Every superstar wants to be “relatable” these days. But I don’t know if I want my stars to be relatable.
I don’t want to see Victoria Beckham in the gym or chatting over coffee in the kitchen. I want to see her in a rocket to space. I don’t want to see her showing me how to achieve her trademark “smoky eye” on Instagram. No, I want to see the robot or talking bluebird that usually does her make-up.
And I want to see my celebrities descend a staircase in a ball gown before beating an impudent footman with a silver cane. I want to see them chugging down panda meat with a goblet of dolphin tears.
I want to see them don a pith helmet and jodhpurs before travelling by Zeppelin to watch a bear fight a man on Henry Kissinger’s yacht. (Kissinger is only dead for the little people.)
I don’t want my celebrities to have had boring fillers and Botox done, like mere middle-class people. No, I want them to be entirely smooth, like a bowling ball, sanded down entirely, no nose, no ears, entirely hairless, floating in a vat of brine and communicating via telepathy or something Elon Musk
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