The chances are fairly slim, but if I were ever to have something named after me, I would prefer a star in a galaxy far, far away — or a postcard-inducing beach — rather than an abscess.
I’m sure Sir Benjamin Collins Brodie was a rather pleasant chap who liked patting puppies and drawing unicorns — and by all reports was an outstanding surgeon and physiologist.
However, it is an interesting way to be remembered — some poor bugger’s abscess sticking out of his shin being named after you.
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One day, Eddie Murphy will launch into space in a dazzling emerald rocketship powered by ‘80s anecdotes and melted copies of The Adventures of Pluto Nash.
Jim Carrey will also be on board reading scripts for movies about animals finding love by doing people things and Sean William Scott rocks back and forth muttering: “I’m not Stifler, I’m a real person named Sean”.
And that ship will punch through the atmosphere and take them to a world beyond the reaches of time, where middle-aged stars grappling with relevancy issues are free to make sequels without feeling the scorn of the Internet drilling into their brains.
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If a meteor were spotted tomorrow hurtling towards the Earth, you could bet that some shirtless Mike Sorrentino clone would spend his final minutes lip-syncing Rihanna in an attempt to rake up hits before impact.
As astronauts snapped the glowing explosion with their mobiles, old people made out on the beach and random 17-year-olds concluded their wedding vows, he would grin triumphantly. “At least I’m famous,” he would say as the television turned to static and the chanting began.
At any given moment, millions of people are sprinting toward fame, with no clue as to what they’ll do if and when they finally grasp it. Encouraged by the handful of well-publicised success stories, they cheerfully upload their auto-tuned vocals, tear-streaked rants and subway dance routines.
The other morning I was thinking about life - because, well, that’s what people do when they’re on the toilet.
As I used my housemate’s slightly dryer towel to wipe my hands, I realised I’d been doing it wrong - life, that is, not hand-drying, which I’ve actually developed quite a knack for.
All this time, I’ve been focused on “the journey”, when the end product is clearly the most important bit. The end product being, of course, a sweet, badass biography. What’s the point of being content if there isn’t a seven-figure book deal at the end of it all?
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When I was 12, I wanted to be an air hostess when I grew up. My best friend wanted to be a traffic warden. She even drew a picture of herself in a beige uniform handing out a parking ticket.
Neither of us achieved our dreams, what with me becoming a journalist and her having to make do with working for one of the world’s biggest film companies.
So she, in particular, was astounded that today’s children no longer have such civic aspirations as we did. Instead, they just want to be famous.
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If Dickens was alive he’d concede talent counts for little and intelligence for less in one’s bid to become famous in modern society.
Thanks to the internet and TV today we’re breeding a generation of talentless twits who view fame as a right, not a privilege.
In the Dickensian era, society had great expectations of those who aspired to walk among the elite.
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Is anyone really that shocked at a rugby league player having a big night on the turps?
The arrest in Brisbane this morning of Cowboys captain Johnathan Thurston is, as Darren Lockyer said of his mate, a real pity for him and he’ll be cursing himself for (allegedly) pushing the boundaries with the cops.
But it’s neither corrupt like a salary cap rort nor a flagrant moral infraction like taking performance-enhancers. It’s a low-level bit of stupidity and right-minded people will assess it with a shrug.
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