I still cannot understand the logic behind why there is such an obsession with celebrity in western society today. Such bizarre voyeurism from both the paparazzi and the people who support them. Daily Mail, I’m looking at you.
What are we doing? Selling ourselves. Selling everything.
The happiest day of my life – oh, quick, I’ll do the invites and bake a cake and get a press tent. Must have a press tent – it’s a wedding. I must see pictures of meself with other people I’m in the programme with.
Oh, now I’m pregnant – we must televise the birth. Quick, see if Ryan Seacrest will present it. Maybe it’ll make E! channel’s “100 Greatest Caesarians”.
I’m not having a go at you. I’m just sick of these celebrities just living their lives out in the open all the time.
Why would you do that? It’s like these pop stars who choose the perfect moment to go into rehab. They call their publicist before they call a taxi. Then they come out and they do their second autobiography – this one’s called “Love Me or I’ll Kill Myself”. Well, kill yourself then.
And the papers lap it up. They follow us around and that makes people think we’re important, and that makes us think we’re important. If they stop following us around, taking pictures of us, those people wouldn’t take to the streets going “Oh quick, I need a picture of Cameron Diaz with a pimple”. They wouldn’t care; they’d get on with something else. They’d get on with their lives.
You open the paper and you see a picture of Lindsay Lohan getting out of a car, and the headline is “Cover Up Lindsay, We Can See Your Knickers”. Of course you can see her knickers – your photographer is lying in the road, pointing his camera up her dress to see her knickers! You’re literally the gutter press.
And fuck you, the makers of this show, as well. You can’t wash your hands in this. You can’t keep going “Oh, it’s exploitation, but it’s what the public want”. No, the Victorian freak show never went away. Now it’s called “Big Brother” or “American Idol”, where, in the preliminary rounds, we wheel out the bewildered to be sniggered at by multimillionaires.
And fuck you for watching this at home. Shame on you. And shame on me. I’m the worst of all ‘cause I’m one of those people that goes “Oh, I’m an entertainer, it’s in my blood”. Yeah, it’s in my blood, ’cause a real job’s too hard. I would love to have been a doctor – too hard. Didn’t want to put the work in. Would love to be a war hero – I’m too scared. So I go “Oh, it’s what I do”. And I have someone bollocked if my cappuccino is cold, or if they look at me the wrong way.
You know what a friend of mine once said? They said I’ll never be happy ’cause I’ll never be famous enough. And they were right. And if you’re watching this, I’m so sorry. You’re my best friend. You’re my only friend. And you never did anything wrong. It was everything else. I’ll never do that again. I’ll never treat you like that again. It’s eating me that you asked me a stupid question once, and I just… I could’ve answered it and I didn’t, ’cause I was… I’ll answer it now: I’d be the penguin, ’cause I could eat the flying fish. I know what you’re thinking – “why doesn’t the fish fly away?” Well, it can’t really fly; it’s all glide and flap. They should be called ‘glidey flappy fish’. I’m so sorry.