Paris Hilton arrives at a nightclub, then leaves. The end. Yes, you can all go home now. Class dismissed.
Oh, you want more? Fine.
That's right folks, London be a lucky place this week. Paris is in town, and the hacks are getting excited at reports she was paid £70,000 to roll up at Kensington's own Mahiki with her rocker boyf and waddle lethargically around, a look of bored insouciance dolled onto her kisser, for a couple of hours. A crowd of Britain's movers and shakers, including Big Brother alumni Ziggy and Samanda, was there to witness this magnificent event. Paris later swanned home, though not before issuing a complaint over the PA about the venue's ventilation: "This club is hot!"
We'd wager that, were a scientist to invent a pill that cured cancer, she or he wouldn't get as much publicity as Paris courts. Her every appearance, witticism, haircut, argument, even bowel movement is pored over and plastered on magazine covers, her lifestyle and look grazed on by a generation of young girls for whom fame is now a popular career choice. What can one do? Other than join in. Or kvetch aimlessly about it, as we're doing right now.
(Loud crashing sound as Londonist falls off its soapbox)
Ahem. Yes, we're well aware of the irony of complaining about ceaseless celeb coverage by, er, covering celeb stories. It's been pointed out to us before. But we're unrepentant, dammit! We're going to have our cake and gobble the whole thing in one.
Image of Paris Hilton cutout from rharrison's Flickrstream