Why fame?

For the life of me I don't understand why so many people want to be famous. I can understand wanting to be rich and never having any more money worries, but wanting to be famous? What's the point? Do they realise the massive downside of fame?

Probably not. Celebrities tend not to mention the downside because it would spoil their image and because it would make them look like spoilt brats. They prefer to maintain the illusion that fame is wonderful and they can't get enough of it.

All the public usually see is celebrities swanning around in fabulous designer clothes, being presented with prestigious awards, being applauded and fawned over, getting preferential treatment wherever they go.

What they usually don't see is the endless invasion of privacy, the hordes of paparazzi, the social-media abuse, the phoney "friends", the obsessive fans, the fabricated media stories.

It seems to me that being famous just makes your life more difficult, more treacherous, more overwhelming. Why would you want to live in a goldfish bowl day in and day out, with people watching your every movement?

There are regular stories about people who've been unexpectedly thrust into the limelight and been badly damaged by it. Like Steve Dymond, who died seven days after taking part in the Jeremy Kyle chat-show.

A lot of musicians have had psychological crises after a sudden rise to fame - like Katie Melua, who had a mental breakdown in 2010 and was in hospital for six weeks.

Fame ? You can keep it.

Fame? No thanks

I value my anonymity and my privacy. I value being able to wander around with nobody paying me any special attention. I value not being a recognisable public figure.

I wonder why so many people want to be famous. Do they have any idea what fame actually involves? Do they have any idea how it disrupts any form of normal life or normal friendships?

Being recognised as you walk down the street might be fun for a while but it must soon get tedious. People stare at you, follow you, make comments about you, try to talk to you. You can't just walk around in your private reverie, enjoying the scenery or the sunshine. You have to be always prepared for other people's attention. It must be a constant nuisance.

Your photo is regularly in the media, accompanied by details of your every move and activity, most of it idle gossip and rumour. Hundreds of dubious stories are circulating, mostly depicting a totally bogus person with little resemblance to the real you.

If you're interviewed for TV or the media, you'll be asked plenty of idiotic and trivial questions, like what's your favourite food or how do you stay so thin or what was your most embarrassing moment.

If you're desperate for some privacy, you have to plan it well in advance, working out how to avoid the paparazzi, keep your movements secret and stay well away from the general public.

Of course you might say this is all sour grapes, that really I'd love to be famous but I'm not, so I make out fame is horrible and not at all glamorous or fulfilling. But no, I love my anonymity. I certainly wouldn't want to be gawped at all day like an animal in the zoo.

Camera rats

If there's any bunch of people who deserve contempt it's the paparazzi, whose only aim is to harass and humiliate public figures for the benefit of whatever voyeuristic media outlet is prepared to publish their pictures.

Their continual spying has forced Lily Allen to install a £60,000 state-of-the-art security system at her new home in the Cotswolds to keep them out. Now she is taking legal action against the Daily Mail for publishing extensive pictures and details of her home, including the property's name, address, location, precise layout, fixtures and fittings, and details of its private gardens and rear exterior.

The paparazzi are willing to use any method at all to get their salacious and intrusive pictures. Nothing is out of bounds. Breaking into houses, chasing cars, telescopic lenses, doorstepping, following people to holiday resorts, you name it.

The usual bogus excuses are endlessly trotted out by the media. They're public figures so they're not entitled to privacy. It's what the public wants. They like all the publicity really. If they behave badly, they must expect attention.

In my opinion, total bollocks. Everyone is entitled to privacy and a personal life without unwanted intrusion, whether they're household names or the milkman. Constant invasion of privacy is not only prurient but extremely stressful and emotionally disturbing for those on the receiving end.

The only exception, to my mind, is those in responsible public positions who have done something that jeopardises their ability to do their job properly. In that case they deserve to be exposed.

How telling it is that the media bosses themselves guard their own privacy and off-duty lives so religiously. You won't see the paparazzi following them. So don't expect to find out any time soon about the newspaper editor who's hooked on prostitutes or the tabloid mogul who beats his wife.

They may dish the dirt on others, but they don't want their own dirty laundry laid out for inspection.

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)

The price of fame

Millions of people are pining desperately to be celebrities - to swap their dull, everyday lives for a spell in the global spotlight, their every move watched and remarked on by the teeming masses.

I can't think why. Myself, I couldn't imagine a more horrible fate than being scrutinised and dissected by every voyeuristic Tom, Dick and Harriet who feels like passing an idle moment with a bit of mindless celeb-gawping.

I'd be trapped in my own home, protected by state of the art security systems and unable to walk the local streets in case I'm attacked by a stalker, besieged by shrieking fans or simply stared at like a monkey in the zoo.

I'd have to watch my appearance like a hawk to check I was thin enough, glamorous enough, confident enough, youthful enough. A few surplus ounces or a crumpled jacket and the media would pounce, telling the world I was letting myself go and my career was on the skids.

Even if I sought refuge on some far-flung Pacific island, the pararazzi would follow and snatch illicit shots of me in the buff, smooching with some unknown beauty who would then have to go into hiding herself.

Worse still, I would be a sitting duck for every journalist and passing low-life to heap abuse and contempt on me whenever the urge took them, on the grounds that (a) if I put myself in the public eye then I'm inviting custard pies and (b) I have to pay the price for my privileged lifestyle.

Who needs it? Why would anyone want to put themselves through all that for the sake of banner headlines in the tabloids? And to those who say, ah but it would be worth all that to have shedloads of money and untold luxury, well sorry to buck the trend but I prefer being able to slouch down the street in my worn-out jeans muttering to myself without the entire British population sneering at my degenerate habits over tomorrow morning's cornflakes. Anonymity? It's just fine by me.

(see also Paparazzi no thanks)

PS: Talking of celebs, Happy Birthday to the gorgeous Julian Clary, a spiffing 48 tomorrow. Julian's columns in the New Statesman are just LMAO funny.

Paparazzi no thanks

It must be a relief to Northern Ireland's celebrities not to be ruthlessly pursued at all hours of the day and night by totally immoral paparazzi itching for a salacious shot of X in her underwear or Y snorting cocaine.

This predatory media stalking, so routine on the Other Island, simply doesn't happen here. Famous names can just get on with their everyday lives, doing the shopping, taking the kids to school, sunbathing in the garden, and the snappers simply aren't interested.

That's because we regard their private lives as their own business and nothing to do with us. Why do we need to know that presenter A is cheating on her husband? Or that model B likes kinky sex? It's their work we're concerned with, and the rest is strictly off limits.

Furthermore, there just isn't the gulf between the famous and the non-famous that exists elsewhere. Here the famous aren't remote, inaccessible figures living in a world of their own and seen as fair game for constant prying and snooping. In a small society like ours, they're just one of us and entitled to the same dignity and respect.

Also we put a much greater emphasis on the family and family values, and we don't approve of any behaviour that undermines the sanctity of the family and its independence. Photographers lurking behind the garage would be as welcome as the bailiffs or a passing paedophile.

Then again, we take the attitude that if other people are going through difficult personal problems, they need some space to work through them in their own time and in their own way without prurient outsiders poking their nose in and making the problem worse.

We don't share this malicious English tendency to kick someone when they're down, to sneer at their bad luck and try to finish them off completely. No, we love our celebrities, we're proud of them, and we protect them fiercely from unsavoury attentions. The likes of Donna Traynor and Noel Thompson* are national treasures and not to be trifled with by common oiks.

* the presenters of BBC News Northern Ireland