I have a somewhat Pavlovian reaction to the song 'Handbags and Gladrags', in that whenever I hear it I find myself thinking about Paris Hilton. Not that I listen to 'Handbags and Gladrags' all that often, not being much of a fan of gravel-voiced soft-rock songs; but you can't really avoid it when you're watching 'The Office', as I have been doing this week to commemorate its tenth anniversary (on that note isn't it funny how cultural things, especially cutting-edge ones, can make you feel unnervingly old; I remember coming back to my tiny one-bedroomed flat after a meal out ten years ago, flopping my over-stuffed self down onto my sofa, switching on the TV and watching the first episode of 'The Office' which threw me into utter confusion - surely this couldn't be a real documentary? I fell in love with it instantly. Now when I watch it I marvel at the size of Gareth's (wait for it) mobile phone, and the fact that smudgy faxes were so much a part of office life).
But I digress. The reason 'Handbags and Gladrags' makes me think of Paris Hilton is because it's about a person who has everything but doesn't understand the value of anything that isn't expensively tangible. And the 'grandad' reference rings true as well (though it was actually Paris's great-grandfather who founded Hilton hotels - fact fans!).
It didn't surprise me when I read reports of Paris Hilton suffering from depression a little while ago, even though it spurned outrage in various sections of the media, and even among people I know. "How can she be depressed...she's got everything! She should try living in the real world".
Just for a moment, try to imagine actually being Paris Hilton, a woman who is probably most sympathetically described as a "socialite". It isn't her fault really though, is it? Because just like girls born on certain types of grimy council estate are expected to do nothing other than produce reams of kids at an early age, Paris Hilton was expected to do nothing other than to be a "socialite". This is somebody who has never had to do a day's work in her life; someone born with servants and ready-made circles of contacts already established. That might sound idyllic on the surface, but scratch it a little and it's clear that Paris and people of her ilk have never had, nor been expected, to put in the grimy blood-sweat-and-tears necessary for anything of intrinsic value.
A while back, I watched the first episode of 'Paris Hilton's British Best Friend' out of curiosity (that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) - the game show of sorts in which a group of people compete to win the "friendship" of the great lady herself. It made me feel a bit sad. Particularly the opening part of the show in which Paris was shown living the high-life with her current set of friends. Us peasant viewers were obviously expected to be gurgling at the telly in wide-eyed envy, but I couldn't help noticing that despite being surrounded by unending luxuries, none of them ever smiled, including Paris herself. They all looked distinctly bored, chewing on their caviar tartlets as though in the dim backs of their minds they knew there must be more to life than this, they just couldn't process what that might be. And not one of them, when interviewed for the programme to talk about why Paris made such a good friend in the first place, could bring themselves to say anything deeper than "she throws excellent parties...she'll always make sure you have a good time..."
So I respected Paris Hilton for her depression; to me it proved she might actually be a tiny bit human. She might even have tried to set up the 'Best Friend' programme in a desperate, misguided attempt to bring a genuine relationship into her life, except of course the contestants were all impossibly big-haired, spitting harridans in sequinned minidresses (and I'm including the men here!) who were exactly the type of people you'd expect to apply for a programme called 'Paris Hilton's British Best Friend'. That programme was probably the best advertisement for controlled eugenics I've ever seen.
Later that year, Paris was featured on a TV documentary detailing her wonderful life, in which she showed presenter Fearne Cotton the beautiful pink glittery mansion she'd had built, complete with spa and swimming pool...for her three little dogs. As a viewer, you got the distinct impression she'd developed a deeper closeness with them than she'd ever felt with any actual person.
Years ago, when I was a little girl, my Dad mentioned on watching a programme about Michael Jackson: "it's no wonder he's nuts; no-one's ever said 'No' to him in his entire life". Bless my Dad for his bluntness, but I felt he might have had a point there.
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