Open Letter to the British

More than anything, the British fascination with crap escapes me, not because it’s complete crap but because it makes absolutely no sense. You’re British. I expect MORE of you. You’re more cultured than us. You’re smarter. You have better fashion sense and let’s face it, the dollar is so not the leading currency in the world (Just over $2 = 1 British Pound) these days. You have Amy Winehouse. We have Jessica Simpson. You have Robbie Williams. We have Justin Timberlake (well, we got you beat on that one). You gave us Ab Fab. We gave you Madonna past her prime. Your game shows are infinitely more interesting, as your version of Wheel of Fortune was the only time I was able to sit through an entire episode. Your models, like Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell provide interesting news copy. Tyra Banks makes headlines when caught eating a doughnut.

Your high-level government sex scandals are the stuff legends are made of. The best we have done involves cigars, PG-13 instant messages and a boat called the “Monkey Business”.

However, in this celebrity-obsessed world we currently live in, I will give us some credit where credit is due.

In the U.S., we at least have the good sense to send reality TV sensations back to where they belong after the show’s finale. We don’t allow them to put signature fragrances on the shelves of Selfridge’s after they rolled around in pig slop on national television. They move to L.A. for awhile, maybe end up on a couple of VH1 or MTV vehicles, and inevitably end up going home to wherever they came from if they don’t get hired by the TV Guide Channel for temporary work.

I was over there at the beginning and end of your Celebrity Big Brother. I even watched the finale. I was thinking that you guys learned something because your beloved Jade Goody and her signature fragrance were over with once she called Shilpa Shetty “Shilpa Poppadum”. You just can’t give these reality TV stars any real sort of fame (However, Shilpa is a real find and very big back in Bollywood. You should keep her around. Does she have her own fragrance yet?).

I know that you like to make bigger celebrities out of has-beens and G-listers, too. While watching the CBB finale, I did forget about Dirk Benedict’s tantrum regarding Starbuck being cast as a woman in the (vastly superior) modern update of Battlestar Galactica. Jermaine Jackson, you and all your I-read-Buddhism-For-Dummies wisdom was sort of endearing, too, and I didn’t think about the fact your created-in-a-test-tube-and-medical-assistant nieces & nephews are one day going to write books that make Christina Crawford’s Mommie Dearest look like a novel by Nicholas Sparks. Come on, you guys stick this stuff on BBC. We stick it on VH1. You’re a smaller country. Me, for one, would prefer watching Verne Troyer get bombed and then piss on a wall but the American public seems to prefer situation comedies starring Jon Cryer (Duckie!) and Charlie Sheen. I get your fascination with B-list voyeurism more than I do semi-wholesome one-liners recited by Heidi Fleiss’s most valued customer.

You British, you’re sneaky. I know we brought you into this whole Iraq thing. I’m really sorry. It’s not my fault. I’m sure Prince Harry will be fine (Plus, anyone who knows anything about your country knows that you couldn’t give a crap about the royal family.), however, you stuck us with Posh & Becks. Oh, not that the second Vietnam and football trash even compare, but they both are blatant symbols of the Western economic powers’ inherent need to show off the size of their cojones. People think the Beckhams are cool in your country, too. I know better. You were glad to be rid of them. Of course, not only do they come here and take up space in our celebrity gossip rags, they have become the BFF to TomKat, our most obnoxious celebrity couple in the history of scones. At first I thought Posh only had that copy of Dianetics because she was hungry and the pages have fairly few calories, but now I think she’s reading it. I hear they’re going to get their own reality TV show on NBC, too. I guess TomKat didn’t warn them that in this country, reality TV does not earn you the sort of A-list status as it does in the UK. Oh, and you think they’re gonna show up on your show to boost ratings? Probably only if you show the four of you going the Celebrity Centre for a little auditing, but you know that closeted mo-fo ain’t going to let cameras capture you and his faux wife shopping at Barney’s b/c you and your show are small screen.

You gave us Heather Mills. We didn’t embrace her — Vegas oddsmakers began taking money on the how good the chances are that her prosthetic leg will go flying while ballroom dancing. We give you David Gest (he couldn’t even make VH1 after Liza kicked him to the curb like an empty bottle of gin) and you guys adore him. We get Robin Leach and make him the poor man’s Reege.

I love the irony of it all. We give you crap and you turn it into your gold. For some reason, our not-even-on-the-list celebrities land at Heathrow and their dollar value actually increases. Your semi-famous types come here and are lucky if they make it on Perez Hilton because of their bra size or drunken antics. I don’t know about the Beckhams yet, but I bet you 20 quid that Posh is going to be hawking her fashions on QVC within 2 years. Of course, I’m sure she will come crawling back to your side of the pond once her sales are outdone by those Marie Osmond dolls. And you, Great Britain, will certainly have a place for her on Celebrity Big Brother.

Cheers, M