W niedzielnej gazetce Mail pojawił się artykuł o rodzinie Paula McCartneya. Uwaga, artykuł może zdenerwować zagorzałych fanów Paula.
http://www.mailonsunday.co.uk/debate/ar ... itain.htmlAre the McCartneys the most irritating family in Britain?
Stella McCartney is just like any other young mum; worried about her children's education, worried about their future, worried about how they will turn out in this great big, crazy world of ours.
Except her problem has an added piquancy, a whole new dimension of angsty, inner-city concern that only the everyday, ordinary, socially-aware, London-based millionaire parent can afford to entertain.
Unlike most urbanites, Stella is not worried that her children might be bullied or stabbed in the classroom.
Or leave school unable to count to 20 without recourse to fingers and toes, incapable of spelling amphetamine sulphate but familiar with six different ways of ingesting it.
Oh dear me, no. Instead, Stella is worried that by sending her children to the very best private schools in the capital, the little tykes might become too posh.
'It's one of my biggest internal struggles - the whole schooling system in London and the fact that my kids are going to a posh school. It freaks me out,' she said in an interview at the weekend. What is she going to do about it?
'If at any stage it looks like they're becoming total jerks and saying: "Hello Mummy" in posh voices instead of running in and just being their awful selves, then you have to knock it on the head.'
Excuse me while I snort into my stab-proof vest. The idea of Stella and her husband, magazine publisher Alasdhair Willis, doing a Diane Abbott in reverse - dragging their children out of public schools to send them to the local state-education establishments to give them a better chance in life - is laughable.
It will never happen. Not while there are still two ys in hypocrisy, at any rate. Stella wants to be like common people, she wants to do what common people do.
Yet her image of herself as some sort of working class heroine because her own parents Paul and Linda McCartney sent her to state school in Sussex is wearing as thin as one of her cruelty-free summer dresses.
For while she may not be aristocratic or talk like the Duchess of Devonshire, Stella McCartney is the ultimate child of privilege and nepotism.
If Daddy had not been a rich Beatle, would Stella have done work experience with Christian Lacroix when she was 15 and seamlessly gone on to become a word-famous designer, the originator of some of the most overrated clothes in fashion history?
Would she have been able to stand firm on her fur and leather-free stance, risking being thrown out of the fashion world entirely, if she did not have the family millions to fall back on? Doubtful.
Stella, who has just been awarded the contract to design outfits for the British 2012 Olympic team, always claims that yes, it was her family connections that opened the doors for her, but after that she made it all on her own.
Yet people like Stella don't understand that getting through the blasted door in the first place is the only thing that really matters.
Without Daddy, and the concomitant gush of flattery and compliments that have washed over her career and life to date, it is tempting to think that all little Stella would have to show for her talent would be an O-level in creative knitting and a shop selling bobble hats in Hove.
Too posh, she says? How could one tell? When the children start behaving like Zac Goldsmith or complaining that the polo ponies' hooves aren't shiny enough? Too posh, she worries?
Perhaps Stella should have thought of that before calling her three children Miller, Bailey and Beckett; a trio of nouveau boho, super-posh, strictly W11 names that would earn the three of them a sound thrashing from the Wayne and Waynettas at most inner London comps.
Stella has another baby on the way (Ibsen? Only guessing) which will no doubt travel along the same educational route as Miller, five, who attends the exclusive West London prep school once frequented by Prince William and Prince Harry.
The younger two, Bailey, three, and Beckett, two, go to the kind of private nursery that has a longer waiting list than Eton and which finds Tory grandees, film stars and millionaires fighting for a place for their offsping.
You know, many parents can only dream of sending their children to first-class establishments like these.
Others manage it, but only by working all the hours God sends, by commuting long distances, but turning grey before their time in order to give their children the very best education that money can buy. Breezy, unthinkingly grand Stella insults them all.
And by worrying about her children being too posh and privileged, she is fooling no one but herself.
Still, it comes with the McCartney territory. Really, what would we do without the McCartney family, who seem to be forever on hand to dish out unwanted advice and their heartfelt guidance to the sausage chomping ignorati?
For years now, Sir Paul in particular, closely followed by daughters Mary and Stella, have loomed disapprovingly over British life like the meat-free Munsters. I'm so bored with them!
They seem to have passed through some weird prism of wealth and privilege and entered into a McCartney land which entitles them to lecture the rest of us on life, education and Linda McCartney's Vegemince with a fervour verging on the religious.
Bless you father Paul, for pushing your meat-free agenda and your self-belief at every opportunity.
For nothing seems to stop him on his self-imposed mission to turn the world veggie and make us all obey a Meat-Free Monday.
McCartney even took it upon himself to write to the Dalai Lama, the spiritual leader of Tibet and one of the holiest men in the world, to chastise him for eating meat.
An exchange of letters followed between the two great men and I like to imagine what was in those letters.
'You are trying to give me advice?' the Dalai Lama might possibly write. 'Chummy, you are the one who married Heather Mills. What right do you have to give advice to anyone about anything?'
Daughter Mary is almost as bad. Thank you Mary, for giving us your recipe for Eggs, Beans and Chips which was reprinted, without a dash of irony, in a glossy food magazine this weekend.
Others might have been too embarrassed to put their name to something so prosaic and patronising, but not you. After all, you are a McCartney!
'Slice the potatoes into thin chip lengths,' you wrote. 'Meanwhile fry the eggs and heat the beans.'
Mary, thank you for sharing. We are not worthy of your vegetarian culinary expertise. I suspect that Careme, the creator of haute cuisine, and our own Jamie Oliver have nothing to fear from you, but when has a lack of expertise ever stopped a McCartney before?
We don't ask, but the monomaniac, peace-sign flashing, veggie pushing McCartneys cannot stop themselves from telling us how to live.
There is Paul and his penchant for upbraiding world leaders, Stella and her ever-so ordinary children, Mary and her fried eggs. What an irritating crew they are.
And despite their ordinary, people-of-the-people affectations, the collective McCartney life is one that is lived behind a velvet rope in fabulous properties, a world of cars and jets and exclusivity.
Yet despite this, they continue to inflict themselves upon us. Where would we be, without their collected wit and wisdom and little meat-free nuggets of advice? In a much happier place, perhaps.
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Ile prawdy w niektórych z tych docinków... (bo raczej odbieram to jako docinki niż rzeczywistą silną niechęć do McCartney'ów)