Suzanne Harrington: Dear Brooklyn, thanks for the distractions...

You have been providing monetised content for the brand since conception. It's just that... well, the thing is, Brooklyn, if it wasn’t for your nepo-ness, it’s unlikely you’d have problems involving couture wedding dresses. It’s unlikely you’d have married the daughter of a Trumpy billionaire

Brooklyn and Nicola Anne. Thank you for an afternoon spent crying with laughter at the comic ingenuity of the internet when it comes to ripping the absolute piss. Picture: Brooklyn Beckham/Instagram/Vogue

DEAR Brooklyn,
Huge thanks to you and your missus — am guessing she wrote that six-page diss — for this gloriously diverting moment. Thank you for an afternoon spent crying with laughter at the comic ingenuity of the internet when it comes to ripping the absolute piss.

A joyous afternoon spent playing meme ping-pong with my daughter as we both worked from home in different rooms, happily bouncing meme after meme at each other for hours on end.

Hearing bursts of laughter through the apartment wall as we tried — and failed — to ignore the tsunami of hilarity unleashed by your PR earthquake.

I’m not going to lie, Brooklyn — not much work got done. We were too busy falling on the floor in hysterics at AIs of your mum twerking and people pretending to be Beckham PR managers having heart attacks. You inadvertently lifted so many spirits. We’re indebted to you.

We’re not being horrible here, Brooklyn, I promise. We hear you when you say that you have been anxious all your life — you have been providing monetised content for the brand since conception. (We all literally know where you were conceived ... bet you’re glad they were in New York at the time, and not anywhere near the English towns of Shitterton or Wetwang or Titty Ho.)

We get that you have never had any say in being magazine and internet content from pre-birth. Nor can you help being a nepo baby — babies can’t choose where they’re born, whether it’s in a private hospital with the paparazzi at the end of the bed, or in a war zone. You didn’t ask to be born and raised in public. We get that. We do.

But Brooklyn, mate, it’s the detail that undid us. Eleventh hour wedding dress struggles. Inappropriate dancing. Displaced dogs. I can barely type these words without dissolving into giggles again.

You see, out in the terrible world, beyond the billionaire space you inhabit, people are worried. Worried that there’s a deranged fascist trying to do a 1939 on the world’s ass, except this time with nuclear access.

The same deranged fascist your billionaire father-in-law is such a fan of. The same deranged fascist your billionaire father-in-law claimed the role of “matchmaker” with another billionaire deranged fascist, a Mr Musk from South Africa. The same billionaire father-in-law who tried to do a hostile takeover on Disney because he deemed Disney too “woke”. Nice guy.

Victoria Beckham with her son Brooklyn at the wedding of David Gardner and ex-Hollyoaks actress Davina Taylor in 2003. We get that you have never had any say in being magazine and internet content from pre-birth. File photo: Martin Rickett/PA

BROOKLYN, we know that none of this is of as much concern to you as your mum having overdone the bubbly for that Marc Anthony dance. That your father-in-law’s unhinged buddy wanting to invade Greenland is nothing compared with where your nan was seated at your wedding. Your struggle is real — to you, anyway. We are not trying to gaslight you by suggesting otherwise.

It’s just that ... well, the thing is, Brooklyn, if it wasn’t for your nepo-ness, it’s unlikely you’d have problems involving couture wedding dresses. 

It’s unlikely you’d have married the daughter of a Trumpy billionaire. You might not love your surname at the moment, but without it you’d be married to Tina who does the night shift in Tesco.

David Beckham and Victoria Adams leave her parents home in 1999 with their son Brooklyn to fly to Ireland for their wedding on Sunday. We all literally know where you were conceived ... bet you’re glad they were in New York at the time, and not anywhere near the English towns of Shitterton or Wetwang or Titty Ho. Photo: PA

Anyway, best of luck Brooklyn with your new Maga family, and hats off to you for managing to take our minds off all the non-nepo babies freezing to death in Gaza, the young people being murdered in Iran, and your father-in-law’s loony pal hellbent on destroying civilisation.

We needed that little distraction, no matter how brief, and you delivered. Wagatha Christie has got nothing on you.

We thank you. Now give Netflix a call.