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David Robert Joseph Beckham, O.B.E (1975 - ), ex-footballer, fashion mannequin, prize poseur, self-publicist, darling of sex-starved moms and star-struck wannabes; wunderkind of the tattoo studio, beauty parlour and  celebrity sheep-pen. Lately, given the accolade of “ambassador” . By whom, for what? Being seen hobnobbing with the “right people”, are hardly diplomatic credentials. [ Thy hallowed  presence certainly made no difference at the ball-busting butchery in Bloemfontein.] Does Mr. Got-Rich-Quick think he still wears the coveted captain’s armband sitting on a corporate throne of the V.I.P boxes. It ain’t Real Davey! 

Dear patriotic readers, you pays your money, takes your choice.  

The obituary of English soccer (to give it it’s correct name!) was written the day Mr. “Golden Balls” and Mrs “Posh”, aided and abetted by the  fashionista fairies, financial flunkies and fast-buck fixers, who moved the goalposts, bent the rules and opened up the glory-hole for our hirsute hero and the other puffed-up ponces that turn-up to play in the, supposed, “theatre of dreams”.

Essex Boy “role model”, no doubt with one eye on the ball, crossed for more lucrative bounty. The grotesque possibilities and gross profits seemed endless for the paparazzi lover-boy and spicy songbird. Football, per se, to Joe Ordinary was a way of life, a default faith, a man’s game, a national pride of place. That was, what is? Vulgar vaudeville lorded over by product placement impresarios, suspect foreign hobbyists and media megalomaniacs. That is the end game. To quote, respectfully, a nautical maxim- “the captain stays on the bridge of a sinking ship“. Noticeably Mister D.B., and Missus , headed for the nearest  lifeboat, decked-out luxuriously in advance ( no question).

The World Cup 2010 overfloweth with hope and expectation, but after the Titanic wreckage reeked by our sausage-eating Teuton cousins, we are left with a poisoned chalice of galling greed, gimcrack goonery and, de facto, gut-wrenching grief. The bitter lesson is, albeit history. Wouldn’t you just love to be in Davey’s boots, in Hollywood. The F.A. ( an ironic acronym for the English “Football Association”) will, as ever, rearrange the deckchairs, strike up the band, piss in the pot, and it’s business as usual. Keep a stiff upper lip, the losers are out yachting in some far away 5-star paradise. La Dolce Vita, Fabio.

Our hoodwinked children, especially, expect better, deserve better, so Messrs. Henpecked, Hype- and Hubris- junkie bunch of Prima Donnas and Gold-Diggers, cry foul, but it’s- ” All Over Now”! ( Apologies to Mick Jagger et al.)

 The rest of us, well let’s all head out west to Glastonbury. (Hmmmmm)

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OBE* MBE** CBE*** ….etcetera. For services to stage, screen, sport , sponsorship and self-enrichment.

GC**** VC****** … For services to Queen and Country, valour, self-sacrifice and a fitting obituary.

Once again, dear subjects,  Her Royal Majesty, The Queen’s , ” birthday honours”, or as our humble recipients like to call them, “gongs”, have been graciously received by a bunch of mummers and merchandisers. The glittering and hackneyed prizes for star-status, vainglory and evidently unashamed self-satisfaction. A polytheistic worship and cultural surrender to the multitude as they genuflect before the altars of frivolous ambition and naked publicity. Crude rewards make for a coarse people, begging your pardon, Ma’am, horses for courses.  It’s hollow metal.

Our Universal Soldier, be forgiven for not being at the party for their pretentious charitable patronage, the philanthropy of guilt or the suasive facade of conscience. Your selfless bravery marked only by an etched name on the cemetery wall of the fallen in battle, far away in some foreign land. Joy and jubilation; whilst our haute couture courtiers of the stage, screen and sport drama-queen academies unite in self-gratification, self-congratulation and stoke the gravy-train of corporate idolatry and insolent fame, another soldier is lost, another family is told. Heavy metal.

Ironic; achievement and advertising, the incestuous bond of heroism and hedonism, paying lip-service to the congregations of sensation-seekers and secular sycophants. God Save the Queen…etcetera, etcetera.

“…but what kind of  (culture) is it that confers the reward of eminence on those who use self-advertisement and vulgarity, mere [sensation], as their means to obtain it?”   quoted from ” Our Culture, What’s Left of It?”  Theodore Dalrymple, 1998 

*Order of the British Empire **Member of the British Empire ***Commander of the British Empire ****George Cross *****Victoria Cross

Postscript

Perhaps the closet Mandarins at the Ministry of Medals, Culture and  Trivia should be respectfully reminded, there ain’t no “Empire” anymore! 

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