Mono-synaptic, Poly-cretinous half wits
Newspapers and websites everywhere today have gleefully reported that David Beckham is totally befuddled by his six-year-old son Brooklyn's maths homework.
Beckham, 30, admitted to being baffled when Brooklyn recently asked for help with a school assignment and had to turn to his former Posh Spice wife Victoria to help out.
"Their homework is so hard these days. I sat down with Brooklyn the other day - and I was like, 'Victoria, maybe you should do the homework tonight'," Beckham told the Mail on Sunday newspaper. "I think it was maths, actually. It's done totally differently to what I was teached when I was at school, and you know, I was like, 'Oh my God, I can't do this'.
And bless him, Beckham also admitted he had no ‘lucky’ pre-match routines, with them too being tough to remember. "I find that if I follow a routine ... it gets to the stage where you are thinking, 'Right, was it the left side ... the left boot I put on first, or the right side?' "There are so many things that can go through your mind." (Yeah, like a torchbeam shone from one earhole to the other, heh heh heh).
This topic is just like grinding a caterpillar under your shoe isn’t it; just too ridiculously easy to mock. Whilst the majority of English soccer (I refuse to call it ‘football’) fans love him, most of the rest of the world love to loathe him and his wife, Anorexia Spastic Spice who seems to busy herself these days with invisible pregnancies and shopping. She was last photographed wearing leather cowboy chaps whilst lunching with Ginger Nut/Geri Belly Halliwell at London’s Ivy restaurant. As you do. I hope she didn’t leave the three boys with David on his own or she’d have to clean up four dirty nappies when the lear jet arrived home.
Laughing at their stupidity eases some of the anger and jealousy we feel towards the Beckhams. Victoria’s worth at least $60M just from being one fifth of the world’s most irritating girl groups, and David’s fortune is several hundred million dollars and counting – all for being able to kick around a leather object better than everyone else (and I’m not talking about Posh Spice here. Yet.)
Even they must realise how uneducated and clueless they are, and have no doubt employed numbers of personal assistants, media advisors and deportment coaches to see them through those really challenging days. You know, like when you actually have to climb out of your limousine to speak to Brooklyn’s school teacher and pretend you know what it is she’s wittering on about, or to hose down Posh’s confession last year that she had never read a book.
Surely Davey babes would have been prepped for a Mail on Sunday interview? “It’s done totally differently to what I was teached when I was at school….” The journalist must have dribbled with glee onto his tape recording machine. At least for a second or two before noticing that Becks had a 5 carat diamond in his ear, several thousand pounds worth of designer clothing on; a brand new Porsche waiting outside and a 25 million dollar fortress to return home to. What a shame such riches are not dangled in front of scientists trying to find a cure for cancer, aids and heart disease; or for those tireless volunteers who visit ravaged countries - not for five minute photo opportunities in shiny white shirts - but to work there.
If he then managed to stay sitting and not slap Becks a good hard one across the face, he might have had a third thought, one that even the brain-untroubled Becks would have appreciated a couple of years ago: if he can’t do a 6 year old’s homework or speak beyond a six year old’s level, how the hell would he have been able to SMS all those nudey rudey messages to that Rebecca Loo Roll floozy? Did he rent Warney for the afternoon to show him how it was done or were they all sent by sheer fluke after he accidentally sat on his motorola after footy training? There is a famous saying that if you put enough monkeys in a room with enough typewriters they will eventually end up typing Shakespeare – could David be one of those monkeys?
He very well could be.
But what of Victoria – she of the snubbed nose, disdainful expression and lips that look as though they’ve been collagened and lined with pipe cleaners? Do her skills extend to being the distinctly worst singer of the Spice Girls, growing globe-like breasts and wearing clowns’ castoffs with five figure price tags? Seems like it.
At least they can feel secure in the knowledge that there are many, many books in the Mr Men range so that all five of them will be able to find something to read before bed.