If a starstruck Martian was to come down to Earth and head for the nearest red carpet event, he’d be immediately struck by two thoughts. 1) “Ha – they’re all bright orange, and they think being green is weird!” And 2) “Gosh, being a celebrity is like being royalty. You can’t be one unless you marry into it. OR UNLESS YOUR PARENTS WERE IT!”
Yes, here they come, slithering across the crimson catwalk, the ever-burgeoning swathes of SADS – (Sons And Daughters) – just as parasitic and bogus as the Greater Spotted WAG. Be they the Good (Daisy Lowe), the Bad (Otis Ferry) or the downright ugly (Kelly Osborne) they use their sharp elbows and blunt instrument brains to wiggle, worm and wail their way into the national consciousness.
It’s a complete turnaround on the 60s when this country seemed to break free overnight from the stifling straitjacket of family fortune, and could at last boast that it didn’t matter where you came from so long as you had talent.
This was true during the showboating 70s and the self-made 80s too. But in the 90s, the kids of the swingers came to adulthood; their parents had refused to grow old gracefully, and they refused to grow up gracefully – i.e. get a job on their own merits rather than through Daddy’s name or Mummy’s contacts.
Hence the foul parade of smirking entitlement that leers at us from the pages of Heat magazine today.
Speaking of the Osbornes:
The old lady used to be a hero to those of us unblessed with good looks, for managing to make herself over and accomplish a great deal, through sheer force of will.
A Helen Gurley Brown of rock and roll.
However, she has deteriorated so badly over the last few years. Revelations that her vaunted “money management” skills were just so much bullshit didn’t help.
But who brashly brags (drunkenly?) on national TV of their own stupidity, or clumsily tries to “top” an alpha guy with such embarrassing results, then carries on as if she’s succeeded.
No woman wants to slide into menopausal irrelevance gracefully, but man, that was brutal.