Fact is, famous people say fame stinks because they love it so -

Host: The city shimmered with heat—the kind that rises off asphalt and makes even dreams sweat. It was late afternoon, and the sky hung low, bruised by sunset and smog. Inside a narrow bar tucked behind a film studio, the air was heavy with the smell of gin, dust, and disillusionment.

Jack sat at the counter, tie loosened, eyes half-shadowed beneath the orange neon sign that blinked “FAME” in dying intervals. Jeeny leaned against the bar beside him, her hair tied back loosely, her voice a soft murmur that barely cut through the jazz playing from a crackling speaker.

Jeeny: “Julie Burchill once said, ‘Fact is, famous people say fame stinks because they love it so—like a secret restaurant or holiday island they don’t want the hoi polloi to get their grubby paws on.’”
She took a slow sip of her drink, watching him. “I think she’s right. Most people who hate fame are just in love with how exclusive it makes them.”

Jack: “You think so?”
His tone was dry, edged like the rim of his glass. “You think all fame’s just a velvet rope around insecurity?”

Jeeny: “No, I think fame is just another kind of hunger. But the people who taste it pretend it’s poison, so no one else asks for a bite.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, his movements slow, detached. Outside, a crowd of tourists passed, their laughter rising, then fading like a cheap chorus line. A poster for a new film peeled on the wall—one of those faces both known and forgotten.

Jack: “You’ve never been famous, Jeeny. You talk about it like it’s a moral choice. You think fame’s something people can resist—like dessert.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about resisting. Maybe it’s about admitting what it really is—a mirror that magnifies what’s already inside. You put a saint in front of a camera, you get grace. You put a narcissist there, you get a monster.”

Jack: “Grace? Monsters? You make it sound like theology. Fame isn’t divine. It’s currency. And everyone’s trading.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, his hands restless, fingers tracing the wet ring left by his drink. His grey eyes glinted like polished steel. Jeeny turned toward him, her expression a mix of amusement and something like pity.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s lost faith in everything but profit.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. I’ve seen it up close. You know what fame does? It makes people forget the texture of silence. Every room feels empty unless someone’s watching.”

Host: The lights flickered as a storm began to roll in. The first drops hit the window, streaking down like liquid glass. Jeeny’s reflection shimmered beside his, two faces caught in the same frame—one dreaming, the other disillusioned.

Jeeny: “And yet you chase it, don’t you? You still write those interviews, attend those galas, shake those trembling celebrity hands. You feed on it just like they do.”

Jack: “No. I feed on truth. Fame just happens to be where people hide it best.”

Jeeny: “That’s poetic, Jack. But you know what Burchill meant. It’s hypocrisy dressed as humility. Every famous person who says they hate fame is like a smoker complaining about nicotine while lighting another cigarette.”

Host: The bartender gave a quiet laugh, not at them, but at the truth of the remark. Jack looked down, a small smirk breaking through his stern features.

Jack: “You’re not wrong. I once interviewed an actor who spent twenty minutes talking about how fame ruined his life—right before asking me to spell his name correctly in bold.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They don’t hate fame. They hate competition. They want the spotlight, but they don’t want the heat.”

Host: Thunder rolled outside, deep and distant, like applause from a forgotten crowd. The bar filled with a warm, electric glow, flickering against the mirrors.

Jack leaned back on his stool, his voice turning reflective.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to think fame was proof that you mattered. That if enough people said your name, you’d stop feeling invisible. Turns out, it’s just another way of being seen without ever being known.”

Jeeny: “That’s because fame isn’t about being. It’s about being consumed. It’s not love—it’s appetite. The public doesn’t want people, Jack. They want reflections.”

Jack: “And reflections vanish when the light goes out.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why they keep chasing the next flashbulb. Because silence is extinction.”

Host: A flash of lightning sliced across the sky, throwing their shadows briefly against the far wall—two silhouettes, suspended between the storm and the neon.

The music shifted—an old Billie Holiday record humming through the static. Jeeny stirred her drink, watching the ice melt into the amber.

Jeeny: “But maybe fame isn’t all bad. Maybe it’s just misunderstood. Some people use it like a tool—to build something, to speak louder for those who can’t. Think of people like Bowie, or Chaplin. They didn’t chase the spotlight. They wielded it.”

Jack: “You’re confusing power with purpose. Even Bowie got swallowed by his own myth. Fame doesn’t let you hold it—it always holds you.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the trick isn’t to escape it, but to stay human inside it.”

Host: Her words hung in the smoky air, fragile but unyielding. Jack stared at her for a moment, then laughed softly, not mockingly, but with the weariness of someone who had seen the truth too many times.

Jack: “You think anyone can stay human when the whole world is watching?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If they remember that the applause isn’t love—it’s noise. And that when it stops, the silence is just another kind of audience.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the windows, filling the silence between them. Jack looked at her—really looked—and in her eyes, he saw no envy, no pretense, just the quiet conviction of someone who had never needed to be seen to exist.

Jack: “You ever wanted it? Fame?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Everyone does, in some shape. But I want it the way you want a fire—close enough to feel the warmth, far enough not to burn.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that comes from surrender, not agreement. He raised his glass slightly.

Jack: “Then here’s to the ones who burn anyway.”

Jeeny: “And to the ones who learn to glow without catching fire.”

Host: The storm outside began to ease, the thunder rolling away like a curtain closing after the last act. The neon light steadied—FAME—buzzing dimly, stubbornly, against the dark.

The bar emptied slowly; the bartender switched off the record player. Jack and Jeeny sat in the remaining hush, surrounded by the faint smell of rain and gin and the unspoken weight of truth.

Jack: “So maybe Burchill was right. Maybe fame stinks—but not because it’s rotten. Because it’s rare. Like something everyone wants a taste of, but no one wants to share.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not the scent of rot—it’s the perfume of privilege.”

Host: Outside, the wet pavement reflected the glowing word above the door—FAME—warped and rippling in a puddle, beautiful in its distortion.
Jack watched it for a long moment, then turned back to Jeeny, his voice quiet, almost tender.

Jack: “You know, maybe fame isn’t the disease. Maybe it’s the mirror that shows us how addicted we are to being seen.”

Jeeny: “And how scared we are of disappearing.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly then—out through the window, past the dripping sign, into the cooling air of the city. The last shot: the neon word flickering one final time before going dark, its reflection still trembling in the puddle below.

A reminder that even when the light fades, the image lingers—
and that every soul, famous or forgotten, still craves one impossible thing:
to be seen, and loved, without needing the stage.