Most people are surprised when I
tell them that I used to be a massive fan of Eastenders. They are even more surprised when I say that I
used to watch Hollyoaks for a time as well. And I read Heat magazine. It used to take me all of 30 minutes to digest
the reading material in one copy of Heat - the endless lauding but mostly shaming
of celebrities, often on the same page, and certainly in the same edition. I used to semi-consciously compare myself with
the rich and celebrated (often because they were rich and nothing else) and
feel some sense of mean-spirited satisfaction that at least I was not in
possession of a blurrily-papped hairy armpit, even if I was also not in
possession of the Caribbean holiday or designer swimwear of the owner of said
armpit.
I used to think of it as frothy
light reading to contrast with the weightier stuff I read for my work or for my
own personal edification. It was like
junk food – tasty at the time, but at best unsatisfying and at worst leaving me
with a strangely hollow feeling and a rather nasty taste in my mouth. And the
Eastenders habit? Again, some mindless escapism,
or that’s what I told myself. I
certainly didn’t feel educated or enlightened by these particular habits, but I
didn’t see any harm in them either. That
was, until I began to get the creeping sense that with every ‘doof doof’ of the
closing credits of ‘Enders, I would feel ever more acutely depressed in the
wake of the escalating calamities that fell on the characters’ shoulders each
week.
All this changed about four or five
years ago. It occurred to me that if I
were to feel pain for people I didn’t know personally, it would be better if
they were real people instead of fictionalised stereotypes. I’m not sure exactly when the epiphany
occurred, but I stopped reading Heat magazine and watching any soaps of any
description. I even went for two years
without a TV license, as the cockney soap was about the only thing that
compelled me to switch on the TV. Even
now, although I have a license, my TV is rarely on except to watch something
specific, and I fill my evenings with reading as much as viewing.
The ever-incisive George Monbiot
recently wrote an article in the Guardian where he explains that society’s
obsession with celebrity has been quite deliberately constructed by the media
in order to distract us from what really matters, as well, of course, as
selling us stuff we don’t need in order to ape the lifestyles of people we don’t
know. In the article, he says that ‘people
who are the most interested in celebrity are the least engaged in politics, the
least likely to protest and the least likely to vote’. And I can say that from my own personal
experience this is absolutely true. Within
a month or two of abandoning my trashy reading and viewing habits, I was
engaged in volunteer work with the Happy City in Bristol and actively seeking
to take part in community events. Community
and connection are essential components of a happy existence, and instead of catastrophising
over fictional characters, or ogling celebrities, I was making friendships and
connecting with real people, and feeling part of something bigger and worthwhile.
Over time, I also became vastly
more politically aware. In the last few
years, I’ve taken part in several demonstrations, done a bit of canvassing and
campaigning for the Green Party and to stay in Europe, and even considered
becoming a councillor, something I have not ruled out for the future. All of these things have given me a sense of purpose
and autonomy that hours spent catching up with the ‘Enders Omnibus could not
hope to produce in a month of Sundays. I’ve
also read more classic literature in the last few years than all of the
previous thirty-five combined, and that’s no bad thing either. But perhaps most importantly of all, I am a
happier person than I was four or five years ago. Happier, better read, better informed, and
probably a better person too.
This post is inspired by a recent
article from the Guardian entitled 'Celebrity isn't just harmless fun - it's
the smiling face of the corporate machine' by George Monbiot:
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