It’s hard not to be fascinated by extremely confident people.
Mostly, they’re celebrities, which is why they’re celebrities.
If you knew them on a personal basis they would make you feel sick with inadequacy, which is a weird psychological phenomenon because the relationship between someone’s belief in themselves and one’s own isn’t inversely proportional.
Even though the next person who conquers cliche mountain with the words ‘in these uncertain times’ deserves to be bludgeoned decisively, you can’t help but notice there are less shoulder-padded, big-haired Alexis Carringtons around these days.
The crop-clutching anxiety of Julie Andrews before ‘I have confidence in me’ (only she doesn’t) may have yielded to ‘I’ve got a secret’ Katie Holmes smirks (hubby’s is better) but great big ballsy showing-off seems inappropriate, when there are so many different ways smiles can be wiped off faces- wait, what are they even doing on there in the first place?
A British trait it may not be, but if Helen Mirren gets locked in a lavatory with Kate Winslet at a Christmas party, there’s only one of them the nation will be feeding cheese straws back to through the gaps.
I can’t really be bothered to read the interviews of entertainers any more, wanging on about how blessed they are or how much they love their exceptional or deliberately non-exceptional pets but last week I flicked the pages of two and it’s solely because they’ve spotted a giant self-love gap in the market.
The only things anyone knows about Nancy dell’Olio is that she was on Strictly Dancing and went out with Sven but no-one can get enough of her because she keeps telling them they can’t get enough of her: ‘No, you can’t leave the bedroom. You want me. Look at me. I’m stunning. You’re killing yourself with how stunning I am. Be quiet and take off your socks.’
Lady Gaga too- perma-weaving her own mythology in pantomime suits and being carried onto Grammy red carpets in giant perspex eggs. Never knowingly overheard saying, ‘Who, me?’ but stopped from throwing gossamer-gloved punches at ingrates who don’t genuflect, on a daily basis; making Madonna look like Gollum.
It’s the only thing left that’s shocking or interesting and from which you might want to learn. Interviewers need to strike all the, ‘What do you wear in bed?’ gumpf and extract from the famous the secret of their cock-surety.
Did your fantasticness lead you to believe in your fantasticness or is it your belief in your fantasticness that has made you fantastic? What part of you isn’t fanstastic? Does the level of your general fantasticness make the non-fantastic part really venal and miserable and almost capable of murder? Do you fear a back-lash for spreading the word of your fantasticness? Or do you just believe in it so whole-heartedly that nothing could de-fantasticate you?
Only now do I realise my soft spot for J-Lo is that she doesn’t have any soft spots. I’m more impressed by her chutzpah than by the technology that helped man walk on the moon- a mini portion of which she recently sampled at the American Music Awards.
In fact, so sure am I of her sureness that I’m going to ask her if I can insure her for the event next year because unlike Adele (who couldn’t attend this one due to surgery on her vocal chords) J-Lo would perform dead, with the vocal chord surgeon’s forceps still clamped around her tonsils.
While other 42-year old Moms-of-two were feeling a bit achey and taking to bed with their nagging self-doubts, this one was doing this:
… shortly before performing another number with Wi.Ll.i.am.i.am, picking up her own award, changing into another hot outfit, going to a club and giving her 24-year-old boyfriend lapdances (plural!)
I couldn’t get that body or that voice or those dance moves but the one thing I admire above all – that is way more in my reach, yet so mind-bendingly way beyond it- is the absolute, 100%, steel-girded belief she has that she won’t tip over on a dancing heel and make a thorough arse out of herself.
Which is, of course, exactly why she doesn’t.