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I feel sorry for Paul McCartney
Paul McCartneys pending divorce settlement makes me wonder how much it takes in terms of personal wealth before you relax about it and don't want to protect every last pound. With £825million [approx $1800million] you'd think he could have made his ex-wife Heather 'comfortable' for life without the slightest pain that many normally wealthy men might suffer when they have to share their wealth with an ex partner. But no, he's so determined to fight every pound of the way that he'll drag it out in court in front of a group of strangers rather than act decently, and generously. Most people would do anything to stay out of court. That sort of money makes more in interest than any individual could spend, so chances are it's just growing from interest alone, and then there are the royalties that just keep rolling in. So Paul isn't likely to be without an income ever. With the ego he clearly has, it's unlikely that any acts of generosity such as funding all the animal shelters in the UK which are run by volunteers on shoestrings, when he's reputed to be an animal lover, would have gone unannounced to the media, wildlife charities too are universally struggling to make ends meet and are lucky if they get a few thousand from the lottery now and then. Paul's wealth could sort out all of those too and still have more millions than he can possibly ever need. He once sang 'Can't buy me love' but then there was also 'I want money, that's what I want, gimme money...' so there's no knowing what he feels about money now. It's certainly still true that you can't buy love, his recent relationship may have hammered that home, and at his age he's unlikely to find someone who's uninterested in his considerable wealth. And lately he's looked very sad, pinched, screwed up face saying it all. And the truth is, his wealth is what stands between him and everyone else, except perhaps the other small band of obscenely wealthy, but they are all such overblown egos that I doubt if they make very good friends; too interested in talking about themselves to listen to a friend's problems, it's what makes a friend. He can never trust anyone, never put out of his mind that they are there because he's rich, that they're saying that to please him [because he's rich], or he pays them to do it and say it, and fools himself into thinking it's genuine as some rich saddoes do. It's really so easy. There are so many deserving causes in the UK and out in the world; so many animal charities in need of further funding, Sea Shepherd exists entirely on small donations from supporters to combat the might of the Japanese whaling fleet, and could use more and bigger ships with which to harass them. He could give it all away, just keeping a million ofr three as a security blanket just in case the royalties suddenly dried up because everyone stopped buying all the records he has a stake in. It could be such a blast; enjoying the joy on people's faces when they realise all the problems which were keeping them awake at night worrying have all gone away. It could become a drug. Perhaps that's what he's scared of. At the end of these few days, the learned m'luds will confer and confide and come up with a settlement, and he may or may not be disappointed with it, but it will have to stand. What a pity he and Heather couldn't sort it out like a couple of adults, but I guess money does that, turns you into an indulgent, spoiled, selfish child who just has to say no, shan't. So although I have virtually nothing and Paul has this unimaginable sum, I feel sorry for him. I can walk anywhere without yobs with DSLRs practically smacking me in the face with them. I can shop without a retinue, I am free to move about on the planet without hindrance. Paul is almost a prisoner in his mansion, besieged, spied on, with little privacy, every coming and going noted by the media ready to tell the world. They all think they want celebrity, until, a few years down the line, they realise it's a life sentence, 24x7. I once stood next to Paul, back in the sixties when the Beatles were at the height of the mania the media indulged in. It was outside the school in St Johns Wood where both our children attended; my first born son, his stepdaughter. He stood alone, not looking at anyone, while groups of young mothers huddled gossiping, eyes occasionally sliding over towards him. I got an incling then what it is to be famous and alone. |
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7236073.stm
| http://www.seashepherd.org/
PLEASE VISIT THE CONTRIBUTOR'S WEBSITE
Fool on the Hill
A blog about the state of the world
www.oneworldnet.co.uk/blog/index.php
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