Then Instagram came along, and all of a sudden we were meant to believe the French Riviera school mum is just the ordinary, the mundane, the norm? But surely we know that’s not real, right? RIGHT?! Turns out these pastel-wearing Instagrammers—predominantly women—were making a fucking killing by tapping into a whole new world of insecurities that a lot of us didn’t even know we had until we were scrolling through someone’s feed at 3:00 a.m., regretting every life decision we had ever made.
I’m Starting Something
I love making fun of myself. The only other person in the world who loves it as much as I do is my sister, Olivia. We used to screenshot photos and send them to each other, challenging one another to have a go at imitating them.
The first #celestechallengeaccepted photo I did was easy. It was a lady doing a weird yoga pose up against a stairwell. I posted it to my Instagram page as well as my private Facebook page (I didn’t have a public Facebook page at that point—I didn’t need one, as I was managing my eighty-seven friends rather well) with the caption “I’m starting something.” People liked it—my people liked it—and I got some fun comments and that was it. I went on this way for a few weeks, posting different photos—some on the beach, some in the bathroom, most of them featuring me scantily clad. It was fun. I knew it was funny, and people started to get on board.
Within a week I had gained around two thousand followers, and I was still having fun. Then I got a private Facebook message one day from someone at ABC Online, saying they would like to interview me about my take on social media. I had just posted my take on a photo of Kim Kardashian lying on a dirt hill in her underwear—BREAKING NEWS: that shoot was styled by her husband, Kanye—so I was happy to talk about my comedy and Kanye’s “creative genius.”
We did the interview, and the day after it was published, my following grew to about five thousand followers!
Five thousand followers! Holy shit! I’m no longer parodying Kim “Kimbo” Kardashian; I AM HER!
I instantly started to feel myself change, and I began deleting the numbers in my phone of people I thought were holding me back. I’m an Instagram sensation, goddamn it! I will only have positive people around me at all times, and I don’t want any negativity, you guys.
That weekend our friends Kate and Phil came to stay for a few nights. They are two of our oldest friends, and when we all get together it’s a boozefest. There’s a lot of backslapping that goes on between Api and Phil, and Kate and I usually just sit and watch TV together, vowing never to talk or leave.
We had all assumed our respective positions of backslapping and idiot-box watching, all done with phones in hand of course, when we started getting messages from people via FB, Insta, pigeon, and fax that I was “blowing up.”
The credible and always factual Daily Mail had taken the ABC Online article, totally butchered it, given no credit whatsoever to ABC Online, and published a story about me on their main page. I ain’t got no loyalty—butcher that story, make shit up, say I’ve got forty-eight legs for all I care. I know the truth. You can’t touch me, Daily Mail—just get me followers and MAKE ME FAMOUS!
And with that my following jumped by tens of thousands every few minutes.
Phil, the leader of the pack—well, he’s the loudest, so he’s the leader—invented a drinking game. All four of us sat around our dining table with our alcoholic beverages and were instructed by Phil to turn our phones onto airplane mode for one minute. Kate put a timer on. At this point I was at around eight thousand followers.
Phil announced that if in one minute I had gotten over ten thousand followers, we had to skull our drinks. We all cheered and thought what a bloody fun guy Phil was.
A minute later Kate’s alarm went off; we all busted a nut to see who could reactivate their phone the fastest, and BAM, I was at fifteen thousand followers.
When we woke up the next morning with pretty sore heads, I had something like fifty thousand followers and about as many emails from my agent with interview requests.
After that night it just grew and grew and I got busier and busier, and a whole new world of seeing people getting paid for the most ridiculous things was in front of me.
Who Gives a Shit?
When I do interviews I will have to talk about what I do. “Oh, she’s famous on Instagram,” people will say to the makeup artist. Who cares, right? Because if you need to tell someone you’re famous, you’re not, in fact, famous.
Let me break down my tried-and-tested theory for you. Take Madonna and Beyoncé, for example (because all good theories start with Madonna and Beyoncé). I doubt during their first encounter at some super-fantastic, organic-wine, security-dressed-as-peacocks event that their publicists had to do introductions.
“Um, excuse me, Beyoncé, this is Madonna. She is a singer who is constantly reinventing her image and likes to push the boundaries of musical and cultural content. Oh, and she’s the Queen of Pop. And Madonna, this is Beyoncé Knowles, but the world knows her as Bey. She is the founding member of ’90s pop group Destiny’s Child, has become the voice of women’s empowerment, and makes us feel OK if we have a bit of junk in the trunk. She is Queen B.” No, it didn’t happen because it didn’t need to, because these women are famous.
This may come as a rude shock to you, but I’m not in the same league as these ladies. I have, however, started to do famous-people stuff—interviews, openings—and it’s fun, until I have to talk about me and why the hell I’m there.
If I’m getting my makeup done (fancy) for a TV interview, and the makeup artist asks why I’m there, my response is always a little, “Um, my Instagram account.”
Makeup Artist: Really? What do you do with your Instagram account?
Me: Well, I take half-naked, inappropriate, and at times unflattering photos of myself.
MA: Really? That’s why you’re here?
Me: Um, yep. I’m also a comedian and an actor and about to tour America with—
Nup, they have already drowned me out with the hair dryer.
The interesting thing is that I’ve been acting on television for the best part of a decade and no one is interested, yet I posted one “Kim Kardashian on a dirt pile” photo and BAM, I’m running for president.
I’ve found myself in a number of situations where, to my embarrassment, I’m defending my Insta fame. People always say that money and fame can change you, and they advise you to keep your good friends close and listen to your family.
I’m not sure I totally agree with this. It turns out the friends I’ve had forever are the ones who are changing and trying to sell me out; I’m the one who has stayed normal, while these old school losers are proving to be dirty big-fame whores.
Some people I love have gone a bit crazy and are introducing me as “my mate Celeste; she’s famous on Instagram.” And before my new acquaintance can do the “oh, I guess I should care about this information” face, I want to scream at the top of my lungs “WHO GIVES A SHIT?” Because at the end of the day Instagram fame is not real-life fame/success. It’s like when you think someone has shit dress sense and they tell you they like your outfit. It doesn’t matter.
The One Where I Go to America
In 2016, after becoming an overnight success (eye roll emoji), I had some interest from a few managers and agencies over in America, and I wanted to get there and test the waters (which is college talk for binge on Shake Shack and write it off as a business trip).
When Lisa, my Australian agent—I’ve wanted to work with her since graduating from drama school in 2002, yet she only signed me three years ago (whatever)—told me that there were a few managers in America who wanted to meet with me I thought, “YES! I’m going to be on the reboot of Friends, or at the very least get to do the Sex and the City tour.”
It was only a two-week trip, and since Api hadn’t been to America before we decided to go over without the kids, as it would be too far for them and I’d be super busy shooting scenes with Lisa Kudrow. So we dropped them at my mum an
d dad’s with a toothbrush and some broken memories and headed to the United States of America, the land of hopes, dreams, and an irrational need for cheese that comes out of a sauce bottle.
Before I had even met with my now US managers, they had already set up meetings with some pretty exciting people, people I never dreamed would want to meet with me. Later I learned that this was a technique to “get me.” In America, if a manager is keen for you to work with them, they dazzle you with their bedazzled bits until you are blinded by all the pretty things and go with them.
In my experience, Americans in the entertainment industry are an energetic bunch. They are just as energetic about things they are excited about as they are about things that piss them off. This is the complete opposite of my experience with EVERYONE IN THE AUSTRALIAN ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD!
In Australia, if someone thinks you’re talented, you won’t be called for a role, won’t be pursued. You will feel as though you have been blacklisted by the industry, and when you talk to fellow acting friends in cafés about “why that casting agent didn’t get you in for the role,” all your friends get awkward and look away, compounding your feeling of being left out. You will write emails, get your agent to write emails, beg, borrow, and steal the audition piece so you can record the audition yourself—thinking this will make them like you, because you are completely doing their job for them—and send flowers, handwritten sonnets, and some illicit drugs to prove you are interested in the role, which you will hear nothing about. Then you will go to a party, where you will run into the uninterested manager/casting director/producer and learn that they think you are incredible, but the role has gone away because no one wanted to seem too interested.
I’m a hustler, so I love the American “you’re hilarious” way of doing things. (NB If you think something is hilarious, laugh. I’ve encountered a lot of Americans who love telling me I’m hilarious but not actually laughing at any of my jokes. Is this a cultural thing, or do I need to work on new gags? Asking for a friend.)
When I got to America I was prepared. I didn’t just go into meetings to shake hands and eat all the Mentos; I had show ideas and script ideas that I had had my agent send over before I had the meeting so we could talk about it.
And didn’t we talk about it! Everything I said was met with “Wow!” or “You’re hilarious!” The main catchphrase I had thrown at me was, “Oh God, we totally have a bunch of projects coming up here that you’d be PERFECT for,” and I’m pretty sure in one meeting I was offered the gig of hosting the Oscars the following year.
Now, I’m no fool, especially in LA—it’s a thing that I call “being LA-ed,” where you are offered the world and nothing comes through. I know when people are blowing smoke up my arse, as it very rarely happens, because I make sure I surround myself with people who don’t really let me get excited about much without a few “well, we can’t all have fancy lunches with Rosie Huntington-Whiteley” comments, ensuring I stay grounded and not too big for myself.
But my situation was different. I’m not your average actor kicking it in LA. I’m funny, and I’m a big deal online (much like that monkey from Friends). I have a massive reach, so in the eyes of a network or producer I “come with an audience,” which is very appealing (at least that’s what I’ve been told).
Second and third meetings were being set up, and people wanted to see more of my stuff. I wasn’t being LA-ed; they were being ceLAsted!®
Some of these meetings were with a bunch of geeky digital guys who were stoked to be able to talk about algorithms and were shocked to shit to learn that I do all my own stuff.
Stoked Digitalk Guy: OK, so who’s your location scout?
Jet-Lagged Tech-Phobic Celeste: What do you mean?
SDG: Who do you employ to find the locations where you shoot the re-creations? Is it one guy, or do you have a team?
JTPC: A team? Are you kidding? I do it.
SDG: Really? You do it?
JTPC: Yep, it’s not hard. If we’re at the beach, I’ll do some beach shots.
SDG: Yeah, right, cool. What about the captions? Does a freelance writer do those for you, or is it more of an in-house thing?
JTPC: Oh, it’s definitely an in-house thing.
SDG: Sweet, so you and your team just spitball ideas, and then it gets rolling from there?
JTPC: Team? What the hell are you talking about? It’s usually done while I’m cooking dinner and finishing off a glass of wine. I’ll think of something funny, then post it.
SDG: Wow, who’s the phot—
JTPC: OK, it’s me! It’s all me! There’s no “team.” It’s me with the idea, me with the concept, me with the words, me with the gags, and then my husband takes the photo, and if he’s not around, I get a friend to. But it’s all me!
SDG: Wow, that’s intense.
There are a lot of us Aussies in LA. We are everywhere. I have a heap of friends who have been over there for a while; some of them are killing it, while others are still working at it. Both situations work for me, as those in the former category invite me to fun stuff, and those in the latter category usually have a spare room because their parents need to fly over intermittently to comfort them while they wait tables and teach Pilates to cats. It also works because I have an instant family whenever I go over there—people to talk to about meetings, what cat Pilates is really like, and whether I should tip the valet’s wife.
When you’re in a town that’s all about the Biz, it becomes all you talk about. And I love it. I can see how when you live there, talking “shop” all the time can be trying, but I don’t live there, and the only reason I was there this time round was to get into the Biz, so I was chewing off friends’ ears left, right, and center about the meetings I’d just had.
It’s a good thing I do this, because after about thirty-four vodkas and twenty-three trips through the In-N-Out Burger drive-through, my mates assure me that I have in fact been LA-ed and that I should stop calling designers to get an Oscars frock because that shit ain’t gonna happen. Damn you, jaded friends!
Soho House
The first place I met my future managers was at the Soho House West Hollywood. Think Eyes Wide Shut with less nudity and more Scientology. It was a midafternoon meeting that had been scheduled by about fifteen assistants who all went by the names of Peter, Steve, Carrie, or Sport.
Given it was a day meeting, and I’m all about my personality, I didn’t think I needed to get too dressed up. Silly little hick girl. To the rest of the world, the Oscars are the fanciest event on everyone’s calendar—well, that and that random gum boot–throwing competition they hold in New Zealand every year. Oh, no, my friends, the Oscars aren’t fancy at all; it’s just another Wednesday in Hollywood, because it seems that IN LA EVERYONE GETS DRESSED UP ALL THE TIME. The only people who don’t get dressed up are the ones who wear activewear that costs more than my house.
I like looking good, but I don’t like dressing up (until I put on an Alex Perry dress and realized that I’m much better when I can’t breathe in couture). It also proves my mother’s point that I’m afraid to look good. I was jet-lagged up to my tits, and my drinks hadn’t kicked in yet, so I decided a cutoff denim skirt and some sort of ill-fitting black top thing was the right outfit for the occasion; it screamed cool, casual Instagram sensation, who is trained in the craft of acting, knows her shit, and has her #metoo stories ready to go at any given time.
This outfit was coupled with some pink Converses, and I immediately looked like I was a middle-aged ball girl at Wimbledon, a look that I still enjoy to this day. I’m a sneakers girl; I don’t do heels. I mean, I LOVE high heels, but I can’t do them. The only time I can commit to heels is if I’m being driven in a large car that allows me the room to place my feet over my head. I then get straight out of the car and take five assisted steps to the restaurant, where I can sit the entire time and it’s socially acceptable for me to visit the ladies’ room barefoot. Then after the meal and a gentle foo
t rub under the table, I can be carried to an awaiting car and whisked away. Only under these conditions will I strap my feet in all the Band-Aids available in the Southern Hemisphere, have a Valium, and pop on a pump. But as we know, these situations are only reserved for people whose names start and end with the letter X.
Soho House West Hollywood is for creatives, artists, people who need a space to be creative, productive, and seen.
There are two types of people who frequent these places:
People who aren’t willing to be who they are, so they cut and crop themselves and wrap themselves up in really expensive cheap-looking skin and hide away from any adult responsibility, like paying your bills or wearing socks.
The ones who are so “real” and “normal” that every second word is “authentic” or “passion,” and most sentences begin with “I’m just all about living my truth” or “the vibe in my head is so hectic right now,” and they only hang around people they grew up with in a tiny town out the back of Bumfuck, Idaho, yet haven’t seen in twenty-five years.
Soho House West Hollywood is on the top floor of the building, and you can access it only through a parking garage . Now, this may sound fancy, and it kind of is: people drive their self-driving spaceship cars into the secret underground parking garage, and in the middle of all the parking spots is a lobby, a beautiful room filled with even more beautiful, similar-looking people and warm lighting and the smell of money. Only this fancy spaceship parking garage isn’t exclusively for Soho House show ponies—I mean writers—it’s also a common parking garage where at any time Mariah Carey could get run over by someone in a not-so-fancy car while trying to reboot her career.
When I arrived, I regretted my outfit immediately. Scary Spice was wearing platform heels, an electric-blue onesie, and some sort of tiara and was yelling at the valet for not cleaning her car. It was SO exciting. I don’t think she was annoyed, I just think this is how people in LA talk to people who do things for them.
Challenge Accepted! Page 15