Can the most blatant nepotism sometimes add to the gaiety of the nations? It depends. In the old days, the eldest son of British notables might be sent out to rule as Proprietor of the Province of Maryland, which feels less than ideal, while other scions were elevated to administer 50,000 square miles of India on the basis they were both clubbable and semi-adequate lower order batsmen. Hand on heart, however, I cannot fault the state of the art system of turd-polishing that gifts Brooklyn Beckham a hilarious new career once a year. In these straitened times, I simply do not wish to deprive myself of the amusement. I have hugely enjoyed every single one of the high-profile professions thus far embraced by Brooklyn, 23 – footballer, art photographer, published monograph author, model, and now chef. Is there nothing he can do?
If there is, I am sure none of us wishes to find out about it. Where was I, before the eldest son of David and Victoria Beckham was being promoted into the sidebar of my consciousness thrice weekly with a series of impossibly gilded professional ventures from whose comic implosion he seems able to move onwards and ever upwards with consummate ease? Wherever it was, it wasn’t a very happy place. And like I say, the fact that Beckham Jr is typically offered a brand ambassadorship as opposed to an actual ambassadorship feels like progress of a sort in our septic isle. Better a sponsored cleansing regime than an ethnic cleansing regime.
