The Inspector Gadget

Sometime in the not-too-distant future, you're going to find yourself with a child on your knee (hopefully your own, otherwise questions will be asked) trying to explain why life before the invention of Sky+ might be worthy of the sobriquet 'The Good Old Days'. And you're going to struggle.

You'll wax lyrical about the joys of being forced to watch TV according to the whims of a group of anonymous scheduling executives. You'll speak evocatively about your commitment to catching something on its first airing, rather than waiting 18 months for it to be repeated. And you'll tell fantastic tales of a giant box in the corner of the room, which you fed with clunky black tapes that could magically store up to three hours of unwatchably grainy footage. Meanwhile, your child will have already programmed three HD series links from an app on their watch in the time it took for you to clear your throat.

Like it or not (and if you contemplated cancelling your subscription in the wake of the whole News International scandal - the 'not' is more than likely) Sky+ changed our lives for the better. The luddites will dig in their heels and claim that we've surrendered our freedom to our EPG displaying overlords. But be honest, when did you last waste a couple of hours flicking through the channels to find something to watch?

While you're busy doing something less boring instead, your loyal Sky+ box is thinking of ways to make your life easier. It's running through its own channel guides, carefully selecting things you'd want to watch based on your viewing habits, and offering them to you like a stalker with HDMI cable stuck up its arse.

On a recent edition of 8 Out Of 10 Cats (the one where Jimmy Carr was insufferably smug and looked to be having an allergic reaction to shellfish) it was revealed that the little box of delights is now the UK's favourite gadget. Hardly surprising, given that TV viewing couldn't be more pleasurable if Rupert Murdoch decided to release a limited edition Sky+ with a Fleshlight stuck on the side.

That's not to say that Sky+ is perfect - there's still no way of programming it to drop the ad breaks. And with so many channels to choose from, you're never too far away from a Jersey Shore marathon or the risk of falling into a K-Hole (that's K for Kardashian, not Ketamine - although the effect is the same). Thankfully, someone's already on the case, with an ingenious home-made invention which might ultimately save us all from the blight of reality TV.

A clever engineer called Matt Richardson has cobbled together a tiny little gadget that hooks up to his TV and automatically mutes the volume whenever a pointless Z-list celebrity is mentioned. That way, he never has to hear about who's doing the washing up in the Big Brother compound, or whether Paris Hilton will manage to score a new show after being starved of oxygen. Sorry, I meant cancelled by Oxygen.

Aptly named 'Enough Already', Richardson's gizmo uses the Arduino Board (which is a kind of microcontroller and not a Robert Ludlum novel), to decode the subtitling track on any live TV broadcast. The incoming text is then scanned for a set of keywords, such as 'Octomom' or 'Snooki', and each time one of the words is detected, his TV remote automatically mutes the broadcast for 30 seconds. After half a minute of blessed silence, the volume is restored, unless another keyword has been detected.

The effect must be similar to watching TV in the late eighties with my Grandpa. Although he loved Saturday evening telly, accompanied by a plastic tub full of mint humbugs, he had a pathological distaste for light entertainers. He'd sit hunched forward in his arm chair, one crooked finger poised permanently over the mute button, ready to fire the moment Bob Monkhouse honed into view. Suddenly, the room would fall silent, only for Grandpa to fill the void by shouting "Oh bugger off you pointless little man" at the screen. It made me laugh every time. On second thoughts, maybe there are some things that technology will never be able to replace.

A-list for effort

If you switched on the news last week you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the end of the world was nigh. On Wednesday, a bunch of students threw down their rolling papers in disgust and stormed the Conservative headquarters to protest the government's decision to increase tuition fees. Fire extinguishers were thrown, placards were waved and hair went unwashed.

Those arguing in favour of tuition fees are quick to point out the abuses and indulgences of academia as reason enough for people to fund their own studies. And based on an 'exclusive' feature in today's Mail On Sunday, I have to concede that they have a point.

Plugging her new book Starstruck, Elizabeth Currid-Halkett has written about her "major research project at the University of Southern California" to "understand the mechanics behind celebrity".

Sounds promising - even more intellectually robust than a degree in Lady Gaga studies. So what alarming insights has Currid-Halkett uncovered in the process of unravelling the mystery of modern celebrity?

Erm... well, apparently famous people have their pictures taken in London, Los Angeles and New York. She knows this because she and her colleague Gilad Ravid waded through 600,000 shots on Getty Images. As Elizabeth explains: "stars need to show up in key locations". I can smell the Pulitzer from here.

But there's more. Celebs also go to places like Sundance Film Festival, even if, like Paris Hilton, they don't actually have a film in competition.

Paris gets special mention, since she represents the kind of person who is "all celebrity - their fame driven by the ink spilled about them in gossip columns". But Paris and her ilk also understand the importance of keeping the company of A-listers, which helps to keep their profile high, because "celebrity networks produce a very different outcome" than meeting a few friends for dinner.

Liz's final silver bullet is the previously undiscovered gem that "celebrities cultivate a collective obsession with their personas which requires making themselves available." Astounding stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.

So, what have we learned here? Celebrities have their pictures taken, mix with other famous people and live their lives in the public eye. That was a year well-spent.

This bewilderingly pointless article ends with the following paragraph: "One thing has become abundantly clear: with the billions of pounds backing it, the millions of jobs created and society's seemingly unyielding desire for more, celebrity is a social and economic phenomenon worth taking seriously." Sadly, the same can't be said for the burgeoning phenomenon of celebrity studies. Please see me after class.

Next stop, D-list

Channel 4's hit show Coach Trip has always been a rather downmarket affair. Everything, from the casting to the itinerary, seems designed to make viewers feel as though all that's missing is Reg Varney.

So forgive me for feeling a little cynical about the recently announced 'Celebrity Coach Trip'. We're all fully aware of just how debased the word 'celebrity' has become, so it stands to reason that the new edition of the travel/game show isn't likely to be attracting too many A-listers.

Not that anyone seems to have told host Brendan Sheerin. In an interview with Digital Spy, the camp coach commandant talks viewers through the illustrious roll-call of names we can expect to see queuing to use the chemical toilet on board.

After several years of playing peace-keeper to a bunch of argumentative chavs and horny teenagers, it's clear that Brendan is delighted to have a bus full of stars to raise the tone of the show. He says "There's great excitement about it. My first feeling was, 'well what celebrities will we have?' If there are a lot of egos, it might be a problem. But they weren't like that at all. They just do extraordinary jobs, you know."

Extraordinary jobs? Really? Given that the most famous people taking part in the new series are the Chuckle Brothers, it's safe to assume that Brendan is a less than reliable witness.

Imogen Thomas and Bianca Gascoigne? Carol Harrison and Ingrid Tarrant? Raef and Ben from The Apprentice? They don't even have jobs, never mind extraordinary ones.

Funnily enough, despite Brendan's glee at playing host to this glittering array of stars, it's clear that he's already got his eye on making the leap from audience member to participant. Asked if he'd be willing to appear on a celebrity reality show, he answers "I'm too busy doing Coach Trip really, but I would, I would. I'd be up for anything, within reason. I think it would be a lot of fun actually."

At this rate, we'll soon have celebrity editions of some of our best loved shows featuring anyone who's been seen jamming a screwdriver into an ATM on CCTV. Or anyone who's had a letter printed in their local weekly free paper. 

Join me in the race to the bottom - we're almost there...

p0pvulture comes of age

Well, it's finally here - the 500th post. When I started this blog it was an experiment to see if I had the discipline to write something every day. And, with the exception of a few days where work or excessive alcohol consumption got in the way, I've managed to stick to my guns.

Of course, I probably wouldn't have bothered, were it not for the comments and encouragement I've received from all the people who, for whatever reason, have clicked on a link somewhere and spent a few minutes with p0pvulture. So thanks to everyone who stopped by, I hope you'll continue to frequent this grubby little corner of the interweb.

I've been trying to think about what today's post should be about. As usual it's something of a slow news day. Kerry Katona's been out and about in a pair of leggings, the youngest Kardashian sister is causing a stir with a sexy, jailbait photoshoot and Lady Gaga's on the front of Vanity Fair alongside some utterly nonsensical headlines that look as though they were written by an 'English as a second language' student. All gripping stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.

But in keeping with the whole "I'd like to thank..." Oscar speech tone of this post, I thought I'd give a few shout-outs to the great sources of information that inspire the stories on here. People often ask where I find 'this stuff', so consider this a peek behind the scenes. I shamelessly use their content in writing the blog (although I always post links to the original stories) but I thought it was worth mentioning them by name. You might even become a regular reader of some of them.

DListed is a snarky, sarcy and hilarious blog by Michael K who, as well as being one of the funniest people I've ever read, is also a bit of a cutie. He's created a whole 'slanguage' of his own, and managed to rename virtually every pointless celebrity that ever managed to score a feature in People Magazine. With countless new stories uploaded every day, he's such a prolific writer that he makes James Patterson look like JD Salinger.

Towleroad is another gay blog, but with less emphasis on bitchy putdowns and more focus on political issues around the world. It's well written, authoritative and the worthy winner of several blogger awards. Great links to all sorts of other content as well, the phrase 'you read it here first' could have been coined by Andy Towle, the site's creator.

Holy Moly (which most of you will already know) started out as an illustrated alternative to Popbitch, featuring blind items, idiotic celebrity quotes and random weirdness. It's now more like the bastard offspring of Perez Hilton and Heat Magazine - no bad thing in itself. Its readers (or at least the ones who comment on the stories) seem to be a fairly misanthropic bunch, wishing all kinds of ill-harm on the celebrities they enjoy reading about. But the copy is always funny, and they seem to get their hands on the paparazzi pictures before anyone else.

Of course, I have to also mention the Daily Mail which proudly flies the flag for bitter, acrimonious, poorly researched journalism. My distatste for the Mail, and everything it stands for, is no surprise to anyone who's spent more than five minutes reading this blog. People often ask why I read its website if I hate it so much - isn't that like repeatedly sticking my head in the oven to see if the gas is still on? Firstly, the Mail does a great job of aggregating the celebrity stories from around the world, even if it does maintain a toxic level of disdain for everyone that isn't Jerry Hall or Joan Collins. Secondly, its editorial style, and outspoken columnists mean that there's always an argument ripe for picking.

Big Hollywood is another resource that's as much an irritant as it is an information source. Established by right wing publisher Andrew Breitbart, the site was intended to offer a voice to conservatives working in the movie industry who feel underrepresented and excluded. In fact, it's a place where reactionary writers and woefully unfunny (we're talking Russ Abbot-levels of humourlessness) comedians come to pour scorn on anything involving the environment, feminism, racial equality, gay rights or non-Christian beliefs. The comments section under each post are worth a look, if only to see how widespread a problem mental instability seems to be in the US.

OK, that's enough negativity. Let's also give thanks for Digital Spy, which is the UK's fourth largest British entertainment website, with over two million unique users. It covers pretty much anything that happens in the world of celebrity, and I do mean 'everything'. For instance, an average day might feature six different 'news' stories about Katie Price, one for every time she opens her mouth. Unfortunately, in the rush to break stories first, the site doesn't always check its sources - so many of its stories open with "it's rumoured that..." or "according to an insider..." As a consequence, Digital Spy has more retractions than a Stanley knife, given that approximately half its 'news' content involves someone repudiating a story that's already run.

A few honourable mentions should also go to chud.com (for interesting, if slightly 'fanboy' film news), AfterElton (gay and lesbian news blog, and a daily picture of men in their pants), Popjustice (the world's best pop music site) and E!Online (which is great for celebrity gossip, despite its unhealthy obsession with the Gosselins).

Writing 500 posts may have been hard work, but it's made immeasurably easier thanks to these great information sources. So thanks to them for the inspiration, and thanks to you for reading. Meet you back here for the 1000th...

In the gutter, gazing at the stars

In the last couple of days there have been a couple of interesting articles about modern celebrity in two very different papers. Although the tone, style and approach are as dissimilar as Jodie Marsh's breasts, the underlying message is hard to miss - the world of celebrity is in crisis.

Writing for the Guardian, Aditya Chakrabortty argues that the influx of "low-grade stars has thrown the celebrity world into a sub-prime crisis" - drawing a clever, but not entirely convincing, parallel with the financial meltdown that occurred in the US because the regulators were asleep on the job.

Meanwhile, the Daily Mail published its own attack on modern fame, courtesy of Lisa Norris, a 'celebrity booker' who seems to have worked on every lousy TV show that was ever commissioned. In amongst the breathtaking revelations of imperiousness (Anne Diamond) or egotism (Paul McCartney), Norris manages to contradict herself several times.

One minute she's lamenting the sleazy nonentities who have "hijacked the status of star" - the next she's bitching about the fact that genuine A-listers are filled with their own self-importance. Missing the irony, she even finishes her rant with a plug for her forthcoming book, "The title? What else but I'm A Celebrity Booker . . . Get Me Out of Here!" She's not so much biting the hand that feeds her as chewing her way up to the elbow.

Back in the broadsheets, Chakrabortty argues that the concept of fame-seeking is nothing new, and holds Byron up as the quintessential example of a 19th century 'popular idol'. Rather than being a minority pursuit "taken up only by those with grotesque character deformations", celebrity is now a feasible goal for countless millions of people.

So what's changed, and why should we care? Chakrabortty believes that it's not celebrity that has evolved, more our perspective on it: "If you define fame as being known by strangers, then newspapers, cinema and especially TV have always driven the spread of celebrity... the public used to look up to their stars; now they are minded to look down."

Name-checking such talent-adjacent column-fillers as Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian and Kelly Osbourne, Chakrabortty reminds us that they make for "frankly ropey" celebrities and gravely warns that the entire fame industry is set for a massive implosion. But he never actually addresses our fascination with people we look down upon.

So why do people like this maintain such premium real-estate in our minds? The classic Hollywood stars of yesteryear depended on talent, determination and a work ethic that would make Bob Cratchit feel like a layabout to make the grade. But having worked so hard to attain their success, they became distant, remote and untouchable.

The instant-win nature of modern celebrity is very different. There are no eligibility requirements, no rules of admission, and no basic codes of conduct. In essence, fame is an all-too-accessible members' club. It's tantalisingly within our grasp - we're just waiting for our keys to the changing room.

Any resentment or innate superiority we feel towards this new generation of 'celebrity' has nothing to do with the diminishing status of the word itself. Instead, it's linked to the fact that we feel a sense of entitlement - we deserve what they've got, since they did nothing to earn it in the first place. As Morrissey once sang, "We hate it when our friends become successful."

Shine like a star

What a coincidence! Within hours of my last post, about the Daily Mail attacking ageing celebrities, they ran another story that turned the subject on its head. This time though, they commissioned an ageing celebrity to attack other people - namely the 'sub-lebrities' who she feels are muscling in on her carefully composed limelight.

Demonstrating a talent for writing matched only by her acting skills, Joan Collins has thrown up a wonderfully condescending piece about her glory days - which you'd be forgiven for thinking would be around 1350 AD.

You see, Joan remembers when the word 'star' meant a gloriously untouchable luminary of stage and screen, rather than a dimly-remembered newsreader negotiating her dentures around a marsupial's testes.

These 'nonentities', as Joan so kindly refers to them, haven't put in the hard work to attain their celebrity. They're 'nobodies' and 'wannabes', "devoid of talent, beauty or charm". Which is a little rich coming from someone who sustained her own jet-setting lifestyle by allowing Leonard Rossiter to throw his Cinzano down her front, like a contestant in the world's least appealing wet T-shirt competition.

Come to think of it, the word 'wannabe' deserves a little more interrogation. I've always assumed it refers to a performer aspiring to be something they're not, which must be completely alien to a woman whose career only really took off when 20th Century Fox signed her in 1954 as their answer to MGM's Elizabeth Taylor. Or when she signed up for the woeful Flintstones sequel playing the role originated by Ms Taylor.

Missing the irony in her ugly rant, Joan continues: "Their instant fame had absolutely nothing to do with dedication to a craft, talent or even hard work. Instead, it was: 'Look at me, I'm famous' - and that's all they wanted."

Fame through association turns Joan's stomach. Unless, of course, it's her father Joseph publishing his own autobiography "A Touch of Collins" in 1986. Or her daughter, Tara Newley, and her ill-fated attempts at TV presenting and pop music. And the fact that Joan's most successful output in the 1970s was a pair of tacky sex romps, based on books by her sister, is neither here nor there.

Equally troubling to St Joan is the fact that these so-called (copyright Daily Mail) celebrities sustain their fame through reality TV shows aimed at the lowest common denominator. You know, shows like 'Joan Does Glamour', where the scathing septuagenarian bullied poorly-dressed proles for not wearing vintage Halston and a mink stole.

Scoring highly on Joan's sub-lebrity scale is Britney Spears, who was tacky enough to endure a psychological meltdown in the glare of the flashbulbs. Sympathetically describing Britney's various cries for help as "bizarre and outrageous antics", Joan blames the young singer for causing "paparazzi chaos whenever she ventured out of her house". Never once does it occur to Joan that the problem here lies, not with the celebrities themselves, but with the avaricious press that go to increasingly intrusive lengths to wallow in every aspect of these people's lives.

Bring back the good old days, says Joan. When homosexuals like Rock Hudson had the decency to hide themselves away. And when one of the most famous people in the world was Jackie Kennedy Onassis, a woman whose only notable talent was snagging a couple of powerful husbands.

Joan's got it wrong. The world of celebrity has always attracted fame-hungry, grasping, talentless whores. And people who live in glass houses need to clean their mirrors occasionally.

An overcoat sensation

In our modern media-saturated world, the concept of celebrity has expanded to the point where the word itself is no longer specific enough to describe the subject in question. For instance, Lauren Bacall and Kate Lawler are both celebrities, but there's a spectacular gulf between the two of them.

There's an urban legend that eskimos have countless words for snow. It's all bullshit of course, but the principle behind the metaphor is sound. As a culture obsessed with celebrity, we need an extended vocabulary to encapsulate the sliding scale of status - something more relevant and specific that the A, B and C-list. Especially since some of the celebrities clogging up our list are so far off the regular latin-based alphabet that technically we need to start introducing special characters into the mix.

Case in point - here's Wang Zifei, the unfortunately named but strikingly attractive 'ampersand-lister' who has shot to international fame thanks to her talent for disrobing behind world-leaders. Some people have to sing for their supper, others spend ten weeks in a Carphone Warehouse sponsored-asylum in order to secure their fame. However, this violin-playing, TV-hosting actress 'unwittingly' transformed herself into Little Red Riding Hot, by slowly taking off her eye-catching crimson coat right behind Barack Obama as he spoke about internet rights in China.

Reminding people of the little girl in Schindler's List, or the spooky ghost child in Nicolas Roeg's Don't Look Now, Wang's bright red overcoat overshadowed everything else in the room, like Liz Hurley at someone else's wedding. As a consequence, she's now become an overnight sensation, with China Daily reporting that a Google search for 'Obama girl in red coat' turns up nearly seven million results.

The unwitting internet star has taken to her her blog to defend her actions, and downplay suggestions that she was attention seeking. Addressing accusations of self-promotion, the pretty student argues that anyone looking for fame would want greater longevity than the momentary notoriety that comes from wearing a loud jacket.

Ultimately, the idea of someone becoming a globally recognised face for little more than her choice in outerwear is preposterous. But it's still refreshing to know that, in a world where Jodie Marsh is a household name, some women can command the world's attention without needing to show their landing strip.

Liberty Ex

Talk about 'physician heal thyself'. Having tried her french-tipped hand at singing, presenting and marrying into the Scott-Lee clan to maintain her fame, tangerine dream Michelle Heaton has found a new career. For just €200 an hour, you could employ the luminous lovely to give you a top-to-toe style makeover.

Having recently won tens of new fans by acting like a petulant perma-victim in this year's Celebrity Big Brother, Michelle has turned her 'unique' fashion sense into job she can really sink her expensive veneers into.

Unfortunately, trade may prove less than brisk, since Michelle regularly found herself at the top of the charts (in Heat's Worst Dressed list). In fact, she never met a gaudy print, ill-fitting boob tube or bedazzled thong that she didn't like. With a personal look that's less 'footballers' wives' and more footballer's cheap mistress, Michelle is a curious choice for celebrity stylist. Perhaps Anne Widdicombe had already been snapped up.

I suppose we shouldn't really be surprised that Michelle has shown the tenacity to land this new role, given her expertise as a professional celebrity. In the past she's appeared in Celebrity Wrestling, Celebrity World Cup Soccer Six, Celebrity Weakest Link, Celebrity Come Dine With Me, Celebrity Big Brother and The Celebrity Agency. In fact, she's been doing it so long that most people would have trouble recalling how she achieved fame in the first place. Thankfully, those of us with poor memories were reminded back in March when she publicly announced her retirement from music to pursue other opportunities.

Form an orderly queue ladies...

Throwing stones in glass houses

Here's a shocker - Parky didn't like Jade. He's been talking (ranting) at the Radio Times about 'all that is paltry and wretched about Britain'. Meaning the fact that people are celebrating the life and mourning the loss of a 'barely educated, ignorant and puerile' woman.

I don't know who he wants us to feel the angriest about - the wicked media who have created a 'smoke screen' around her death, the 'media chattel' herself, or the British public who have seemingly elevated her passing to that of a martyr.

Personally, I feel the most contempt for Parky himself, for not having the grace or wisdom to recognise his own role in all this, or the irony of his comments. Think about it. Throughout his whole interminable career, this tedious suck-up has earned a fortune from the 'media' for conducting grovelling, obsequious interviews with celebrities. Throughout the seventies and eighties, Parkinson wheeled a never-ending cavalcade of celebrity before our eyes, pausing only to laugh at hopeless anecdotes until he almost slipped out of his leather chair in uncontrollable mirth.

He taught generations to worship at the altar of celebrity, and as the show wore on (and on and on), Parkinson became as big as many of the names he was interviewing - remember Robbie Williams' giddy glee at achieving the stratospheric heights of a Parky interview? So he himself became a celebrity, for little more than a regional accent and a talent for tossing under-arm questions at people like Judi Dench.

In the end, he even turned his back on the BBC, ostensibly because he was tired of the format. Only to turn up presenting the exact same show on ITV, but for more money. Yes, if there's anyone qualified to criticise a nation of celebrity worshippers, and condemn people for making money from a woeful lack of talent, it's the king of both. I salute you Sir.