Everyone's second-favourite shrieking Diva (after Johnny Robinson), Mariah Carey has been off theweemo's radar since about 1999. Even then, she popped on only briefly following an incident on Stoke Newington High street, during which from the top deck of a bus theweemo watched as a tramp approached a promotional billboard for the Rainbow album, tear a seven-foot horizontal strip off the middle of it (which encompassed most of Mimi's lower reproductive portions) and wrap himself in it before happily wandering off down the road.*
Mariah-interest resurfaced last week following a series of external prompts in the form of Twitter pics, a US televisual interview and online splashes depicting the sort of life for which babies 'Monroe and Moroccan' are unswervingly destined. As a result of which, theweemo has spent considerable time (42 minutes) wondering what it must be like to grow up having popped out of a Diva.
"Hang on. Did you say Moroccan?" Indeed, theweemo did say it and registers your perplexity. To clarify, this child was named after the uppermost tier of Mariah Carey's NYC apartment. The uppermost tier upon which husband Nick Cannon proposed to her. Yes, she called her offspring after part of her house. Never mind the white puppies on the rider shiz, this takes the Diva bananas biscuit**.
Incidentally, for the 99.9% recurring of you who don't know Mr. Mariah from thinga-ma-bob off-of do-dah, he is helpfully listed on Wikipedia as: "actor, comedian, rapper, entrepreneur, record producer and radio and TV personality". Which is precisely the sort of suspect CV that sets alarm bells ringing for theweemo, as such achievement brandishing seems only to highlight the glaringly absent post-script - "and yet miraculously you probably still haven't heard of him." This is before we even pause to wonder how, with all this other shit going on he has any time at all remaining to fertilise available Carey-ova.
Names and self-consciously contrived, press-friendly, 'street'-flavoured monikers aside (C&C refer to their offspring as 'dembabies'), what's more alarming is what Monroe and Downstairs Shoe Cupboard will be potentially subjected to by a Diva-mum for whom a 'stairlift' translates as 'a tantrum, followed by eight bodyguards.'
The photographs released last week hint that Monroe and LoftConversion will be forever unable to escape from fluff, glitter, white couches, small dogs and endless bunches of bloody balloons.
The last two, hopefully very much kept separate if daddy wants to keep PETA off his case. Of course, there are also plenty of brown M&M eating mums who dress their children up for the 'awww' factor, but theweemo suspects that for dembabies, a childhood spent in and out of velour pumpkin costumes will be de rigueur until at least the age of 47.
Imagine, as theweemo did for 42 whole minutes, growing up as Monroe and Kitchen Extension in such a household. Being unable as a youngster to find your sports kit because, "mummy has sent it off to be trimmed with Swarovski crystals." Being unable as a teen to hang out with your mates in your bedroom as "mummy has got the decorators in there again festooning it with hearts and swans painted pink for the Vanity Fair shoot." Being unable as an adult to look at gingham without going into one because shortly after exiting the womb you were installed here. Daddy may have proposed on the 'Moroccan' tier but this is surely the 'retinal impact distress' nursery. And let's not even get started on the endless thank-you letters they'll be writing to Dame Elton John for his yearly gifts of sapphire and Genuine Leopard Skin hair accessories and the never-ending games of "Why Mummy Is Like An Angel" they'll be playing on long car journeys.
And all this before we recall who it will be that's singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to them. EVERY night.
A disturbing prospect, ladies and gentleman. Very disturbing indeed.
**Not available from Waitrose. Yet.
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