Women! When you’ve stopped complaining about the negative, overtly sexual images of women in media, which breed an unrealistic body-ideal in young girls, we’d like to point you in the direction of David Beckham in his underpants.
See, ol’ GoldenNads has done a photoshoot for some undercrackers he’s flogging through dreary clothing bazaar, H&M.
A number of women have stopped worrying about the patriarchy long enough to admire Beckham’s bulge and sigh with feint arousal everytime they see it. So what does David have to say about it? Well, it doesn’t involve stuffing but it does involve his daughter.
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A dominant role in society is something that everybody craves. As you’re reading this, you’ll be imagining who the head honcho is in your boring office job, group of friends or members in the AA club.
What kind of person becomes a leader? Is it the bloke who makes all sorts of hilarious wisecracks? Or that weird looking sod who never gets involved, but always offers sound advice?
But who cares about real life people when there are celebs everywhere! Are we concerned that we’ll never meet them after spending thousands of pounds on travel so we can gawp at them? Of course not. So who’s scorching hot and who’s totally not? According to InStyle the top honour has gone to someone who can’t feed herself properly. Not Paris Hilton, but Harper Seven Beckham.
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The birth of any child is a wonderful thing… if of course, by ‘wonderful’, you actually mean ‘remarkably irritating’. See, when someone shunts a child from their middle, we’re supposed to treat it like some kind of miracle. Of course, no-one coos and fawns when someone brings a newborn foal into the office, still covered in amniotic gunk.
Childbirth isn’t any bigger or smarter than any other creature squirting out their shitting offspring. It’s dull and further proof that our future as humans is doomed as each baby grows up to be yet another alcopop drinking div in bad Asda George t-shirts.
When celebrities have babies growing in them, it is of even less relevance to us all, yet still we dribble enthusiastically, poised over our keys to tap out feigned glee to twitter accounts and Facebook fan pages. Victoria Beckham’s imminent idiot is one such example.
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Victoria Beckham is having a baby and we’re supposed to give a flying fuck. No, we are. See, even though we won’t ever meet her, like anything she does or indeed, show even the vaguest flicker of interest in her vapid life, we must greet her new child with ticker tape. And hand grenades if you like.
We just don’t care.
We also don’t care that Posh Spice, which we’ll call her because it invariably irritates her, has asked stupid Eva Longoria to be the Godmother of her unborn daughter. A daughter that will, like all newborn babies, will look like a cross between a glans and a close-up of a tick.
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Here’s the kicker: When a sperm unifies with an egg and the cells split, resulting in a baby growing inside your womb, it will eventually start showing around your guts. You may look fat, but in actual fact, it’s just a human hiding under your skin. Right?
This is pretty basic science, but something Victoria Beckham doesn’t seem to understand.
Basically, Posh is hitting the gym constantly in a bid to stay thin, something that her ball-kicking husband, David, is keen to discourage her from. It would appear that one of the dimmest sportsmen on the planet has a better grasp of the gestation period than his wife. Which in itself is astonishing enough.
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When hecklerspray heard the news that Victoria and David Beckham were reportedly coming back to the UK, we all got into the bath in our sticky bedsit and tried to drown each other.
When that didn’t work we even tried to self harm with the jaggy edge off our pot noodle sauce sachet but sadly that failed too and now we’re forced to apply plasters to our hurty bits and find a way to live with this awful news.
So far we’re pretty much sitting in stunned silence which is only broken by the sound of our editor screaming “OH CHRIST! OH JESUS CHRIST NO!!!” like Edward Woodward when his sedatives have worn off.
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Once upon a time there was a girl who couldn’t sing. Llike all good fame hungry, fake tanned dunderheads, she joined a silly band with other girls who also sang in the key of ‘pish’, married a footballer and stopped eating until she was built like the side of a five pound note.
Then while playing hangman with her husband, she drew some trousers on the stick man and decided to become a fashion designer.
It probably didn’t go exactly like that but we’re guessing it’s not far off.
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