When I was about ten years old I remember one sunny Saturday morning being in Woolworths picking through their small selection (50-100) of trashy paperbacks which were in my price range, when a small crowd (50-100) began forming in part of the store nearby. Miss Great Britain arrived. Or maybe it was Miss England or Miss United Kingdom, I'm not entirely sure. But it was definitely Miss and not Ms.
This must have been the first time I'd witnessed a celebrity meeting the public event, it seemd a bit odd to have been just looking at books in Woolworths when when one occurred right beside me. (Morrissey used to write about these kind of moments so well.) The craning to see (she was quite short so craning was required), the mulling around in the vicinity and reluctance to leave, the whispery expectancy of people, and then the acquiring (free?) of a small glossy photograph and the queuing to have it signed. Why did I want that picture? I'm not sure. Perhaps it seemed quite important though in all sorts of ways; to be part of the event, or evidence that I had been there, a momento of actually meeting someone, a signifier of the capitalist patriarchal society which invests disproportionate status in superficial value systems ... yes, definitey that last one. I was ten years old, after all.
I vaguely took it upon myself to make the effort to acknowledge what someone who was officially 'beautiful' was supposed to look like, and I don't think I disagreed with their verdict, and learned that celebrity was a higher form of person, more akin to divinity. What I remember most from that protracted half hour or so of loitering around, was that she was a nice person.
This must have been the first time I'd witnessed a celebrity meeting the public event, it seemd a bit odd to have been just looking at books in Woolworths when when one occurred right beside me. (Morrissey used to write about these kind of moments so well.) The craning to see (she was quite short so craning was required), the mulling around in the vicinity and reluctance to leave, the whispery expectancy of people, and then the acquiring (free?) of a small glossy photograph and the queuing to have it signed. Why did I want that picture? I'm not sure. Perhaps it seemed quite important though in all sorts of ways; to be part of the event, or evidence that I had been there, a momento of actually meeting someone, a signifier of the capitalist patriarchal society which invests disproportionate status in superficial value systems ... yes, definitey that last one. I was ten years old, after all.
I vaguely took it upon myself to make the effort to acknowledge what someone who was officially 'beautiful' was supposed to look like, and I don't think I disagreed with their verdict, and learned that celebrity was a higher form of person, more akin to divinity. What I remember most from that protracted half hour or so of loitering around, was that she was a nice person.
