Without self-worth, fame’s spoils are tools of torture

FAME is a poisoned chalice. As the Duchess of Sussex, Meghan Markle, has her dirty laundry aired out in public for the umpteenth time, in a legal fight with a Sunday newspaper, you have to wonder, in what rare moments of genuine privacy still available to her, whether she questions her decision to marry into royalty.

Sure, from a distance, it was a whirlwind romance with a prince, fit for a Disney movie, but the reality of her celebrity status since becoming entangled in the House of Windsor looks more like a tragedy than a fairy tale.

Yes, she and her prince have done very well for themselves financially, but often when I see them photographed or interviewed, they appear more like prisoners, held captive by fame.

And while I won’t win any popularity contests for expressing empathy for such privileged people, there is nonetheless something undeniably sad about them. The dream of fame and the reality are two different things.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be famous for 15 minutes? How it would make you feel to be loved, and praised and to want for nothing materially?

Have you ever daydreamed about being stopped in the street, or asked for autographs and selfies? I suspect you have. It would be nigh impossible for the average person not to ponder such a thing from time-to-time, given the levels of stress we experience day-to-day, the need for escape this creates, and how bombarded we are by the highly doctored images of the rich and famous. I remember when I was about 16, I wrote a song called Face in the Paper. Now, 22 years later, my fizzer is in the paper at least once a week – sometimes more. I’ve had a moderate taste of fame, and while the initial rush was intoxicating and filled me with a sense of achievement, the experience also left me deeply confused and isolated.

It terrifies me to imagine what it must be like for genuine celebrities who would be recognised almost anywhere they go and the kind of restraints this places on them living their lives.

Russell Brand once described fame as being like ash in his mouth. Thom Yorke, following Radiohead’s global hit OK Computer, had creepy nightmares of walking through walls and floating up rivers and felt so caged by success that he couldn’t write or play for nearly two years.

And we all know what happened to Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley and Kurt Cobain – three talented stars who achieved the pinnacle of celebrity yet struggled with the trappings of their stress until their tragic deaths.

Maybe dreams of public adulation are rooted, not in a desire to be well known or even rich, but in an innocent desire for acceptance, a natural longing to be loved unconditionally and to be liberated from financial hardship.

We shouldn’t beat ourselves up for fantasising about living the high life, or even working to make that dream a reality. But anyone who sets out to become famous for fame’s sake, hoping it will change how they feel about themselves, is in for a rude awakening.

If we aren’t happy within, with a clear sense of our true value – one not linked to what other people say about us but rooted in selfworth – then the spoils of celebrity, whether money or public visibility, simply become two additional tools in our armoury with which we can torture ourselves.