There must be a word for what I’m suffering, but I can’t find it in the dictionary. I’m pretty sure I’ve picked up an addiction to shit celebrity gossip.
Not good celebrity gossip, like Madonna performing a secret show at the Roxy. No, I’m talking about really shit celebrity gossip. Like Bec and Lleyton birth stories.
I know all about Posh and Becks and Jude and Sienna and Paris and Paris and Paris and Stavros. I know everything about Ben and Jennifer, although I don’t really know who she is. I can name J.Lo’s creepy-lookin’ husband and I’m up to speed on what Mariah Carey’s arse looks like at the moment.
Even though I have no idea what Nick Lachey has done in his career -“ and I’ve only heard one Jessica Simpson song -“ I know all about their marriage dramas. I even know Jessica’s best friend’s name.
I know all about the UK series I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, even though I have never and will never see it.
I even know what’s happening in the private lives of people who have starred on the UK version of Big Brother.
It’s turning into something like a mental illness. Where I would once have woken up in the middle of the night trying to remember my phone number or the lead singer’s name from seminal 80s hipster act Spacemen 3 (Jason Spaceman, or Jason Pierce, if anyone’s interested), now I lie awake trying to remember the name of Heath Ledger’s new daughter.
I realise it’s a problem, because it’s started to infiltrate my dreams. On Saturday I dreamt I was at Arq on two consecutive nights (as I said, it was only a dream).
The first night Madonna showed up for a secret show. The second night, Kylie showed up for a secret show. I tried to take a photo of Kylie but she grabbed my camera and smashed in on the floor. Much drama ensued.
So I’ve decided to stop it, already. For the first time in months I’ve denied myself an NW purchase and I’ve resolved to look at Pink Is The New Blog only every second day. Like Nick and Jessica’s marriage, this beautiful, ridiculously stupid relationship is over.