Kevin Myers: Sting -- the Cliff Richard of his generation -- has launched a bag made from elephant dung
IT WAS the kind of story that is guaranteed to bring out the Charles Manson-Incredible Hulk in me. Sting -- the Cliff Richard of his generation -- last week launched a bag made from elephant dung.
And no sooner have I typed those words than I rise in a trance, reach for my chainsaw and wander off to wherever it is that Sting hangs out, determined to slice off his chicken giblets before I behead him and put his skull on a pole outside my plutonium-leaking nuclear-power station that opts to burn furious quantities of coal whenever it detects the atmospheric CO2 levels dropping.
For Sting personifies the conjoined cultures of celebrity, of faddish ideas, of shameless posturing, of modish tokenism and of unashamed smugness, to which unofficial religion millions subscribe. The power of this creed of countless demigods was perfectly summed up in a letter to the 'Guardian' after the almost simultaneous deaths of Yasser Arafat and the British DJ John Peel, which mourned the passing of these great men, but rejoiced that they were in heaven together. (And no doubt, in the soya-socialism hereafter that awaits 'Guardian' readers, listening to thrilling bed-time stories of equality from Polly Toynbee and breakfast homilies from Jill Tweedie on the evils of vulva-envy amongst little boys.)