In a development that has sent the nation’s chattering classes into a paroxysm of moral outrage and ill-disguised glee, it has emerged that pop phenomenon Ariana Grande and her former SpongeBob SquarePants co-star Ethan Slater have called it quits. The news, delivered via the usual channels of anonymous sources and carefully curated Instagram deletions, has triggered a feeding frenzy among London’s paparazzi, who have been spotted lurking outside Pret A Manger with the predatory desperation of seagulls eyeing a discarded chip.
Let us pause, reader, to consider the sheer absurdity of the tableau. Here we have two young people, both of whom have spent the better part of their lives performing elaborate fictions for our entertainment, now subject to the grim spectacle of their private dissolution being dissected for public consumption. The UK press, never one to miss an opportunity for high-minded hypocrisy, has been quick to decry the very celebrity culture they so enthusiastically lubricate. “It’s a sad reflection on our times,” harrumph the same organs that have, mere hours earlier, splashed the couple’s holiday photos across their pages with the reverence of a medieval monk illuminating a sacred text.
But let us not be too harsh. After all, what would the British news cycle do without the steady drip-feed of celebrity breakups to distract us from the crumbling infrastructure, the creaking NHS, the fact that Thames Water is apparently run by a man who thinks pipes are things you smoke? Ariana and Ethan, you have given us a brief respite from the existential dread, and for that we should be grateful.
Yet the language used to frame this separation is instructive. We are told that the split is “amicable,” a euphemism that in celebrity parlance means “our lawyers have drafted a joint statement that ensures neither of us loses a Netflix deal.” We are informed that both parties are “focusing on their careers,” as if the end of a relationship is merely a recalibration of one’s professional priorities. And of course, the perennial favourite: “They remain friends.” Because nothing says friendship like issuing a press release through a publicist and never speaking to each other again.
Meanwhile, on the streets of London, the paparazzi huddle in vans, their telephoto lenses trained on any car that might contain a famous face. They are the foot soldiers of this bizarre economy, exchanging dignity for the chance to capture a tear, a frown, a hand held in the wrong place. And we, the consumers, click and scroll and share, our digital fingers reaching out to absorb the emotional labour of strangers. It is a transactional intimacy, a counterfeit closeness.
And what of the UK press’s hand-wringing? It is theatre, pure and simple. The same newspapers that decry the intrusion of paparazzi are the ones that bid for the exclusive interviews. The same columnists who tut-tut about the erosion of privacy are the ones mining the couple’s past for salacious details. It is a dance as old as Fleet Street itself: two step forward to condemn, one step back to cash in.
So let us raise a glass to Ariana and Ethan. May their separate journeys be filled with personal growth and lucrative brand endorsements. And may the rest of us, in our quiet moments of reflection, remember that the breakups of celebrities are not news. They are a mirror, held up to our own collective loneliness, our desperate need to believe that someone, somewhere, is having a worse time than we are. Cheers, you gorgeous, tragic fools. You keep the machine running.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Hendrick’s and a copy of the Daily Mail. Duty calls.
