Society
Now What? Lauren Booth learns a few tricks from Pat Phoenix
Published 25 November 2002
What I learnt from Pat Phoenix about fans, professionalism and television
It was 3.30pm at Brent Cross shopping centre. About 50 school kids milled about, staring up at a stage in front of Santa's grotto. The girls clutched scraps of paper and pointed at girls gibbering into mobiles and men tinkering with cables. "Who's on?" I asked.
"Some of the Fame Academy lot," a girl answered.
Their individual names didn't matter. Behind us, shoe store assistants three years older than the schoolgirls pretended not to be interested in what was going on. They put on extra lip gloss just the same. But it couldn't be the current wannabes on the BBC series, as they are confined to barracks - forbidden newspapers or any outside information at all. Perhaps the girl was referring to recent evacuees from the show. Those kicked out, deemed untalented. These could be the stars we were waiting to see.
A few years ago, appearing at shopping cities was the hallowed reserve of the instantly recognisable soap star. Nowadays, the Martines and Letitias are far too famous to be kissed by old ladies or gawked at by girls from their own backgrounds. So "real lifers" have inherited public appearances off the A406. Namely, those known for being useless at something rather than good at anything. Such as Maureen, famous for being unable to drive, or Jade, famous for being unable to sing.
In my days, I remember Coronation Street's Pat Phoenix making personal appearances almost every weekend. There wasn't a market or a Woollie's in the north-west that hadn't been graced by her flame-haired professionalism by the early Eighties. These jobs meant getting up at 7am to start her intricate make-up regime. This was followed by hours teasing glossy hair into shape and selecting an outfit perfectly combining Elsie Tanner's tartiness with Rita Hayworth's chic.
Before her willing entourage - me and my sisters - were rushed into the waiting car (or perhaps helicopter) she told us to cram autographed photos and spare pens into our pockets.
"Otherwise, they come over with bits of napkin for you to sign," she explained. "And you want them to take away more than a mustard stain."
At the supermarket, no amount of crushing, pushing or damp kisses could make the star's glistening smile drop for an instant. It was showtime and everyone there must have a special experience, despite the inevitable rain.
The crowd at Brent Cross had gathered for different reasons: to wave hello to their mums when the camera whisked round or to put rabbit fingers behind their mates' heads on national TV. Mostly, the kids hoped to be spotted and whisked away to the magic lands where boys with lisps have number ones and girls
with bulimia are told how fabulous they look from dawn to dusk.
The truth is, I don't blame them for wanting to be on TV - it's brilliant. The bright lights, free booze, make-overs, all blending with the buzz-fear of appearing in front of strangers. The best moments are those of utter terror, when your mind vapourises the notes you've carefully memorised about Japan's economic decline or Jamie Oliver's latest venture.
Andrew Marr gave an interview the other day and admitted being uneasy about his new celebrity. He is so prolific at the moment that if he were less experienced and more handsome, he'd be booked into the Priory Clinic by now. But he had the honesty to admit that he chases every job with vigour - even though the most unfashionable thing to be in the media is enthusiastic about working. (Which is odd, considering how much mundane work, low pay and late nights we'll put in just to get our face/programme/package on to the air or in print.)
None of this bothered the girls in Brent Cross: they are still dying to be famous - and up front about it.
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