We'll always have Paris

She's dismissed as an airhead heiress and the queen of trashy modern celebrity. But is there an enduring icon behind the glitzy blonde facade? Giles Hattersley meets Paris Hilton First, a confession. Four years ago, Paris Hilton, the hotel heiress and porn star manquée, was my flatmate. She was in London to star in my best friend’s horror movie, Nine Lives, and for several weeks filled our spare room with Gina shoes, Juicy tracksuits and a miasma of sickly Guerlain perfume. It was like having a Barbie to stay — albeit one with a taste for hard liquor and dubious men. The partying was wild. The hangovers were chronic. Everything was pink.
We’ve spoken a few times since, but then we drifted. Well, I say we. I stayed put, while Hilton morphed from D-list cutie to A-list megastar. All of a sudden, she had a television show, a book deal, a record contract and, before long, perfumes, handbags, sunglasses and lingerie all bore her legend. A former boyfriend released a video of their pedestrian lovemaking (1 Night in Paris), Camille Paglia weighed in on her cultural significance and Hilton joined that cast of ghouls who feature weekly in Heat magazine. But where was that warm, witty girl who always made a point of emptying the dishwasher? She’d gone — apparently replaced with a dumb sex maniac who loves going down on camera before heading out to bitch-slap some rival skinny girl in the club toilets.

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