Before you call for the nurse to administer my usual sedative, just hear me out. This is no flippant and idle rant against the unpalatable but harmless excesses of modern trash-culture. This is a call to arms. A line in the sand. Ils ne passerant pas. I'm asking you to save all future generations from lives of wistful and wasted opportunity. For the sake of all you hold dear, stop Ms Price now, before it's too late.
She's everywhere. Every news stand and grocery store, headlining every cheap digital channel and starring in every no-brow watercooler and photocopier chat. She's inescapable. Death, taxes and Jordan. She may be the most famous woman in Britain. But for what exactly? At first, the whole 'famous for being famous' counter-iconographic phenomenon was diverting. It was kind of amusing in a non-challenging and ironic way to see Jade Goody take herself seriously. A bit cruel though, to be the only person too dumb to get the joke; but hey, she made a few quid while it (and she) lasted, so no real harm done. Or so we thought at the time. Because now it's not ironic anymore. Now the whole media genuinely think we care to know what Katie is doing now and what she's looking forward to doing next; (in case you want a clue to help you narrow it down, it won't be reading Proust).
Surely, I'm being over-judgemental about poor Katie? After all, nobody is really famous for nothing. We are told that Katie is a great business woman who has fought her way (veneer-tooth and false manicured claw) to the top of the dung-heap over all the other fake-tanned husks of lesser wannabes. She has a profession. She is a successful model. Despite the fact that without the entourage, the trappings and the pantomime make-up, you would walk past her in Tescos. As my son would have it, 'she's not all that'. Ultimately, she made it to the top of the pile, because her chest is bigger than average. Her silicon chest. Wow, famous for not growing your own tits, I bet Mrs Price senior is desperately proud. Jordan, the ultimate girl-next-door. Only if you live in a Buckinghamshire mansion. If she lived next door to me, I'd be looking for a Council Tax rebate.
So why am I bothered? The fundamental reason is that I work for a charity that tries to help young people from disadvantaged backgrounds to overcome huge odds and get what they need and deserve out of life. We spend a lot of time, encouraging kids to grasp nettles and to strive for their own way forward. We used to hold up examples and role models as stimuli for wavering self-confidence; especially for young women, who face the often multiple burden of sexist limitations on their expectations. But now there is a valid (and destructive) counter-argument. No-one needs to try, because you can have everything for nothing. Just look at Katie Price. QED. The only problem being that it isn't valid and the elevator door to stardom won't be opening for those kids. Katie will have to live with the weight of a million untried and unfulfilled lives on her conscience (sic). I don't suppose it will trouble her beauty sleep too much. Sisters, you're the ones buying 'Hello' and 'OK!' You're feeding the machine. These are indeed strange postmodern times, when a middle-aged man has to assume a feminist stance to make a point.
When I was a nipper, we were taught that the best thing to do when someone was showing off was to ignore them and to look the other way. I'm imploring you, look the other way. Better one unemployed model than a million unemployed young minds.
PS. If you want to comment and you don't have a Blogger account, you can always email me on Plotter28@aol.com
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