Yesterday, she was just Justine, and Nigel Page, wasn’t worth a column inch.
No more 'just Justine'...
Today on Google, type Justine Laycock and she fills the first screen of results – and again, it’s the Page page.
With every second that passes, a new website arrives that offers ways to invade our privacy a little more.
Today, our lives are more public than ever before.
Modern celebrity – especially self-instigated celebrity – is cursed.
You don’t get fans by telling the world you just won £56m. We live in a bitter and twisted society; you’d have more chance winning the Lottery twice than getting me to go public after a six-ball snatch.
Call me cynical, but even in the throes of euphoria doesn’t an iota of caution kick in when a master publicist suggests it would be a wonderful gift for your grandchildren to make a scrapbook of the headlines you make by telling the world about your Euro Millions win?
I’ve worked on both sides of the media. I help people get publicity if they truly want it and I’ve been equally grateful to tell people’s stories.
Every multimedia journalist (is there any other type today?) knows how to use the internet’s people search tools.
Everyone is desperate to be wealthier than the rest.
Laycock, Page – why?