Katharine and I ventured into Didsbury and The Metropolitan last night and were most dismayed at the arrival of a stretched limo out of which spilled the inevitable pissed girlies. The stretched limo used to be an icon of aspiration – you expected a film, pop or at least sports star to be inside – but those days are long gone.
Now Posh & Becks have become like a stretched limo. A highly desirable façade, but step inside and you find yourself in a confined space where people have sprayed alcohol over each other – champagne, beer and alcopops – copulated, thrown-up… whatever.
This is my third Posh & Becks blog, but that merely reflects the scale of the national tragedy before us. It’s become a national tragedy because Becks embodied a unique (for a footballer) combination of populism, talent, success and family values. So parents were happy their kids idolised him and sponsors – keen for their brands to embody similar values – would pay millions to be associated with him.
Through her music Victoria invites us (see Posh ‘sang’ warning to Loos… oh dear) to take part in a national therapy session to get over what turns out to be a classic relationship power struggle. He needs her (and the kids) to deliver the family man image, but that’s all he needs. She needs him because in his absence she’d have faded into obscurity faster than the other Spice Girls. And here lies her tragedy. All that Spice money she earned means nothing… she desperately wants to be a famous… she needs to share her life with us… yet without him she’s nothing. So Becks is all powerful and power corrupts.