He is a very pretty (too pretty for my taste), now retired soccer player who had a modicum of talent ages ago. He seems like a very sweet guy and is a very capable fashion model but David Beckham isn't. He oppresses me. He depresses me. The mere mention of his name provokes grave misgivings about myself. He is the Mussolini of air-brushed, prettified banality. He is the sparkling spray-on sheen of public relations dementia.
Does David Beckham actually exist in three dimensions? Is he more than a smiling, waving, extremely nice collection of tattoos with a little girl's voice? And he's retired from what exactly? He hasn't made any real difference as a player since before captaining England to some incredibly mediocre international appearances. Does David Beckham have testicles? And if so, are they bigger than his wife's? Doubtful. He's too nice to have bigger balls than Victoria.
But back to David Beckham's Il Duce factor. He’s always around, utterly pervasive - the reeeeeaaaaallllly sweet house guest who won’t leave and you can't bring yourself to throw out. He looms down from billboards, on every screen, stinks up your hands and clothes with gruesome magazine cologne ads, his neutral, not quite with-it expression clinging to your consciousness like psychic napalm.
But what does he do in his "spare time”? I imagine Beckham installing himself on a padded clothes hanger in a cool, dim closet to prevent any unnecessary wrinkling or wear & tear. A kind of Zen nightmare of nothingness. Maybe that's it. Maybe David Beckham is an existentialist. He believes nothing means anything ever and he long ago gave up trying to define his being or the world around him. He has devoted himself to being an entirely public cipher. When you don't see David Beckham or his image, he does not exist. He reappears only when re-entering your frontal lobes.
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He is insidious, imposing his brutal geniality on every intimate relationship on the planet, forcing all of us into an Orwellian hegemony of comparison. I know with virtual certainty that even in the hottest of heated moments, he is far too good and kind to really smack Victoria’s ass or tie her up or ever make her say “ouch” in any way, shape or form. She begs him for something - anything, a couple of actually dirty words.
His stock reply has always been the same, delivered with a deeply mocking monotone - like some heartless Eurocrat repeating an obscure and illogical regulation: “You. Are. A. Bad. Girl.” She whimpers and pleads and cries to have him up the ante until he finally allows her to hear: “You. Are. A. Very. Bad. Girl.” That slight inflection incites a bothersome and profoundly unfulfilling quasi-orgasm, a tepid semi-cum that leaves her feeling cheap, desolate and awash in self-loathing. Sure, Victoria presents a stylish, up-beat front but beneath the red carpet glitz and MILFy hipness is a downtrodden woman, spiritually broken by her husband’s remorseless decency.
Beckham is the face of a dark future where the slightest whiff of sarcasm, irony or even the lightest condescending remark will mean instant imprisonment in a vast re-education camp where all corners have been rounded off, and all sense of perspective, judgement and contrariness will be eradicated. You will be VERY nice or you will die.
