Arthur Kade

There are new kids on the celebrity block. New sheriffs in the town of fame. They’re not captains of industry or masters of any particular discipline. They’re not even particularly good at anything. They are the people who are famous for no other reason but that they were fortunate enough to exist at a time where minute details travel faster and further than large-scale ideals, and there ain’t a damn thing any of us can or seem to want to do about it.

These new celebrities are your Paris Hiltons. Your Corey Worthingtons. Your Axel Whiteheads. Anyone who decided that there was a future in the media after being evicted from the Big Brother house. Their fame is fame, and they want to live forever.

But until now these rampant fame whores have almost been taking the piss out of the famous-for-nothing genre. Even though their accomplishments and hills of beans are pretty much of equal proportion, they still possess even the slightest trace of talent for something. They’re not truly connected to the source of nothingness, and like devout disciples of insignificance, have been waiting for their mundane Messiah to return and show them all the bland, dim light. Well, Hosanna in the lowest has arrived, and the saviour’s name is Arthur Kade.

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