Insofar as I pay attention to such things, celebrity phenomena such as Paris Hilton's incarceration or Britney Spears public meltdown have tended to be a source of idle amusement.
And yet.
There's a guy in an office on our floor editing a documentary about Amy Winehouse that is being put together by the record company as an extra for a live concert DVD. That is an insignificant thing in itself, but it has made me read the press on the apparent maelstrom of her private life with a little more attention than I might otherwise muster, and with the appreciation that there is a flesh and blood human being at the centre of it.
Reading like that it is so clear that the press cares for nothing but the spectacle itself, and would be vicariously delighted if she did manage to kill herself, that I can't help but feel grubby just following the coverage.
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