Chapter 2- Moth To The Flame
Browsing the net, I came across pictures were strewn across the news sites of Susan Boyle apparently yet again having emotional difficulties coping with her newfound and overwhelming fame.
Whatever the cause of her public meltdown in a New York cafe after coming off stage after a performance on American television for millions of viewers, the fact seems to be that she is not equipped to deal with the enormity of emotions that is inevitable in such dramatic circumstances, having formerly endured a 'nervous breakdown' after the chaos that ensued around the BGT finals.
Actually, no one is.
The current culture that breeds in society the craving for fame after being encouraged that it is readily available and all it requires is a bit of luck has brought the US, and no doubt the UK, to a point where instead of wanting to be a fireman, doctor or astronaut, 67% of children now set their sights on being famous as their life goal and feel they are just as entitled to the wealth and attention as anyone else, regardless of application or talent.
It's not that this phenomenon is new; take the cult of Playboy which has bred into generations of women that to be featured spread naked for strangers' consumption is the ultimate prize and once achieved, that they have somehow 'won' the lottery of life. I met countless of these young women in my job selling luxury lingerie, some of them as young as fifteen or sixteen, desperate to give an old man in his seventies a hand job for the honour of having their picture taken. All of them had the full backing of their parents and the only qualifications required were that they were petit, tanned, blonde and had huge tits.
I began to see them as a specific breed of human being, a race of Bunnies.
There was nothing beyond this pinnacle in their eyes. What else could possibly top it, surely? They chose not to contemplate what such a life might translate into being in reality, such as being the sexual decoration for a septuagenarian and having their freedom curtailed by being forbidden to leave the hallowed Mansion without an escort, and only during the day, just to ensure they had no boyfriends on the side. Their pocket money would be allocated according to their place in the sexual pecking order, dictating how much they were allowed to spend on tacky costumes for the cheesy events that garnered a small amount of publicity while they adorned the garden as perks for C List actors. I'd see them at 27, 37, 47 trying to claw their way back into the world that was done with them, which left them with the sole option of enhancing the reputation of some mid-west club owner who could brag that they dated a Bunny. Their whole lives were translated into worth based on their fuckability, which grew more and more degrading the older they got. To see a woman in her fifties, papery thin skinned chest still enhanced with incongruous implants, squeezing into stripper wear and on a cell phone begging for any contact that would allow her into their Limo and therefore entry into the Mansion party of the month was a sad comment on the quality of that kind of life.
However, we now have reality shows to dangle the carrot of fame in front of