I don’t know about you readers, but I am very much looking forward to the impending demise of Kerry Katona. Mourning her promises to be even more cathartic than judging her has been. In a year when we have lost both Jade and Jacko, Kerry’s death would make 2009 a hat-trick year for Celebrity Bereavement.
I heard about Celebrity Bereavement on one of those afternoon TV shows that are
watched by home-keepers with a moment to spare, elderly viewers, the chronically
unemployed, or those too horribly disfigured to leave the house. A psychologist was on (I’d seen her on Big Brother and she’s pretty insightful) explaining the phenomenon of Celebrity Bereavement. She said that, unlike the grief caused by normal bereavement, Celebrity Bereavement (or CB) causes a kind of super grief. In fact, the amount of grief caused by CB is directly proportionate to the height of the celebrity’s media profile at the time of their passing. For example, Super Grief (or SG) can be caused by the loss of someone extremely high profile like Diana Spencer (a.k.a. the Princess of Hearts) whereas personalities that rank lower on the celebrity scale merely incur a kind of Extra Grief (or EG). Imagine if Kevin Keegan died, EG would be a bit like that.
The psychologist on the afternoon TV show said that perfect conditions for CB include the celebrity in question’s death being sudden and dramatic, perhaps with a tinge of mystery to add a layer of intrigue. ‘Something to make us cock our eyebrows as the tears run down our cheeks,’ was how the psychologist put it. Was Diana murdered? Was Jacko given too much OxyContin with his cocoa? Was Rod Hull pushed? . . .that type of thing.
The psychologist also said it's preferable if the death of the celebrity rehabilitates their reputation to some extent. ‘Everyone loves cutting celebs down to size, it’s natural and there is no shame in it’ said the psychologist, ‘then, when the celebrity is suitably humbled, all we have to do is wait for them to die and we can wail about how they were just like us or how they were misunderstood and so on, it’s great’. Jade Goody went from racist oik to patron saint of the smear test, Michael Jackson went from being a kiddie fiddler back to being the King of Pop, Diana Spencer went from being a right royal strumpet to England’s Rose and Kerry Katona will go from being a coke snorting hussy to an understandably flawed young woman who temporarily overcame her difficult formative years to become both Queen of the Jungle and Mum of the Year, not to mention the face of the Iceland frozen food retail chain. Oh yes, Kerry’s death is going to provide 2009’s third CB emotional work out. Pity it couldn’t have been Britney, bit of a lost chance there although she’s not out of the woods yet. Anyway, I’ll be happy to make do with our martyr to mumdom Kerry Katona.
Incidentally, when asked how the death of someone like Martin Bashir would rate on the CB index, the psychologist said something like, ‘no one will really notice except maybe his wife or people who expect him to show up at work, . . .and even that’s a maybe.’
So, roll on Kerry in a coffin and let's hear it for Celebrity Bereavement.
6 comments:
Looking forward to this, myself; I'm krazy in love with Kerry. Has Max Clifford confirmed a date yet? (Wanna be sure I'm well stocked with tissues and popcorn.)
Max said he'd like to try something Christmassy. 'I'd like to finish the year with a festive tragedy' he is reported to have said.
i have it from a reliable source that EVERY DAY van morrison gets all the papers and scans avidly for anything about kerry katona. its a type of post-rocca breakup munchausen/oldhausen syndrome that involves having sausages about the house or he loses it BIGTIME. typical day he gets up, has a slash, then goes down nearly reefs the curtains off the wall and goes in the kitchen for a sit down to catch his breath. after the breakfast he usually heads down to the little shop beside the roundabout up the hill from enya and gets the tabloids, the glossy's and the irish news. sometimes after leaving the shop he'll burst into song, an old east belfast number about chucking hot rivets around, then he jogs home for a read. he'll be in right form by lunch hour if theres any developments. chattering away on the bus into town to anyone who'll listen. 'that yang'un's wild that thar cyat'll gat ran over see he runs oyt the road front th' cyars'. if she were to die anytime, before he gets properly back on his feet, it'd be a blow to the van. if you take out the ritual of trotting up and down for the papers and that, he's got nothing. a few old battered hats under the stairs, a burst box of tiles and the 4 track. so for his sake alone, if not kerrys little ones, i hope therll be lots more days like this
Emu killed Rod Hull. Figuratively, I mean. Figuratively, the bird killed the man. That's all I'm going to say.
It's not been the same for Van since the discount from Rocca Tiles ceased and herself, Michelle there, giving Rod Hull the glad eye. Being cuckolded by a bird armed funny man is an indignity no one should suffer. The bird may have figuratively done for Hull but was it George Ivan Morrison that actually provided the push?
You can imagine how it went down, adopts weird Belfast/California hybrid accent:"Gwan up higher thar Roy and we'll get a decent auld reception for the match, ...no higher, ...hold on thar now and I'll give you an auld bunk up so I will."
rod hull must be credited with taking on such a difficult bird. the showbiz saying never work with animals or children was never truer than in his case.although the antics of emu on stage or in the tv studio; see parkinson, crackerjack, wogan et al have been the delight of millions there is another more sombre routine taking place away from the cameras. think of it now, the man is obviously an animal lover forced to travel the length and breadth of britain not to mention occasional ferry trips to northern ireland, isle of man, channel islands, the isle of wight etc. all of this must take its toll. an unruly bird, to wit a wild animal, clutched precariously against the blue velvet or khaki safari jacket is forever bound to behave unpredictably. pecking at display stands, snatching snacks from the beverage trolleys, assailing the general travelling public at every turn to the great distress of mr.rod hull OFF-DUTY entertainer and passenger. the outward signs of this wearisome existence are all too evident (hagard looks, tousled hair) and when you add to this the censure of an unsympathetic public you get some idea of what its like to walk in his shoes.
van morrison is only vaguely aware of mr rod hull and on the rare occasions when he's reminded of him on the tele at christmas or reruns on bravo or uk gold he regards the hare-brained antics with consternation
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