Paparazzi Quotes

I believe in equality for everyone, except reporters and photographers.

Just three words? Nothing about his physical health? His equipment? His supplies?' 'You got me,' she said. 'He left a detailed status report. I just decided to lie for no reason.' 'Funny,' Venkat said. 'Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out.' 'Oh no,' Mindy said. 'I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I'd have to use my master's degree for something else.' 'I remember when you were shy.' 'I'm space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.

I think there are different kinds of fame. There's fame which is plastic and about paparazzi and money and being rich, and then there's the fame, which is when no one knows who you are but everyone wants to know who you are.

You really don't need to be a celebrity or have money or have the paparazzi following you around to be famous.

I don’t like to share my personal life… it wouldn’t be personal if I shared it.

Despite the aweful paparazzi drama that people seem to believe, i am still just like you...i obsess over hot guys, get told what to do, and go to school. Believe what you want, but i am NORMAL...whatever that means :)

It is possibly worth mentioning at this point that Mr. Young thought that paparazzi was a kind of Italian linoleum.

On the track, I can escape the paparazzi, the groupies … my demons. The only fear I have is that which I’ve created for myself, that I can control with a swerve of the wheel or a press of the pedal …

He was a reporter for The Adversary. It was his job to stalk people. He was one step above paparazzi and a couple below common variety garden snake." - Jae-Sun Fields, pg. 28

Paparazzi arrived for Hugh [Grant]. We had to stand under a tree and smile for them. Photographer: 'Hugh, could you look less -- um --' Hugh: 'Pained?

But nowadays everybody's a comedian, even the weather girls and continuity announcers. We laugh at everything. Not intelligently anymore, not with sudden shock, astonishment, or revelation, just relentlessly and meaninglessly. No more rain showers in the desert, just mud and drizzle everywhere, occasionally illuminated by the flash of paparazzi.

Prom was more about acting out some weird facsimile of adulthood: dress up like a tacky wedding party, hold hands and behave like a couple even if you've never dated, and observe the etiquette of Gilded Age debutantes thrust into modern celebrity: limos, red carpets and a constant stream of paparazzi, played by parents, teachers, and hired photo hacks.

Zeke and I struggled to get to the dressing room so we could get changed. But we were mobbed by people who wanted to congratulate us and tell us how talented and terrific we were.

I have a confession,” Kai mumbled into her hair. She tilted her head to peer at him. “Careful. There could be paparazzi hiding behind these trees. Any confessions might end up on tomorrow’s newsfeeds.” He pretended to consider this for a moment, eyes twinkling, before he said, “I could live with that.” She

Get a load of this one... I heard that she actually thought paparazzi was the last name of one particular Italian photographer. Apparently she said something like, 'Who is this Paparazzi guy and why didn't they arrest him years ago after he killed Princess Diana?

Prom was more about acting out some weird facsimile of adulthood: dress up like a tacky wedding party, hold hands and behave like a couple even if you’ve never dated, and observe the etiquette of Gilded Age debutantes thrust into modern celebrity: limos, red carpets, and a constant stream of paparazzi, played by parents, teachers, and hired photo hacks.

At the end, you find the beginning.

Now it was as if everybody had become their own fan. Everybody was their own paparazzi.

Beautiful things demand touch. Hence the taped floors at art museums and the roped boundaries between paparazzi and celebrities on red carpets.

Any luck finding me a house?” “I have four or five that are up your alley. I’ll bring sheets on them tomorrow.” “Make sure you get one with a yard. And find out the city code on owning a chicken.” There was a long silence on the other end. The man had organized sex parties, bribed paparazzi, and given Cole his pee for a studio drug test, yet this is what gave him pause.

Whatever happens next, I'm sure it's going to be a great adventure.

Once I saw Paris Hilton leaving a restaurant in Hollywood and the paparazzi cameras were all over her. It looked so unpleasant. It wasn't because she didn't look sensational - she was that perfect combination of fashionable and slutty - it was because the paparazzi guys were shouting these insanely rude and intrusive questions at her. Like, asking her who she was sleeping with and stuff. I was kind of interested in the answer, so I was glad they asked, but it was still gross.

I sat down at his tombstone, and I cried out everything within me. I cried until I felt depleted. I did not say a single thing. I did not feel any need. I had talked to Harry in my head and my heart for so long, for so many years, that it felt as if we transcended words. He had been the one to help me, to support me, through everything in my life. And now I needed him more than ever. So I went to him the only way I knew how. I let him heal me as only he could. And then I stood up, dusted off my skirt, and turned around. There, in the trees, were two paparazzi taking my photo. I was neither angry nor flattered. I simply didn’t care. It cost so much, caring. I didn’t have any currency to spend on it.

I'm a teenager, and we mess up sometimes.

If you look into somebody's soul by accident, you feel a bit embarrassed about cashing in.

If paparazzi armed with telephoto lenses have long been the scourge of the rich and famous; civilian drones are fast becoming the new menace to the ordinary man on the street.

A paparazzi is merely an extremely nosy nobody with a camera—and bills to pay.

Gain fame, and the paparazzi or media waits and watches for them to slip, just to shame their name.

How about we really steal Brittany's thunder by giving the London paparazzi an exclusive?" "What sort of exclusive?" "Let's show them how much I love Morgan Abbot." "Love?" Was I really hearing this? "You... are in love with me?" "Totally. One hundred percent head over heels in love with you, Morg. Have been ever since you led me on that goofy chase around the White House.

You're supposed to raise your friends up, not be happy when they fail.

I’m space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.

Only in absolute silence could he simply exist and not be reminded of who and what he was, or according to his critics, who and what he wasn’t. But finding a space that wasn’t dominated by the commotion of a television set, the rapid clicks of paparazzi cameras, or the murmuring of a hungry crowd was very rare.

I was used to being disliked, but nothing prepared me for being mobbed by paparazzi as I was coming out of a restaurant, having them casually ask things like “How do you feel about the fact that people think you’re a whore?

But any idiot can see you two are gaga for one another.” As in Lady Gaga? Because I do enjoy riding Wade’s disco stick and playing our own version of poker face. And even though I’m terrified we’ll wind up having a bad romance, leaving me to just dance while watching Wade ride off into the sunset with Alejandro as the paparazzi followed in a frenzy, I can’t seem to stop myself from loving him. I shook the nonsense out of my head.

The hover swooped to the edge of the street. The magnets hummed as it lowered itself to the ground. "Shall I wait here for your return?" "Please," he said, threading his arms through the sleeves and tugging up the zipper. "I shouldn't be long." He considered giving a specific time - If I'm not back in an hour, then I've probably been cornered by paparazzi and screaming girls and you should send the royal security squad after me. But even thinking it made him feel melodramatic, so he just pulled the hood over his brow and stepped out of the hover, dragging Nainsi's pear-shaped body after him.

Memory is just an alternate version of reality.

Sometimes you have to control your own life and to do that you have to put your own needs first.

Being discreet has never been your strong suit.

Change happens whether you want it to or not. And sometimes, like now, it's for the best.

Mrs. Shah was a media favorite and the paparazzi loved her but only because she could be entertainingly obnoxious with her potty mouth and caustic mannerisms

Mrs. Hargrove has arranged for paparazzi to be here tonight. She tipped the photographers off to the location of a dinner that Fred arranged for us on New Year’s Eve, too.

As she would later admit, she ‘occasionally set up a paparazzi photo or let info slip out to the press’.135

Not a ridiculous amount, like the paparazzi on Taylor Swift ca. 2016.

Reality television makes stars of ordinary people, and the paparazzi’s long lenses make ordinary people out of stars.

This must be how Jesus felt before they put him on the cross," Lucy said. "Surrounded by paparazzi and sex workers.

Funny,” Venkat said. “Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out.” “Oh no,” Mindy said. “I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I’d have to use my master’s degree for something else.” “I remember when you were shy.” “I’m space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.” “Yeah, yeah,” Venkat said. “Just send the e-mail.” “Already sent.

I also really liked God, or at least the idea of God as he was presented to me, because God was a little bit of a queen, too.* I mean, think about it: He sits up in heaven on a gold-ass throne with a bunch of baroque naked babies flying around him and demands that you worship him and sing him lots of songs or else he will destroy your entire city and kill all your relatives. Talk about a diva. I mean, like, the Old Testament is pretty much just a litany of all the times God threw a diva tantrum in his dressing room because one of his fans coughed during his performance. He’s like Naomi Campbell constantly throwing his phone at the paparazzi (by the way, I support you, Naomi).

I will arrange for you to be snapped by paparazzi eating a bowl of wonton noodles at a dai pai dong.* This will do wonders for your image, and I can already picture the headline: “Social Goddess Unafraid to Dine with the Masses.

Images are taking over, and writers are a dying breed. The Norman Mailers of today are reduced to writing pun-filled captions for paparazzi photos. Blogs--which were threatening enough to professional writers--are being replaced by video blogs. We writers need to embraced the Second Commandment as our rallying cry for the importance of words. In a literally biblical world, all publications would look like the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Or the way it used to look, anyway.

It is an amazing gift to be able to recognize that the things that make you the happiest are so much easier to grasp than you thought. There is such freedom in being able to celebrate and appreciate the unique moments that recharge you and give you peace and joy. Sure, some people want red carpets and paparazzi. Turns out I just want banana Popsicles dipped in Malibu rum. It doesn't mean I'm a failure at appreciating the good things in life. It means I'm successful in recognizing what the good things in life are for m

Back then there was this wonderful thing called “twilight sleep” where women were given anesthesia at the onset of labor and woke up with a baby. Today “twilight sleep” is when you pass out on your bed while looking at paparazzi photos of Robert Pattinson eating an omelet.

David: “How the hell did you get dressed so fast?” Renee: “How do you know I didn’t streak naked through the lobby and had clothes waiting for me in the car?” David: “Heh. Good thing the archaeological paparazzi didn’t have a team on duty.” Renee: “I’d have taken ’em out. My whole body is a weapon.

Voleva mostrare al mondo i lati opposti della città che non dormiva mai. Voleva raccontare la sua storia attraverso i propri occhi, le proprie lenti. Molte persone avevano cercato di fare lo stesso. Nessuno aveva mostrato il lato davvero oscuro che si celava dietro i musical della classe media e delle celebrità che ammiccavano con falsi sorrisi ai paparazzi. O forse ce n’erano stati altri. Ma a lui non importava. Non voleva farlo per gli altri ma per sé. Comunque non aveva nessuno, a parte Rafe, a cui mostrare le foto. In ogni caso voleva farlo bene. Nonno Kevan aveva immortalato la sua vita con la macchina fotografica; era tempo che Pierce fotografasse la sua.

I had built a life where nothing failed expectations—bills were paid, heaters kept heating, roofs never leaked. We could be framed and shot by the Good Housekeeping paparazzi, and they would never catch a brick out of place, a shrub overgrown, or our boys in shoes or pants a half size too small. Our life was perfect, until I ruined everything.

But nowadays everybody’s a comedian, even the weather girls and continuity announcers. We laugh at everything. Not intelligently anymore, not with sudden shock, astonishment, or revelation, just relentlessly and meaninglessly. No more rain showers in the desert, just mud and drizzle everywhere, occasionally illuminated by the flash of paparazzi.

New year, a new chapter and new possiblities

You need to take control of your own destiny.

You never know what you'll find out about yourself when you stretch outside your comfort zone.

All truly famous people wish fame had a switch.

On the day Princess Diana died, a group of students had gathered before a lecture, talking about what they had heard on the radio that morning, repeating “paparazzi” over and over, all sounding knowing and cocksure, until, in a lull, Okoli Okafor quietly asked, “But who exactly are the paparazzi? Are they motorcyclists?” and instantly earned himself the nickname Okoli Paparazzi

Sidney: The woman took a seat to reorganize, and Lucy cataloged an almost perfectly symmetrical face with cheekbones that could part hair. The woman's pale face hid underneath the lip-gloss and mascara that ran interference, distracting onlookers from a sagging spirit. She was dressed in a baggie sweater and jeans that made her look like a casual starlet waiting for the paparazzi to snap her photo.

We journeyed from different corners of the country to be there. We came together for her. Because we loved her. In a hundred different ways we adored her. We wanted her light to shine on us. We wanted to make it special for her, so she’d see how much we loved her. At a hen party, the bride-to-be takes on an almost celestial, golden status. That weekend, she was the celebrity, and we were her fans and paparazzi.

I have one thing on my mind, and it’s to get that fucker off Ollie immediately. Not that it really matters, but Sarah’s betrayal was private, unseen—thank fuck. But if Ollie is photographed with another guy so soon into our “relationship”, it will be very, very public. Let’s be real, Silas. This has nothing to do with paparazzi. Okay, Ollie might not be mine, but she isn’t going to be someone else’s, that’s for damn sure. Mine.

I knew this side of Nixon wouldn’t stay at the surface for long, that it was only visible because he was fresh out of rehab. Because he was sober. Because there weren’t paparazzi and models and half-naked groupies in his dressing room. I knew it was temporary, but instead of scaring me, it only made me feel like this glimpse of what he could be was private…precious. And God help me, I wanted it to be permanent. I wanted him to be real.

What can you possibly say about Rome? That it's eternal? That all roads lead to it? That it wasn't built in a day? That when there you should do as the locals do? Please. For millennia, Rome has embodied and repelled every cliché, description, and act of comprehension or explanation applied to it. As a city, it has been built and destroyed and rebuilt by - and has celebrated and signified and outlasted - caesars and barbarians and popes and Fascists and prophets and artists and pilgrims and schemers and migrants and lovers and fools.

Il successo non è camminare sul tappeto rosso e avere i paparazzi sempre al collo, il successo è un participio passato, è un verbo che semplicemente le dice: è successo! Qualcosa è successo. È possibile! È la dimostrazione che è possibile far succedere le cose, far andare la vita dove vuoi tu. È successo può essere anche solo riuscire a coltivare un bell'orto, o dipingere la casa del colore che vuoi tu, o riuscire a girare l'Europa a piedi. Il successo è solo e soltanto far succedere le cose. Lei si prepari, perché si vede benissimo che ne farà succedere tante.

Fame had kept me from getting laid that night. Fame would make it so other people would bother me, follow me around with cameras, be all up in my shit, keep me from doing what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. Fame could even potentially kill me. It killed a lot of people: John Lennon, Princess Diana, Selena.

MINDY READ the Morse code aloud. “ROLLED. FIXING NOW.” “What? That’s it?” Venkat said over the phone. “That’s all he said,” she reported, cradling the phone as she typed out an e-mail to the list of interested parties. “Just three words? Nothing about his physical health? His equipment? His supplies?” “You got me,” she said. “He left a detailed status report. I just decided to lie for no reason.” “Funny,” Venkat said. “Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out.” “Oh no,” Mindy said. “I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I’d have to use my master’s degree for something else.” “I remember when you were shy.” “I’m space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.” “Yeah, yeah,” Venkat said. “Just send the e-mail.” “Already sent.

Mindy read the Morse code aloud. "ROLLED. FIXING NOW." "What? That's it?" Venkat said over the phone. "That's all he said," she reported, cradling the phone as she typed out an e-mail list of interest parties. "Just three words? Nothing about his physical health? His equipment? His supplies?" "You got me," she said. "He left a detailed status report. I just decided to lie for no reason." "Funny," Venkat said. "Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out." "Oh no," Mindy said. "I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I'd have to use my master's degree for something else." "I remember when you were shy." "I'm the space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job." "Yeah, yeah," Venkat said. "Just send the e-mail." "Already sent.

Despite how progressive America claimed to be, there was still a sexist double standard quietly underpinning everything. She and Jeff were proof of it, like in those scientific studies where they treated twin babies the same except for one key variable, then tracked how it affected them. The variable here was that Jeff was a boy and Sam was a girl, and even when they did the exact same thing, people reacted to them differently. If the paparazzi caught Jeff on an expensive shopping spree, he was splurging for a special occasion, while Samantha was spoiled. If pictures surfaced of Jeff visibly drunk and stumbling out of a bar, he was blowing off some much-needed steam. Samantha was a wild party girl. If Jeff talked back to the paparazzi, he was simply being firm, protecting his privacy. Samantha was a ruthless bitch.

When people become famous, they are often objectified, discussed, and ridiculed with little consideration for who they are as people. Fans and critics feel as though they have the right to comment on everything celebrities do with little regard to the costs that those in the crosshairs of attention will bear. The cost that celebrities pay for the supposed benefits of being rich and famous is ongoing scrutiny and a lack of privacy. Most people do not understand or appreciate the pressure that results from fame, even though public meltdowns—such as the night that Britney Spears shaved her head in front of numerous photographers—are highly publicized. The public’s obsession with obtaining information about the famous puts serious pressure on those people’s lives, as the paparazzi’s role in Princess Diana’s death so brutally reminds us.20 Few people have sympathy for the kinds of stress that gossip places on public figures who have high status and wealth. At a distance, famous people seem invulnerable.

Maybe that’s his game, though,” I said. “The hunt for one soul, again and again.” “Then why are you still here?” “The other women lived with him for a long time too. Maybe he wants to wait until my defenses are down, and then-“ “Wow, Clea, you are so jaded. You found your soulmate. People wait their whole lives for this. It’s the most amazing thing in the world, and it’s happened to you. Can’t you just accept it and be happy?” What she said made sense, but… I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Without looking at Rayna, I said, “He doesn’t act like he’s my soulmate. Sometimes I think maybe he liked the other women more. I think maybe he wishes I was one of them.” Rayna was silent. This was something I’d never heard. “This is seriously, deep,” she finally said. “You’re feeling insecure because you’re jealous…of yourself.” “I didn’t say I was jealous…” “You’d rather think he’s a serial killer than risk being with him and finding out he doesn’t like you as much as he liked…you?” She scrunched her brow and thought, then tried again. “Yous? Anyway, you know what I mean-the other yous.” “Forget the jealousy thing, okay? There are other reasons to doubt him too. Ben doesn’t trust him at all. He thinks Sage is some kind of demon. He said there’s a spirit called an incubus that comes to women in their sleep, and-“ “Of course Ben said that.” Rayna shrugged. “He’s jealous.” “Of what?” “Ben’s crazy in love with you, Clea. I’ve been saying that forever!” “And I’ve been ignoring you forever, because it’s not true. You just want it to be true because it’s romantic.” “Did you not see the pictures of you from Rio?” I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about?” Rayna pulled out her phone. “Honestly, I don’t know how you survive without Google Alerts on yourself. The paparazzi were out in full force for Carnival.” She played with the phone for a minute, then handed it to me. It showed a close-up of Ben and me at the Sambadrome that could only have been taken with a serious zoom. I felt violated. “I hate this,” I muttered. “Why? You look cute!” “I hate that people are sneaking around taking pictures of me!” “I know you do. Ignore that for the moment. Just scroll through.” There were five pictures of Ben and me. Four of them were moments I vividly remembered, pictures of the two of us facing each other, laughing as we did our best to imitate the dancers shimmying and strutting down the parade route. The fifth one I didn’t remember. I wouldn’t have; in it I had my camera up to my face and was concentrating on lining up the perfect shot. Ben stood behind me, but he wasn’t wearing the goofy smile he’d had in the other pictures. He was staring right at me with those big puppydog eyes, and his smile wasn’t goofy at all, but… “Uh-huh,” Rayna said triumphantly. She had climbed into my bed was looking at the picture over my shoulder. “Knew that one would stop you. There is only one word for the look on that boy’s face, Clea: love-struck. Which is probably why a bunch of websites are reporting he’s about to propose.” “What?” “Messenger. Don’t kill the messenger.” I looked back at the picture. Ben did look love-struck. Very love-struck. “It could just be the picture,” I said. “They caught him at a weird moment.” “Yeah, a weird moment when he thought no one was looking so he showed how he really felt.” I gave Rayna back the phone and shook my head. “Ben and I are like brother and sister. That’s gross.” “Hey, I read Flowers in the Attic. It was kind of hot.” “Shut up!” I laughed. “I’m just saying, think about it. Really think about it. Is it that hard to believe that Ben’s in love with you?

In February, after not getting to see the boys for weeks and weeks, completely beside myself with grief, I went to plead to see them. Kevin wouldn't let me in. I begged him. Jayden James was five months old and Sean Preston was seventeen months old. I imagined their not knowing where their mother was, wondering why she didn't want to be with them. I wanted to get a battering ram to get to them. I didn't know what to do. The paparazzi watched it all happen. I can't describe the humiliation I felt. I was concerned. I was out being chased, like always, by these men waiting for me to do something they could photograph. And so that night I gave them some material. I went into a hair salon, and I took the clippers, and I shaved off all my hair. Everyone thought it was hilarious. Look how crazy she is! Even my parents acted embarrassed by me. But nobody seemed to understand that I was simply out of my mind with grief. My children had been taken away from me. With my head shaved, everyone was scared of me, even my mom. No one would talk to me anymore because I was too ugly. My long hair was a big part of what people liked-I knew that. I knew a lot of guys thought long hair was hot. Shaving my head was a way of saying to the world: Fuck you. You want me to be pretty for you? Fuck you. You want me to be good for you? Fuck you. You want me to be your dream girl? Fuck you. I'd been the good girl for years. I'd smiled politely while TV show hosts leered at my breasts, while American parents said I was destroying their children by wearing a crop top, while executives patted my hand condescendingly and second-guessed my career choices even though I'd sold millions of records, while my family acted like I was evil. And I was tired of it. At the end of the day, I didn't care. All I wanted to do was see my boys. It made me sick thinking about the hours, the days, the weeks I missed with them. My most special moments in life were taking naps with my children, That's the closest I've ever felt to God-taking naps with me precious babies, smelling their hair, holding their tiny hands.

And yes, come to the press preview. That way if anything goes wrong, I can throw you to the paparazzi while I make my escape.

It was a gift from her husband, Prince Albert--though he neglected to wrap it--in 1852, and soon Queen Victoria had dubbed Balmoral, a remote 50,000-acre Scottish estate, “my dear paradise in the highlands.” For generations since, usually in summer, the royals have immersed themselves in local culture: donning kilts, downing kippers and eggs and waking each morning to a lone piper playing outside the Queen’s bedroom window. Removed from many of their daily duties and the paparazzi, the royals are free to mix with the locals: e.g., playing in cricket matches organized by Prince Edward and showing off their Scottish folk-dancing skills at an annual ball for the estate’s workers. Sound like fun? You can do it too. For many years the Queen has rented out several historic cottages on the grounds--some within 300 yards of the castle--for up to $2,000 a week.

I wish we could put Nathan and Ellena and Travis on our walk.” Ashley sighed. “It just doesn’t seem complete without them.” “They’re on our walk.” Taking Ashley’s notebook, Roo calmly pointed to the neatly lettered, neatly organized tour script. “See? Right here. Magnolia Gallery. Opera house fire.” “That’s not what I mean. Each of them really, really loved somebody very much. That’s what I want people to remember.” Ashley put a hand over her heart. “The loves that never die.” “The loves that made people die.” Parker downed another swig of cough medicine, capped the bottle, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, Ash, but that’s not the way of the world. If you tell their real stories, people will only remember all the dumb mistakes they made. Like…oh, you know…torture and murder and arson and treason and--” “Ah, yes,” Roo acknowledged coolly. “Parker Wilmington, the last of the true romantics.” Retrieving her notebook, Ashley hugged it to her chest. Her sigh was more wistful this time. “I know you’re right. I mean, we can’t ever give away their real secrets. Not on the Walk of the Spirits…not to anybody…not ever. I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.” “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.” “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!” Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause. Looking entirely pleased with herself, Ashley curtsied, then motioned them all toward the Brickway.

I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.” “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.” “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!” Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause.

«Dai lezioni di ballo?» disse finalmente Nick. «Perché non me lo hai mai detto?» «Nick, non che mi stia lamentando, ma da quando ci siamo conosciuti, il nostro rapporto ha riguardato la tua riabilitazione. Mi conosci a malapena.» «Scusa.» Una volta tanto, Nick rimase calmo. «No, dolcezza, non ho detto che ti devi scusare. È normale che le cose stiano in questo modo.» «Però io non voglio. Non sono più in clinica, e mi hai anche trovato un nuovo psicologo, così non devi ascoltare, tutte le volte, le mie stronzate. Io… vorrei che fossimo amici. Veri amici, non amici solo perché provi compassione per me.» Luka non sapeva cosa dire. Sarebbe stato comunque difficile parlare, perché all’improvviso gli si strinse la gola. «Non provo pena per te, e mi andrebbe davvero.» Dalla notte in cui Nick aveva avuto l’attacco di panico, si erano visti alcune volte: per un caffè, una breve passeggiata intorno al quartiere di Nick – che fu un’esperienza nuova e insolita per Luka, dal momento che Nick aveva indossato un berretto, una felpa con cappuccio, e un paio di occhiali da sole neri, per cercare di non essere riconosciuto –, e un’altra serata film. A ogni modo, era già iniziata a sembrare una vera amicizia – beh, una vera amicizia con qualcuno che doveva eludere i paparazzi ogni volta che metteva un piede fuori dalla porta.

«Mi dispiace,» sussurrò Nick. «Non avevo intenzione di ferirti.» «Beh, l’hai fatto.» «Possiamo cominciare da capo?» Luka non aveva mai sentito Nick così insicuro di se stesso, ma non per quello era pronto a cedere completamente. «Come cosa?» «Come due ragazzi che si piacciono davvero. Credo di avere bisogno di fare le cose con calma, sai, fisicamente, per un po’. Non so bene cosa sto facendo.» «Nessuno sa mai cosa sta facendo quando ci sono di mezzo i sentimenti, Nicky. Ogni volta è diverso.» «Per favore, potresti venire da me stasera? Possiamo passare un po’ di tempo insieme e guardare un film – solo guardare. Ho preso quegli stuzzichini che piacciono tanto a Steph.» Luka ci rifletté su. Beh, no, non sul serio. Sconsiderato com’era, il solo pensiero di rivedere Nick fece reagire tutto il suo corpo. Non esisteva che ci pensasse su, però aveva bisogno di stare in un posto sicuro, in cui non fosse tentato di fare qualcosa di stupido. «Senti, potremmo uscire di casa… a cena, a ballare, un film al cinema.» Nick rimase in silenzio per un po’. «Preferirei non uscire in pubblico, dove i paparazzi potrebbero fotografarmi. È stressante. Non possiamo rimanere in casa e basta?» Luka si strizzò il ponte del naso. «Per stasera, okay. Ma non puoi startene in casa per sempre.» E nemmeno io… «Lo so. Grazie, Luka.» «Per cosa mi stai ringraziando?» «Per avermi dato un’altra possibilità di non fare lo stronzo»

The paparazzi always swarmed around them, giving them better alibis for their work then anything else ever could.

What’s that shit?” “Bubbles. It’s a bubble bath.” “Jesus H. Christ, I can’t take a bubble bath. What’ll people think? If anybody found out I was taking bubble baths…” “Well, why don’t you climb into the tub and I’ll go fight off the paparazzi, okay?

Breaking things and hurting people, thought Harry as he marched across the gravel. A cracking fuckin’ way for a bloke to earn a quid. Better than being chased around by those paparazzi cunts, at any rate. He

The moment you step onto the paparazzi piazza, you need to be prepared for every angle of scrutiny. Get used to it. Not everyone is going to like you.

bright blue slacks and sandals, a paparazzi-sized

Because marriage is supposed to make you happy, not make you feel like a rat trapped in a very glamorous cage with twenty-thousand dollar silk draperies.

The abusive teenage boyfriend. The bullying at school. The sudden ascent to pop fame aged fourteen. All those jokes on Never Mind the Buzzcocks about her Birmingham accent. The paparazzi harassment. The tabloid stings. That divorce. When you think how long ago she had her first hit, how solid a presence she has been in the public consciousness since, it is hard to believe the singer is still only in her mid-thirties.

Yes, Mani,” I deadpan. “I did exactly that. I licked him and then he ripped off my clothes and took me right there on the hood of his car with the paparazzi watching and everything. Prepare for some scathing tabloid covers.” I squint my eyes at her like she’s grown two heads to emphasize my sarcasm. “Well see, because of your tone, I’m skeptical. But I hope he did. You need someone to clear out those cobwebs. There’s a fun Noa hiding in there somewhere. Where is she?

they come to LA aspirting to be white. Even the ones who are biologically white aren't white white. Valet parking white. Brag about your Native American, Argentinian, Portuguese ancestry white. Pho white. Paparazzi white. I once got fired from a telemarketing job, now look at m, I'm famous white. Calabazas white. I love L.A. It's the only place where you can go skiing, to the beach and to the desert all in one day white.

Inside the white screen of the mosquito net, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the windows, she felt as if she were in her own little oasis. Isolated from the rest of the world and its hostility. Although she could barely see past the bright, sunlit cloth, a movement in the shadows behind the net caught her eye. She frowned, straining her eyes to see what it was when, slowly, the net parted to reveal a gigantic figure. The light shone on his body and face to reveal what turned out to be a dark-eyed, broad-shouldered man. A strange feeling was born in Bianca’s chest. A mixture of panic and embarrassment left her body in the shape of a scream. With no clear thoughts in mind, she yelled for someone to help her, until it dawned on her that she was in an unfamiliar apartment, in a town where no one knew about her, and where there was no one who could help her. She was alone, and the pervert in front of her undoubtedly wanted to take advantage of the situation. Stopping just enough to breathe and continue screaming, she got on her knees in the bed and kept on yelling at him, who then seemed to fall off whatever disgusting trance he was, and took a surprised step back. His fingers, still tangled in the mosquito net, ripped the fabric from the ceiling, exposing her further. Bianca knew she was on her own. She could not count on anyone else to save her. When that realization hit, an unknown instinct made its way inside her and all the accumulated frustration caused by the situation with the paparazzi, the betrayal of her husband and losing her company concentrated inside her like a laser to focus on a single aim: the man in front of her. Feeling powerful, she grabbed the sheet tight around her with one arm to cover the front of her body, set one foot on the ground, and grabbed the closest thing to her: the purse. Her screams, which initially were meant to ask for help, transformed into a sound of pure rage. Without taking her eyes off him, Bianca reached into her bag and threw everything she found inside it: a phone, an agenda, a bottle of water, a lipstick, a tissue, the box of condoms, a book. Even a small toiletry bag. When the bag was empty, she used it as a projectile too.

When I started out, you lot decided I was God. I remember first seeing the word 'godlike' written in a paper about me. I didn't know how to handle it at all - how could I?

My Road to Recovery'? I heard myself suggest, and it struck me, not for the first time, that the tone we journalists adopt can be horribly flip. Several times. over the course of my career, I've caught myself skimming over the surface of a subject's life, without pausing to reflect on the realities of their joys and suffering. Yet it was true that something about George's disintegration mesmerised people. Which would sell more papers, I wondered: his redemption or his failure?

 I used to have picnics on Wimbledon Common and I never knew this place for anything else but strawberries and cream, tennis and Rachel Nickell’s murder! Now Wimbledon in my mind is tied with mysterious sexy intrigue, not just fruit, police honey traps and a wrongly accused killer! I shall visit the Village for coffee. Please say hi if you spot paparazzi moi with my cam. Allergies disclaimer: I would like to stress that this book is not exactly for the unwashed masses: I delayed showering after the last switch. I’ve created a Pavlovian response: he must associate its floral sweetness with sexual fulfilment. Adam has a “Pavlovian” reaction to Elena’s BO? Bribes her with cake to lessen the wrath when asking Elena to wash?   He frowns, seeing that I’m silent and trembling. My perfume was weak; hers much stronger. I say, my temper flaring. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the usual hoi polloi quality potential chattel chatting up yours truly in Sarf London would probably assume that a big phat slice of Marks & Spencer’s Strawberry Pavlova will get them into the lady’s knickers. Nope, she’s allergic to stupid.. A merengue dessert will hardly cause a rash but a moron makes her skin crawl. This is a cleverly written book. So some of you, keen aspiring readers, please have your Oxford fictionary handy! Just saying! In words of our hero: *‘Bloody pricey,’ Adam adds. ‘But God, it is a nice smell. Don’t you like it?’ [...] then squirts onto my wrist playfully.

I firmly believed paparazzi deserved a special place in hell next to the telemarketers and corrupt politicians.

Paparazzi often played fast and loose with the rules, but Sloane had a history of bending them to her will.

Be quiet as a Hebi, a snake and quick as a Kitsune, a fox, the two cardinal rules of being a paparazzi.

Guns? What do we need guns for?” Not that I didn’t like guns, but... Jenny managed a half-smile. “It’s isolated here. You never know what’s lurking. You might need to scare off a bear. But don’t kill anything, not even paparazzi.

Burke continued: “We need to get Lanie out of here before the paparazzi start camping on the doorstep. I’ve called for a medical van to pick her up and take her back to her house.” “What’s going

Mid May 2012 Andy wrote in his Email reply: Dear Young, You are still the boy I grew to love and cherish forty-four years ago. The lyrics you sent, to “The Things You Are To Me” brought back many fond memories of our time together. You, young man, do have a way with words. In more ways than one, you always touched the core of my heart with your innocence and childlike approach to life. Walter is a lucky man to have you in his life. I wish I were in his shoes, you little ‘faerie’ boy, stirring up an emotional storm within me which I had kept hidden for so long. Now that our parents are deceased, we can be free from the emotional baggage imposed upon us. You had mentioned briefly that you are writing your memoirs. I hope you are not revealing anything that we pledged to never reveal. My advice to you is to stay clear of those subjects. It is not advisable to tamper with the school or the Society, especially when you swore an oath, a gentlemanly honor of confidentiality to never reveal any of our membership secrets. If the word gets out, the paparazzi will have a field day digging for whatever dirt they can find. I hate to see you being sued by any parties involved. I’m speaking to you as a trusted friend, confidant, and ex- lover. Tread with caution, Young! You are old enough to decide for yourself. I’m sure you don’t need your ex-Valet to tell you what to do. Please send my regards to Walter and maybe we’ll have a chance to meet one day, soon. Let’s continue our regular correspondence. My love always! Andy.

Britney ends by saying, after scenes of throngs of paparazzi surrounding her car, after tearful interviews and tearless ones, after impersonations of her father and make-up artists, after she says she's not a victim of her success and tries to stay positive and hates being placed in categories, after she dances her fucking ass off to get back what she had, after she explains that she married K-Fed because she liked the idea of it (a revelation that socked me in the chest and made my dating life flash before my eyes), and after she says that "people shave their heads all the time"; after all that, she leaves me with this: "I go through life like a karate kid.

Richard Kay Richard Kay became friends with Diana, Princess of Wales, through his job as royal correspondent for London’s Daily Mail. After her separation in 1992, he used his knowledge to give a penetrating and unique insight into Diana’s troubled life, and they remained friends until the end. Richard is now diary editor or the Daily Mail and lives in London with his wife and three children. Over the years, I saw her at her happiest and in her darkest moments. There were moments of confusion and despair when I believed Diana was being driven by the incredible pressures made on her almost to the point of destruction. She talked of being strengthened by events, and anyone could see how the bride of twenty had grown into a mature woman, but I never found her strong. She was as unsure of herself at her death as when I first talked to her on that airplane, and she wanted reassurance about the role she was creating for herself. In private, she was a completely different person form the manicured clotheshorse that the public’s insatiable demand for icons had created. She was natural and witty and did a wonderful impression of the Queen. This was the person, she told me, that she would have been all the time if she hadn’t married into the world’s most famous family. What she hated most of all was being called “manipulative” and privately railed against those who used the word to describe her. “They don’t even know me,” she would say bitterly, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her apartment in Kensington Palace and pouring tea from a china pot. It was this blindness, as she saw it, to what she really was that led her seriously to consider living in another country where she hoped she would be understood. The idea first emerged in her mind about three years before her death. “I’ve got to find a place where I can have peace of mind,” she said to me. She considered France, because I was near enough to stay in close touch with William and Harry. She thought of America because she--naively, it must be said--saw it as a country so brimming over with glittery people and celebrities that she would be able to “disappear.” She also thought of South Africa, where her brother, Charles, made a home, and even Australia, because it was the farthest place she could think of from the seat of her unhappiness. But that would have separated her form her sons. Everyone said she would go anywhere, do anything, to have her picture taken, but in my view the truth was completely different. A good day for her was one where her picture was not taken and the paparazzi photographers did not pursue her and clamber over her car. “Why are they so obsessed with me?” she would ask me. I would try to explain, but I never felt she fully understood. Millions of women dreamed of changing places with her, but the Princess that I knew yearned for the ordinary humdrum routine of their lives. “They don’t know how lucky they are,” she would say. On Saturday, just before she was joined by Dodi Al Fayed for their last fateful dinner at the Ritz in Pairs, she told me how fed up she was being compared with Camilla. “It’s all so meaningless,” she said. She didn’t say--she never said--whether she thought Charles and Camilla should marry. Then, knowing that as a journalist I often work at weekends, she said to me, “Unplug your phone and get a good night’s sleep.