By Rory Winston
Photos by Dimitrios Kambouris/ Getty Images
The dope, the skinny, the lowdown, the dirt… Ever since antiquity, we’ve been consumed by a need to know ‘what’s going down’ with those who are ‘higher up.’ We want hearsay confirmed, laundry aired, scandals unearthed, calumny dispelled; we hanker for a behind-the-scenes look at our celebrities, craving access to exclusive realms. We want to be privy to the private lives of public figures. And – more than anything – we yearn to unveil the inner workings of the very legends that we have so painstakingly shrouded in mystery. Having deified and worshipped mortals, we, paradoxically, wish to see them undone – exposed as the sordidly ordinary human beings they are. In an age devoid of belief in the supernatural, the deconstruction of celebs has become a means of transcendence. Building gods with planned obsolescence, we take pleasure in replacing them, proving again and again that they are no better than us. In this world of fleeting rapture, the gossip columnist is high priest.