Louis Armstrong singing the Gershwins’ ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off’ only touched the tip of the iceberg. Potato — potahto, tomato — tomahto; for two countries ostensibly sharing the same language, England and America have deeper cultural disparities than merely amusing colloquialisms, and never is this discrepancy more apparent than in the naming of pharmacies. We say chemist, they say drugstore.
In the States, the ‘cult of celebrity’ poses a far greater toxic phenomenon than it does in this country. We tolerate fame while Americans positively revere it. To them it is a religion. And mega-fame, just like worshipping the gods, requires a giant leap of faith and an unassailable devotion by those that choose to bask in its reflected glory. It can mean selling your soul to the devil. Celebrities are elevated to such dizzy heights that they are encouraged to become an alien race that is allowed to dwell in a parallel world. A surreal and Disneyfied universe which comes with an unchecked and ungovernable compass of normality. They all too often inhabit a world devoid of barriers. They may be shielded from their adoring public and the omnipresent paparazzi by bodyguards, and travel with cavalcades of armed police to protect them from danger, yet superstars seem wilfully oblivious to the fact that their biggest threat is probably languishing on their payroll. Personal ‘physicians to the stars’ are often just licensed enablers. They’re drug-pushers who seem conveniently to have forgotten — despite years of medical training — their allegiance to the Hippocratic Oath.
Did Dr Conrad Murray, the 56-year-old cardiologist at Michael Jackson’s bedside the night he died, ever pause to remember that he once solemnly promised to ‘neither give a deadly drug to anyone if asked for it, nor make a suggestion to this effect’, or did he just assume this vow came with a caveat that specifically excluded celebrities? His professional judgment was patently so warped by the seductive demands of a frail superstar (coupled with the allure of a fat monthly pay-check) he just rolled over and capitulated, much like poor Jackson himself.
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