It is always a pleasure to see a son welcomed into the family business, as the parent in question decides the moment has come to introduce them to the industry that can only – only! – make them happy.
There is some dispute about the perfect age for it to happen to maximise the potential benefit to the child. J Paul Getty’s father encouraged him to buy shares in one of his oil wells as a youngster, and was demonstratively disappointed by any of his son’s attempts to deviate from the path he wished him to follow. Perhaps if Getty Sr had brought him on even sooner, the boy who would become the richest man in the world might have foregone the payphone for guests in his London mansion, or paid up his grandson’s ransom before, rather than after, the kidnappers had relieved the 16-year-old of his ear.
We can’t know. What we can do is salute a hyper-naturalistic appearance on our screens by little Eric Cowell, four, as his father Simon is stagily upstaged by his son and heir.
X Factor auditions are currently underway, incidentally, as the show bids to better the worst ratings in its history for last season’s outing – but that’s not important right now. What is, is that Cowell granted an upbeat interview to Loose Women, in which a household fall was parlayed into a “health scare”, and working at night described as an addiction and so on. But hang on – who’s this accidentally interrupting proceedings? Why, it is Eric, dressed in denim shorts and a round-necked black jumper – the exact uniform of his father, of course, bar the long trousers. Winsome horseplay ensues.
This is far from Eric’s debut in public life – he has already made appearances on The X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent, when his answer to an inquiry about what his father’s job was ran: “I am Daddy’s job now.”
As Cowell later revealed, this is all part of a strategy. “I’m sort of training him up,” he explained. Would he like Eric to follow in his Cuban-heeled footsteps? “Oh, a million per cent. I think about that all the time. I would love him to take over. He’s really confident,” Simon continued of Eric’s feel for the show. “When he comes down here, he knows what everybody does. He likes being in the gallery. That will be my dream.”
Mmm. The entire scene – and it was a total scene – reminds me where I saw this exact same device only a few weeks ago. Then it was being deployed by that other terrible old ham, Jacob Rees-Mogg.
If you missed this, Jacob was being interviewed by Kay Burley for Sky News in the kitchen of his house in Somerset. They were just exchanging obsequies, when who should wander in but a young boy dressed as Jacob Rees-Mogg. “Oh hello!” said Moggy, doing surprise easily as convincingly as he’s been doing Sebastian Flyte for the past 35 years. Which is to say, not entirely.
In the doorway could be seen the 10-year-old Peter Rees-Mogg, with an unidentified woman (not the mother) hovering behind. To encourage him on stage at the right moment? Who can say?
Naturally – or rather almost naturally – his father deftly embraced the moment of confected chaos. “Come and meet Kay Burley,” he beckoned to Peter, “who is the most distinguished 24-hour-broadcaster.” Peter was duly brought forth and introduced. “Given half a chance,” trilled Mogg pere, “he’d take over the interview, but we’d better not let that happen.”
Incidentally, Peter was dressed in his prep school uniform, which helpfully features a cravat. And yet, even this felt slightly out of place, given the interview was taking place in the kitchen of Rees-Mogg’s house in Somerset, and the school in question is a couple of hundred miles away in London. Down in the country, ought one not to be in mufti?
I don’t want to go full Henry Higgins here, but as with many of Rees-Mogg’s little tells, the detail seems to have been sufficiently subtle not to upset the general suspension of disbelief as far as Britain’s Most Authentic Politician™ is concerned. “I’m not terribly agricultural,” he once informed LBC listeners, with the practised air of someone frequently asked the question: “What do you farm?” Dairy? Arable? Troll? The latter is closest to the reality, but the pose continues.
Then again, the path was set many decades ago. The young Jacob Rees-Mogg was encouraged to buy shares and ask questions at shareholders’ meetings at the age of 11 – one chairman was informed by the child that his dividend offer was “pathetic” – and to give interviews seemingly to anyone that asked. “How much are you worth?” Tatler wondered of the 16-year-old. “I’m not prepared to answer that question,” he replied. “How much were you worth when you were 12?” “I’m afraid you’ll have to look that up in your file of cuttings.” (You’ll note no one ever asks where on earth the parents are in situations like this, but if one of Katie Price’s kids does similar in their teens she will literally drown in condemnation.)
It recently emerged that the 12-year-old Rees-Mogg had threatened to sue the BBC for a Today programme appearance fee. “I have no idea what your excuse is,” his letter ran, “but I will not accept it. If it is not received by 10/11/81 which is nearly two months, I shall increase it to £36.” Almost the sort of thing one might expect a young Simon Cowell (whose father was a music industry executive) to have got up to, given half a chance.
On these two houses roll, then, each drafting in the next generation eyebrow-raisingly early, perhaps convinced that the children hold the key to their perpetuation. The Cowells and the Rees-Moggs, ladies and gentlemen: two households, both alike in ... well, now ... dignity, would you call it?
The World Cup’s official anthem gets Willie with it
News that America’s Will Smith is to feature in the official Fifa World Cup song feels less scrutable than it might. In one sense, it fits a pattern of studied randomness. For a World Cup held in Russia, the Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It legend will join South American reggaeton star Nicky Jam, and a Kosovar musician called Era Istrefi in a track produced by US DJ Diplo. The US haven’t qualified for the tournament, incidentally. But once you’ve had the noted Colombian singer Shakira do the official anthem for South Africa in 2010 – Waka Waka (This Time for Africa) – it’s fair to say you’ve permanently freed yourself from the bonds of relevance.
Even so, why has Fifa gone with these particular personnel for Russia 2018? I assume the answer to that question is the same as the answer to the question “Why does Fifa do anything?”
But I must confess to having trouble following the angles here. Smith was certainly giving nothing away when he commented on the news, though he did manage to honour the law that no one involved with the mega-event and the product should ever mention the word football. “This global event brings people from all over the world together,” he explained, “to cheer, laugh and experience magic … at the end of the day, we just want to see the world dance.”
Well quite. As for what Will described as “harmony, eclectic flavours and genres coming together”, I now want to see this ensemble performance at the opening ceremony almost as much as I want to see the hilariously cast opening match between Russia and Saudi Arabia (#COYSaudis).
All Fifa World Cup songs sound as if they were put together by a committee – this one sounds as if it was put together by members of the executive committee while they were being led out of the Baur au Lac hotel beneath their bedlinen in the dawn raid three years ago. The song is being released this very Friday, however, so I leave it to you to decide whether additional criminal charges should be brought.
