What ho the revolution! Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of angry men! It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again! Dum de dum de dum de dum!
As we watch the world economy, our pension plans and thousands of bankers plummet past our windows, the question is, how will this revolution manifest itself? There seems little need to storm the gates of the Dickensian-sounding Goldman Sachs, seeing as those portals may soon be trampled by fleeing employees, cardboard boxes aloft. Back in days of yore, of course, the answer was to overthrow the ruling royal family. God, doesn't that look like an oxymoron now? Do the royals do anything these days other than attend things called "roller discos" and, in the case of wee Andrew, hang out with shady oil barons?
Lost in Showbiz was lucky enough to attend London fashion week and most illuminating it was, because it truly brought to light who this country's dynasties are: the children of famous relics of the 60s and 80s. Truly, there ain't nothing like turning up to a fashion show early Monday morning and being greeted by the sight of a hot-panted Jaime Winstone posing for a panting battalion of photographers, back curved, bum aloft, Jayne Mansfield's sobs audible on the wind, to make one come over a little Daniel Cohn-Bendit.
When Samantha Cameron turned up to one show, she was completely ignored by the gleeful photographers with direct lines to the photo desks of the Daily Mail in favour of the heart-stopping appearance of not one but two Jagger children and - sweet Lord, you are good to your humble lambs - Leah Woods, current face of something called "BlackBerry Smartphone Celebrity Urban Tours". This raises a quandary for a Guardian reader: does one applaud the ignominious lack of interest in an evil Tory-type person? Or is this adoration of unemployed progeny a sign of our dumbed-down society? Rock? Hard place?
The hunting-happy Ferry boys, rent-a-blonde Kimberly Stewart, the Geldof girls: I'm sure that once rock star kids had to do something to grab our interest. Now they just have to be born. True, very few of us want to hear Peaches Geldof do a Julian Lennon-style Saltwater (although I would love a Jagger/Woods version of Wilson Phillips), but, still, it's hard not to worry just how these people would have filled their lives were it not for the existence of the London Evening Standard magazine, ES.
Wait, I'm being unfair. Let's not forget hardworking Jade Jagger, who recently designed a $250,000 ice pick called the "Jagger Dagger" for a vodka company. Thank heavens that hole has been filled. Oh, and Peaches - who scurried back to London this week from New York after having been bafflingly ignored by the American press - is in a "DJ collective" called the Trash Pussies. And that's all the employment info I can find on any of the mock royalty at the moment.
Although I wouldn't go so far as to advocate beheading (except in certain, carefully unspecified cases) perhaps exiling them to a country that doesn't have such a freaky fascination with bloodlines would do the trick. All those with the middle name "daughter/son of", against the wall you go.
