With Kelly Osbourne’s recent inundation of snipes at other celebrities more famous and/or more talented than her, it’s difficult to not question why it is someone such as she – ie not famous for anything other than being the daughter of someone who is famous, or was thirty years ago, is actually famous herself.
[adsense]I’m not entirely anti-Kelly Obsourne per se, she doesn’t even approach the peripheral of the risible and repellent celebrity radar. And I understand that she is famous because of her father. What I don’t understand is why she is treated like and behaves like a celebrity herself. Her career so far has been based on a dreadful shot at becoming a musician. Even riding on the back of her father’s name couldn’t help her there and a clothing line riding on the back of a thirteen-year-old – Madonna’s sprog – Lourdes Ciccone has been equally unprofitable.
She famously hangs out with famous people such as newly deceased Amy Winehouse, with all the trendy London party folk and takes cowardly snipes at people from her high horse, but without the acute wit and dagger-tooth tongue of Joan Rivers.
It’s strange for us normal folk (brought up in working class or middle class families, who go to normal schools and work for a living) to understand why the already rich and faux famous strive for recognition. Clearly the money is not enough for them. Obviously the cursory fame (on the back of someone else’s name) is not enough. Perhaps it’s guilt, knowing that they have done nothing to deserve the press attention or the walk-in wardrobes, sports cars and famous friends.
Celebrities happily give up their anonymity and their freedom to live normal lives in exchange for recognition. Will they go to the grave happily knowing that they were a household name? Why would anyone spend their lives trying to ensure that everyone remembers them once they’re dead? It didn’t seem to do Amy Winehouse much good. And it’s still not doing her much good now. Poor girl can’t seem to get a wink of rest in peace without the media dredging up some implausible story or altogether un-newsworthy item ridiculous enough to have her waking from her dirt nap just to laugh at them.
Fame only seems to sit well with people that are that inordinately desperate for attention that they welcome the media photographing the minutae of their lives: each time they retrieve their underwear from their privileged arse cracks, have a lovers’ tiff, part their hair differently, wear knickers made of bacon, or just blow their well known noses.
It just goes to prove that maybe it is not just money that drives us to succeed but recognition, and the bounty that comes with it is just a bonus.
Gob-sbourne is not old, sagacious or sharply witty enough to be launching attacks yet. Maybe in twenty years her childish spite will have been crafted into something that resembles Joan Rivers’ gloriously despicable vitriol. Until then, she is just a spoiled little rich girl, trying to be noticed.
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