When you go out with your friends to bars, you tend to meet the nicest, strangest, funniest or just plain boring people. I met The Starr* about six months ago when he started to flamboyantly flirt with my friend, who was inevitably freaked out by this larger-than-is-necessary-in-life character. Although that particular event is not my story to tell, I have since encountered The Starr and been subjected to his narcissistic ways.
Let’s go back to basics. The Starr lives with a friend of mine who has had to endure his fake British accent, his 3-inch thick make-up and his need to be the constant centre of attention for years. His dress sense resembles a ballroom dancer, let’s say Paul Mercurio, from Dancing with the Stars. And he is a dancer/dancer/entertainer… apparently.
My last encounter with The Starr was at a games night at my friends place. Inevitably The Starr was there and clearly didn’t know how to be a gracious host. Each time the door buzzed, he ran to the buzzer and yelled out to my friend asking if they knew anyone by that name. Throughout the course of the night, he used any tactic that would garner him any sort of attention. He’d start singing, make a ridiculous comment and even change what he was wearing so that people would notice his orange fake tan legs (imagine Big Bird’s orange legs).
As we were well into playing Pictionary, The Starr yelled out “Who wants to listen to my music?” No-one responded, but despite this The Starr trotted off to grab his CD and inserted it into the player. All of a sudden, I was transported to the Eurovision Song Contest in some Nordic country. The music was blaring, over-the-top and overall tragic. No-one should have been subjected to such torture. But it got worse. He started to sing with the music. My friend was furious. The Starr had crossed the line. Who did he think he was imposing his Eurotrash music onto his friends?
I turned to my friends and began imitating the co-hosts from various European countries recounting their nations vote to the Eurovision host nation. We ended up in hysterics. The Starr was oblivious. The game ended fairly quickly and The Starr went off to get ready for his night out on the town.
It was a couple of weeks later that I saw The Starr again. This time, performing at an open air concert in St Kilda. I finally got to see it all in action. I should have brought along another pair of undies. I was dying from laughter at how extravagant and ridiculous The Starr’s performance was. It was all about him, despite the fact he was being drowned out by his own music, so you couldn’t actually hear him. His narcissism became clear when he promoted his own MySpace page in the middle of a song and missed his opening line cue. What a true talent!
It’s been a while since I saw The Starr, but I have to feel for my friend who lives with him, although I am told it’s only a matter of time until the lease ends and The Starr is given the boot.
There is only room for one Starr. I guess we all know someone like that but remember star is spelt with one ‘r’.
* This is how his surname is spelt.
Let’s go back to basics. The Starr lives with a friend of mine who has had to endure his fake British accent, his 3-inch thick make-up and his need to be the constant centre of attention for years. His dress sense resembles a ballroom dancer, let’s say Paul Mercurio, from Dancing with the Stars. And he is a dancer/dancer/entertainer… apparently.
My last encounter with The Starr was at a games night at my friends place. Inevitably The Starr was there and clearly didn’t know how to be a gracious host. Each time the door buzzed, he ran to the buzzer and yelled out to my friend asking if they knew anyone by that name. Throughout the course of the night, he used any tactic that would garner him any sort of attention. He’d start singing, make a ridiculous comment and even change what he was wearing so that people would notice his orange fake tan legs (imagine Big Bird’s orange legs).
As we were well into playing Pictionary, The Starr yelled out “Who wants to listen to my music?” No-one responded, but despite this The Starr trotted off to grab his CD and inserted it into the player. All of a sudden, I was transported to the Eurovision Song Contest in some Nordic country. The music was blaring, over-the-top and overall tragic. No-one should have been subjected to such torture. But it got worse. He started to sing with the music. My friend was furious. The Starr had crossed the line. Who did he think he was imposing his Eurotrash music onto his friends?
I turned to my friends and began imitating the co-hosts from various European countries recounting their nations vote to the Eurovision host nation. We ended up in hysterics. The Starr was oblivious. The game ended fairly quickly and The Starr went off to get ready for his night out on the town.
It was a couple of weeks later that I saw The Starr again. This time, performing at an open air concert in St Kilda. I finally got to see it all in action. I should have brought along another pair of undies. I was dying from laughter at how extravagant and ridiculous The Starr’s performance was. It was all about him, despite the fact he was being drowned out by his own music, so you couldn’t actually hear him. His narcissism became clear when he promoted his own MySpace page in the middle of a song and missed his opening line cue. What a true talent!
It’s been a while since I saw The Starr, but I have to feel for my friend who lives with him, although I am told it’s only a matter of time until the lease ends and The Starr is given the boot.
There is only room for one Starr. I guess we all know someone like that but remember star is spelt with one ‘r’.
* This is how his surname is spelt.
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