Last night I found myself once again at Day Fever. For those of you yet to come across this, it’s a nostalgic daytime nightclub created by actress Vicky McClure, her husband Jonny Owen, and musician Jon McClure (no relation).
It’s a great afternoon escape from reality for those who used to spend their nights clubbing, but now have responsibilities the next day and need to be home in time for the babysitter. It looks like this (which was filmed just after 6pm):
It seems that a major element of the event’s draw is the celebrity involved. So when Jonny Owen started teasing during his first set that the Nottingham-born star of Line of Duty might be in the building there was as almost disconcerting amount of excitement among the crowd, leaving me feeling somewhere between bewildered and amused.
Finally Vicky McClure herself energetically bounced on stage, and (to steal a cliched phrase) the assembled crowd went wild. Cheers erupted, phones were held aloft, and grown adults surged forward to get closer to the celebrity on stage with with a slightly disturbing fervour usually reserved for genuine religious experiences.
And there I stood, clutching my overpriced two-pint cocktail, unmoved. I thought to myself — perhaps a little too smugly — that this was just another manifestation of the cult of celebrity. Here was a very wealthy actress with an established career, now DJing at an ironic disco for middle-class millennials. A side-hustle. A personal brand expansion. A well-paid cameo. Does this not deserve a more cynical response from those of us quite literally paying to see it?
I turned to my friends with a raised eyebrow, trying to silently communicate, are we all really buying this? However my wife (who is a huge fan of any police-based drama) was equally enthralled.
And that’s when it hit me.
Would it have been different if Rob Hatch had come on stage to announce the next song with a perfectly enunciated “Dare I say it…”? To be honest I would probably have screamed like a teenager at a Taylor Swift concert. I’d have genuinely lost composure. Most of the crowd wouldn’t have recognised him, yet I’d have been levitating with excitement.
So what exactly makes my celebrity more “worthy” than theirs?
It’s easy to dismiss other people’s idols as frivolous or commercially driven. But it’s much harder to see our own heroes as anything but pure. As much as I tell myself that I’m immune to the celebrity complex because I don’t watch TOWIE or Big Brother, or attach significance to people just because they’re on TV or have a huge social media following, the truth is that I just have a different pantheon.
And that’s the trap, isn’t it?
The cult of celebrity isn’t confined to Love Island contestants, soap actors turned DJs, or viral YouTubers. It lives in all of us. In who we elevate. In who we think deserves attention, money, or admiration. I’ve just traded the silver screen for scientists, TikTok influencers for Tour de France coverage. It’s the same altar, different saints.
So if it’s not the nature of celebrity that unsettled me, what was it? Maybe it was the strange parasocial nature of a relationship many people there seemed to feel they shared with the celebrities present. It was hard not to read people’s texts about how “Vicky is here” (given we’re all of the age where we increase our font size in a desperate attempt to ward off varifocals) so was it that sense of familiarity with a TV star who doesn’t even know you exist that made me feel this way?
But while it’s easy to poke fun at fans crying over popstars or obsessing over YouTube personalities, the truth is that I’m just as susceptible. When Mads Pedersen, who isn’t just an amazing cyclist but also an actual human being with an actual real life, replied to a tweet of mine I was giddy for hours. I showed my friends, even those who knew nothing about cycyling. I checked the interaction count like a teenager refreshing likes. For a brief moment, a sliver of his world intersected with mine, and it felt disproportionately meaningful.
I’m kind of gutted that I deleted that Tweet while moving over to Bluesky.
But on reflection that is really strange behaviour. In reality I know next to nothing about Mads beyond what’s curated through interviews and race coverage, however that fleeting moment of recognition still scratched some deep psychological itch. Parasocial relationships trick us into feeling closeness, into investing emotion in people who will never, and can never, reciprocate it. I like to believe I’m grounded, rational, immune to such illusions. But I’m not. None of us are. Whether it’s a cyclist from Denmark or a soap star from Nottingham, we project meaning onto them. We fill in the blanks. And when they respond, or even just appear, we light up—not because of who they are, but because of what they represent to us.
I think now back to other similar interactions I’ve had online, from discussing Project Euler solutions with Red Walters to conversations with Dr Glaucomflecken in the early days of Medtwitter to discussions about statistical reanalyses with big research names. These may be slightly more involved than a single tweet interaction with a World Champion cyclist, but they’re still increadibly one sided. They’re the megastar, I’m just somebody enjoying a brief moment basking in their reflected glory.
The cult of celebrity and parasocial relationships aren’t just quirks of modern life. Parasocial relationships were first described in the 1950s as one-sided interactions in which audiences feel a sense of intimacy with media figures, and it was recognised that these relationships simulate genuine social bonds, despite being entirely unreciprocated. In the 1960s Daniel Boorstin argued that celebrities are “well-known for their well-knownness” i.e. that they are in many ways manufactured figures whose fame is self-perpetuating, often divorced from tangible achievement. That idea has only grown more relevant in the era of Instagram and reality TV, where visibility alone often equates to value and social media transitions to a way to advertise the individual as a brand. This commodification of identity fuels a cycle in which fame begets fame, and those already inside the circle are best placed to thrive within it.
More recently it’s been shown that parasocial bonds can offer real emotional support, particularly in times of loneliness or uncertainty. But they also blur the boundaries between real and imagined relationships, turning emotional projection into a powerful social force - and interestingly the bigger the celebrity, the stronger that feeling is.
In this light, my elation at Mads Pedersen replying to a tweet isn’t just a fan moment. It’s a case study in how celebrity is constructed and consumed in the digital age. It wasn’t him I connected with, but the mediated version I know through broadcast, commentary, and social media. And yet, that sliver of acknowledgement was enough to ignite something real in me. That’s the paradox at the heart of the celebrity machine: it thrives on distance but survives on the illusion of intimacy.
If I’m not immune to that either, maybe if I’m being honest then there’s a touch of jealously involved? Why does Owen and McClure’s side-hustle take off and spread nationally while I can’t get any of mine off the ground?
There is something unavoidably circular about the way money and fame operate. Once you’ve reached a certain altitude of recognition, everything you touch seems to float more easily. Day Fever isn’t simply successful just because it’s a good idea - it’s successful exactly because Vicky McClure and Jonny Owen are attached to it.
Their fame draws a crowd. Their contacts fill and staff the venue. Their bank accounts help bankroll the marketing machine and capital costs of getting started. If I tried to start a nostalgic disco night (god forbid!), I’d be begging friends to buy tickets and wondering if I could afford a DJ off Facebook Marketplace.
And it’s not just financial and reputational assistance they offer. I don’t have the time or energy I’d like to dedicate to other ventures because I need to focus on paying the mortgage. But when you’re already famous, and don’t need to worry about the grind, the climb becomes much shorter and the runway smoother.
Interestingly one of my friends was drinking one of Beavertown’s excellent beers that night, which is a very similar story. Superficially this the tale of a small, edgy craft beer brand which exploded in popularity through quality and marketing genius. But the brewery only got going, and was subsequently sold to Heineken at a huge profit, because its founder Logan Plant happened to be the son of Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant who offered the necessary capital and cachet to give the brewery a level of early access, attention, and trust most new entrants to the craft beer market could only dream of.
There’s growing academic and industry recognition that fame and wealth act as accelerants when launching companies, brands, or events. Research on “celebrity entrepreneurship” highlights how the social capital of fame—connections, credibility, media access, and follower attention—translates directly into market capital. Celebrities use their public personas not just to market their ventures, but to shape investor confidence and secure media attention, essentially converting visibility into legitimacy. Interestingly it’s recognised that celebrities strategically manage perceptions of authenticity when launching commercial projects, revealing a fascinating tension: while audiences may be cynical about celebrity side-hustles, those same projects tend to succeed due to the celebrity’s existing audience and trust capital, even when people say they don’t want to support “cash grabs.”
That kind of access opens doors most of us can’t even find. I don’t say that to diminish the hard work that follows, but to highlight how uneven the terrain is from the start. Some people are born at the base of the mountain. Others get dropped off halfway up by helicopter. And yet we all like to pretend it’s the same hike, that if only you worked harder you’d be as successful as them. But maybe I shouldn’t be bitter, and instead reflect on the legs up I had in life from my parents, partner, friends, and mentors. I certainly haven’t had it as hard as some, even if I also haven’t had it as easy as others.
This all leaves me feeling not particularly proud of being so smug at the time. But I think recognising and reflecting on what that is matters.
There’s something dangerously comforting about believing you’re above it all. That your tastes are purer, your interests more noble, your achievements untarnished. It becomes a kind of snobbery - and one that’s quietly corrosive. Worse still, it isolates you from moments of communal joy, like the one I witnessed at Day Fever, where hundreds of people were genuinely, uncomplicatedly thrilled to see someone they love on stage.
Vicky McClure meant something to them. She represents something - be it homegrown talent, authenticity, or maybe even just the feeling of watching telly with your family on a Sunday night. And who am I to scoff at that, especially when it does demonstrably bring them a sense of wellbeing?
I thought I was above the cult of celebrity. I’m not. I’ve just chosen a different flavour. So next time, maybe I’ll get a little excited about it too, and enjoy just living in that moment rather than worrying about how we got there.