Clothing watch

Why the endless media obsession with the clothes worn by celebs? Who made them, how much they cost, whether they've been worn more than once, which celeb is wearing the most stunning dress etc.

Right now, it's the politicians who're being scrutinised. Like the two MPs vying to be the next Prime Minister. Apparently Rishi Sunak was wearing £450 shoes from Prada, while Liz Truss was wearing £4.50 earrings from Claire's Accessories.

Why on earth does it matter? Does Rishi Sunak's choice of shoes mean he'll make a better Prime Minister? Do they mean he's profligate and squanders money, while Liz Truss is more financially prudent and spends frugally? No, I don't think so either.

Male MPs usually manage to avoid clothing-censure by wearing the standard masculine uniform - shirt, tie and (dark-coloured) suit. If they ever dared to wear anything more casual, they'd get a swift rebuke. Woe betide the MP who turns up in purple hair, a pink suit and Crocs.

The obsession with celebrity clothing peaks at award ceremonies. All the female attendees are expected to wear some sensational outfit, and there's frenzied discussion of which celeb trounced all the others.

The celebs squeeze themselves into some tight-fitting ensemble they can hardly breathe in, just to make the maximum impression on the clothing-watchers. Apparently Kim Kardashian lost over a stone to get into a dress worn by Marilyn Monroe.

Celebs are regularly ticked off for wearing scruffy casual clothes on an everyday shopping trip, as if they're somehow "letting down their fans" or "letting themselves go". Are they seriously expected to go shopping in a Dior gown and stilettos?

Final thought: If President Zelensky can do his job in a t shirt and combat pants, why can't British MPs?

Privilege noted

Check your privilege, they say. Oh, I do, I do. Every day. I'm well aware of all those lucky personal advantages that have given me a leg up in life where others have been side-lined and ignored and under-valued.

I'm white, male, able-bodied, well-educated, well-spoken, physically attractive, I own a house and I live in a peaceful country. Compared to millions of people around the world, I'm absurdly privileged and have a pampered, affluent lifestyle.

I've never been in debt (apart from a mortgage), never starved, never been unable to afford clothes, never been driven from my home, never been on the minimum wage, never been caught in a war, never been pimped or tortured or imprisoned.

I may drone on from time to time about my dysfunctional childhood, my tyrannical father, the boarding-school bullies, the grasping landlords, and the psychological damage I've had to overcome, but if that's all I have to complain about, I'm still living the life of Riley compared to all those people who're grappling with problems ten times as nasty and soul-destroying.

Which is why I hesitate to criticise those in less fortunate situations who unknown to me may be labouring under huge domestic or personal burdens. I'm reluctant to complain about shop assistants or delivery drivers or call-centre staff who may be struggling through their working day worrying about eviction or loan sharks or a brutal husband.

It's fashionable for wealthy, adulated celebs to take the edge off their privilege by revealing a poverty-stricken childhood or years of domestic violence or paralysing depressions, but at the end of the day they're still vastly privileged and protected from life's worst miseries.

Oh, I check my privilege all right. I just wish all the other inhabitants of planet earth were equally privileged, and that those responsible for their welfare actually helped them instead of feathering their own nests.

Risky procedures

I know more and more males are opting for cosmetic surgery, but I have no desire to join them. I'm quite happy with my body and feel no need to maul it about in the name of being marginally prettier. Plus I'm very aware of the risks and potential complications of surgery, and if it isn't necessary I'm not interested.

I had a very necessary prostate operation a few months ago, and hopefully there'll be no more surgery needed, but who knows?

Too many people are lured into cosmetic surgery by slick advertising and the knowledge that so many celebs have resorted to it. If the celebs do it, then it must be safe, right? It's just a routine way of perfecting yourself, right? The botched procedures (procedures - what a lovely euphemism!) get a lot less publicity than the happily enhanced individuals smiling for the cameras.

Many of the botch-ups are carefully hidden so nobody knows of the pain, the distress, the embarrassment, the regrets, and the damage done to a once-healthy body. Damage they may have to live with for a lifetime.

Not only have I steered clear of cosmetic surgery, I would never suggest it to anyone else. It disgusts me that some men will actually demand that a woman gets bigger breasts or a more attractive vagina. If I was the woman, I'd break up with him straightaway.

I must say I'm puzzled as to why any woman would want bigger breasts to begin with. Not only are they a big and often uncomfortable nuisance but presumably they attract a lot more unwanted male attention. A flat chest must avoid all the gawping and the man-talking-to-my-tits syndrome.

So no "corrective" surgery for me, thanks. Keep those scalpels to yourself.

PS: I'm not referring to "reconstructive" surgery after a physical injury or an operation. That's fully justified.

Happy as I am

I seldom imagine someone else's life to be better than my own. I'm happy with my life, with all its ups and downs, and I know the seemingly fabulous lives I read about often hide miseries and tragedies I wouldn't want to be burdened with.

In fact it's now routine for celebs to reel off the horrible experiences they've had to deal with, as if to say, don't bother to envy me, I'm no better off than you are - except that I have fame and money. Which is a bit of a cushion, granted, but it's no protection against grief, depression, domestic violence or those everyday problems we all run into.

In fact fame and money often make life harder. Divorces are horrendous, as each spouse tries to claim the maximum share of the marital assets. You can never be quite sure if someone is a genuine friend or a gold-digger. You're forever in the spotlight and being mercilessly criticised and picked to bits.

But even people with more ordinary lives don't make me want to swop. However happy and fulfilled they might seem on the outside, who knows what emotional and mental baggage they're carrying around? Who knows what they're carefully concealing? Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.

The truth is I'm thoroughly familiar with all my personal quirks and oddities and I've learnt how to deal with them. I know how to exploit my strengths and minimise my weaknesses. If I suddenly fell into someone else's life, I'd have to get acquainted with a brand new personality. I'd be floundering around like a dog on an ice rink.

It would be fun to swop with someone for a week, say. Just to see if their life really is better than mine. I suspect I'd soon be tearing my hair out.

Star-struck

I'm far too easily intimidated. There are so many things that instantly demolish my fragile self-confidence. Like people who're wealthy/ hyper intelligent/ posh/ famous/ naturally chatty/ beautiful.

Why oh why, you might ask. Why do all these things matter so much to you? Just be yourself and people will like you or not like you and that's it. And it won't matter a damn if they're wealthy or posh or whatever.

Easy to say but not so easy to do. And don't tell me you never feel the same way yourself. Don't tell me you're never unravelled by someone whose talents and abilities make you feel like the village idiot. Someone who makes you wish the ground would swallow you up.

I mean, most people are thrown by celebs. Someone meets their revered actor or footballer or guru and what happens? They're struck dumb. They've no idea what to say. They're paralysed by the aura that surrounds this household name. And they stand there, their mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish, and then the star moves on and they're kicking themselves for being so gormless.

If I ever came face to face with (say) Sarah Silverman, the conversation would probably go something like this:

Me: Wow, you're Sarah Silverman.
SS: That's correct. Well spotted.
Me: Wow, I just have to say, your stuff is brilliant. Totally brilliant. Really, it's so fucking brilliant. And did I say it was brilliant?
SS: Thank you so much. Now if you'll excuse me....
Me (mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish): Of course. Oh my God - Sarah Silverman. Jeez.

So don't anyone try and tell me you had this witty, scintillating, 30-minute convo with (say) Tina Fey. I won't believe you. I won't.

Admit it. You would be intimidated. You would feel like the village idiot. You would want the ground to swallow you up.

The trouble is, it never does.

The snare of jealousy

Jealousy and envy are healthy, says Caprice*, since they're both connected to that strong feeling of loving somebody. Well, I can't agree with her.

To my mind, jealousy always means begrudging what the other person has and wishing you had it yourself. It means wanting to stop them from having it, by violent means if necessary. It means hating them and hoping they come to a sticky end. It means thinking they don't deserve what they have, that they've somehow got it unfairly. How can all that be healthy?

I'm glad I'm not prone to jealousy. I'm glad I'm able to appreciate other people's talents or possessions or friends or good looks without wanting to destroy them or wish some misfortune on them. On the contrary, I'm pleased for them. I'm pleased that in a brutal and unpredictable world they're lucky enough to have something of value, something positive, something that's a source of joy and well-being.

I remember a workmate of mine many years ago who was always eaten up with jealousy over what she saw as the privileged lifestyle of her bosses. Every day she was seething with resentment and rage, and the other employees would steer clear of her dispiriting rants.

Celebrities seem especially susceptible to jealousy, to people so pissed-off at their success and popularity that they flood the internet with abusive bile aimed at bringing them down from their lofty pedestals. Straying sexual partners can attract similar venom from the person spurned, finding their clothes trashed, their cars vandalised, their laptops sabotaged.

Jealousy is an ugly and corrosive emotion. I can see nothing healthy about it. It sinks a corkscrew into your soul.

* Caprice Bourret - British model and businesswoman.

Letting rip

Criticising other people is all the rage nowadays, isn't it? Pick someone who looks a bit vulnerable, or someone who looks a bit smug, and then tear them to pieces. Why not? It's all good clean fun.

The media gave the green light years ago by laying into every celeb they could find. Women in particular. She's too thin/ too fat/ badly dressed/ needs a hairdo/ looks a mess/ neglects her kids. Nothing's too petty to complain about.

Then the internet trolls joined in, waging hate campaigns against anyone they fancied, celebs and nonentities alike. Even when they've turned their victims into nervous wrecks, still they persist.

Even everyday bullying seems to be on the increase, be it of school pupils, employees, immigrants, the elderly, hospital patients or claimants.

I don't know if it's the thumbs-up given by so many carping journalists or just the idea that treating other people decently no longer matters, but gratuitous criticism now looks to be routine. If you don't like someone's behaviour, don't maintain a tactful silence, don't try to understand why they're behaving like that, just say exactly what you think and fuck the consequences.

Shop assistants aren't polite enough. Waiters aren't speedy enough. The young aren't respectful enough. Nurses aren't compassionate enough. The jobless aren't enterprising enough. Tradespeople aren't punctual enough. The slightest faux pas and someone somewhere will have a go at you. Absolutely nothing makes the grade.

What the hell's going on? We seem to be losing the ability to appreciate what we've got, to recognise that other people may be doing their best in very trying circumstances, to accept that it's an imperfect world, and to let other people live their own lives in their own way.

A little more tolerance and empathy and common courtesy wouldn't come amiss.

NB: I'm not referring to criticism of the rich and powerful. They deserve all the criticism they get.

Party fever

Well, the fifth blogiversary party is well under way at Nick Towers, and hundreds of guests are dancing, drinking and coking the night away in a frenzy of uninhibited enjoyment seldom seen in the sedate residential district of Belmont. Already I'm having to placate angry neighbours who're threatening to call the police or unleash their slavering dogs.

In fact I'm worried the party is getting a little out of hand. I can hear the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood from one direction, and piercing screams and ripping fabric from the other. I do hope the priceless Victorian chaise-longue and the exquisite Ming vases are still in one piece.

Various celebs have somehow heard about the glittering soirée and dropped in uninvited, but I haven't the heart to dispatch them to some far inferior gathering in the less salubrious cul de sacs of east Belfast. I won't bore you with a tedious round of name-dropping, but Katy Tunstall, Annie Lennox and Natasha Bedingfield are shrieking with laughter just a few yards away.

I dare not peek into the bedrooms to find out what unlikely couplings are taking place or whether the beds are wrecked beyond repair. I must say all the generous displays of cleavage and acres of uncovered flesh are creating an atmosphere so sexually-charged I think I shall pass out with over-excitement.

Some sort of gambling frenzy is occurring in the Janis Joplin Suite, and astounding quantities of banknotes are changing hands at dizzying speed. Suitcases full of cash are being brought in every few minutes by the chauffeurs. I gather a very famous toothpaste heiress has just kissed goodbye to a few million.

Several extremely sozzled novelists are exchanging scurrilous gossip about a certain veteran actor. They seem unaware that the actor's less famous brother is standing behind them, listening to every word. I have a feeling an ambulance might shortly be required. If not for them, for a number of guests who've visibly gone native.

Everyone agrees it's already the party to end all parties. Anybody who's missed it will be out of their mind with envy. Oh, hang on, there seem to be a couple of police officers at the door. Or are they guests in fancy dress? Or am I too stoned to tell the difference?

Under wraps

You know those new super-injunctions that are all the rage? The ones the celebs take out, banning any mention of anything in their private life, especially that sultry affair with the nanny and the pittance they paid the gardener?

Well, I've taken one out myself so my sordid private life is now safe from media exposure and backstreet gossip. From now on, if any of you breathe a word about those tawdry, squalid episodes in my past you'll be facing the sharpest lawyers in town and a huge bill for damages. So watch what you say.

You can reveal as much as you like about my unflagging work for charity and my devotion to the Sacred Order of Divine Bliss. You can refer constantly to my tireless support for stray cats and the Association of Real Spaghetti Eaters.

But any unsavoury allusion to my friendships with the glamorous supermodel Veronica Trinket, the renowned conceptual artist Tanzi Twitch or the legendary footwear designer Binario "Bino" Biscotti will lead straight to the courts.

Any suggestion of over-indulgence in relation to alcohol, drugs, sexual perversions or gambling, any insinuation that I'm a secret admirer of the Royal Family or Morris Dancing, any mention of botched plastic surgery, and you'd better have your cheque book ready.

You can demand the truth as much as you like, but I'm not interested in truth. The only thing that matters is my glittering public image, and if it has to be built on a dungheap of lies, evasions and fantasy, so be it. The masses don't want truth, they want to be lifted out of their barren lives into a shimmering utopia of human perfection.

What d'you mean, there's nothing left to write about? I'm sure you could work up a few paragraphs about my passionate love of goldfish....

When the cat's away

Well, now that Jenny's away in Canada for a few days, it's all systems go Chez Nick. The wild parties are in full swing, my red-hot mistress is installed in the spare bedroom and the drugs are in plentiful supply.

I'm already exhausted from the non-stop hedonism and self-indulgence. I just haven't done enough of this to build up the necessary stamina and uninhibited abandon. I haven't hung around with enough tearaway celebs lately (of course I'm invited to all their parties but I'm a bit shy so I've missed a few).

The neighbours are already complaining about the noise and disturbance, what with the stretch limos parked all the way up the road, all the glass from the broken windows and the lakes of vomit everywhere. But what the hell, it's only once every six months, why can't the tight-arsed little curtain-twitchers loosen up a little? Jesus, get a life.

The quality of the gossip is first-rate. You wouldn't believe how many secret babies, lovers, drug overdoses, tax dodges and shady business deals I've been privy to. If I got on to the papers, I'd be a rich man. But of course my lips are sealed or my name will be mud and I'll never get invited to Madonna's fiftieth.

If only the paparazzi would restrain themselves a bit, we could really let our hair down. It's a real drag having to rein ourselves in because some cash-hungry snapper is pointing his greasy lens through the front windows. I have to keep the bondage gear and torture equipment well out of sight.

I'm getting through quite a lot of money what with all the booze, the recreational substances and Mick Jagger's private gig. Have you any idea what these people charge? It's a f**king liberty. Isn't his state pension enough?

And the sheer quantity of sexy smalls Ms Bit-On-The-Side goes through is unbelievable. She demands at least half a dozen camisoles a DAY, and even had the cheek to bill me for the new implants. Does she think I'm made of money? I'm not sure how I'm going to explain the eye-popping credit card bill to my dear lady wife.

Still, it'll all have to stop in a few days, and not before time. By then I'll be in a state of total exhaustion, out cold on the shag pile. It's all too much for a sexagenarian, I tell you.

(Some people are spreading vicious rumours that all I'm really doing is cooking chili risottos, reading pretentious books and playing Annie Lennox non-stop. This couldn't be further from the truth. My lawyers have been consulted)