Friday, December 1, 2023
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I wanna be a celebrity, a regular household name

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. Here’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. That’s proper famous.

I want my downfall to be spectacularly tragic – and I’m talking clickbait tragic.

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 “Yr so amazing, inside and out!!!” 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 don’t worry, you can still find me on TikTok. I’m never going away.

I want to be a household name. And not just in households – in retail outlets, post offices; the sky’s the limit. I want people to Google my name, and then add the word “nude” 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 star’s body, so it looks like I’m doing a lewd act I did not agree to – which would be the ultimate honour.

I want to be a superstar. Not a regular superstar like Katy Perry or Jesus Christ superstar – 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 “surprised and saddened”. Following which, I will be meme-shamed and GIF-humiliated and #cancelled.

I want my downfall to be spectacularly tragic – and I’m talking clickbait tragic. There will be online articles with headlines such as “You’ll Never Believe How He’s Ended Up” and “Where He Lives Now Will Make You Particularly Sad”. And people will click through the hyperlinks and feel really sorry for me, but only for a few minutes, because they’ll get distracted by another article called “30 Boldest Tattoo Fails (Nobody Makes it Past #3 Without Laughing)”. Which is fair enough: the third tattoo is pretty funny.

I want to be forgotten for decades and then remembered fondly after I die – and I’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 (“he was”, “he did”, “he denied using children as young as 11 in his gin factory”). Then I want my life’s achievements to be celebrated in a heartfelt and trending tribute on a dodgy content-recommendation website, with the title “Famous People You Didn’t Know Passed Away (Number 8 Will Shock You)”. And I will be Number 8. Yeah. Number 8. That famous. Very much looking forward to it.

Danny Katz is a regular columnist.

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