In summer, the famous emerge from their television lair. They appear dressed in summer clothes, which often consist of no clothes at all. They leave the places where they spend the rest of the year and settle in international celebrity hotspots, or else mingle with those who are not of their own species. You might spot them, you might even photograph them, and afterwards their bodyguards might break your ribs to take the pictures away.
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The Careless One
You’ll recognize the Careless Celebrity (nobilis homespun) because he spends the summer in the countryside and tries to dress like a beggar. Ripped trousers, grey clothes, a worn-out T-shirt, a cap pulled low and sunglasses. During the holidays he washes only in the sea and is capable of eating in the filthiest places. It makes him “feel like a man,” he often brays.
When the police ask him to blow into the breathalyser, the nobilis superbi first scolds them for having driven their patrol car the wrong way down the street.
But then, suddenly, he gets tired of it, heads for the best restaurants in the area, and that’s when the trouble starts, because the owners reserve “his” table for him even when there’s no room. Someone photographs him looking like that, the pictures end up on social media, and the gossip magazines start wondering whether his apparent destitution is the result of a painful breakup or whether he’s gone completely broke. And that’s how the summer celebrity magazines boost their ratings at the expense of the Careless Celebrity.
He doesn’t pick anyone up, he doesn’t make business deals, he doesn’t mix with the local rich, and he feels uncomfortable everywhere. Dragged along by friends, he may eventually go out for a drink, but there in the bar — dressed as he imagines farmers dress for a night out — those little orange mirrored sunglasses poking out of the pocket of his threadbare waistcoat give him away. Before long he’s surrounded by aspiring summer flings. He panics, apologizes and leaves, wondering what he did wrong and how they’d managed to recognize him, as he climbs into the Ferrari he left parked opposite, right in the middle of the orchard.
The Natural One
She, the queen of Botox, decides to embrace natural beauty. Perhaps to give her skin a rest from a year’s worth of cosmetics, perhaps in the hope of going unnoticed. She heads out first thing in the morning wearing those hideous leggings that ought to make the heavens burst into a great storm of fire until not a single pair remains anywhere on Earth. She hums to herself, wanders around the village supermarket, and displays the deterioration of her charms with such unnatural naturalness that she leaves a trail of fainting spells wherever she goes. She is the Natural Celebrity (nobilis implumem), who so often transforms herself after removing the millions of artificial enhancements she wears on magazine covers all winter that, instead of becoming unrecognizable, she becomes inconceivable. She spreads dread, terror, chaos, and destruction wherever she sets foot.
The Spherical Celebrity
The Spherical Celebrity (Celeberrimum CCCLX) is famous in all 360 degrees, all year round. It has no sex. That is to say, it exists in both male and female forms. It turns up at parties impeccably wrapped in its own fame, radiating overwhelming elegance and making no effort whatsoever to avoid the cameras.
The female, like the official Princess of Summer, glides through the most luxurious nightclubs and, after one drink too many, announces, “Oh! I think I’ve had one drink too many.” Then she faints with enormous dignity, still clutching her glass. But only with that graceful way of collapsing possessed by certain celebrities, folding elegantly to the floor while her long, exquisite dress folds neatly beneath her.
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The Spherical Celebrity never mixes with ordinary people. It seeks food, entertainment and, during mating season, other members of its own species. It can be seen in the most exclusive clubs in Ibiza or Cannes, picking up the bill for the prettiest women and lying to them with effortless elegance, like Pierce Brosnan in Remington Steele.
The Spherical Celebrity finishes the summer exhausted by so many parties and locks itself away until the Christmas galas, where it sports exactly the same tan it had on the first day it set foot on the beaches of the French Riviera seven months earlier.
The Nobilis Superbi
The DYKWYTT Celebrity is my favourite. Its academic name is the Do You Know Who You’re Talking To? Celebrity (nobilis superbi). The initials stand for its battle cry. He bellows it at waiters in beach bars when they make him queue, at jellyfish after they’ve stung him, and at traffic officers who ask for his licence after catching him drunk behind the wheel.
When the police ask him to blow into the breathalyser, the nobilis superbi first scolds them for having driven their patrol car the wrong way down the street. He keeps returning to this point again and again before solemnly agreeing to do as he’s told. Then he blows enthusiastically into his beer bottle, and afterwards tries to take a swig from the breathalyser. In particularly severe cases, he complains to the officer that nothing is coming out.
He struggles whenever he finds himself surrounded by people who don’t share his sense of superiority. During an argument between two boats — a common occurrence in marinas — somewhere away from the glamorous waterfront, the DYKWYTT Celebrity takes only seconds to climb onto the bow, lean majestically towards the enemy vessel and roar his battle cry at some elderly sailor:
“Do you know who you’re talking to?”
To which the old sailor calmly replies, ending the argument on the spot:
“Yes. Some idiot off the telly.”
The DYKWYTT Celebrity immediately goes crimson, flails his arms like a Pilates instructor high on cannabis, slips, bangs his head on one of those yacht fittings apparently designed for breaking your neck, and falls into the sea.
The old sailor fishes him out.
The Camouflaged One
This is the speciality of great Hollywood actors when they go on holiday. They avoid contact with fans by disguising themselves with bizarre clothes, inexplicable hairstyles, and unimaginable accessories. This is the Camouflaged Celebrity (nobilis paulolum). He won’t hesitate to wear a stocking over his head, military boots, and even carry a plastic rifle if necessary. Nor does the police officer hesitate to shove him into a cell while the suspect desperately shouts, “Officer! I’m Leonardo DiCaprio!”
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The officer grins, flaps his hands like a duck, and replies:
“Don’t worry. You’re talking to Donald Duck.”
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