Soon, we will look back in wonder that we called dress designers ‘visionaries’ and DJs ‘superstars’

Pity poor Sam Smith. The non-binary singer who insists on gender-neutral pronouns (“They/them”) posted a video clip of themselves having what my dad would have called “the ab-dabs” on social media this week. Having selflessly entered self-isolation at their £12 million home on Thursday, by Friday they were weeping like a girl (sorry, like an assigned at birth cis female) because they were already bored with their own company.

“I hate reading!”, they confessed, suggesting that if you have no life of the mind you’ll always be a bad friend to yourself – even if you do refer yourself in the plural.

But it could be worse; Smith could have joined the other celebrities treating us to their own stardust-sprinkled version of the ghastly John Lennon song Imagine.

I’ve had “issues” with this song forever, summing up perfectly as it does Lennon’s weapons-grade hypocrisy. While encouraging the hoi polloi to “imagine no possessions”, he and his consort kept a whole apartment in the Dakota building where they lived in New York for the exclusive occupation of their fur coats, just to keep them at the right temperature.

Elton John nailed it in his autobiography: “The various apartments the Lennons owned … were so full of priceless artworks, antiques and clothes that I once sent them a card, rewriting the lyrics to Imagine: Imagine six apartments, it isn’t hard to do, one is full of fur coats, another’s full of shoes.’’

In fact, Lennon was forever ready to take his non-specific rage out on someone, provided, of course, that person was powerless. In his actions – as opposed to his statements and his songs – he exhibited largely selfishness and spite. To be fair, the new Imagineers aren’t in the same camp as Lennon. They’re lovely to look at (Wonder Women from Lynda Carter to Gal Gadot, actresses Natalie Portman and Cara Delevingne) and extremely accomplished (songwriter Sia, singer Norah Jones, comic Will Ferrell) and they mean well.

But scratch a showboating altruist and you’ll often find an attention whore; I know, because I’m one. I get to show off in print and I’m good at it, but performers in other areas can’t do their thing alone. It’s driving them nuts that no one’s looking at them, hence Michele Pfeiffer posted a video of herself working out while Bob Geldof rang up a TV show to announce his own self-isolation.

It’s touching to look at celebrities and see how unconscious they are of their vulnerability; George Michael, who knew about these things, once defined a star as “someone with a little something missing rather than a little something extra”.

They need their fans – but their fans do not need them although they may momentarily enjoy their singing voices or good looks. When the famous attempt to parlay this passing fancy into actual power, it falls flat; each time a celebrity urged people not to vote for Trump or Brexit, it seems they caused another thousand to do so.

And they will be heeded less than ever as we plunge deeper into the plague year. Gadot said that she had been inspired by the Italian videos of neighbours singing to each other on their balconies; ironically it’s this development that shows how superfluous stars are.

Transcendence was just around the corner all along – and we don’t need to pay for it. Like the tree falling in the metaphorical forest, when a star smiles and no “civilian” watches, does the star still feel happiness?

I’m sure we will see much more of them getting their flashing-fix in the guise of giving something to the Little People before we’re out from under lockdown.

But eventually even these most unrealistic of beings will realise that the achievements of the rich and famous count for nothing in a new world in which those who do the most arduous and thankless labour are – at long last – the most honoured. We will look back in wonder that we once called dress designers ‘visionaries’ and disc jockeys ‘superstars.’

At a time singularly short of silver linings, this must be one.