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Monday, August 18, 2003
  Teenage suicide... (don't do it)

The world has already seen reality tv murder.

Watching hopeless hopeful after hopeful on Pop Idol I was struck by how manic most of them seemed. How at such an early age their entire future path was set, there was only one allowable destination. Gareth Gates' fat talentless sister shimmied into the room in a vile satin sack, one boot exposed bizarrely, so that I thought for a moment she might have a prosthetic leg or something, but no, silvery cow-girl affectation alone.

Then came the ringer, the golden jacketed psychopath that had so obviously been planted there that if he'd publically shat himself you'd have thought it was nothing more than fertilizer. But here's the rub... he was just an extravagance, a grand guignol artiste capering about among the real thing.

For every kid who left with their fist clenched pumping the air in triumph there were several who left in tears. For every producer recruited Sylvia Young-psycho, there were a few whose quietness spoke of that same performed rage, only this time genuine, sublimated... uncomprehending of the idea that anyone might callously stand in the way of their dream, or perhaps more dangerously, finally comprehending of the fact that the dream will NEVER be a reality.

What better way to go, than with your brains speckling Davina McCall's Marc Jacobs dress, or your blood cascading silkily down the sheer slope of Cat Deeley's Julien MacDonald slip... now that would be genuine fame, lasting fame... and as more of the borderline insane are paraded with all their insecurities and their evanescent dreams for the entertainment of millions, how far away can the first reality tv suicide be? 
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