Monday, December 10, 2007

Katy French

Katy French died last week. She was well turned out, your average sparkled blonde that you'd see wetting themselves at the windows of Brown Thomas, and no doubt had some degree of savvy to so successfully court the media since, well, February or something when she broke up with that chef whose name I couldn't be bothered remembering. Marcus Foxington-Toast I think it was.

French's was the lowest common denominator form of celebrity, though, spawned as it was by looking all pretty in little or no clothes and exacerbated by the toilet paper that is the Sunday Independent. She was photographed a lot, went to meet the kids in Calcutta, embraced the (hopefully) dying embers of reality television for RTE, celebrated her 24th birthday and died after doing, in all likelihood, a fuck load of coke.

Now, to each their own, and you can't really blame the girl for getting caught up in drugs and champagne and Lilies and Barry Egan and whatever goes with the bottom feeding world of Irish celebrity, but I have been appalled by the aftermath of the powder sniffing model's demise.

Front page spreads with blackgrounds (sic) bearing Katy French, 1983-2006, a martyr for the Celtic Tigresses, 'goodbye Ireland's rose', a tribute on the Assets website, a weepy Rosanna Davison, the end of the world as we know it.

I'll rewind a bit.

'Goodbye Ireland's rose.' Our Diana, they're calling it.

Jesus Christ. Is it not a sad indictment of our materialistic little isle that 'our Diana' was a dolled up cokehead that courted celebrity from her first toot in the morning to whatever she got up to at bedtime? I'm probably being naive here, harsh even, in assuming that she did little other than snort the devil's dandruff in between winks at the camera, but I'm reaching for perspective.

Diana, publicity seeker extraordinaire that she was, deserved her iconic status on account of spending countless years in the company of those execrable royal bastards, for her AIDS work, landmine crusading (she was against, not pro, I should clear that up), etcetera. Yes, she bled the media dry and used their fawning to her benefit, but the public display of lamentation after her death was acceptable, justified even.

On the other hand we get Katy French. A young one who, along with Glenda Gilson and Davison and whoever presents The Afternoon Show, kept the disgusting 'Sindo' in rotation and got destroyed with that wretched Gavin Lambe Murphy. For me, the thing worth lamenting is the fact that it was she, and not that odious little scrote (who couldn't wait to tell all about his drug exploits with the doomed model) that snuffed it. And then snuffed it.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

I have it on very good authority that the youthful 24 she claimed was a outrageous fabrication. Try 32.
Still she ain't get any older now, cokehead dipshit.

Anonymous said...

I didn't know who she was but sad - and predictable - story.
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