Cheryl

Let’s make no bones about it: Cheryl Cole is a supremely attractive woman. From her power-coiffed hair, to her buoyant décolletage, to her faultlessly tapered legs, to her classically rendered visage, which seems to recall that of some long-forgotten Hollywood movie star, she is, as they say, the full package. She also benefits from a pleasing narrative arc. She is the disadvantaged schoolgirl, whose talent pulled her up out of the Toon, and down to London Town, where the streets are paved with gold, record deals, and multimillion pound football players. Her grit and determination ensured that she acquired each of these before her twenty-fifth birthday. Notwithstanding an ugly (but long-forgotten) spat with a nightclub toilet attendant, which could (just about) be written off as youthful impetuosity, she triumphed as a member of Girls Aloud, a band so phenomenally popular that they are enjoyed both by screaming teen fans and by the likes of Tennant and Morley, those arch po-mo ironists who sit like joyless Northern magpies at the periphery of every cultural ‘moment’, picking off the shiny detritus with their sombre beaks and grafting it onto their own super-articulated visions.

Just as it appeared things couldn’t get any better, the hydraulic lift of contemporary fame shunted into action once more, and a trinity of happenings befell our Cheryl. These were Ashley Cole, his vomit-stained tonsurial infidelities, and X-Factor. Had Ashley’s chunk-blown, blow-dried intimacies not occurred, it is unlikely that Cheryl’s star would have risen so high. But, as any screenwriter knows, in order to hook in your audience you ramp up the antagonism. And so it came to pass that Cheryl was a national hero, more sinned against than sinning, human, prettily tear-stained, a Heat-beatific angel, a ravishing innocent made prematurely wise by her misfortune, who had more than earned her place as a part of that holy quartet also incorporating Walsh, Minogue, Cowell. Here, her humanity, and her bravery in the face of wrathful Cowell, marked her out for further praise. She became a sort of modern-day Virgil with hair-extensions, guiding Diana Vickers and Alexandra Burke through the seven circles of Saturday night TV hell. And we loved her for it.

But... am I alone in fearing over-exposure? Has the nation’s sweetheart finally peaked? A twice daily internet pap-shot of Cheryl in another pastel mini-dress and bug-eyed shades does nothing to assuage the fear, slow to form but gaining in potency, that momentum is being lost. Every starlet needs a story. Marilyn knew it – that’s why she crammed in Arthur Miller, alcohol and prescription drugs before ending on a high with a mysterious death.

So what’s next for Cheryl? There is talk now of ‘breaking America,’ but what good ever comes of that? Robbie Williams, George Michael and now Peter Andre and Katie Price have all foundered against her rocky shores. There is also an alleged solo album, an ill-conceived project which entirely misses the point about Cheryl: that her musical ability is the least interesting thing about her. Cole is a character of legend, an avatar in a colossal multi-media myth, played out in tabloids, blogs and in weekly gossip magazines. Without the oxygen of narrative, she will slowly wilt and die, or worse, face a lengthy, Beckham-esque decline consisting of ad campaigns for perfume, endorsement deals with underwear firms, and deathless ‘designer collections’, each designed by someone else. In the seventh circle, if she reaches those depths, she will surely find, as Victoria did before her, Dane Bowers and a vocoder, cranking out UK garage beats for eternity.

Surely our nation’s sweetheart deserves better than that? Every starlet needs a story. I propose Cheryl hires a scriptwriter to shape her next move. The possibilities are endless – divorce, a Britney-style meltdown, or perhaps a Carla Bruni-style union with a senior political figure. Anything to keep the story going. Anything to keep us interested. Step forward, David Cameron. Your assistance may soon be required.