Grandma is Gaga

A secret vice of mine is the occasional foray into reading about celebrity life. Who’s married to who, who’s divorcing who, who’s starring in this or that forthcoming film, who’s feuding with whom after being pictured wearing the same dress or holding hands with the same man, who’s checking into* rehab for this or that or other life-threatening or envy-inducing addiction.

Call it an antidote to my otherwise fairly impeccable left-on Guardian-reading credentials if you like. Or maybe I just like looking at pictures of Brad Pitt and Kevin Spacey. Either way, quite what the fascination with celebrities is I cannot tell you for sure, although I can make a few stab-in-the-dark guesses. Escapism for one. Don’t we all, just sometimes, dream of a life where we are set loose from the shackles of crust-earning and free to roam when and where (and with whomsoever) the fancy takes us? Attraction for another. Not all celebrities are beautiful and glamorous in the traditional sense of that word (step up there again, Mr divinely-appealing-but-not-actually-really-handsome-as-such Spacey) but many of them possess an indefinable yet palpable charisma to the extent that it leaps out of the page or screen and into our collective cortex. Sartorial sensationalism for a third. A non-stop carnival of frocks, shoes, skirts, shirts, suits, handbags and hats to envy or scorn is never wrong.

I do also appreciate that celebrities are there to entertain us in whatever shape or form is their chosen milieu. Whether that talent is demonstrated by the ability to conjure heart squeezing emotion from us by the portrayal of a finely wrought character on the big screen or by the flashing of gussets and silicone-enhanced assets falling out of night clubs is perhaps only a means whereby we keep a running quality control tally. But entertaining us through giving their children ridiculous names seems to bring fresh new meaning to the old expression “life as art”. Especially as they’re not all primarily known as comedians. Why celebrities think it’s a Good Idea to call their children things like Gorgonzola Albert Sugar Plum is anybody’s guess. (Or Gasp to his friends).

To be fair on this score, it’s not just celebrities that burden their offspring with ridiculous names. Playgrounds, offices and workplaces the world over are, I suspect, populated with more than their complement of Geek Boys, Big Noses, Einsteins, Dopeys and Lightenings, nicknames bestowed with a kind of love upon the deserving, disarming or plain incompetently adorable. Affectionate pet names originate and are nurtured in the home too, sometimes following the bearer into nursery, school and beyond.

My own daughter, Rhona, is primarily known to herself and others by her nickname Roo. The genesis of this tallies almost completely with her arrival upon the air-breathing realm when visitors to my maternity hospital bed brought the newborn and I a present of two home-made knitted stuffed toys – Kanger and Roo from Winnie the Pooh. Katy and Rhona, Kanger and Roo? It stuck, for her anyway if not me, and Roo she is to most of the world. As Roo learned to speak, her childish tongue found Mummy with no problem but couldn’t quite get to grips with pronouncing the name of her wonderful Grandma. It came out, quite literally and to the great amusement of us all, as Gaga.

And Gaga does Grandma remain, even if by some time-travelling sleight of hand the Roo herself will be twenty next month.


*Small semantics aside – besides aeroplanes and ferry terminals, what else do people “check into” apart from rehab?