Memoirs of a nobody

I was discussing ‘blogging’ with someone over the weekend. It was clear that they had never read my posts before and made an assumption, perhaps from my cocky demeanour, that it was more of a personal journal that an attempt to be half way satirical and half rip of the ‘Time waster’s letters’. Perhaps it is a little arrogant that I should even be scribing and documenting my musings but he seemed actually offended by the fact that someone (me) should be given any sort of a platform to speak publicly unless they had something to significant offer. He included celebrities within this bracket.

Frustratingly the drunken ramblings of a girl I vaguely knows mate did get me thinking about ‘life’ and how I see myself fitting into it. Now, my age has never been too much of an issue for me, though that isn’t to say that I haven’t lied about it from time to time. Generally, these ‘fibs’ were in fact attempts to make people believe I was older than my actual years in order to attain alcohol. Conversely, I recently did knock a year or two off whilst talking to someone who couldn't have been more than nineteen, who (seemingly sincerely) thought I was about twenty two. I didn't have the heart to correct them.

People, including myself, frequently say in conversation that they feel no different now to when they were teenagers. However lately the integrity I am able to put behind this statement has wavered. I don't know whether it is to be with my being in the winter of my twenties and the presumption that, by the time I was thirty I had expected to be somewhere doing something - or to have at least made something of myself. This contemplation does make one reflective. And as the next chapter of my life becomes punctuated by the marking of another decade I sit here, full of a horrible cold and in my late twenties, and am able to accept that I am a normal human being and that this is, well…it’s Ok.

Admittedly, like many of us I had assumed that I was special. Don't we all to a degree? I presume that we all have out our own individual internal monologue in which we are the star. I actually used to fantasise that my life existed as some kind of Truman show existence where I was the main character. My life would be watched and critiqued by the rest of you (or maybe it was aliens), and to keep things interesting I used to sometime make little knowing commentaries which, had I been a television star in another reality, would have worried the producers no end.

It’s curious, people appear to be aggrieved by the notion of autobiographies, yet they remain some of the most successful selling books in the country. I don’t read them as a rule, but I have read a few, namely; Joe Strummer, Johnny Cash, Richard E. Grant and Peter Kay and I have enjoyed them all. What struck me, specifically about Peter Kay’s is how little happened. Kay’s story ended before he became famous. I assume this means that he will now be able to release further editions which detail the meteoric rise to become one of the most irritating faces in the British media. The thing about celebrity autobiographies is that we aren’t interested in the glitz and the glamour, because lets face it, this is the part of their lives which has been public and we have effectively been through it with them. What people want in the grit, or as Motley Crew wrote ‘The Dirt’. I mean, the only aspect of Katie Price’s train wreck of a life which remotely interested me was the demise of her relationship with unassuming vacuous tit, Peter Andre. Who gives a ***** about Gary Barlow’s children or Robbie William’s wedding – it’s what they called each other that we’re dying to find out.

Perhaps I’m overcomplicating things; my point was merely that I should be allowed to write a blog. But, and this question has been bothering me for some time now; are the lives of people in the public eye really any more interesting than our own? I have met and befriended a (small) number of minor-celebrities and I read their blogs, twitter, tumblr etc and admittedly some write well. Some too are funny and some have a point to make - but for the most part the writing is pretty inane and little more than dull reflections on pointless activities. I’m not saying my life justifies having a blog however I enjoy my life, and just because a performance takes place on a smaller stage does not mean its not worth watching.