When Carrie Symonds first emerged as Prime Minister Johnson’s mistress, I liked what I saw. I admired her bravery in renouncing her anonymity to reveal that, as a teenager, she had been attacked by serial rapist John Worboys to campaign against her prison release. And I appreciated her love for our silly friends; It was widely believed that she had been behind her boyfriend’s promise to promote animal welfare in his first speech as prime minister, a big change for a man who had said he ‘loved’ hunting in part because of the ‘semi-sexual relationship’. with the horse’.
But reading in the Evening Standard gossip column this week that Carrie Johnson plans to launch ‘a lifestyle brand in the style of Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop’ and ‘considering a line of sustainable, organic products for age-conscious young women and children fashion’, I was torn between wild fun and existential dread. There’s something sad about it, when you consider what an idealistic young woman she was, so passionate about everything from beef crates to female genital mutilation. At a time when her husband is considered the unlikely savior of a soul-sick nation, a fashion brand doesn’t look good, no matter how many sustainable ribbons are tied around it. The idea that people will pay through the nose for sustainable, organic produce at a time when a serving of Lurpak costs almost £10 is laughable, so Standard’s suggestion that Carrie “could draw on the expertise of her friend Lady Bamford, owner of the luxury supermarket and delicatessen Daylesford must surely be a joke.
I wonder how many Jade Eggs Goop will exchange next year, when the real price that comes out of a chicken will cost about the same.
This is the world Carrie wishes to become a ‘player’ in, that murky crossroads where luxury beliefs and luxury goods meet. Yes, the public will not pay for their rulers’ indulgences, but the general suspicion that the richer you are, the more they give you, that the rich never have to pay, in both senses of the word, is dangerous. for our democracy at this time. It’s true that since Gwyneth Paltrow founded Goop in 2008, she’s been estimated to be worth $250 million. But that was before, when we in the West believed that things could only get better. Now we realize that things are sure to get worse. I wonder how many Jade Eggs Goop will exchange next year, when the real price that comes out of a chicken will cost about the same.
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For the past two decades, the organic snake oil-fueled wellness industry has lured every last nervous Nellie with money to spend, making self-soothing and self-care the new self-abuse, with incessant pampering to help us little ladies get over the horror. of having to work to live. Passout couches were replaced by those things with holes for you to hang your face on; smelling salts were replaced by essential oils as born strong women sought to get wet, shuffling around day spas in robes and slippers. It seemed like a very comforting way to spend disposable income: all those books on how to be hygienic, all those casual clothes, brands like Toast, Loaf, and White Company, all those triple-figure scented candles, when you could literally watch the money and enjoy the smell. It’s funny how the idea of snuggling seemed like a leisure option just a few years ago; now even Bed Bath & Beyond is about to go out of business.
Because when people sit around open ovens or huddle under heated blankets for warmth, the idea of cosines seems like a sick joke, a “let them eat cake” for our times. As for sustainability, when mere livelihood becomes an issue to the point where people are figuring out how they can eat every other day, and with the prospect of a looming dystopia that may have us fighting in the street over who gets the last lick of a Dairylea Wrapper, one couldn’t imagine a worse time for a politician’s wife to start a business selling dreary luxuries to people with more money than sense.
But who knows, maybe it won’t be boring. Perhaps, like Goop, he will sell important sex toys (‘The Gove’?). Or candles that smell of Remainers tears. Or Afghan pet insurance. Nothing would surprise me now. And if Carrie’s husband is ever going to return to the rigors of his Prime Minister’s salary rather than the ease of pocketing $150,000 for a 90-minute fireside chat with our American friends, he’s going to need a hard-working wife who bring in the dirty money, for all those rolls of gold wallpaper to come.
Source: news.google.com