I sat in the car wondering what was going on inside the ivy-covered house. My parents had been house-hunting. I was their unofficial realtor, scouring the internet and the weekend property supplements for suitable residences.
The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.
I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.
That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.
“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.
It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.
“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.
“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.
What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?
It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.
What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Morals of the Media Darling
We believe so often that we know all there is to know about a public figure: a politician, a pop star, a footballers wife. We believe that because their lives are exposed in the pages of glossy magazines around the globe, that we can make an effective judgement.
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
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