ADMITTEDLY he’s as handsome as the day is long. He seems cute and his parents clearly worship him. But watching Brooklyn Beckham on The Late Late Show With James Corden in the US cook up a steak and chips with mushy peas because he’d discovered he enjoyed cooking during lockdown tinged me with bitterness. My […]
ADMITTEDLY he’s as handsome as the day is long. He seems cute and his parents clearly worship him.
But watching Brooklyn Beckham on The Late Late Show With James Corden in the US cook up a steak and chips with mushy peas because he’d discovered he enjoyed cooking during lockdown tinged me with bitterness.
My thoughts go to friends and colleagues in the hospitality business who are trained chefs and deserved to have a place at the Corden table, rather than rookie Brooklyn.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who had the same thoughts of nepotism and unfair advantage. It’s little wonder this kind of display engenders jealousy and frustration.
And yet, being a child of internationally famous parents is possibly a tricky tightrope to walk in itself. Inheriting a name which immediately identifies you with people who have already made their path in life, and the never-ending association, is not something you have a choice about.
How do you carve out a life, truly to yourself, and forge a career away from your notorious parents without comparisons being drawn and measures, contrasts and observations being made?
Obviously Brooklyn didn’t choose to be born into his family of wealth, privilege and notoriety any more than members of the Royal Family did.
It’s just a cloak of affiliation he is forced to bear, and while there are worse things in life than luxury and decadence, it should also give you a very clear choice.
Not a week goes by without another famous offspring appearing in the news, showing off their strong social media following, exotic holidaying, luxury lifestyle or vacant posturing because they may not necessarily have a talent themselves but have learned to rely heavily on that of their parents.
Riding on the coat tails of your famous relatives turns out to be a very lucrative job in itself.
Some children, of course, have had the limelight shone on them before they had a choice to reject it and grow up unable to ever shake it off.
For many, it becomes unbearable, and they actively seek to shun it to the best of their ability by “going underground” and distancing themselves from fame and instant glory by association.
I was reminded of this when I saw pictures of Paul McCartney’s son James walking the streets of Brighton looking beyond casual with a long beard and sandals.
Not someone who looks like he’s bathing in the glow of his father’s fame and fortune.
For him, it must have been particularly tricky to decide what to do with life when your dad is one of the most famous musicians in the world and you too want to make a career in music.
With the surname McCartney you could be deemed to have failed before you’ve even strummed a six-string guitar.
Others absolutely lap it up. Whether they be daughters of famous models, comedians or musicians, or sons of notorious actors, they’re given a free pass into the celebrity world, no questions asked.
To those of us who have worked hard all our careers while they have never done a day’s work in their young lives, it feels like a grave injustice. I find it deeply irritating.
Perhaps it’s because I established very early on in my life that I would never want to be famous by association.
When I was first photographed alongside Prince Edward on a trip to the theatre in 1987 — I didn’t know him at all but we ended up walking next to each other and I was on the front of many newspapers the next day — my mum reminds me that I clearly stated that I never wanted to be famous because of who I knew. I wanted to make my own way in life.
And so it is with my own children. They have never once relied on me for notoriety or to get them a step up the career ladder.
In fact, on the odd occasion when I’ve wanted to help in some small way, it’s been met with rejection.
I have always respected that and patted myself on the back for generating in them the very best work ethic.
I hope Brooklyn Beckham finds his true calling and carves out a nice, proper career for himself.
Alternatively, he could always run away with the circus . . .
I’M thrilled to hear about the possibility of hormone replacement therapy becoming available to women over the counter, rather than having to go to a doctor first.
For so many women, going through the menopause is absolute hell and yet there is help out there.
We’ve been too slow and too flaky about getting the message across that HRT can really change things for the better during this very tricky period of a woman’s later life.
So many women are unaware about the possibilities of HRT and many feel they have to suffer their hot flushes, anxiety, tiredness and lowered libido.
We clearly have a lot of work still to do in the education about this unforgiving time of a woman’s life.
That is why I’ve been part of The Sun’s Fabulous Menopause Matters campaign, calling for HRT to be free on the NHS, demanding businesses offer more support and getting everyone talking more openly about the menopause.
I believe if we inform women better, ensure they are aware of what’s available and make them understand there is no need for them to suffer unnecessarily, then the idea of making HRT available over the counter could change women’s lives significantly.
Moreover, it will mean the next generation of women will have the knowledge and support to better make informed choices about their lives and bodies.
THE way Rihanna announced she is expecting her first child is enough to make you believe she is the first woman to ever experience pregnancy.
Looking chic and glam in a snowstorm in Harlem, New York, she was wearing nowt much but a hot pink Chanel coat showing off her bare baby bump, which was draped in a Lacroix necklace and cradled by her hands.
But these are the times in which we live. Next, no doubt, will be an elaborate gender-reveal party, with no expense spared.
I can’t imagine anything worse than freezing my bump off for the sake of a photo op. But obviously I wish her all the best.
SOMETIMES I forget we’re in 2022. With racism, sexism and misogyny so rife, it often feels more like the 1950s.
I have always been a great supporter of the police. I have friends who work as officers and detectives and I’ve always had a healthy respect for authority.
But I was blown away – in the most sinister way – by the Independent Office for Police Conduct report this week into officers at Charing Cross police station in London and the “canteen culture” that was all too prevalent.
The IOPC made it clear that its investigation was not about “a few bad apples” but a culture of racism, bullying, sexism, homophobia, misogyny, toxic masculinity and one of sexual harassment.
Its findings read like a list of the very worst of humanity.
One thing is for sure, it takes more than one person to make a culture and clearly more than roots and branches need to be cut back.
But the deeper question for me is: How do you train people to change their mindsets?
Thoughts and feelings are instinctive, and if someone says they would “happily rape you”, that’s not an ideology, it is an instinct and intuition.
Even if it is an impulse based in thoughtlessness and ignorance, how on earth do you make people understand that their feelings are wrong and unacceptable?
We’re talking about grown men whose thoughts have developed over time.
It’s not like trying to persuade your toddler that whacking another is a fundamentally flawed behaviour and will never have a good outcome.
I have no idea how or where you start retraining and rehabilitating police officers who cling on to their long-held sentiments that women will love you more if you “slap them” or that “African children should be turned into dog food”.
Is it even possible to retrain them? One thing is certain, I don’t believe I’ll be around long enough to see any changes.
