wares and, of course, the best way to keep the hacks interested is to give them a sense of allowing them into their inner-sanctum. The writer gets to live vicariously through the star and a notion of exclusivity, while the celebrity gets to stay in the public eye, as a visual aid that they’ve got things you can buy of theirs.
However, at some point in a sleb’s career, they must become irritated by the press intrusion. It appears that they’re under the impression that they can play ball for a while, and then walk away when it suits them, only to return when they actually have a product to push.
Sadly, ‘celebrity’ is not on a Pay As You Go contract. Your short shelf life is in symbiosis with the will of hacks to shift units of newspapers and magazines, and so, when you’ve tired of the press writing about you, all that remains for a celebrity is to either give up on fame, or go talk to the very people who pose the problem of your life being no longer yours. And here’s
When a famous band says: ‘We won’t be doing any interviews to promote our new album’, they actually mean: ‘We won’t be doing any interviews, to promote our new album’.
And Selena Gomez isn’t happy with the press, and of course, ran straight to them to speak about how awful her life is.
On the back of a highly-publicised, orchestrated holiday with boyfriend Justin Bieber, which saw the young couple snapped while frollicking on the beach, set-up with various photography agencies and the like, Gomez rolls her eyes and wishes it weren’t all true.
She admits to a media outlet that she:
“doesn’t like it personally”
And the wilds of the internet aren’t going to help her either. While she may have found trace amounts of opinion online, she’s wary of the danger of getting hacked.
“I got hacked one time. They just hacked it, and we hacked it back and I apologized to my fans.”
She continues:
“[The hackers] put mean things about people I didn’t even know.”
Who would do such a thing? Slagging people off who you’ve never even met is the work of astonishing scumbags who should be forced to sit in a darkened room with a laptop, to write clunky jokes that don’t work while gently rocking back and forth while sobbing into their cold tea.
