The mysterious covenant of the celebrity-civilian friendship pact.
I visit the Daily Mail website every day, primarily for the celebrity gossip and chaotic banner ads. I have been consuming this stuff for years, and, of course, some patterns have become apparent. One of these is when a glamorous but ‘off-duty’ celebrity is photographed walking through the West Village or Mayfair after lunch, coffee or a ‘medical appointment’ with a civilian in tow. By ‘civilian’, I mean someone most people wouldn’t recognise, who is referred to in the captions simply as ‘friend’.
In this case, ‘friend’ encompasses a broad spectrum of individuals. We have all heard the reasoning that celebrities – especially those who cannot walk down the street in peace – are forced to socialise (and date) other celebrities, people in their orbit who can understand the dehumanising struggle of being hot and rich. Some civilians are allowed into those exclusive rooms, but often they have earned their way in, if not through actual work or employment, then by the emotional labour of supporting someone who is only thinking about themselves. These friendships may be genuine, but both parties must be aware of the boundaries and benefits.
This phenomenon has been occurring since the beginning of time, but let’s explore some examples that most people would recognise. A favourite of mine is Kato Kaelin, who, as a friend of aspiring actress Nicole Brown Simpson and the late American football star, O.J. Simpson, was living in the ADU (Los Angeles slang: additional dwelling unit) on their property in Brentwood the night ‘someone’ murdered Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman. Kaelin testified at the 1995 trial and is still kicking around, appearing on shows like Celebrity Big Brother. The actress and entrepreneur Gwyneth Paltrow is not known to be warm and fuzzy, but one friend who has been by her side for years is Tracy Anderson, a ripped, bottleblonde fitness entrepreneur with a training method that has kept Paltrow’s rig tight for decades. We could also look at America’s sweetheart, Kim Kardashian, who kept the insufferable Jonathan Cheban (aka Food God) around and on camera for more than a decade. David Gardner, David Beckham’s buddy, recently got engaged to a beautiful model, and it made front-page news in the UK. If I’m being honest, I had never heard of the guy. Congratulations to the happy couple. At the height of Leonardo DiCaprio’s ‘Pussy Posse’ – a small group of actors who partied and (I would bet successfully) chased tail all over the world, from New York City’s Meatpacking district to the yachts of Cannes – there were other famous actors, but also plenty of low-level Hollywood ‘civilians’ who reaped the benefits of being in their orbit.
Oprah is a megawatt star and certified mogul who has been a household name since I was a child. Her best friend, Gayle King, stuck around long enough to beat the lesbian couple rumours (sort of) and now has a fully fledged media empire of her own. Jennifer Aniston and her hairstylist Chris McMillan; Kendall Jenner and influencer and ‘curator’ Fai Khadra. Even people from my embarrassing line of work – podcasting – are, well, making it work. Jake Shane went from viral TikToker reenacting historical events to a big-league classic chatshow podcaster. Recently, he has been papped with Canadian pop star Tate McRae and supermodel Kaia Gerber. The internet referred to him as ‘Kaia’s Labubu’ due to their height difference.
Sometimes the celebrity selects one lucky friend from childhood to join them on their ascent to fame and fortune. Other times it’s a stylist, hair/make-up artist or personal assistant who blurs the line between the dear friend and the help – a richly compensated soundingboard who brings more than a loyal ear to the relationship. If you are really valuable, you eventually get an even higher-paying fake job. You may end up the CEO of a vanity charity that was created solely for optics and tax dodging, or you are plugged in as the boss at a production company with a cushy office in Los Angeles and very little on your slate of labours.
The contract (which definitely includes an air-tight NDA) is simple: the celebrity must provide access and opportunity. If the friend is savvy, they will ride the wave and end up with a healthy bank account and a spouse miles out of their league. The friend must offer a shoulder to cry on, and a set of sympathetic ears primed to digest babbling self-reflection, endless complaints, rampant insecurity and paranoia, badmouthing of other celebrities, and constant relationship woes.
It’s not unlike the relationship with your oldest and most annoying friend, but if you manage it correctly, there is a much larger upside. Because the real ask, whether explicit or not, is making sure nothing shared privately in confidence ever becomes available for public consumption. The friend is to act as a vault, an unwavering supporter and punching-bag, no matter who comes knocking with blackmail, legal papers or an envelope stuffed full of cash. Trust at this level comes with tremendous responsibility and the highest stakes. If you tell the wrong story to the wrong person or even, God forbid, media outlet, you will be cut off forever and sent back down to the minor leagues to become an actual civilian once again.
There, on the downward slope of Mount Olympus, pottering outside for the paper in your dressing gown like post-script Henry Hill, you will have suffered a fate worse than death: a lifetime of breaking bread with the rest of us.
