In writing for the public domain, I pride myself on resisting the urge to cheaply drop names for their own sake. As I said to Prince William this morning. He keeps stealing the sheets.<\/p>\n
This week – brushes with the world of gossip reportage and tabloid newspapers. And it is A world. Not THE world. One story – entirely untrue, as it turns out – about a rock star apparently dating a person who once dated someone from the band Orlando. Described by The Sun as “a minor band”. Stop chuckling at the back. I’ll have you know I still get emails about Orlando lyrics from tender mixed-up souls in lands I’ve never been to.<\/p>\n
And then a few days later I leaf through a tabloid in a caf\u00e9 over breakfast, and see that a private event I was involved in has also been – incredibly – written about as a whole so-called story, just because it was attended by a few famous names. <\/p>\n
My first thought on reading such stories is ‘Who on earth are their sources?’. Quickly replaced by ‘Why aren’t they writing about ME?’ <\/p>\n
I detest that whole world. And yet I want to be written about. Albeit on my own terms. And I suppose for that, one has to get a Good Agent. Well, it’s on the To Do list.<\/p>\n
The stories in question were examples of a current media obsession. The seemingly desperate need to cover impossibly ordinary, even mundane events in the lives of those who happen to be famous. There exist – at a level seemingly exclusive to the English popular media – people whose entire income comes from the reporting of such ‘celebrity surveillance’ drivel, day in, day out.<\/p>\n
It’s one thing to say to your friends in person or in correspondence, “Oh, we were at the same Finnish jazz concert as Eustace Thing from that famous band.” Even my mother, who brought me up to look down on tabloid newspapers (always reminding me of their single-figure reading age), happily mentioned the time she saw Dame Maggie Smith in the same restaurant the other day. But it’s another matter entirely to publicly report<\/i> such utterly unedifying non-events. Or to make a living from their perpetuation. The only justification is if there’s a decent anecdote attached.<\/p>\n
London Party Girl: Oh, guess what! We were at this club last night, and Samantha Morton was there!
\nMe: Aha. What did she say?
\nLPG: I don’t know. I didn’t speak to her or anything. She was just there. You’re meant to be impressed.
\nMe: Well, I’m not. That’s palpably not good enough for an anecdote. That’s only an illusion of an anecdote. A kind of Anecdote Vapour.
\nLPG: Well, tell that to Heat Magazine.<\/p>\n
So, someone somewhere has given my mobile phone number to the News Of The World. It certainly wasn’t me. <\/p>\n
I feel initially a little frightened, even violated. And then the fear gives way to drama-queen rants of narcissistic outrage. Why isn’t it ME they want to write about? How DARE they. Don’t they know who I AM? I’m not just ANYONE, you know. Despite what my therapist says. And so on.<\/p>\n