Only a mother could love a nepo baby – but there are some professions in which the far reach of the dead hand of nepotism strikes me as worse than others. In such frothy fields as modelling and television presenting, the prettiest face will still usually win out: look at Maya Jama, the new compere of Love Island, daughter of a teenager and a jailbird, who resembles a film star from the golden age of MGM – Fortuna’s apology for Brooklyn Beckham. Nepotism becomes far more damaging to the culture when it sidles out of light entertainment and into newspaper columns, novels and stand-up shows; when it moves the undeserving into jobs which need wit, because wit, unlike cheekbones, is something that can’t be inherited. Yet the colonisation of the once-meritocratic media by mediocrities continues – and most of them are female.
There is a new breed of Media Nepo Baby or, due to their obsession with masturbation, maybe we might call them the neponanists. There’s Flora Gill, who memorably advocated ‘entry level porn’ for children, daughter of late monkey-killing Mr Punch-lookalike A.A. Gill. There’s writer and ‘fat activist’ Honey Ross, daughter of alleged ‘funny-man’ Jonathan, though the only time I recall being amused by him was those paparazzi pics of him crying over his wife’s infidelity at a pavement cafe.
There’s Grace Campbell, the ‘comic’ who claims to have invented the phrase ‘J’adore’ though I could have sworn I learned it in French class way back in the 1970s, daughter of cry-bully supreme Alastair who I sometimes believe would actually eat himself alive if it got him television air-time. And let’s not forget Emily Clarkson, daughter of He Who Must Be Shunned, whose talent agency page is a treat for the millennial-mockers among us: ‘Emily has become a welcomed voice of truth on Instagram… her book is an entertaining plethora of her life experiences to create a fresh outlook on feminist values… this breath of fresh air has already attracted hundreds and thousands of followers.’ Hundreds and thousands, the saucy sprinkler!
Nepotism becomes far more damaging to the culture when it moves the undeserving into jobs which need wit, because wit, unlike cheekbones, is something that can’t be inherited
These nympho nepos are all the bumptious daughters of outrageously over-sharing fathers who appear to have gone out of their way to court the attention of strangers as a roundabout way of getting the attention of fathers who were probably quite busy with work during their formative years. Poor Grace Campbell is perhaps the saddest example, and sounds quite deranged when talking about a man who was basically nothing more than Tony Blair’s Groom Of The Stool even in his pomp: ‘I desperately wanted his approval – I was obsessed with him and impressed by him.’ But they’re all rather pathetic, in their shared belief that sex is still shocking.
In the interests of complete disclosure, I’ll admit now that I wrote an astonishingly dirty book when I was their age. Ambition quickly went to number one on the best-selling fiction list; I made a fortune from it. But I was a sexy guttersnipe hustler, not an attention-seeking superannuated student; I certainly didn’t believe that ceaselessly banging on about ‘shagging’ would make me interesting – I banged on about cocaine and communism, too. These girls’ obsession with masturbation doesn’t make them seem ‘empowered’ but rather like a gaggle of blank-eyed chimps in front of a mildly amused zoo audience.
Of course self-abuse isn’t anything to be ashamed of – but it’s nothing to feel proud about, either; it will never, ever make your life more enviable, no matter how expensive your sex toys. Though modern mores frown on louche behaviour from public figures, it’s hard not to feel a flash of admiration when we read in an obituary that someone was a ladies’ man or femme fatale – ‘They masturbated a lot’ just doesn’t have half the worldly glamour. It’s notable that sex positivity often goes hand in hand with extreme censoriousness in other areas; think of Clarkson publicly denouncing her father over his weak Game Of Thrones gag, or Jonathan Ross backtracking on his support for J.K. Rowling (‘right and magnificent’) after his daughter gave him a mouthful. Of course, these clowns are too dumb to comprehend that without the very fathers they lambast, they’d be working for the minimum wage somewhere, not getting paid handsomely to show off. It’s like Veruca Salt joined the Stasi.
The neponanists hate J.K.R. because she’s brave, beautiful and self-made – everything they’re not, especially the last one. At a time when it’s well nigh impossible for working-class girls to become writers, I’d be curious to know how many of these strong independent women (like their patron saint Meghan Markle) got a financial leg-up from daddy dearest. Not all will be as lucky as Flora Gill, who at the age of 27 announced that she was chatelaine of a £3 million apartment in Kensington belonging to her family: ‘I have a library, a garden square and a wine cellar’ but I wouldn’t mind betting they all get a bit of help as only rich kids can afford to be media interns these days.
I’ve had a great innings in journalism; from 17 to 63 I’ve had my dream job and because of it enough fun and money for nine lifetimes. But it’s horrible to think of what will happen to girls like me in the future, who come from homes without books yet want to be writers. They’ll stand more chance of becoming astronauts, while the potty-mouthed Media Nepo Babies continue to clean up by talking dirty. Though they spout on ceaselessly about inclusion and diversity, it’s because of MNBs that our arts and media become ever less inclusive and diverse; these well-bred airheads’ views on everything from Brexit to transgenderism are exactly the same. They’re not the only reason for the decline of newspapers and the BBC – but they are part of it, as no one wants to pay good money to see poor little rich girls showing their knickers to get daddy’s attention.
Though things may look rosy now, I’d advise the neponanists to add another string to their bows. When you’re young you’ll get commissioned for talking about sex, but a middle-aged masturbator is nowhere near as marketable. Good job you’ll have the Bank of Famous Mum and Dad to fall back on when you return slightly baffled and ashamed to the anonymity you deserve, leaving the way clear for deserving girls from nowhere to make their name in the lively arts once more.
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