For over half of my life, I’ve had a crush on Johnny Depp. I own every one of his movies and have the entire lifespan of 21 Jump Street on tape. I can’t get away with having his posters up on my bedroom wall anymore, but you can bet I still have them safely stowed away.
Every single man I’ve ever loved has been a slim brunette with stubble and a penchant for rum and black cigarettes… Some even had Cubist tattoos.
Recently I even tripped over my own foot in the queue at Woolies when I saw the cover of GQ. Twenty years later, and Mr John Christopher Depp still has me so weak at the knees, it’s pathetic.
Fitting really, since later that week the concepts of men, fame, celebrities, money and the lust of fans came into my awareness. In my job I am constantly exposed to the wealthiest folk that South Africa has to offer, and have at times had to interact with celebrities. In 99.9% of cases, the more pomp and ceremony the person in question surrounds themselves with, the less successful they are. The True Greats are most times unassuming, down to earth, humourous and humble. Well, as humble as you can be when a man 3 times your size with a walkie talkie is watching your every move and handles your wallet and the keys to your car.
The B-graders of this earth are usually the most sickeningly vain people you could have the displeasure of meeting. Seriously, who can even taste the difference between all the colours of M & M’s???
Who would be able to ask for Evian to be used on their hair at the hairdressers with a straight face? Who would come to Cape Town and not only partake freely in the mountain, the ocean but also the, err, escort agencies?
You’d be surprised.
I watched in horror and shock at the flesh frenzy when I was out recently. It was on for young and old. No woman was going to let Mr Famous live for a minute longer without meeting her and deciding that she was The One. Grown women, intelligent women, women who should know better- they were all ferociously climbing all over each other like felines, ready to bring out the claws and put up a catfight.
They needn’t have bothered. Mr Famous, despite his on-screen persona of being an affable, likeable chap with a killer sense of humour and abs to match had a slurry of escorts seated around him, well-hydrated and ready to be The One... For An Evening.
Honestly Mr Famous, I hope it burns when you pee. (Not likely, since the Grade A meat he was purchasing is always rigorously screened before hitting the shelf.)
Male celebrities need a “WWJD” bracelet: What Would Johnny Do? In my head, he’d probably rather poke his eyes out with a blunt spoon than order Yugoslavian off the menu.
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