Pond life triumphs; real celebrity is now dead

I read an article in NOW magazine online a while ago and was so utterly disorientated that it lead me to review the whole issue of modern celebrity. When I was growing up in the 60’s and 70’s rock stars were so much simpler. They were men, they had long hair and were famous for the quantity of booze, drugs and women they could consume in a day. Add to that the obligatory stretch limos and hotel room trashing and that was that. 

You slept with groupies, ingested every pharmaceutical you could get your hands on and often died at 27 (see 27 Club for details). Along the way you belted out some great songs, made a heap of money and if you lived long enough you retired to farm salmon. But the world has changed.

Now your path to stardom is based on your looks, breasts or hair as appropriate. To become famous, you have to have an invented name. Being called Jimmy Page or Janis Joplin isn’t enough; you have to be called Rhizome, Asana, Spermatozoa Sunset or something equally stupid.

Then you must have a relationship with a peddler of equally talentless nonsense. So imagine you are singing under the name Asana (on the grounds you’ll be near the top of an alphabetic list). Then your publicist suggests that you sleep with up-coming rapper DJ Swipe. Perfect. Now the press condenses your names so that you’ll forever be named ASSWIPE. Job done.

Then you need to get a tattoo, ideally on your inner thigh, nipple or buttocks. This will allow the paparazzi to fulfill two essential functions: to keep your name in the press and show gratuitous nipple shots. So get one and make it a big one.

With your career really kicking off you need to have a public war on Twitter with your arch rival Bizzy B.  Bizzy used to sleep with your man DJ Swipe so the stakes are high. The trick is to avoid punctuation and use the word bitch every fifth word. 

Bizzy B “@Asana bitch yr tat look like asshole on a rat snake”

Asana”‘@bizzyb bitch my tit tat is pretty than yo face bitch”

Bizzy B “@Asana bitch yr boy Swipe has a no dick”

This guarantees that your 1.5m brainless followers have something they can read…..and understand

The months pass and you realise that your popularity is waning so you decide that contraception is optional. You end up giving birth to your first child and face your first big decision, what to name it. Any normal name is just too boring, so you draw up a shortlist

Demin (because you can’t spell denim)

PooPoo (because you were so high on crack and couldn’t think of anything else)

iPhone (cos they’re cool and you have one with diamonds on)

Bali (because that’s where it was conceived)

Otis (after the lift it was conceived in)

Exxon (after the gas station it was conceived in)

Dumpster (see above)

Having picked the name Dumpster you vow to name all you children after the letter D because it’s your choice and so what if the kids is totally traumatised and turns into a serial killer. So welcome Dumpster, Dvine and Dijani Moonfruit Lovebeam to the world.

Six months later, DJ Swipe has left you for Bizzy B’s sister and you’re living in a council estate and everyone has forgotten about you. 


Jimi Hendrix would have been 74 this year and they still play his music. Voodoo Chile (Slight Retiurn). Nuf said bitch.


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