I want to be famous. Not boring old movie-star famous. Not yawny rock-star famous. Not creepy-psychopath-who-gets-a-true-crime-doco-series-on-Netflix famous. Hereâ€™s how famous I want to be: I want to be invited onto a YouTube talkshow where you get interviewed while eating chicken wings dabbed with various hot sauces until you sweat and cry and vomit in a bucket. Yeah, vomit-in-a-bucket-on-a-video-sharing-platform famous. Thatâ€™s proper famous.
I want to be a celebrity. Not a micro-celebrity, or even a mega-celebrity. I want to be an Insta-celebrity. Yeah, I want to post bathroom-selfies of my grotesquely-distended buttock-implants and all my Insta-followers will write comments like â€œYr so amazing, inside and out!!!â€ followed by 40 rows of Cat With Heart-Eyes emojis. And one day I will complain about how I’m a victim of Insta-pressure and delete my Instagram account, but donâ€™t worry, you can still find me on TikTok. Iâ€™m never going away.
I want to be a household name. And not just in households â€“ in retail outlets, post offices; the skyâ€™s the limit. I want people to Google my name, and then add the word â€œnudeâ€ in the hope that they will see nude pictures of me. And they will see nude pictures of me, because someone will have taken a photo of my head and deep-faked it onto a porn starâ€™s body, so it looks like Iâ€™m doing a lewd act I did not agree to â€“ which would be the ultimate honour.
I want to be a superstar. Not a regular superstar like Katy Perry or Jesus Christ superstar â€“ I mean a Twitter-superstar. Yeah, I want to appear in promoted Twitter ads where I am sitting in a snazzy rooftop bar in New York or Paris, drinking a brand of gin that I actually own stakes in. And everyone will think I live a really hip, fun, perfect life, but then a TV news investigation will discover that children as young as 11 are working in my gin factory, which will leave me â€œsurprised and saddenedâ€. Following which, I will be meme-shamed and GIF-humiliated and #cancelled.
I want my downfall to be spectacularly tragic â€“ and Iâ€™m talking clickbait tragic. There will be online articles with headlines such as â€œYouâ€™ll Never Believe How Heâ€™s Ended Upâ€ and â€œWhere He Lives Now Will Make You Particularly Sadâ€. And people will click through the hyperlinks and feel really sorry for me, but only for a few minutes, because theyâ€™ll get distracted by another article called â€œ30 Boldest Tattoo Fails (Nobody Makes it Past #3 Without Laughing)â€. Which is fair enough: the third tattoo is pretty funny.
I want to be forgotten for decades and then remembered fondly after I die â€“ and Iâ€™m talking Wiki-remembered. I want my Wikipedia page to get updated within moments of my death with all the present tense words changed to past tense (â€œhe wasâ€, â€œhe didâ€, â€œhe denied using children as young as 11 in his gin factoryâ€). Then I want my lifeâ€™s achievements to be celebrated in a heartfelt and trending tribute on a dodgy content-recommendation website, with the title â€œFamous People You Didnâ€™t Know Passed Away (Number 8 Will Shock You)â€. And I will be Number 8. Yeah. Number 8. That famous. Very much looking forward to it.
Danny Katz is a regular columnist.