Reminiscing, nostalgia and a bit of a rant

I’m feeling really productive, but I’m not sure where to start.

I have several different things I can be devoting my attention to. I think that’s the problem really – too many options.  I figured here was a good place to start.

Today’s been slow, but in a good way. I wasn’t feeling well enough to trek up the hill to visit my Granddad earlier, so I’ve spent Boxing Day acting on instinct. I popped to the news agents for a drink when I discovered I didn’t have much left. I tidied my flat thoroughly, finding a home for my Christmas presents and cleaning up from the tipsy scruffyness of last night. I wandered downstairs for a buffet in the common room and stuck around watching some films, even joined in a game of bingo and walked to the take away with my friend. I’m feeling quite good about today’s activities, but I’d still like to be able to do more, especially online.

Before I came upstairs I was watching the last 20 nominations of a showcase with the top 50 magic tricks of all time. I loved reminiscing back to a simpler time, when magicians didn’t have to upset people to make waves. The double bullet catch by Penn and Teller came first, but my favourite was still Paul Daniels and his cup chop – he fascinated me as a child. No smoke or danger, just slight-of-hand and charming showmanship:

I read an article on him in the paper at the take away, stating that he openly spoke about fan girls in his blog as a response to the Jimmy Saville scandal. He said he was often approached in the early years of his career by young women, and he doesn’t know for sure if any of there were underage. Now, I don’t condone underage sex, although I would never condemn what I deem to be “underage love” – I couldn’t tell if it’s real or not, and I pray I never have to be in the position to make a call like that. But I do see Daniels’ point.

I know of more than a few guys who have pulled in a night club only to find out afterwards she’s not 18, and though I’ve heard of it less that does go both ways. When we, as over 18 UK citizens, enter a bar or club, particularly one which ID’s on the door, we do feel comfortable assuming everyone in that room is at least “old enough”. Whether they are experienced or promiscuous enough is another question, but I know it happens. And as a celebrity, even a lesser-well-known one, some fans are bound to want you. It’s like the film Empire Records, where Liv Tyler’s character throws herself at “rock star Rex Manning” because she envisions losing her virginity to her idol. Many people are like that. It’s not an excuse, but if you were alone in a limo with, say… Brad Pitt. I don’t get this obsession with him myself (apart from that Chanel No. 5 advert he’s done… the Thor look makes him yummy!) but imagine you’re a 15-year-old girl, virgin or not, with Brad staring into your eyes, intently wanting you, but whispering first that little question.

Like you’re going to say you’re not old enough! He’s Brad Pitt! He won’t be here in a year’s time. He’s here now. And if I had ever found myself in that position, young and inexperienced and in the arms of someone famous and gorgeous who wanted me and who I knew I’d never see again… Well, how can anyone be sure what they would do? But I imagine it’s not a simple moment.

Still, I have an old fondness for those showmen I’ve grown up watching. I was a tad young to be dazzled by Saville, but I was heartbroken when Michael Barrymore hit the headlines, I’ll never forget Matthew Kelly’s Stars In Your Eyes, no magician’s ever going to wow me like Daniels, and no gentleman will ever charm me as much as Bruce Forsyth. We get nostalgic for what we grow up with.

I’d hate to be a celebrity. Just after the magician show I saw a few clips of a show about celebrity fails in 2012, including a huge fight between Mariah Carey and Nicki Minaj. One called the other a name, one stormed off, one tweeted, one beefed her security, and Barack Obama had to step in and calm them down.

What does that say to me? Two girls fighting in the playground, ignoring the teachers until the head master’s forced to step in. I’m not famous, I can say what I like about either of them, and they wouldn’t care. I’m not important enough.

Still… the image I’m getting? Grown adults, role models, acting like stroppy teenagers? It disgusts me a little. Where’s the decorum? The grace to rise above? Why do you think you’re all that anyway? I’d happily choose anonymity, keep my deeds out of the spotlight, and know for a fact that my friends aren’t fake. Know for a fact that millions of people aren’t stalking my every mistake. I know we’re only human, but are you proud of yourself? Do you feel important because the president came to speak to you?

I’ll tell you what. Every person in that room when that clip was shown laughed at you. Not because you did something clever, but because we expected better. I admittedly don’t know anything about Nicki, and hardly anything about Mariah, but what does “I only care about me, haha” look like to the rest of us? Fake, spoilt, stuck-up, callous, and downright undignified. It isn’t classy to be selfish. And if I ever did like you once, Mariah (which I probably didn’t, because your voice annoys me) now I just think you’re pathetic.

I’d rather build a full and happy world to live in than paint a picture for the world with no substance behind it. I hope it makes you happy, because I honestly wouldn’t choose it. I scrape for every penny, I don’t have many fixed plans for my future, and I don’t think I have much further down the food chain of society to fall from the point I’m at, but that means the only way is up. And I would choose it over any of your transparent wealth-and-fame lifestyles. I only have time for genuine, down-to-earth people who use their fame to be someone worth admiring. Not perfect, of course, but with a sense of decency, generosity, humility, manners and proper decorum in public situations.

I’d rather be Kate Windsor (Middleton) topless on camera than look as ridiculous and selfish as some of these trashy divas do. How can you like yourself?

I prefer being me,

Kirsty

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