LOOK AT ME

Life thru a lens…

FAME…

As the years clock up, it seems that rarely a few days pass without someone of impact shuttling off this mortal coil. A cynic might argue that this has something to do with the essential seesaw nature of fame being exponentially extended to encompass a litany of E-Z listers from the TV age. He would have a point; yet the cumulative pile-up of these good-looking corpses also takes on a soul-corroding sadness that’s difficult to shake. This week’s case: it’s Siiiimon Dee!

FAME…

Dee’s death resonates with the accelerated nature of fame because his ascendency was as bright as it was ultimately fleeting. Born with the less starry name Cyril Nicholas Henty-Dodd he reinvented himself as the epitome of the ’60s louche dandy (inspiring Mike Myers’ Austin Powers into the bargain); first as the debut presenter on pirate Radio Caroline, and in 1967 as the Jonathan Ross of his age with his equally-well remunerated Saturday chat show Dee Time. Fortuitously sandwiched between Doctor Who and Dixon Of Dock Green it clocked a weekly audience share of 18 million.

FATAL FAME

Fame and its spoils very quickly went to his head, his financial demands leading to a spectacular fall-out with his mentor Bill Cotton and his bumping from the Beeb. Like others since, his transfer to ITV was a resounding flop, and by 1970 the former film star – he had small parts in The Italian Job and Doctor In Trouble – was reduced to signing on for less than a tenner at Fulham Labour Exchange. Yet between three broken marriages and numerous court stints over unpaid debts he was always fashioning a comeback. His wishes were reciprocated with Channel 4’s 2003 tribute night, though a very public spat with art critic/provocateur Brian Sewell marred his last day in the sun.

IT CAN PLAY HIDEOUS TRICKS ON THE BRAIN

Dee’s sad demise puts one in mind of John Updike’s observation: “Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face. As soon as one is aware of being somebody, to be watched and listened to with extra interest, input ceases, and the performer goes blind and deaf in his over animation. One can either see or be seen.” It readily applies to a couple of here-and-now celebs currently paying a heavy price for their notoriety.

BUT STILL I’D RATHER BE FAMOUS

2009 has been a year to forget for Gordon Ramsay. His carefully cultivated potty-mouthed persona may have pushed him up the celebrity rungs with stealth, yet his former Midas touch has been tainted by gross overexposure, relentless empire building and overarching greed. 

THAN RIGHTEOUS

And the blows keep flowing thick and fast. The first chink came with the fallout with former protégé Marcus Wareing (compounded by Wareing’s elevation above Gordy in Harden's London Restaurants 2010). Then the News Of The World tasted blood – reporting an alleged affair with Sarah Symonds; exposing his mythologised football career at Glasgow Rangers as just that; and gleefully twisting the knife after he publicly insulted Australian TV presenter Tracy Grimshaw, likening her to a pig (three words here: pot, kettle, black), prompting even the Aussie PM to wade in and label Ramsay a ‘low-life’. Worse still, Gordon Ramsay Holdings teetered on the brink of administration – bailed out only by reserves from his vast personal wealth.

OR HOLY

Yet it would be a reckless gambler who’d bet against the Kitchen Nightmares star salvaging more than just his professional pride from this wreckage. For all his foibles, the man the yanks dub ‘Chef Ramsay’ is a genuine talent (vouched for by a memorable dinner at his flagship Royal Hospital Road restaurant when Ramsay still roamed the kitchen), well respected in his trade, and with the nous to pull this one out of the fire.

ANY DAY, ANY DAY, ANY DAY

The prognosis is more damning for the celebrity car crash that is Kerry Katona. The former non-singing Atomic Kitten’s career has been in a tailspin since she left the group – a quick précis of her post AK CV reads: failed marriage to Brian McFadden, reality TV star of rapidly diminishing returns since winning 2004’s I'm A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here, axed OK columnist and Iceland TV endorser (replaced by king of jungle vacuity, Peter Andre), bankrupt, ex-client of celebrity fixer Max Clifford (after a disastrous showing on This Morning), on bail for alleged assault of her accountant.

GIVE US YER MONEY!

Yet by all accounts Katona and her partner, Mark Croft, manage to subsist from hoovering up the red top’s readies in exchange for their catalogue of calamity. It’s a collusion only one party can realistically sustain, and it’s hard not to think of Updike’s allegorical words having a literal bearing on the scouser’s publicly crumbling septum. At 29 it’s a moot point whether she’ll get close to Dee’s relatively ripe old age of 74, and all bets are off Katona clawing back some dignity without first extricating herself from the harsh glare of the camera lens.