Rangy Manatee

Well, I have just returned from a shift at the pub. And on tonight was the band Maximo Park. Here is a band with a huge local following, some catchy pop songs that sound a lot like The Smiths being force fed some Geordie by the Futureheads (etc), a fashionable looking singer, early singles selling for shit-loads on eBay. Basically, they have it all. Needless to say women are throwing themselves at their feet. I wonder what that feels like. You know, being a fairly ordinary looking bloke and having girls from age 14 upwards screaming your name, demanding you sign their tits, and offering sexual favours. Offering! Pah! What a world.

What must that do to a person? I saw him, Paul, the singer. I’ve seen the same look on the faces of hundreds of well to do bands that I’ve encountered, either from working in bars, or going to gigs. What do you do in that situation? How do red-blooded people having achieved any kind of fame that brings with it adoration, flattery and downright arse-licking (and let’s be honest, most fame does, unless you’ve achieved infamy by bumming a cow in public, say) how can they ever suggest that fame hasn’t changed them?

Anyone who has ever performed in anything, or achieved some level public praise can relate to the warm glow, the cocksurety (new word) and the fleeting sense of well being that that provides. You feel hot! You feel sexy! You feel fit and young and talented! Imagine that on a daily basis. You’d probably believe you were those things – which let’s be honest, you are none of.

Now, obviously it’s hard not to feel total envy at this level of success. If MTV, NME and the BBC jump on their bandwagon, which is looking increasingly likely, they need never worry about fame, it’ll hit them before they know whether they intended to shit, go blind, or become an incredibly successful rock and pop band.

What can that kind of fame feel like? When suddenly everybody knows not only your name, but your face, the lyrics to songs you wrote in your bedroom and who you’re shagging. I reckon it must feel amazing, for a bit. And how many people have I met who have told me that their life’s ambition is to “be famous”. Well, whoopdee do. Famous for what, huh? Dunno, whatever.

Exactly. It ain't happening. Unless by some fluke you appear on some useless reality television programme, you ARE NOT becoming famous.

It must be great being followed around by Heat photographers while you’re doing the daily shop, or breat-feeding your child, or having an affair. Perhaps not.

But then maybe I’m kinda missing the whole point of the getting famous exercise which is, I guess, to ensure your memory is preserved after you’re dead so that people speculate on what kind of person you were and how you changed the world and who you influenced and all that jazz. And that essentially a few days a year running the gauntlet with the paparazzi is a small price to pay. Dunno, whatever. Hmph.