I admire the unrelenting creativity, but so much of what he does is naff. Not so long ago he brought out a book of poems; it was god-awful. More recently he had a one man exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool. The paintings were big and splashy and amateurish. If he hadn't been who he is, the curators wouldn't have given him the time of day.
There's a freak-show element to his extra-curricular artistic endeavours. He keeps making an ass of himself. It's like no-one at the court of King Paul has the nerve to say, "well, yes, it's very nice, Paul; so why don't we just stick it up on the fridge?"
When the poetry came out, he excused himself with a story about how Allen Ginsburg had said that the Eleanor Rigby lyric was a great poem. Ho hum. Sorry to be brutal, but Ginsburg was a creepy old groupie and it isn't.
Is he still competing with John? John's little books and little drawings had wit and flair. Macca's don't. The only field in which the two men were ever equal is music.
But McCartney's music has never been as good since the Beatles died. I have waited and waited for the great solo album- but all he's given us is lots of pretty little songs.
It happens to a lot of artists. They outlive their greatness. They slough off the cocoon of genius and emerge with talent.