Wednesday, June 2, 2010

JLo, Brangelina, SuBo TomKat and introducing...P.Po.

I was in the chemist the other day and noted a perfume on the counter going for a tres hefty price. Then I thought to myself, do I really want to smell like Sarah Jessica Parker? ...and bought the little pack of jellybeans instead.

In Shakespeare's time, to be a performer, artist, writer or public figure involved dealing with petulant crowds, rotten cabbages and a dictionary with the disclaimer 'Spelling? As you like it.' These days, everyone wants to live the dream of fame, fortune and...god, what's the third thing? Oh yes, that's right, artistic integrity. All it takes is uploading a video, finding a funky acronym for your name, auditioning for MasterSurvivorIdolChef or...ah...writing a blog...and you are the star.

So, if becoming the next Lady Gaga, the next beacon of masculine perfection, or the next chick in the tabloids sans undies, sans anything, is your thing, here's some advice from an elderly lady who's trod the boards, tripped the light fantastic, and bought the occasional house, orphan and country.

All the best, P.Po.

Life is a stage...and most of us are going through it.

My Great Gran, has penned a book,
she’s gonna make a mill’.
She reckons it’s the stuff of legend
and my Great Gran’s no dill.

She’s seen about a billion things
and wants to shine a light
on stuff knows a bit about -
it's scandalous all right!

She reckons that her book’s about
the bestest guide you’ll find
to making yourself famous, yep,
no brains at all required.

‘Cause, “Now-a-days,” she notes, “that thing called
talent’s just an option,”
and she sits me down and tells me all,
Let’s start,” she says, “with adoption.”

Fame’s about adoption -
a kid or maybe seven.
And skip the queue as bright stars do
and you’ll still go to heaven.

If that is not appealing
and kids are not your thing,
then buy a little toy dog
for your handbag, decked in bling.

Of course, though, with your little one
or massive kiddy tribe,
you’ll need to buy a plane
to cram the whole shebang inside.

Better still, a pilot’s licence,
that would show some nouse
and if you’re even wiser still,
you’ll park it at your house.

And speaking of great wisdom,
it’s best to join a cult
like one with mystic thingies
or an alien revolt.

And if that doesn’t suit you
and stardom’s what you need,
make up your own religion,
great fame is guaranteed!

Find yourself a toyboy.
Or buy yourself a brand:
TomKat, Brangelina,
and fame comes hand in hand.

Then when, as is quite certain,
arrives the mournful day
when you break up, it’s simple -
turf the whole lot on ebay.

And with it all the merchandise,
like single strands of hair,
or kidneys, or those orphans
and of course there’s bottled air,

the stuff which you have breathed upon
before the love did end
and when they’re piffed, then sell your poor
imaginary friend.

Then it’s time to PARTY HARD
and try to look the part.
There are so many rules with this
so, let’s just make a start:

Deny a drinking habit.
Deny eating disorders.
Deny the need for undies.
Deny the old court order.

Deny you ever drove unlicensed,
flaunting thus your fame.
Deny you checked out early from your
rehab stint …again.

And make the whole lot up
because the headlines are what count.
Then, after that - you go see Oprah!
Sort the whole lot out.

And just in case you get the sense that
no one knows you’re there,
here are some tips to surely guarantee
the starstruck stare.

Things which, if you’re feeling little,
make you look quite big.
For instance, you can shave your head
and buy a matted wig.

Or buy a pair of sunnies that are
wider than your dog,
designer plastic donuts, yep,
and all will be agog.

And always, always, every day
it’s vital to be seen
with a large-size-brand-name-decaf-soy-skim-chai-latte…
- with cream.

And strut about the streets with these
unless you hail from Beckham,
for calories are banned in this strange
universe I reckon.

In this case, if you do aspire
to mirror such a star
just visualize the pencil’s life
and this will take you far.

Get yourself a berry phone
(or whatever fruit is in)
and text all day and night
and text with tonic and with gin

and text your way through dinners
and text whilst on the loo
and text and text whilst kissing
and with the…other too.

When you find the perfect mate
(to last for, let’s say, months)
you must, you must take all these steps
to fame, don’t be a dunce:

Marry ‘em on camera
and probably while you’re there,
get divorced just minutes later.
Save some hassles, yeah?

Whack it all on YouTube
and watch it all upload,
then sit back, put your heels up
and note the world explode.

And better, better, even more
with marriage and divorce
stand side by side, but text your vows
(or dumpsville speech) of course!

And finally, grins Great Grannie, when your
bright star shines no more,
do not give up your ball gowns
or your sty-i-list what’s more.

Just find the fabbest newspaper
and practise shedding tears
and not just dainty ones but ones where
snot flings past your ears.

And pick the best photographer
to shoot you at your worst
and suck your thumb, chew bubblegum
and have your wild outburst

and make sure every bit of it
does make the leading page
and with the quote, ‘LEAVE ME ALONE’
‘twill get you centre stage.

My Great Gran, she could make buck
with this, I’m pretty sure.
She knows the stuff of history
and how fame open doors.

And maybe she’ll be praised for it,
not treated looney-tuney;
I’m so proud of Great Grandma Jolie-Pitt-Cruise-Beckham-Clooney.

© P.Po. (The chick formerly known as Elise Batchelor) 2010

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