touch with the world for whole decades at a time, sitting cross-legged in the snow wearing a simple loin cloth, suddenly say to themselves, “Who the hell is Paris Hilton?”
Nope, you can’t escape it. For instance, without wanting to, I know that George Clooney, the the Formula One driver, was recently married (the celebrity Wedding of the Year apparently) to that high-powered lawyer Hillary Clinton, who’s the granddaughter of the first bloke to climb Mount Everest.
The bride’s dress was made by that famous designer, Justine Bieber, who once dated Channing Tatum (or is it Tatum Channing?) until Tatum’s (Channing’s?) jaw-clenching in times of stress sent him over the edge and into the arms, and ample bosom, of Pamela Anderson. Or it might have been David Hassselhoff. I dunno.
The wedding was held (this is George and Hillary’s wedding) in Monte Python… no, hold on, it was Monte Cassino… no, wag ‘n bietjie, it was Monte Carlo, I know that ‘cos coincidentally the bride was given away by her mother’s new boyfriend, Carlo Ancelotti, who’s the manager of the Spanish football team, Kaiser Madrid. Football managers and the better-looking, better-paid players, are also celebrities.
It is always celebrity gossip to know who were the guests at celebrity weddings, and more to the point, who was snubbed.
At this wedding, as I understand it (and I don’t), the entire Kardashian clan, including Kim’s butt, were snubbed probably because like me, George Clooney cannot think of one single reason why the Kardashians are considered celebrity material. I mean, their only claim to fame is that their great granddad invented the AK47. Apparently (this is what I’ve been led to believe anyway), his name was Arthur Kadashian (hence the AK) and it took him 47 attempts to get the perfume’s formula right (hence AK47)…
Hold on, I think I’m getting mixed up here… yeah, I’m totally confused.
I’m thinking of DKNY. Ja, that’s right. DKNY is a very trendy fashion house in New York, with its own fragrances, whose head designer was a Doris called Anne Klein (hence the AK in my brain). Thing is, see, if you’re a celebrity who is likely to be hounded by the paparazzi, then it’s OK if you are seen popping into DKNY or Versace, or Louis Vuitton, but it is deserving of a front page in People magazine if you are seen popping into and out of Jet Stores in Church Street, Vryheid. Or Ackerman’s in High Street, come to that.
Let’s see who else I can remember the gossip magazines said were at the wedding. Oh, Oprah was there, and I think I’ve got this right, she was wearing a creation that was cooked up by the fashionista but loose-lipped Jamie Oliver.
He, of course, you must know, also once dressed (and, gossip has it, undressed!) Britney Spears who now seems to be over her break-up with her former fiancé Harold Belly… hold on, not Harold Belly, ag, man, what’s her name? you know… Halle Berry. Actually, they weren’t ever lovers, Britney and Harol… Halle, but “just good friends” as they say in the classics, know what I mean, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more.
All of which makes the Royal Baby Number Two all the more exciting. Maybe Willie and Kate are the ultimate celebrities, and if you didn’t know (where have you been?) wily Willie has again had his unprotected Royal Way with blushing K…K.. K…Katie, who’s now expecting a brother or sister for young George. Meanwhile grandpa Big Ears has been a celebrity for so long that he no longer is. He’s just part of the global furniture. It’s like his Mum; she’s been a celebrity so long that now she isn’t. She just is.
Yep, actors, singers, members of bands, sportsmen and women, talk-show hosts, chefs with television shows, European royalty, the occasional politician, a few well known writers, Tretchikoff, are all potential celebrities, although it’s a bit late now for Tretchikoff, who was I suppose a celebrity in his day. But name me another celebrity artist since, mmm?
And not one ex-bottlestore manager among them. Probably just as well – I’d look even more daft with botox.
