My friend Mel and I were discussing our financial woes over coffee the other day when we happened upon an article about Victoria Beckham spending $50,000 on a tree house. Sometimes Mel and I ‘have a bitch through Hello magazine’ as Patsy and Edina did in Absolutely Fabulous but I find that celebrities are increasingly beginning to irritate rather than titillate me. That fifty grand Posh Spice spent on a whim would have wiped both Mel’s and my slate clean. It would have solved a great deal of heartache for many other people as well. I am not naive enough to suggest people like Victoria Beckham should feel any degree of social responsibility towards the plight of the ‘common man’ but what her spending and lifestyle does highlight is the unequal distribution of wealth in our society.
I will admit that sometimes I fantasize about being a celebrity. Who doesn’t? All that driving about in a limo with an entourage, getting the latest Jimmy Choo shoes for free, or an entire wardrobe from Marc Jacobs, as well as washing your hair in Evian or maybe champagne would be kind of cool for a while. Especially if you were married to Brad Pitt or Josh Hartnett or my one and only – Christian Bale. Even calls from Oprah or being hounded by the paparazzi would be bearable for a few days. You might even have time to have lunch with J-Lo or dance in Justin Timberlake’s new video. (Watch out, JT, I can krump, dude!)
Some celebrities have an enviable life. Others make you realise your own life ain’t so bad after all and that the price of fame is in fact, quite high.
Today I am glad I’m not Britney Spears. All that no underpants, shaved head, driving with babies in her lap, gun-toting madness has finally caught up with her. She’s left rehab and is being counselled by Dr. Phil. I hear the Pentagon has appointed him as the new first line of defense against terrorism. His strategy – he talks the terrorists into submission. They call it Operation Foghorn Leghorn. Poor Britney, if she wasn’t mad before she will be after a counselling session with Dr. Bellows.
Then there’s Katie Holmes. Andrew Morton’s yet to be released biography on Tom Cruise claims poor Katie was not impregnated with Tom’s sperm but with the freaky, dead guy sperm of L.Ron Hubbard, the founder of Scientology. I bet when Katie signed on the dotted line she never expected that a turkey baster would show up somewhere on the horizon. I’m sure she also never imagined the background music to her life would be the theme from ‘Close Encounters of The Third Kind.’ Spooky.
I’m glad the turkey baster sitting in my kitchen drawer and I will always remain strangers. I’m glad I don’t need to be counselled by the Pentagon’s new secret weapon. I’m glad I can look in the mirror in the morning and know who I am. I’m glad I feel comfortable in my own skin and do not need the trappings of wealth and celebrity to feel I am of worth. However, if there are any wealthy philanthropists out there looking to offload a bit of cash, please, don’t let me stand in your way. One thing’s for sure, the celebrity life ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. They are as enslaved by their excess of money as we sometimes can be by our lack of it.
Stevie Smith, one of my favourite poets, says it so well:
Satin-clad, with many a pearl,
Is this rich and wretched girl.
Does she weep? Her tears are crystal,
And she counts them as they fall.