Tag Archives: celebrity

Don’t worry – it hasn’t gone to my head!!!

I know it’s pathetic, and I did take the piss wholeheartedly out of myself and the idea that it matters in any way, shape or form at all (because it doesn’t), but I did still get a bit of a thrill out of hearing Jon Snow say my name on the news. Mainly because I love the man.

But I’ll try not to let it get to me. Just like last time I was on the news – my newfound celebrity didn’t cause me to think I’m above the people who got me to where I am, even if it was mainly me that got me to where I am. And now I think of it, a lot of the people I call ‘people’ aren’t actually that peopley.

No, they’re more like plebes, or filthy little animals. I mean, I can still thank those who are on my level for all the help and moral support provided. But then I think about that, too, and realise that I there isn’t anyone on my level – I have no equal. And as I’m always morally superior to everyone else in the world, moral support becomes irrelevant.

I mean, I could thank anyone, but that would be stupid. What’s the point in thanking these idiots when they never did anything for anyone else? It’s all my skill – my natural qualities – that have made it so I’m a worldwide (and wholly worthwhile) celebrity superstar. I am literally the best person in the world and I am entirely self-made in this respect.

You idiots should be thanking me for not having charged you all of your money – which won’t be very much because you’re all poor scumbags – to even glance in the direction of this blog. You damn ingrates. I can’t believe you’d plot against me like this, trying to steal my blog, my words, my very way of life.

You’ll see. You’ll all see. My finger’s on the big red button. Just you try and come for me. Try it, and see what happens. I fucking well hope you like fireworks.

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Celebrating celebrity hypocrisy

Turns out I’m a massive hypocrite. Well, I say ‘turns out’ as if that isn’t already hugely obvious, but shut up or I’ll rip out your eyeballs with a spork. Yes, ‘rip’.

I will happily sit and judge you because of your stupid love for celebrities. I will still take the piss out of you for how you reacted in Wokmania when Justin from Hollyoaks turned up. I will still not care when Prince Naseem Hamed walks past me in Meadowhall (pre-fat, pre-hit and run or whatever it was). I will still not give a shit about your celebrity spotting nonsense magazines. And I will not spend my time in Los Angeles trying to look for people who might have been on TV once or twice and getting either excited when I do see them or disappointed when I don’t.

Turns out I’m a bit of a hypocrite on that last point, though.

See, I wasn’t looking for anything in particular outside the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, but seeing the Marx Brothers foot/handprints made me go a bit funny inside. I just stood on the slab for about ten minutes, smiling like an idiot. And Groucho had smaller feet than me HA. And Harpo signed his name with the image of a harp then an ‘O’. Clever.

So that was strike one.

Then there was the plane ride. Standing, waiting to be called forward I notice a man stood alone, reading a book. He stood out because he was a bit of a wall of a man, as well as being heavily tattooed – oh, and the fact that he looked like I’m going to look in about 20 years. Yes folks, none other than Henry Rollins was waiting to board the same plane as I was. I had time to approach him and pester him in a non-dickish manner, possibly getting a photo and uttering the word “legend” at him.

Instead I just stood, gawking, from across the lounge. Too scared to go near him, too intimidated to even say his name above a muttered whisper to the others with me who didn’t know who he was.

Then, of course, I went to my seat on the plane only to find I was sat next to (well, next-but-one, with a travelling companion acting as a buffer) the lead singer of one of my favourite bands, New Found Glory. Ten hours of uninterrupted access to someone I actually like and respect? That’s the recipe for something that could make legendary anecdotes in future years.

Naturally I said nothing more than “no worries mate” when he thanked me for moving for him so he could go for a piss (he pisses like I do! What are the odds!). In my defence I didn’t want to wake him up or keep him awake – it was a redeye flight after all – but surely I could have said something?

Yes, but I was starstruck and nervous. Because it turns out I’m just as bad as you mortals when it comes to these things. I was the same with Bret Hart last year – I only got a photo with him because someone more normal than I asked him for one first, so the ice was broken.

Stupid world. I should have just gone and slapped Rollins on the head and got off with Jordan.

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