It's amazing what the power of putting "Harrods-on-sea" last week as a blog title has done to my readership figures... ah me! The power of advertising, the roar of the chequebook, the thrill of the power...
Well... I suppose that I'd better come up with a Simon Cowell exclusive now I've lured you out of cybersurfing the big waves of the e-coast to the cul-de-sac of thefellowshipofthestring.blogspot.com... and I have one!!!
(Well kind of.)
This is an analogy in the loosest sense of the word.
As a graduate of the cattle trucks of the X factor auditions, herded together in freezing conditions by the tens of thousand outside the collection of talent point, the hard silhouette of the bitter slogan of our captors painted against the sky, like a mocking, overweight comedian's catchphrase, taunting us in our desflair... and by it's naked impossibility to all save the one inheritor of the Cruwell Crown of Millionairedom... "Starbux macht frei"... reduced to the irreducible X of the crossed arms salute...
Too much...
BUT! Yes it was horrible, and really cold (not that it was in anyway Polish) but there was a sense of a sudden and overwhelmingly important and irrevocable decision being made. The elect were granted their papers of leave to suspense until the next grisly round: how many of those enjoying the 'punch the air triumph' would live till the TV morn... and we were made to cheer, endless silent cheering, hollow as our coffee chain cardboard coffee cups after 9 hours, cheer, not once, not twenty times, but many times the space that measures night and day to mortal man. Up and down the music volume was turned to drown the noise of the tumult of the tired and the taunted and the bored, the testy and the tested. Here was a mass that was ready to crowdvolt against their captors but they lacked the weapons to do so. For we were slaves and had given away our freedom or had it torn from us, like a latte cup that is swiped before we're entirely finished with licking the reachable parts of the chalice...
And this is the serious point behind this admittedly sensationawhimsicalism, is there some sort of collective madness at work here? Some crackpot quasi-Messiah of the adoring millions who has beguiled the voters to place him in the world Premierliament of popularity, to the destruction of the morals and minds of the majority, alliterating his great white way to the top with a clattering of tan cremes and top notes, a uniform of tight belts and tucked in t-shirts: who is this Pariah of swing, this Svengali of Pop, the Sybo of 40 somethings, the one, the only, the best, the brightest, the biggest, the never to be repeated (except at hourly intervals...)
Yes, I too have fallen. A victim of the cultural wars of these early years of our brave new cenemetery of integrity. How the gods of yesteryear, the Forsyth's all bruised by their sagas of career ascendancy and follicle-descendency, how these demi-heroes triumphed in their live long journey to the Ever-terrestrian heights, is but for the stuffing of moths by old newspaper headlines: like an old jumper we wonder at - "did men truly ever wear such strictures? Was such discomfiture once modelled, and by such as me?"
Now we have reached the sunny upland of the Fifteen Minutes, such historic toil is to be marveled at as the protean efforts of the inventors of the wheel or biro. Cowell the Great maketh many marvels in his lunch hour as these. Here, where all are famous who are old enough to be photographed and placed into the homes of babes and sucklings as either babes or suckers, what wonders shall there be when broadband is as instant as the aspired for reflection in the glory of the white-toothed wonder...
Oh yes! That Royal exclusive I mentioned...
Now where did I put that photo....????
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