Wendyl Nissen: Attack of the tabloids

The paparazzi are lurking everywhere. Photo / Getty Images

I recently realised, with some degree of horror, that when it comes to tabloid, you can take the girl out of the turgid, pond-raking scum of celebrity journalism, but you can't take the tabloid out of the girl.

I have been tabloid clean for 11 years, and recently celebrated my sobriety by wading through our three local weeklies and not once saying out loud: "That's a 15k deal if ever I saw one!" or "They are so posing for that shot, paparazzi my arse!"

These days I simply flick the pages with a disinterested air, just checking that there are still actually celebrities in the pages, not photos of paua pasta or heirloom tomatoes which seem to be dominating publishing these days.

But that was until I hit Auckland's Ponsonby Rd on Saturday night. I wasn't hitting it in a cougar fashion, tottering on heels so thin and high I could give myself a much-needed lobotomy and revealing so much wrinkled flesh that a baby crocodile might mistake me for its mother. I was driving five assembled children and my husband with the intention of attending my brother's 50th birthday party on the Shore.

I had nominated myself as the sober driver for this leg of the journey at least, and was sitting at the lights when my tabloid radar went off.

It was a little rusty, having not gone off in more than a decade. Rather than spot the paparazzi photographer hiding behind a building and poking his long lens out, I initially found my gaze resting on his shoes. Which were very expensive.

I turned around to look in the direction his lens was pointing but couldn't see anyone except a woman I know as Mary, who looks more like a drunker-than-usual Julia Child than Posh Beckham.

"Keep driving!" they all yelled in unison. "It's embarrassing."

And so I drove on, and two seconds later saw another paparazzo emerging from a side street, urgently looking in his rear-view mirror, camera in hand.

"Christ, there's something going on tonight!" I yelled, blood rushing in my veins, tabloid hat firmly on without a wobble.

"Tom Cruise!" they all shouted.

It was true. Tom Cruise had been picked up at Wellington Airport just a few days earlier by Peter Jackson. Could he now be in Auckland, dining at SPQR with the regulars who are trained to ignore celebrities, especially those with American accents?

"Well, one thing's for sure. We are going to find out."

"Your brother's party?" inquired my husband cautiously. "And what exactly are you planning to do if you find Cruise? Ask him around to see the chickens?"

I ignored him and shoved the car into gear, careering madly around the corner in the direction the paparazzi had emerged from.

"Whoa!" they all yelled as they were thrown against the doors.

"Keep your eyes peeled, kids," I instructed. "Somewhere, walking up this road is Tom Cruise."

And there he was. Walking casually up the street, holding hands with a gorgeous woman who looked a little bit like Katie Holmes, but wasn't. The only problem was that he looked nothing like Tom Cruise. He was a celebrity, but a very tall one. And a local one. A very nice local one. A friend.

I screeched the car to a halt and jumped out.

"Mum, don't!" they yelled in unison. Two of them even ducked down behind the seats.

"Paparazzi just around the corner!" I yelled in warning. "He's after you. Watch out!"

"It'll be Tom Cruise," he said, wisely shielding his partner from the mad woman who had just leaped out of a car full of people and started yelling at him.

"Oh hi," I said to his partner, feeling suddenly very rude, and yes, a little bit stupid. What was he supposed to do? Dive for cover behind a bush? Ask if they could go for a ride in my already overstuffed car? Sprinkle magic fairy dust and disappear?

"Okay then," I said. "Must be off. Party to go to. Have a nice walk."

And with that I drove off.

The celebrity and his partner continued their evening stroll. Our car was silent. We all needed a drink.