WOEBOT

Some parts of London have a reputation for being mediatized. There's an unwritten rule that dictates the way people in Soho and Notting Hill Gate are supposed to behave around famous people. The rule is that you look once and then look away. You're not supposed to approach famous people and ask for their autographs. I suppose the assumption is that you're working in the same business as them and that you should both understand their need to go about their daily lives unbothered by intrusion. Also you should be cool enough to be blase about their presence. It always fascinates me seeing things like The Beatles being mobbed at Heathrow, or Bowie greeting hordes of fans at Kings Cross Station as the Thin White Duke, the crowds of fans in Leicester Square greeting Britney, and even things like shops dedicated to selling autographed pictures of stars; because there is such a stark contrast to these famous people's reception to the way they're handled in the "mediatized" environment.

And don't think for even half a second that I'm being disparaging about the "common" reaction "normal people" have. Cos I'm much worse than most. My pulse races when I see a celebrity. I'm quick when it comes to spotting them (even really obscure people, like ancient soap stars everyone has forgotten about and who look thinner and haggard) and I'll be honest, I'm enthralled by their auras. On the one hand it's a strictly visceral reaction to the materialisation of deity, on the other there's a more intellectual curiosity. Seeing Celebrities up close gives one the opportunity to examine and appraise them to try and figure out the mechanics and psychology behind their self-creation, I suppose in part to claim those tactics as one's own, but also so as to deconstruct one's own manipulation by this voodoo we call culture. I know it might seem trivial and intrusive, but hey I am trivial and intrusive.

This weekend I had a couple of close brushes with famous people that I couldn't help but feel were illuminating. Waiting to push Dooey on the swings I noticed the little boy who was being held by the woman beside me was quite divine looking, wearing the cutest hat. Dooey and I cooed over him, and then I noticed that the woman was Stella McCartney. Immediately I got stressed out. She deserved to be left to enjoy her precious time with her son in peace. So I clocked her once, she was wearing a fabulous bell-shaped grey long-coat and then looked away. But then I'm stuck standing beside her for 5 minutes as we swing our children. Dooey screaming at me, "FASTER", and then becomes oblivious to me working away, except when I tickle her. And I can't help but absorb what's going on beside me. Stella calls her baby "Milla"- is delighted by how scrumptious he is, takes photos of her on her mobile phone, screams "Mare" for her sister to come over.

Later I couldn't help but reflect on her character. She was very firm with the baby that it had had enough time on the swings, that other people needed a turn. This was done with great force, very vocally and demonstrably, you'll laugh but it felt resoundingly like a cosmic point was being made about equality. "Blimey". I thought, "I'd better get Dooey off the swings." Where's that come from, that drive? The cynic might say that it's over-compensation for being spectacularly wealthy and influential. Like the way Madonna grinds humility into poor wee Dolores. But it's also extremely honorable and high-minded, maybe in the way you'd consider "The People" if you were the daughter of the figurehead of the counter-culture. You think I'm making this up? Making broad sweeping theories on the basis of practically nought? Well there was this too, on the way out of the park we bumped into her again, buying poppies off a slightly doddery ex-serviceman with real verve. That confirmed my judgement, I thought.

I've made a bit of mileage out of "Media Butchers" before, got a few laughs out of my mates. If you missed the gag the first time around, here's the coup: Why does everything have its own Media profile as an adjunct? What's wrong with being a plumber, why do so many people in London (especially) become "Media Plumbers". Plumbers to the rich, with articles on them in The Observer. Hence "Media Butchers". I know two "Media Butchers" and I was visiting one the same afternoon I was, like a creep, Stella-watching. Dooey was an my shoulders, then she wanted me to carry to her in my arms so I could point out the cuts of meat to her and in the transition she dropped Corolle her dolly. A very nice young man craned over and picked the doll up. "Say thank you to the nice man, Dooey" I said, and she did. Americans will now feel at sea, because Will Young is anything but known off these shores, but to clue them in a little, he won one of those TV Pop Stars competitions, then rather bravely came out of the closet.

I reckon Will Young is, in the vein of many politicians, your classic "baby-kisser". He's great at buttering people up. He clearly recognised the girl behind the counter too, and asked after her. I noticed Will also looked quite gauche and ill at ease, and no that that wasn't because I was examining him. He's not a supremely confident bloke, feels quite exposed in everyday situations. Wasn't that nice of him to pick up Dooey's doll? Outside I told Dooey who he was (blank expression) and was kind of sad to reflect upon the fact that when she's older he may just be an inconsequential footnote in the History of Pop. It's not like having met The Beatles as a child quite is it?