Peaches Geldof in May 2012. Photo: Getty
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Peaches Geldof and the new, hyper-experience of mortality

Peaches Geldof’s death reveals a kind of post-mortem celebrity that is fuelled by social media.

This morning I woke up, rolled over and, as I always do, scrolled through my twitter feed. Owen Jones – a British socialist – tweeted his shock that Peaches Geldolf, 25, had died. I immediately checked for a hashtag and went about trying to find out more.

Predictably, Twitter was in overdrive with a constantly refreshing feed of #RIPpeaches and other hashtags. There is something awfully banal about this kind of memorialisation. The deaths of celebrities have always been mediated, but the ascent of social media has produced a kind of hyper-experience of mortality, which I engage in, but also find unsettling.

Twitter rolls from one highly-charged affective state to another. Many have already written that the default mode for trending tweets is one of outrage. I would also say that public grieving is just as prolific. Just recently I wrote about the death of Dave Brockie – lead singer from metal band GWAR. As with Peaches’ passing, Twitter was the forum where ordinary fans and celebrities articulated their grief.

There is something touching in the seemingly infinite number of tweets – platitudinous, awkward and often full of cute emoticons – generated by ordinary people in the face of the tragedy of a distant celebrity. In turn, mainstream media run obituary stories peppered with tweets from celebrity mourners as a means for fleshing out the story.

Then it’s all over. We roll to the next outrage and next tragedy punctuating our thoughts with hyperbolic language until the feed refreshes and something new captures our affect.

What struck me most this morning, however, was that Peaches – daughter of Live Aid founder Bob Geldof and the late Paula Yates – will now most likely be most famous for her death. In the last decade there was a buzz around celebrities famous for “doing nothing” – Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, the Kardashians.

In the mid 2000s, Peaches was one of the “brat pack” partying in London and featuring in gossip magazines. She was never as prolific – or criticised as much – as Paris in the “doing nothing” stakes, and she had some hipster clout in her status as Bob and Paula Yates’s daughter. Then she dropped off the radar – marrying and having two children.

Her death is now her distinguishing identity. And even then, it seems to be skewed through a rehashing of Yates’s apparently similar demise. Tweets such as “with mum now” and much-covered fact that Peaches’ last Instagram post was a snap of her and Paula reinforce a kind of fatalism that not only was her death inevitable, but that this is what will define her.

This sort of post-mortem celebrity is in part fuelled by Twitter, which produces willing twitterlebrities but is also able to elevate less tweet-savvy stars to trending status in death. “Peaches_g” had far fewer followers than Gaga but the tweets of mostly ordinary people in the last few hours have memorialised her in the twittersphere, and elevated her to a celebrity status beyond her “famous for doing nothing” image ten years ago.

There is obviously a moral dynamic to this post mortem celebrity.

As a very much alive, messy, rowdy teenager, Peaches was criticised as a bad daughter – pitched against a virtuous Bob Geldolf who had selflessly taken on another man’s children. Peaches' mother, Paula Yates, famously left Geldof for the Australian rock musician Michael Hutchence, with whom she had a daughter, Tiger Lily, in 1996. Hutchence died in 1997 and when Yates died in 2000, Geldof assumed care of their child.

Key to criticisms of Peaches' partying behaviour was a moralising concern that Peaches had not “learned” from her mother’s death from a heroin overdose.

In death, Peaches accrues moral standing, however. In part, this is because the strain in tweets and subsequent media write-ups rehearses a narrative of helpless inevitability. Emphasised in these stories – alongside the “mother’s daughter” line – is Peaches’ redemption – in her marriage, child-rearing and rediscovery of her Jewish heritage. Peaches, then, died with some moral standing – at least in terms of her representation in the press.

In terms of “post mortem celebrity”, perhaps it is important that the star memorialised is also moralised. The banality of recent articles on Peaches - about home renovations, and watching Lord of the Rings – is matched in the tweets of her ordinary fans who appear to relate to her not as “famous for doing nothing” but as “real” because of her status as a mum: “RIP peaches geldolf, two little boys left without a mum. Proper heartbreaking”, tweeted @nata1ie_sk.

I had reservations about writing this article. Was it too soon? Was it in bad taste? I don’t wish to moralise on Peaches’ worth myself. Rather, I am interested in how the media – and the mediated public – constitute celebrity, even in death.

The ConversationRosemary Overell does not work for, consult to, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has no relevant affiliations.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

Rosemary Overell is a lecturer in cultural studies at the University of Otago.

Daniel Berehulak/Getty Images
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Commons confidential: Away in Pret a Manger

Corbyn's lunch, a Keith "Vazz" hunch and the New Left Book club.

Comrade Corbyn, despite the pressures of leadership, remains the Anne of Green Gables of British politics, maintaining an almost childlike joy in everything he does. Pride of place in Jezza’s Westminster office is a Lorraine Kelly mug. Corbyn asked for the memento after appearing on the popular telly host’s ITV show – where the pair discussed his interest
in manhole covers.

There’s no record, as far as I can ascertain, of Kelly requesting a Corbyn mug. And yet the sustained abuse Corbyn receives from Labour critics, Conservative enemies and the Tory press isn’t generating hostility on the streets. People still clamour for selfies with the bearded lefty. My snout sat in awe in a Pret a Manger (Comrade Corbyn likes to pop out for his own sarnies, rather than dispatch a flunky) as the queue disintegrated, with punters hungry for snaps.

The Corbyn apparatchik and London City Hall escapee Neale Coleman said: “The one thing I learned from Boris Johnson was never say no to a selfie.” Corbyn must hope he absorbed more than that.

Perhaps the unlikeliest odd couple in parliament is Labour’s Warley Warrior John Spellar and the purple shirt Nigel Farage. Both went to the private Dulwich College in south London. Spellar, who spearheaded his party’s anti-Ukip campaign before the election, won a free scholarship and likes to remind Farage that the Kipper’s fees would now be £18,000 a year. “I passed the exam, too,” sniffs Farage, “but my father earned too much, so we had to pay.” One school, two backgrounds.

Trade unionists no longer regard attacks by the Tory press as just a badge of honour. Aslef’s president, Tosh McDonald, a train driver, wears a black T-shirt with the slogan “Hated by the Daily Mail” on it, after being denounced by Paul Dacre’s organ. I suspect Labour’s Keith Vaz is unlikely to revel in a message sprayed on the side of a van in Leicester. The fastidious chair of the home affairs committee is entitled to challenge at least one inaccuracy in the statement: “KEITH VAZZ IS A KNOB.”

“Any idiot in opposition who argues that government legislation can somehow be got through without programme motions should be taken out to the nearest lunatic asylum.” Who said that? Ken Livingstone? No, Kevan Jones. In June 2010. How times, and language, change.

To the launch of the new Left Book Club, where a director of the Corbynista reading circle, Anna Minton, waved a personalised glossy invitation to join the Institute of Directors. The Pall Mall bosses’ club’s direct mailing system is way off target.

I wonder: what could expelled Tory trickster Mark Clarke have on Grant Shapps?

Kevin Maguire is the associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State