I am sick to the back teeth of hearing who did or didn’t screw Ashley or Cheryl Cole.
It is a matter of such supernatural irrelevance to me that I should be communicating this fact to you by the medium (not large) of Derek Acorah and not via the internet.
Whilst buying cheese in the Co-Op I had an epiphany – as many do – it’s frankly amazing to me that my local Co-Op is not the foundation of numerous religions. You see you have to queue by the newspapers. Now, the Argies are kicking-off about the Falklands (again) and the Prime Monster is throwing cell-phones (again) but most of the papers are obsessed with the marriage of a dim-witted tart to a passable defender. Well, it made me think. It also enabled me time to think because the staff at my local Co-Op are generally out the back having a fag.
A few years ago I took the oath. I decided I would not watch Eastenders anymore. I have stuck to this for that show is shite. The tipping point was the Bradley, his missus and his Dad’s love triangle though looking back the earlier realisation that I would cheerfully unleash an Avenger Cannon on the entire inhabitants of Albert Square with the possible exception of Dot Cotton was the real point of victory if not actual triumph over my addiction. When the likes of me finds that the only person he can even begin to identify with in a show is an elderly extremely Christian lady despite being a 30-ish male agnostic then questions have to be asked…
Anyway. I have a new pledge and I ask you to honour it. Whilst standing with my (as yet) unbought mature cheddar (that might have made me complete) I saw the papers yesterday. It was this headline (possibly on the front of the Daily Mail) that pushed me over the edge. It went like this… “What was Derek doing in Cheryl’s room at 4AM”. There is only one rational answer to such a question and it is: I don’t fucking care! Although, obviously, it was implying sexual intercourse of some form I couldn’t give a toss. They could have been playing gin-rummy or discussing Hegelian Metaphysics for all I give a flying one.
Thus was born the “Nick Pledge”…
Repeat after me…
I (insert name) do solemnly swear that I will not give a toss about any “news” about “celebs” now or for the rest of my three score years and ten (or the duration). I do not care about Pete Doherty being scrobbled by the rozzers for having crystal-meth, I don’t give a fig about whoever any member of a girl-band sleeps with or whoever any boy-band member had a fight with. I just don’t care and I seriously don’t care a flying-fuck about anything Cheryl Cole does or doesn’t do with the admittedly unlikely caveat of her inventing time-travel.
Now if you think this is needlessly draconian then note I use “celebs” in scare quotes. This does not apply to the genuinely famous. Don’t feel bad if you recall where you were when you heard Elvis died or Lennon was shot or Kylie was diagnosed with cancer (that later one got even my obsidian heart). For there is a difference between stars and celebs. There is in short a difference between Cheryl Cole (pointless Geordie alleged songstress, professional WAG, utter racist (that has been conveniently forgotten has it not since she married a black man who then wronged her?)) and in general the most useless transaction my native city conducted since they started importing coals) and, say, Sir Elton John who is a star. Say what you like about him he’s a trouper and can play the old Joanna (though he’d rather play the old Jeff) and write and sing songs. Don’t get me wrong here. I personally don’t like the tunes of the short, be-rugged, queer Watford fan but… Fair play to the fella! He has brought pleasure to millions in a way Ms Cole’s off-key caterwauling for Girls Aloud quite simply hasn’t unless your definition of pleasure involves listening to tapes of cats being spayed. And when she blubs on X-Factor (as she always does) I wish to summon the fires of hell – alas I can’t… The dismal binticule she really is.
So honour the pledge. We have had enough of celebrities. I have anyway. I shall celebrate the great, the good, the genuinely famous but celebrities can go fuck themselves with furled copies of the News of The World which is frankly what they do to themselves anyway.
Just last week I read every single one of the 255 names on the war memorial to our dead from the Falklands in 1982 in St Paul’s Cathedral, London. Kinda puts stuff in perspective, really.