The secret diary of Brooklyn Beckham aged 201/3
BROOKLYN Beckham’s had a rough time of it lately.
There have been messy public arguments with his girlfriend, Hana Cross. He’s a laughing stock at his internship with legendary photographer Rankin, according to reports, as he’s said to be struggling with the easiest jobs because he is “lacking basic skills”.
And now, over the weekend, he got two parking tickets in just one day. Poor Brooklyn. He just can’t do anything right.
But is all really as it seems? Should we be taking these incidents at face value, or is something else going on? I’ve managed to get my hands on something that might shed some light...
Dear Diary,
I find it best not to think about what I want. It’s easier that way. Family businesses are about duty, obligation, and I became an apprentice in mine the day I was born.
Brand Beckham is all. Everyone knows that. I try to make the best of it. As Jean Paul Sartre said, freedom is what you do with what’s been done to you.
And so, I do what I must to keep our name in the press. To make sure we stay relevant. Continue my parents’ legacy.
It’s Wimbledon and no one else is available, so it’s down to me. I dress, as usual, like a Peaky Blinders extra too stupid to find my way to set, and put on my most gormless expression. They lap it up, as always.
It’s hard to enjoy these command performances, and it’s a long day. I was tempted to smuggle in some Dostoyevsky – he soothes my soul so – maybe hidden inside an old copy of Nuts or something... but, of course, it’s not worth the risk.
Sigh.
Dear Diary,
Hana is such talented artiste, and a truly generous scene partner. Without everything she’s passed on about the Stanislavski acting method I wouldn’t be able to pull off our fights, never mind be able to produce real tears, all the while appearing like I have no idea anyone is taking my photo.
There is a moment during today’s row when she reminds me so much of a young Meryl Streep that I really want to tell her. But, of course, I would never break character.
Dear Diary,
Back with Rankin today and it’s becoming a trial. I accidentally nodded when someone said “aperture”, and then had to backtrack, look confused, and ask if it was a club he was going to later.
There was a stunned silence, and I thought my cover was blown – no one would be stupid enough to believe I was stupid enough to believe that, would they? Of course they would.
Sometimes I wonder if I subconsciously do these things on purpose
– as Freud said, there are no accidents – because I want to be found out.
That out of focus photography book? Two parking tickets in a single afternoon? The hats? The trousers? Come on!
But it seems there’s nothing people won’t accept, no matter how ridiculous.
That reminds me – I should get in touch with Harry and Meghan about a collaboration. Next time the public are demanding photos of Archie, I could take them.
That would work for both of us – they’d be so blurry no one would be able to see if the baby was even there or not.
I was tempted to smuggle in a Dostoyevsky, hidden inside a copy of Nuts