Belfast Telegraph

Thursday 25 December 2014

Do Posh and Madonna herald the rise of the Reluctant Mother?

I wonder just who exactly Victoria Beckham and Madonna think they are any more?

I'm beginning to suspect the pair of them are addicted to airport food. We rarely see Posh these days unless she's marching in or out of an airport doorway, occasionally wearing a Russian-military type hat.

And clutching some giant designer handbag to her impossibly petite body. She's so thin and frail-looking now that with those giant sunglasses covering up half her face she looks like a disorientated fruit fly.

Madonna has allegedly increased her six-hour daily workout to an eight-hour punishment-fest. She's supposed to have told ‘a source’ that she wants her body to be as hard as a marble statue. Rumours of cosmetic surgery abound.

Pity they can't do anything about Posh's seemingly rampant narcissism or Madonna's scary self-obsession.

Both women are said to rely on a small army of childminders, nannies, babysitters, cleaners, housekeepers, personal assistants, chauffeurs, bodyguards, private chefs, stylists and financial advisors to keep their rather pointless careers afloat.

Call me cynical, but I don't think we'd really miss either one of them if they decided to join an enclosed order of nuns.

In my opinion Madonna's sugary-sweet and designer-naughty pop songs have begun to sound very dated in recent years. For nearly three decades we've had to listen to this ‘touch me’ stuff.

And all the while saying to ourselves, yes, we get the joke: a woman called Madonna is being a bit rude on stage.

And as for Posh's shiny new career as a fashion designer? Don't make me laugh. The woman has never been in or anywhere near a college of art and design. For if she had a degree in fashion design, or even an O level in art, you can bet your bottom dollar we'd know all about it.

The worst part is, this pair of vain little fashion victims have six children between them. But I wonder how many hours a week they spend ferrying the children to and from school and sports clubs etc.

I wonder how many hours they spend preparing the packed lunches or picking up dirty socks or checking homework.

There's something very sad going on with some of our female celebrities. They seem to care more about column inches, shopping and fame than their own offsprings' happiness.

In fact, they're turning out to be no better than some of the lads: jetting off at the slightest opportunity and leaving the daily domestic routine to the paid help. I wonder which of the current crop of celebrity kids will be penning that ‘Mommy Dearest’ tell-all book in 10 years' time?

Will it be one of poor Kerry Katona's four kids? Or one of Angelina Jolie's globetrotting half dozen? Or perhaps one of Katie Price's bored-looking trio?

Look at Britney Spears' photo album favourite of that crazy ambulance dash to a psychiatric hospital. What I don't understand is why we women keep buying the glossy magazines that feature these celebs? Is it because we actually feel better about our own lives after we've had a good nosey into theirs?

Do we look at Kerry Katona's ‘hard man’ Mark Croft and think to ourselves, well, compared to him, my own dear wee husband suddenly looks like God's gift? Do we cast a weary glance across our own laundry mountain or empty larder and think, well, at least I'm not too stuck-up to do my own housework?

Do we indeed soak up all these tales of flawed celebrity just to remind ourselves that maybe being rich and famous isn't the answer to all life's problems after all? Yes, we've always had our celebrity bad boys. Fathers and husbands who would have been up in court charged with neglect, if it weren't for their money and aura of celebrity. We've simply come to accept that a truly devoted husband and father is a rare thing in showbiz. But now many women seem to be going the same way. Some female celebs would rather be in the front row at a fashion show than at home, it seems.

It's a bit sad really. I wouldn't trade my stay-at-home years for all the money in the world. I loved reading the storybooks and baking the buns and planting the sunflower seeds. I really did. I cannot understand how any mother would rather go shoe shopping or partying with all the other shallow wannabes than put her feet up with her children and watch a Disney movie on the TV. Never mind doing eight hours of exercise you don't need to do, or chasing a silly career you're not remotely qualified for.

Most working mothers work because they need the money. I'm assuming Posh and Madonna have a few pennies put away for a rainy day. So just why do they go on ‘working’?

Is this the last great social taboo, I wonder? The mothers who just couldn't be bothered? And would millions of ordinary mothers also chuck the wee’uns in to granny's house and go running to the beauty salon, if they were given half a chance? Are we seeing the rise and rise of the Reluctant Mother?

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