Fame, happiness and the square root of sausage

I realised Susan Boyle’s fame had rocketed into the stratosphere after watching Jay Leno’s parody of her on The Tonight Show last year. It was demonstrative proof that her career would surpass the life expectancy of a house fly. One year on and her star is incandescent – leaving a posse of rappers, DJs and girl bands squinting in her wake. At present, Boyles’ debut album (I dreamed a dream) is number one in the US charts, having sold 3 million copies, and is receiving favourable reviews from even the most haughty of critics. It appears this pug-faced chanter’s 15 minutes of fame has been granted a reprieve.

Two years ago, Susan Boyle was slinking around the streets of Blackburn, fearful that a fusillade of stones and teenage insults would reign down on her. She was flirting with depression and anxiety, unemployed, and peering glumly at the embers of middle age. Yip; life was shit. Two years later, she is flirting with depression and anxiety, shackled to a stressful job and sheltering from a broadside of media intrusion. Yip, life is still shit; but now she’s rich and famous.

So is Susan Boyle happier now? Fame is not a cure for melancholy; it’s a psychological Lemsip that masks the symptoms of a perturbed mind. Once the red carpets are rolled up and the flash bulbs dim, Boyle will need a deeper, purer well of felicity. For most people, contentment is a salad of friends, family and monogamy. I suspect that conjugal bliss is the correct prescription for Boyle’s malady – a lengthy dose of unconditional love.

Many poltroons believe Boyle is content because she has realised her dream of becoming a professional singer. Singing is Boyle’s passion, but it’s not her panacea. Culture is littered with artists who have reached the zenith of their profession, only to be sabotaged by a fragile disposition – van Gogh, Slyvia Plath, Nick Drake. Fulfilling a dream does not include an extended warranty of mirth. Dreams are sub-conscious fantasies; bliss a tactile emotion. Artisans love to indulge in past times in which they excel; it massages their ego and coddles their id. But it is only one piece in the subtle mosaic that constitutes happiness.

Simon Cowell argues that the end justifies the means, i.e. Susan Boyle is happier now that she’s famous, despite enduring a mental implosion in the process. This is pure Tony Blair subterfuge. I suspect Cowell’s post-fame strategy is also vaporous – a leather-bound dossier of unreturned phone calls and faded premiers. Will he be around to comfort Boyle when the Tsunami of public affection evaporates – leaving her forlorn, clutching a roll and square sausage in Beverly Hills? I doubt it. His agenda is narcissistic. He will be predisposed with vanity; plotting his next campaign of prime time annexation; Boyle just another carriage return on his CV.

We love Susan Boyle the myth. We don’t really know Susan Boyle, but we crave her mythology. She’s the wee granny who huddled at the back of the church, sookin’ mint imperials, and then went on to conquer the pop world. Like many other maudlin saps I’m happy to accept a cameo in her saccharine fairy tale.

I just hope Miss Boyle finds true contentment. I believe regional theatre productions would have satisfied her thespian urges, and a carapace of anonymity. The lurid glitz of Mulholland Drive and the truculent hacks in Fleet Street may grapple with her sanity. Imagine in 10 years time the pot Boyler has a residency in Vegas: loafing in her Winnebago with a single fish and a bottle of Wild Turkey. She reaches for a rolled-up Clydesdale tenner and snorts a winding trail of Daz Ultra. Oh dear. As John Lennon lamented, on his first solo album following the dissolution of The Beatles, “the dream is over…”.