Two hours of fame

I had the unfortunate experience of sharing a Mango flight (I know...) with a huddle of South African C & D-grade "celebrities" en route to the J&B Met. Since it is a two-hour flight, I got to observe, at close-range, the desperate behaviour of those who are well-known or think they should be. It should be stated at this juncture that almost 90% of them fall into the latter category; and that only Mzekezeke and Zuraida Jardine were recognisable to me. That said, they were the only ones who behaved themselves.
 
It would also be instrumental for me to declare absolutely no interest in whether I'm a C or D-grade celebrity myself, as far as I'm concerned it is a pitiful scale I'd rather not be on at all. For those who self-righteously assume that this is an exercise in vanity on my part, let me assure you that I am not in the least offended by your sentiments.
 
Let me return to our celebs:  These are the scattering of herbs on the top of a gruel of remorseless consumer-culture, celebrity-worship and suffocating self-involvement. Most of them live far beyond their means, and all to impress each other. They laugh loudly at each other's terrifically stupid jokes; complain incessantly about the (strangely, perpetually absent) media circus that follows them and indulge only in the most mindless social games of one-upmanship and absurd event-attendance.
 
Attention-seeking is itself a devastating mental condition. It probably arises from a lack of parental care or approval; but I am not equipped to make amateur psychological assesments of anyone, so I can only speculate. I admire the way these celebrities wear sunglasses at night; enter into conversations that almost immediately expose their extraordinary ordinariness (and, very often their vacuousness and plainly pedestrian intelligence) and trade both horrific insults and fawning admiration on each other with abandon. I admire it only because I would never have the gall, enthusiasm or even ego to attempt any of it without feeling ridiculous.
 
We'll land in Cape Town soon and I'll be able to quietly climb into a boring rental car and forget about all of this nonsense. Tomorrow I will be working (for money, and my sins) at the races. I won't go to events like this anymore unless I have some utility - and not because I believe I'm special, but simply because I know most of the people who do go are not. I think I have had my fill of the fickle world of fame and fortune. The thin veneer that gives someone the illusion that they're famous, glamorous, celebrated or adored is easily wiped away by a sober inspection of the relatively dull and dreary lives these people lead when the cameras are off or when they're wearing tracksuits in their ugly accomodations, fighting pettily with their lovers about groceries or washing that won't dry.
 
If you want to be famous, I'm probably not going to like you - and I don't think I'm the only one...

G