So
there was this massive technology thing called the Consumer
Electronics Show (CES), and there was all sorts of cool stuff there
like watches that connect to your smart phone, so you don’t even
have to bother to reach into your pocket and look at that cumbersome
old electronic wizardry, and gaming tablets, and new even better TVs
and mobiles and the like. A cacophony of pointless, expensive,
ultimately empty and futile pieces of commerce.
The sort of stuff I
bloody well love. Amongst all this wonder and excitement, there were
many, many headphones. Lots of headphones. Lots of headphones
being peddled by celebrities, or at least with a celebrity name
emblazoned across the headband or can. I wasn’t there, I
don’t have that sort of money, primarily because I keep spending it
on pointless magic like iPhones and flat screens and Netflix, and
eventually, food – in that order – but there have been many
articles on the very subject of famous earbuds, and these have
informed me of this apparently increasingly popular phenomenon.
Everyone from Dr Dre to Snooki of Jersey Shore ‘fame’, has
their own brand of headphones.
I
suppose it sort of makes sense for Dr Dre. Again, I don’t
know much about him but I presume he is a medical professional in the
field of music therapy, and that he understands the delicate
intricacies of prescribing treble and or bass to those who suffer
from illnesses that can be treated by a cripplingly expensive
prescription for some sleek lined, clearly labeled,
not-really-all-that-good-unless-you-only-want-to-hear-the-boom-boom-boom
miniature speakers. That or some sort of rapper. But
Snooki? Really? I mean, unless her headphones fire hot
jets of death straight through the eardrum and into the brain, thus
destroying the sort of person who would buy apparatus for listening
to music from the star of a sickening display of western, style
driven, mahogany perma-tanned, me-me-me pricks.
In
which case, fine, carry on. Use them on yourself, and then
carry on. Other than that, what the humanity sapping fuck is going
on? Have we really got to a point where we will willingly part
with money for a product endorsed by someone off of the telly or out
of them films? A product in no way related to their profession
or passions? Are we really that stupid, that vapid, that
obsessed with people paid to be seen? Obviously, I know the
answer to that is yes, but one has to build suspense. It adds
to the frisson that I’m aware these blogs probably don’t have.
It’s
not just headphones, although they do seem to be the current trend.
You get fragrances ‘designed’ by all manner of pop
starlets. I like to imagine Christina Aguilera, sat in the lab,
tired from the hours she has spent mixing the various perfumes
together, toiling with the complicated process of creating that
perfect smell. White lab coat and all. A string of social
engagements cast aside in order that she complete the task at hand,
wracked with the concern that only a professional perfumer would be
naturally wracked with: can I create the whiff of elegant trampiness
that my fans seek to emulate?
I
like to imagine it, but of course what actually happens is someone
else makes a few different bottles of stuff that smell of various
sweets, and Xtina just goes “yeah, I like that one. Cheque’ll be
in the post, right” and then she pisses of to do whatever people
who don’t have to do anything do. Then all she has to do is
wear a dress that shows her back and the top of her bottom on a
poster. James Franco advertises a Samsung phone, adverts
would have me believe that Philip Schofield is often playing on the
Nintendo DS that he almost certainly doesn’t have, and Kevin Bacon,
well, Kevin Bacon will seemingly sell you anything if someone pays
him to. Which they do. So it’s hard to blame the man.
But
where will it all lead people?! In twenty years from now will
there be a long waiting list for the Romeo Beckham Dialysis Machine?
Will I be wiping my tender arsehole on the face Piers Morgan?
Will the Brangelina Fertility Clinic promise a naturally conceived
child of any disadvantaged origin? Probably, yes. I expect to
be lying on my death bed, staring at a screen that displays the long
dead face of Morgan Freeman, who through the almost invisible
trickery of computers and money hungry family estates, is attempting
to convince me that before I face my Dark Knight, the thing I most
need to check off my Bucket List, is that complete arrangements have
been made for my cremation – before I’m Gone Baby Gone.
My
daughter will probably have to collect my body from the Justin Bieber
‘Never Let You Go’ Retirement Home and be told that all I’ve
left this world is my crippling debt (brought about by years of
buying any old shit that someone lucky enough to have a nice,
symmetrical, smooth face has slapped their name across) by a polite,
sinister, smiling man from Tom, Cruise and Never Lose Solicitors. A
nightmare world in which quality and purpose are replaced by status,
image and idolisation. One where a fool can get their face into
the populations consciousness by being sexually loose, morally
bankrupt, void of talent or hope, and then sell them anything they
want.
A
world like this one really, only in a little bit. See you there
I guess. Through my Johnny Depp glasses. At the Adele You
Can Eat restaurant. Y’know, the one next door to Simons
Cowls.
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