Pooparazzi

In light of this week's publicity, you may be new around here, in which case you won't be aware that I'm at the helm today. What do you mean 'who'? It's me. Miss Briars. The reason for this blog's very being. The apple of Mum's eye. The wind beneath her wings. Or 'The Poop' as Mum so crudely refers to me.
Anyway, Sunday is her day off, and my chance to give you my take on the week's shenanigans. Provided I'm still in one piece.

I've had my every move scrutinised. I've been interviewed, filmed, spied on, stalked and papped. The media's insatiable appetite for Betty Briars has shown no sign of reprieve. And I'm big enough to admit that being shoved into the full glare of a comprehensive Press examination is a lot to handle when you're a mere thirty seven weeks old.
Being sure to promote 'The Brand' in the correct light at all times; having to attend function after function without so much as a single tear or disinterested yawn; facing question after question about the private lives of my parents; this is just a taste of the sort of pressure us celebs are relentlessly under. Mum's loving it, but for me, with such little life experience to draw upon, it's an absolute nightmare. I mean, how do I sign autographs when I can't hold a pen, I've not yet learned the alphabet and I don't know what an autograph is anyway? I just want to eat my dinner in only my nappy, be sick, and then squeeze the sick about in my fingers. But nooooo. Not now I'm a famous baby. I have an image to maintain. 
Honestly, you anonymous lot don't know you're born.

After finding that my cot had been bugged and that my baby monitor had been hacked, I felt the need to seek the advice of babies more experienced in managing their relationship with the media. I jumped on the blower Kai Rooney. What that guy doesn't know about regional reporters isn't worth knowing. He advised me to regularly practise talking with Mum, so she can ensure that my first words are "no comment". He said that although going for a phrase rather than a word was a big ask, mastering this would stand me in great stead for the future. I gave Suri Cruise a bell as well, you know, in anticipation of the international notoriety which I sense is imminent. Apparently she was "too busy", so I left a message. Never got back. Cow.


Lexi Holden was more accommodating. She reminded me that I'm an icon now, and so journalists will always be watching. My appearance is everything. In Thursday's Granada Reports she said she swore she spotted a bit of cradle cap, and that she thought my fingernails looked a bit unkempt when I was playing with those bricks. I told her I hadn't the time for a manicure before ITV arrived. Her response was that of seasoned celeb offspring; "darling, you make the time". 
I took her words with a pinch of salt. Who's going to expect a baby to be perfectly coiffed? Turns out everyone. After a week in which I have been criticised across the tabloids for: my messy eating; for the fact my nappy was on show as I climbed out of a limo; and for that one occasion, IN A WHOLE WEEK, when I just couldn't wait and I didn't smell, well, erm, as 'unsullied' as would be desirable: I have realised there was more than a seed a truth in her wise counsel.

Some of the lies and untruths are also beginning to hurt. The speculation about whether I am in fact only eight months old was a low blow. All right, so I'm carrying a few extra rolls. A bit of puppy fat. But that photo comparing me to Michelle McManus was bang out of order. Won't be complaining when they want a piece of me though, will they? Then they'll be clapping their hands that there's plenty to go round.

I know I've got to learn to rise above it. It goes with the territory. I've just got to be on my guard. 
Alert. Aware. Attentive. Always ready for a close up.
*breaks wind audibly*
Oh great. This could be harder than I thought. 
BB x