Oh FFS! There are more important things happening in the world right now than the bloody Brangelina split!
If you’ve spent most of today sanctimoniously barking that statement at people, then you and I need have no further dealings from now on. YAK off and save the world, oh do…
Before you go though, may I propose that you are likely to be the sort of person who also displays the perfectly acceptable human behaviour of idolising individuals who, say, kick balls around a field purely for the purpose of receiving loads of money and giving you something to care about/live for?
To elevate and devote our attention to other mortals because they inspire or entertain us, is what we humans do. And right now we are witnessing the most significant severing of a union since Alan Sugar left Man Utd. That’s right people, I know my football managers…
We all need people to look up to. Twas ever thus…
In the beginning the only people up there were Gods, but the distinctly disappointing lack of evidence of their actual existence by way of paparazzi shots or even any live interviews led many of us to get suspicious and bored. Plus they’re all a bit too preachy.
So we lowered our gaze to settle on living mortals who wore crowns. Whilst these rich inbreds operate in a mist of monarchical rituals; state openings, fairytale weddings and lavish banquets and march about the Queendom being all well-dressed and well-behaved, we love to hear about the japes behind the drapes; how they get pissed on gin all day, shag their wive’s mates and get messily divorced, just like us plebs.
Shakespeare understood our fascination with the powerful, which is why he entertained the plebs of his time with raucous tales of feckless, corrupt royals. Scrumming around in the sawdust, the audience would bellow at the characters on stage, admonishing them for their greed and laughing at their human failings.
Brangelina are not Gods. Nor are they Royal. But until now, they were definitely not like us.
We are those same plebs of old. With our feet embedded in the salt of the earth, our hands weathered by daily toil, our thinning hair unbolstered by transplants, our faces unbothered by the LA sun and the botox-needle, our children pathetically uncosmopolitan, being born of the same gene-pool or adopted from our local social services department.
We haven’t snogged our siblings on the red carpet or worn phials of our fella’s blood. We haven’t abandoned the most popular and funny actress on the planet and left her decomposing for years in the swamp of tabloid misery until another hot actor finally agreed to take her on.
We haven’t tried to achieve world peace by wearing no make-up in Syria. We haven’t got married in a wedding dress adorned with our kid’s shit doodles. We haven’t lived almost permanently on a private plane with our six children who are totally normal and grounded whilst being raised at 40,000 feet in the air.
The Brangelina phenomenon is a Shakespearean tragedy of our time, performed by actors not on a stage, but on our phones, our faces drenched by the reflected light of the screen.
We are now watching the closing scenes, where all the gloss and trappings of power are finally stripped away to reveal the real, base, human desires and conflicts that live within us all.
And to those of you who persist in maintaining that movie stars don’t deserve such fascination, or that I should get out more and stop outrageously comparing celebs to Shakespeare, may I respond by once again directing you to the ludicrous adoration surrounding famous footballers like erm, Mickey Rooney…