“I’m sorry, that was probably inappropriate,” sang my attacker jovially, releasing me. My response was to take a big step back and squint suspiciously at him.
“Tom, James is like your BIGGEST FAN!” enthused one of the girls. “He’s like obsessed with your blog. He linked it on his site. He gets 600 visitors a day.”
Right. Firstly, I’ve seen ‘Misery’. I know what happens the moment you meet your ‘BIGGEST FAN’. You wake up tied to a bed with a three hundred pound woman smashing your ankles with a sledgehammer. Secondly, the fact that random people are now coming up to me in the street calling themselves my ‘biggest fan’ forces me to confront the fact that has been staring me in the face for weeks now: I am now a Minor Internet Celebrity. Naturally it’s not a complete surprise. I’ve known for a while that I’m a bit of a hero-figure amongst a wide subsection of the Oxford community (and beyond!). People look up to me. People read this blog and take it as gospel. In many cases I am become a beacon of light in the dark and cold existences of the people that fill this earth. I mean last night wasn’t an isolated occasion; in the past months a number of people – some friends, some complete strangers – have begun conversations with ‘Tom, your blog is so good’ or ‘Tom why haven’t you updated the blog’ or ‘Tom why haven’t you blogged about me/my party/the American election’ yet?’ or ‘Tom you are literally the coolest guy I have ever met’. Now usually I don’t trust people who bring stuff from The Internet up in real life. I still sort of think of this blog –and really the internet as a whole- as a guilty secret to never be discussed out loud, like masturbation or incest. I mean last night one of the girls said ‘blogged’ and ‘Chainsaw Zombie’ out loud and I physically winced – but the strange thing is that not all of these people are morbidly-obese-basement-dwelling-neckbeardy-goon-types. In fact very few of them are. Indeed, some of them are – dare I say it – ‘cool’.
For example it turns out that I may have met ‘my biggest fan’ at a house party held by his girlfriend (one of the girls) the other week; I don’t know for sure I was p drunk. Now this was a Party with a capital P. You know it’s going to be good when the Facebook invitation comes mass-mailed from a future ruler of one of the larger democracies on Earth (although the ruler in question wasn’t actually anywhere to be seen at the party itself which was a bit of a letdown). Anyway I showed up wearing a pink shirt and trakkie bs and everyone was dressed in suits, eating birthday cake with spoons, listening to music I didn’t know, and hanging out in a tent that had been set up IN THE LIVING ROOM. That’s how cool it was. Some serious Skins shit. I ended up talking to some dude in the living room who had to stop what he was doing to rub cocaine in his gums at which point I nodded into space, slipped on some imaginary sunglasses, and said ‘I.have.made.it’. Later on I was pushing stoned students onto the floor in a futile attempt to find my ipod which had fallen down a crack in the sofa when one of the girls wandered into the room, absolutely fucked on horse tranquilisers, saw me, hugged me, then cried ‘TOM I LOVE YOUR BLOG DO ONE ABOUT THIS PARTY’. Which leads me to suspect that this blogspot address and the words contained herein is the only reason I got invited to the Cool Party in the first place.
Not that I care about that. I mean in person I’m average at best. Many of my fans are far more likely to succeed in life than I am. Indeed it seems this blog is opening doors for me more than all of my aborted attempts to interact socially have thusfar. It gets me invited to parties and lets me hang out with the cultural cream of Oxford society. It gets me hugged in the street. It makes me new friends and reaffirms old relationships. And I’m sure that I could probably use ChainsawZombie to seduce a young starlet if I wanted to, in a kind of ‘Sure I’ll blog about you baby, I’ll make you INTERNET FAMOUS TOO letshavesex’. But I don’t really feel the need to. So it’s cool. The future ruling cultural elite of this country think that this blog – and probably me by extension – is literally the greatest thing since sliced bread. I shall try not to let it go to my head.
But before you start thinking ‘Man I wish I was like Tom’, be warned: there’s a drawback to being as internet popular me. The thing is, now that I HAVE all the fame and power I could possibly want I don’t know what to do with it. I’m reminded of the Spiderman quotation ‘with great power comes great responsibility’. I just don’t think that I’m responsible enough to bear the weight of the massive social kudos that has fallen upon me.
The thing is, I always wondered what it would be like if I was famous and well loved like my heroes Gandhi and Martin Luther King and Ricky Gervais. I mean, despite the occasional bouts of self-loathing and the whole crippling insecurity thing I kind of assume that I will be when I grow up. I’m just too talented and clever not to be. But I also realised the other day that in my imaginary picture of myself as a famous man, I am a completely different person. In my imagination I’ve suddenly metamorphosed into being about 18% more handsome, being the defi-defi-ition of a bad-boy, rocking an ice-dry wit and being able to seduce famous women (aim: whoever the Alexa Chung equivalent is in five years time) with a raise of an eyebrow. Other factors of Imaginary Famous Me include: wearing a trilby, sweet Nikes, constantly swinging into rooms on a rope. Whereas I realise now that if I do suddenly become a living legend my reaction to screaming fans and girls approaching me in the street will not be to wink casually, grin, sign book covers/boobs and then bed them. It will be to react exactly as I did when hugged by My First Biggest Fan – freeze solid like a rabbit in the headlights, rictus grin, narrow beads of sweat down the back of the neck, chattering teeth, immediate verbal constipation/diahhrea. I mean here was my perfect chance – a young man, a COOL INTELLIGENT YOUNG MAN, was staring up at me with love in his eyes, the love of somebody who has just met his own personal hero. He was expecting me to be wise and what did I do? I croaked ‘I write things on the internet yay’ in a silly voice and stared at him. “It is dangerous to let the public behind the scenes,” said Maugham “They are easily disillusioned and then they are angry with you, for it was the illusion they loved” and I worry that my underwhelming personal presence absolutely disillusioned little James’s faith in the world – and worse – his own faith in himself. Who knows what the repercussions of meeting me might be? I can see him going home and just tearing up all his books and slashing his wrists. Which would suck. Oh god I used my presence massively irresponsibly. Should I have been wackier? Should I have made a quip or something? Should I have been cool? Oh God being mildly internet famous is so hard no wonder Kurt Cobain shot himself. DAMNIT JAMES you have caused me to reinterpret my entire existence you fucker
Oh shit I just realised that my biggest fan and co will probably read this post. Well I guess it’s nice to have your personal hero writing 2000 words about meeting you. He’ll probably print this out and frame it and put it on his wall and tell people who wrote this post about him and then they will say ‘who?’ and he’ll try to describe me and completely forget what I look like because I am so nondescript. But this p much sums up the problem I have – I completely disassociated the Tom On The Blog with the Tom In Real Life. Which is a problem because people expect to see BlogTom (you know, cool sophisticated ladykiller) when in reality they get RealTom (quiet moody sarcastic borderline autistic). But how can this problem be solved? Do I change the blog to suit who I am in reality? No because then it would just be a few mumbled full stops and me typing ‘its fine Its Fine ITS FINE’ like the guy out of the The Shining. Or do I change myself to suit how I am on the blog? But surely that is worse!! It brings to mind the Updike quote ‘Fame is the mask that eats into the face beneath’. Or perhaps the Mel Brooks quote about being disappointing in person because ‘you can no longer be the edited essence of yourself’. See, I know quotes. I know quotes on the internet. But if you asked me for a quote in real life I would look blankly at you. Do I not really know any quotes? Am I just a quote blog poseur? oh fuck
I worry too much.
IN CONCLUSION What I have learnt from this experience is that Fame Is Hard. It’s really difficult to juggle artistic loyalty to yourself with a personal life while still respecting the wishes and dreams of your fans. Especially when you have Great Fans like this:
This is Tom who is my rowing pal. He always asks me when the blog will be updated. Last night at the bar he looked sadly at me for five minutes with his big puppy eyes because I hadn’t yet given him a little mention. So to please him I have included his photograph at the end of this post. I hope that he will be happier now.
Hey Guys If You Want Me to Include A Picture Of You On One Of My Posts Then Please Get In Touch Via The Comments Section. Also If You Have Any Requests For Things For Me To Write About Then Please Let Me Know And I Will Get Right On It!!!!!
Oh Fuck!!!!!!! i can’t believe I’ve started doing requests.. I always tell myself ‘don’t do anything that the fans ask you to do, they are all morons’ but no the taste of fame is in my mouth, now I just want to be loved regardless of the consequences. Please love me. Love me love me love me. Oh no Already I’m selling out artistically. Im like ricky gervais in the extras Christmas special. shit SOON I’LL BE DOING ADVERTS FOR NESCAFÉ AND WRITING WHOLE POSTS ABOUT THE GREAT TIME I HAD AT MACDONALDS this sucks
Ok time to go out and buy some milk. Holy shit I hope I don’t get mobbed on the way there *slips on dark sunglasses*
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P.S. guys there’s news I HAVE A NEW GIRLFRIEND that’s right suckaz tom is hooked up that’s your news for today ☺ oh god I hope she won’t read this blog and think that fame has changed me and say ‘Tom it used to be about the blog’ and I’ll say GET OUTTA MY FACE and hurl a bottle of whiskey at her and she’ll run crying from my dressing room. Because that would be awful
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