The Real Problem With Nepo Babies

Drowning in a sea of mediocrity

Why do so many people aspire to fame, and why do the children of celebrities — such as Brooklyn Beckham — so often become the centre of a media frenzy? Recently, the 26-year-old son of David and Victoria Beckham aired his grievances in true 21^st-century fashion: through a six-page Instagram rant about his relationship with his parents. If you’ve come for a detailed showbiz look at his mommy and daddy issues, I suggest you stop reading here.

Normally, the prospect of writing about Brooklyn Beckham’s first-world problems is about as appealing as a root canal without anaesthesia. The number of people who genuinely care about the son of a family empire worth an estimated £500 million could probably fit inside a microwave. Is he a nepo baby? Absolutely. Did I know who he was ten minutes before pitching this article? Not at all.

Apologies in advance, for I am about to critique meritocracy, the familiar liberal idea that with the right qualifications and good old-fashioned grit, anyone can succeed. Meritocracy has its place, but to suggest it is beyond reproach is ridiculous.

The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu argued that society is structured by more than just economic capital. He identified two other forms of capital that shape success: social capital (networks and relationships) and cultural capital (knowledge, tastes, credentials, and ways of behaving valued by elites).

Brooklyn Beckham is a textbook example. His economic capital is obvious. His social capital is more significant: from birth, he has been surrounded by celebrities, industry insiders, and global tastemakers. However, it is his cultural capital — the subtle know-how that comes from elite schools, travel, and constant exposure to art, fashion, and media — that truly sets him apart. When Brooklyn publishes a photography book at age 18 or lands a high-profile modelling gig, he’s drawing on a reservoir of connections, tastes, and confidence to which most people never have access. Publishers and brands, eager to tap into the Beckham aura, are willing to offer opportunities that are out of reach for talented peers who are less-connected. Bourdieu’s theory exposes the myth of pure meritocracy. Talent and work matter, but doors often open most easily for those already holding the right keys.

But why is fame itself so desirable, especially among the young? Here, René Girard’s theory of mimetic desire is illuminating. Girard argued that our desires are not entirely our own; instead, we learn what to want by imitating others. This imitation is not limited to material goods but extends to status, recognition, and lifestyles. In this framework, celebrities and influencers become “models of desire” — figures whose lives and possessions are so relentlessly showcased that the rest of us learn to covet them. Social media, reality TV, and celebrity news amplify this process, making desires for beauty, wealth, and fame seem both universal and attainable. Girard called the rapid spread of these imitative desires “mimetic contagion”.

Brooklyn Beckham is not just a beneficiary of inherited capital: he is also a model of desire for millions. Young people see his lifestyle — his parties, travels, and creative projects — and begin to want the same, not necessarily because these things are inherently fulfilling, but because they are so publicly and persistently desired. Girard called this the “romantic lie” — the (predominantly) adolescent belief that our ambitions are self-generated, when in truth they are borrowed. The desire for likes, followers, and attention becomes a collective fever. Models of desire — once confined to movie stars or musicians — now include TikTokers, online porn stars, and, yes, the son of a footballer and a former singer in a girl band.

This is not mere theory. A 2023 study found that 57% of Gen Z (ages 13–26) would choose to be an influencer if given the chance. In the UK, careers such as “social media influencer” and “YouTuber” consistently rank above teacher or veterinarian among children aged 11–16. For Gen Alpha (those born after 2010), about one-third already dream of being YouTubers, seeing fame as a real career path.

Girard’s ideas help explain why the very idea of meritocracy falters in the age of Instagram and YouTube. If everyone is chasing the same models of success — often defined by visibility rather than substance — real differences in ability or effort become secondary. A widely cited Harris Poll survey revealed that children in the U.S. and UK are three times more likely to want to be a YouTuber than an astronaut. To illustrate how far we’ve scraped the barrel, last year’s winner of I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here! — a pay-as-you-vote popularity contest — was a TikTok creator.

Maybe I’m being too critical. After all, Brooklyn had no say in the circumstances of his birth, and his access to a staggering financial safety net is simply an accident of parentage. His parents, for their part, have hardly scaled the heights of creativity themselves. Victoria is a fashion designer while David has dabbled in health supplements and, rather bizarrely, served as a de facto tour guide for the Islamic state of Qatar during his ambassadorship for the 2022 World Cup.

Brooklyn’s animosity toward his parents appears rooted in their alleged disapproval of his wife, heiress and actress Nicola Peltz. Sir David and Lady Beckham have meticulously managed a polished public image, practicing a digital omertà when it comes to family scandals. While he may come across as spoiled, this episode is a fascinating example of how the glamorous world of fame can be a bear pit — a zero-sum family game that breeds resentment and hostility.