I have never been a fan of reality television, but for some bizarre reason I have found myself dipping into the last ever series of Big Brother. I shall blame my husband for this temporary lapse in taste; as a social worker, he has a great interest in the behaviour of people and finds the programme fascinating. I am torn between being interested in watching how people behave, to covering up my ears and singing LA LA LA LA very loudly to block out the excruciating drama in the Big Brother House. The antics of this extraordinary mix of odd-bods defy belief and makes me feel like I am 110. I am absolutely not prudish in any way, but the crude language and overtly sexual discussions is shocking and ugly. The tears and tantrums over food, cigarettes, and who fancies who, are exhausting to watch and must be exhausting to live with. I am always amazed at why anyone would want to put themselves through this ordeal. The craving for celebrity has a very strange effect on some people. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to be a celebrity and be subject to the scrutiny of the tabloids and the gossip magazines.
I am sure that celebrity is helpful for the creation of wealth and for promoting careers. The Beckhams certainly seem to have set themselves up for life in that respect. But I don’t think I would like to swap places with Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Tweedy or Katie Price, even if it would mean a more glamorous wardrobe, instant publishing contracts or a date with a Premier League footballer. Today’s media seem to be so cruel in their approach to reporting any kind of trivial news in relation to celebrities. Whilst I don’t have any particular sympathy with people like Katie Price, the savage way she is gossiped about is repulsive. I think that it is a very sad state of affairs that the media cannot find a good word to say about anyone these days. I wonder how the writers themselves must feel, constantly bitching and complaining about anyone in the public eye, even though, without these people they would not have a job. I am sure there is an element of compulsion by the editor to write this drivel - but seriously, who wants to be paid to be nasty?
The way that the media turns on people that were originally quite popular is also surprising. Christine Bleakley, the presenter of The One Show always comes across as a charming and pleasant person on TV. However, now that she is dating Frank Lampard, the bitching has started about what an attention seeking WAG she has allegedly become. It was interesting reading the Daily Mail online, for the first and last time, as there was a column on the right hand side of the page with photos of the celebrities de jour and a link to whatever vitriol was being poured out that day. Without exception each picture was of an attractive young woman and each one was the subject of ridicule for the way they dressed, who they were dating, the size of their thighs, or their extreme skinniness. It made me remember why I don’t read the tabloids, although some of the broadsheet newspapers are equally harsh.
Politicians don’t fare any better. No sooner than the Coalition government was established the criticism started, and journalists were fighting to be the first to get a story of a behind-the-scenes fallout. Am I just naive in thinking this could be a better world if people weren’t quite so nasty to each other?
But going back to Big Brother, how can anyone submit themselves to a summer without books? I am itching to get started on The Help by Kathryn Stocket after reading some great reviews of it. I also bought Anita Shreve’s latest book, A Change in Altitude. Despite my intentions to get more books out of the library instead of buying them, I can never resist a buy two get one free deal. The freebie book was my son’s choice – some Jeremy Clarkson nonsense about cars.
The books are calling out to me to be read, so homework, and the ever growing mountain of ironing will have to wait. I am heading off to the garden; a garden blissfully free of hideous house-mates and Big Brother’s watchful gaze. However, I might have to fend off the paparazzi again. The Church next door is a popular place for grand weddings. Some Manchester United footballer got married there a few days ago, although naturally the press were more interested in what Coleen Rooney was wearing than anyone else. I must say the guests did look unnaturally glossy and fabulous. Perhaps there is something to be said for celebrity after all – says she, in her scruffy jeans and ancient tee shirt.
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