I have a list, and it’s getting longer.
It originally started with this premise:
Any celebrity who has appeared on Hollywood Medium with Tyler Henry no longer deserves even the slightest respect even IF, they possess talent in some way.
Harsh? Perhaps only make that claim once you have watched a couple of episodes of this hateful effluence.
Skinny little Tyler, a ‘clairvoyant’, ‘medium’, and with the gift of ‘medical intuition’ (whatever the inflamed gonads that is), bestows his particular brand of sorority insincerity onto various washed up celebrities, all accompanied by a grin that would unnerve Hannibal Lecter.
Tyler offers ‘closure’ to his guests in the form of hackneyed Barnum bullshit ‘from the other side’, as recently ‘departed’ loved ones ‘tell’ Tyler that, ‘They’re at peace now’, ‘They’re not in pain’, ‘They want you to be happy’, ‘There’s a strong sense of love here’, ‘They think you should leave Derek’. Or something. I don’t know, I can’t watch this joker for more than 30 seconds at a time.
It’s a shame their ghostly wisdom never comes through as, ‘This is a waste of time, live your own life, this creature is a charlatan who feeds off people’s loneliness and grief’. Maybe Tyler’s editing it as it comes in.
Anyway, these awful celebs, desperate for any kind of airtime it seems, sit there and listen to this, tear up when needed, feign astonishment and gasp at Tyler’s abilities. From Bobby Brown to Rebel Wilson, you’re all on the list.
Recently though, with the terrible worldwide events caused by the outbreak of the Coronavirus, forcing many of us into isolation and financial insecurity, and the threat of ill health or even death for us or our loved ones, our dear celebrities have decided that we are all the same except, they can somehow make it all better.
And what method would they choose to do that? Anonymously give funds to health services? Or edit together a bunch of them and other slebs murdering John Lennon’s dreary, plodding anthem Imagine.
If you haven’t seen it, you must.
To recap, Wonder Woman star, Gal Gadot, explains to us “Guys” that ‘these past few days have got (her) feeling philosophical” and that apparently, ‘We are all in this together’.
One after the other they stare plaintively into their reflection, pleading with us to what? Imagine we have anything but Pot Noodle to eat? Imagine we have ‘help’ to fetch and carry? Or that we have an endless supply of literally anything we want because we are super rich?
It’s sort of reminiscent of Bill Hick’s joke where a manager tells his inactive worker to ‘Pretend like you’re workin’!’.
The worker replies, ‘Why don’t you pretend I’m workin’? Shit, you get paid more than me, you fantasise? Pretend I’m moppin! I’ll pretend they’re buying stuff we can close up! I’m the boss now you’re fired, how’s that for a fantasy sir?!’’
Gal and her showbiz pals saw an opportunity, and like the pitifully transparent screen hungry whores and scumbags that they are, sprung into action to sing at us from their various idylls.
Thankfully, it backfired. And while we may not be truly seeing the death of celebrity, maybe we are seeing it lose a limb.
It was called out time after time as an awful and ill-judged PR exercise and virtue signalling bunkum.
So Gal, Kristen Wiig, Will Ferrell, Amy Adams, Jimmy Fallon et al. You are on the list.
Former singer, now human Hindenburg or enemy of grammar and sense, Sam Smith, they barely a day into them’s self-isolation (not even lockdown) was photographed having a meltdown. First bored, then in tears. Poor they.
It (is that right? Or That? Thim?) signed off with “I love you all very much. Please stay safe. Drink loads of water. Read. I hate reading. Do things to keep busy. I am going to watch TV because I’m bored.” And we are meant to have compassion for this colossal clown who has the narcissism and self-importance to require us to crucify the English language cos he sometimes ‘feels like a woman sometimes’. Go f*ck thy self Sam, where did you gather the knowledge to know what a woman feels like? From all those books you haven’t read?
Then there’s the curious case of Madonna. Or at least, the chubby faced Japanese businessman in Madonna’s house who is claiming to be her. First she sang about fish, then this week it was a lifeless rendition of big spender (maybe it’s hard to conjure up the passion or that song when you are in fact the one with the money), but it was bath time with Nana that really blew the doors off. What a silly Nana she looked.
With no one to carefully stage manage them, and not enough outlets to keep them busy and distracted, maybe we are starting to see the cracks in the façade? Is the curtain being pulled back ever so slightly? Are we catching a glimpse of spotlight hungry, veneer-coated ne’er do wells in the buff, with nothing to offer outside of their art as they are stripped of their ‘credibility’?
Maybe. There’s nothing wrong with them being just that. Just the artist. I think we’d all prefer it. Maybe they would too. U2 were fine at being U2 and didn’t need Bono to be, well Bono. Taylor Swift can just be Taylor Swift the singer, and not a pale imitation of yesterday’s rebellion. That’s ok. Bob Geldof can…be…actually no. That one doesn’t work.
As Norm MacDonald said, ‘Imagine some idiot celebrity telling her fans, in the middle of a Pandemic to “Imagine there’s no heaven”, when it is the only hope for so many of our elderly patients dying agonizing deaths while this rich lady smugly smiles, mocking them and their faith in their last moments.’
It’s easy if you try.
