Rant #3: In defence of David

Anyone who has spent more than two seconds in my company will know that when it comes to David Beckham I am the definition of biased. Through the bad haircuts, the Rebecca Loos incident and that red card against Argentina, I have stood by my man. No surprise then, that I greeted the decision to name him man of the match on Wednesday with sheer joy. Great, I thought naively, he’s bound to be named in the World Cup squad now. Apparently it’s not that simple.

However well he plays, it seems poor David is powerless to convince the pundits that he should board the plane to South Africa. The Beckham brigade would argue that the psychological advantages of taking such an experienced, talismanic, patriotic player far outweigh any fitness concerns. When it comes to having the will to win, there is no-one who wants it more than the former England captain. But there is a greater, more pressing reason for David to make Capello’s final cut that no-one seems to be mentioning. One that, shallow as it may be, is crucial to the status of English football. If David stays at home, so too does the last semblance of male beauty left on the team.

Don’t get me wrong – I would never argue that women only ever watch football to check out the men. If that were the case, surely poster boys Johnny and Jenson would have swayed everyone over to rugby and F1 by now. But my first few England games were followed by arguments in the playground over who would be better boyfriend material – blondie Beckham or cute little Michael Owen. Some of the more sophisticated among us even had the hots for Jamie Redknapp. But I pity the next generation of girls – and this is why.

Hopes for the 2010 World Cup rest on the shoulders of Wayne Rooney. A player who, visually speaking, is half man, half monkey. Love rats Ashley Cole and Frank Lampard are hardly going to get the female vote and a number of their team mates look like they’ve had unfortunate facial encounters with a shovel. Peter Crouch may be sweet but it was him who, when asked what he would be if he hadn’t been a footballer, famously replied “a virgin”. You get my point.

Beauty is, as the old saying goes, in the eye of the beholder, and I am aware that this blog is made all the more controversial by the new facial hair Becks has been sporting recently. But being old/obsessed enough to remember the curtains, the Mohican and the skinhead, I can’t help but forgive the new beard and ignore the Planet of the Apes comparisons that have been flying around.

We all know that it won’t be too long before David’s age will force him to hang up his white boots and take up looking beautiful full time. But all I ask for is one more tournament. One more summer of Becks appeal. Come on Fabs, you know it makes sense.

ecb

Rant #2: Shoe trauma

Working in another country can sometimes be tough. No birthday hugs from old friends, no car in the pouring rain and no proper chocolate...anywhere. But when you’re an English girl working in Berlin there is one Teutonic terror so disarming that even a glass of the very best Weisswein won’t ease the pain. The reign of the flat shoe.

Yes my friends, flats are in, practical is en vogue and short girls are screwed. My time in Hamburg had prepared me for the fact that German ladies are as well-acquainted with heels as they are with the concept of a Malibu and Coke and I knew that I could expect dirty looks when rocking my Mary-Janes. But I expected more from Berlin.

And we’re not just talking cute ballerinas and sandals here. Even in the swishest of offices and the hippest of bars, the best you will get is a kitten heel or a wedge. Stilettos are unheard of, save the odd fashionista trying to make an (elevated) stand. Seeing them strut across Pariser Platz I would give them a sad smile – our fight was not going to be won this summer.

Having accepted that Germany was not ready for my footwear revolution, I called a truce and returned to the stunning shoes Ryanair cruelly forced me to leave behind. Slipping my size 5 (not 38) feet back into my beautiful two-tone stilettos, I hit the shops in search of foot candy to celebrate my homecoming. In need of some high-brow reading material, I purchased a copy of Grazia at the station. The headlines of the glossy gospel hailed the arrival of the “pencil heel”. I was officially excited.

Best friend in tow, Oxford Street in sight, I was determined to find the right pair of boots to make the winter weather that much more bearable. Ankle boots or knee-highs, I wasn’t sure yet, but I certainly liked the sound of that pencil heel. Scouring the shoe lounges of Topshop et al. I felt a trickle of disappointment take the edge off my urge to splurge. The high-street had let me down.

Was it because of a lack of heels? Certainly not. But this season’s trends almost prompted me to cry “come back Germany, all is forgiven. Sling me some Converses and sign me up for some Birkenstocks while you’re at it.” Almost.

Not only are designers teaming stilettos with platform soles this season, but they’re also going thigh-high with their creations. Fabulous. A look that manages to simultaneously scream “Seventies” and “slutty” while still being the height of cool. Essex market stall holders can give themselves a pat on the back – it seems they can spot a trend.

So, I guess there’s only one question left – how long till I get a pair?

ecb

Rant #1: Umbrellas

Squelching my leaking Primark heels around King's Cross station today, I knew that summer was well and truly over. The sad sight of discarded Metros sinking into muddy puddles was enough to tell me that my once impressive tan lines were about to enter into “ridiculous” territory, along with the ballerina pumps and skirts that defined a scorcher of a summer. As I mourned the retirement of my flimsy red sandals, I looked around me and remembered the one thing worse than putting away the summer dresses – getting out the umbrellas.

Umbrellas have always been a pet hate of mine. The frustration of the inverted brolly, ducking under doorways and getting ripped off by souvenir shops stocked to the hilt with the things makes you wonder if it would just be better to get wet. Indeed, in a lifetime before hair straighteners and having to look smart for work, I engaged in a liberating brolly boycott – braving the elements a la that famous sequence in Singin’ in the Rain. But Gene Kelly had me fooled. Upon looking in the mirror I realised that, with only Cosmo to protect me against the rain, the freak was not so chic.

So I accepted, albeit begrudgingly, that the umbrella was here to stay. Despite its faults, it promises to keep around 70 percent of you dry (make that 50 percent if you’re sharing with a friend/colleague/random wet person) and wins the style battle with the see-through pac-a-mac hands down. Having made my peace with the parasol though, it became clear that the article itself was only part of the problem.

More frustrating, I soon discovered, are the legions of Londoners who, when given an umbrella, lose all sense of pavement protocol. Armed and dangerous, they make getting to work a challenge on par with running the gauntlet on Gladiators. Back in the Ulrika days.

Weaving in and out of metal spokes, the pedestrian must ward off regular attacks from wayward brollies, uncontrolled by their preoccupied owners as they trundle joylessly to work. Quite why it is beyond us to control an umbrella remains unclear – but I suspect cases of eyeball pokings and head proddings rise considerably in the Autumn months (although I would have to look up the exact statistics to be sure).

But even this can be overlooked. The English have many skills – standing in queues, perfecting a repressed demeanour and baking meat pies – perhaps carrying umbrellas is just not one of the things we’re good at. However, when it comes to umbrellas there is one cardinal sin that cannot be forgiven. A delusion of grandeur so absurd that it cannot be excused. I am of course referring to those people for whom wielding a standard model is just not exciting enough. Owners of golf umbrellas.

The clue is in the title. A golf umbrella on the golf course is one thing. But in central London it is unnecessary, dangerous and, let’s face it, just a little bit pretentious. Striding along with a brolly big enough to shelter the population of Wales, users stay dry by effectively eradicating other pedestrians from the pavement. They belittle us commoners with our fold-up, handbag sized flimsy alternatives. And most annoyingly of all they are the only people that actually stay dry. Damn them.

ecb