Ok, so here we go. Posh Spice. VB. Victoria Beckham. Iconic media star, wife, style chantuese, seller of newpapers/magazines and (sort of) singer. These days, less of one and considerably more of the others, granted but a huge global star (brand if you will), none the less.
First Line is “Daddy, I’m going to be killed!”
Now when I read this, I expected some wonderful anecdote about her closeness of her relationship with her father, about how one tiny incident of her youth exploded a sense of protection towards him, forging a lifetime of respect and devotion between the two of them. Nah.
Instantly, within a few, meagre lines and paragraphs, I have a lot to talk about. To address. This can only be a good omen, I guess. Within four pages of this, I have to put the book down and take some notes because, in an almost Daniella Westbrook way, I kinda want to throw this at someone too. A crash course on Sympathy pleading 101 opens the book as we are instantly transported, as if by magic, to Eindhoven for England’s opening match in Euro 2000 against Portugal. We join Victoria’s life as she is hustled through the stadium with her father through the dangerous mindfield that is the fans of your husband that hate you.
Through using this initial observation to capture our attention at the beginning of her tome, she could have easily used this opportunity to give us an insight into exactly the dangerous and often frightening aspect of fame. Instead, she opens upon a rant about the people who have not only made but have been the people responsible for the amount of bread on their rather large table back home. Contemplating why they are shouting abuse, including their joint statement that ‘she takes it up the arse’, she growls,
“Fingers are poking through the wire trying to touch me. That fence shouldn’t be there. Haven’t they heard of Hillsborough, these morons?”
Posh there taking on the politics of European ground design and safety procedures as soon as Page Three. Interesting approach.
But to be fair to Victoria, admits she knows nothing of the politics of football crowd mentality, let alone the complexities of the beautiful game.
“David created two goals, which means he kicked the ball to the person who kicked the goal.”
Thankyou Victoria for explaining the definition of creation there. It is a tricky one but I guess, in a way, that also covers religion too.
She tells us that David plays better when she’s at the game. He plays better when he can see her in the crowd. That he worries when he cannot see her in the reserved enclosure with all the other partners and families. She realises this when she is sipping champagne in a VIP lounge in the opposite end of the ground to the one David is scanning for her from the touchline.
But that’s the feeling everyone essentially gets from Victoria, one of heartless self indulgence. That she excudes it from every pout and pore. As I write this (2007), she’s on the cover of Heat Magazine for the millionth time pleading, ‘Why am I the most hated woman in Britain?’ A tag she clearly hasn’t dropped in five years as she echoes the sentiment in the opening pages of this book.
To be honest, I don’t know why she is? I don’t hate her, exactly. I’m hateful of what she represents and the affluence, success and (more importantly) luck, for what was essentially a girl that looked quite cute (before the unsightly tit job/weight loss) and could perform a few dance moves.
I asked the librarian, a young male dressed rather trendy now more than familiar with my challenge of reading nothing but celebrity autobiographies for a whole year and my odd taste in reading material, exactly why she is so hateful.
“I love her,” he said, pouting. “I think she’s fabulous. She on the other hand...”
He was holding the other book I wanted to loan out, Jade Goody’s book, which I was quite relieved to find a copy of.
“She is a fucking whore...”
I raised my eyebrows and suddenly became aware of the growing queue behind me. I nervously smiled at them behind me, many with small children in hand. I shrugged at the librarian and motioned for the two hardbacks, shuffling towards the door.
On the subject of her prescence in the crowd, I initially get a sense of that we are not entirely getting the truth about these appearences and that she is making a few excuses. I think a lot of them are very contrived and are done so with a lot of thought and awareness of the media in attendance.
I’m sorry but something like this, doesn’t seem heartfelt.
“I felt a complete idiot, just sitting there with hardly anyone else about. Wasn’t there somewhere we could go until kick off, I asked my security. I mean, what were we supposed to do for two hours. Read the programme?”
Considering she was with (on this occasion) her parents, one of her mum’s friends and both parents of the man she loved, one would hope that there would be a way they could fill their time.
Anyway, one of the most interesting pages of just the first ten pages of this book is that of Victoria receiving a visit from a Daily Mirror reporter who, after a phonecall wondering what she thought about an article of David reacting in familiar fashion to abuse from fans (giving a subtle middle finger), delivered a copy of their paper and a rival paper (the one with article) to her home. The offending article in question was written by Roy Hattersley. ‘Who is this prick?’ she ponders to herself.
“Who is Roy Hattersley?” she asks her father.
Ok, wait a minute. Victoria is how old? Right, she’s 18 months older than me. So, like me, grew up in the Eighties. Throughout the Eighties, Roy Hattersley was the Deputy Leader of the Opposition. Even if you never watched the news, didn’t you never see Spitting Image? Roy was the epitomy of ridicule and satire and that imagery resonated into the school ground. Maybe she was too involved in “the dance” and being a star. Something she has always desired to be, even back when Roy was, but for all of the wrong reasons.
“But this was a man, I had found out, who wrote novels about what it’s like to be a dog. If I hadn’t despised him so much I might have felt sorry for him.”
To be fair Victoria, despite the choice of narrator, he’s probably sold more books than you.
“One day I’ll be famous. You’ll see.”
Ok, alright already! I find myself shouting out aloud after the fourth time in so many pages Victoria writes this. She’s referring to the feeling of euphoria she got from the many different live performances of theatre and concert she went to as a child. She always knew that ‘she would be up there’ and be a ‘huge star one day’, which is initially cute but soon turns nauseating and eventually arrogant and annoying when the above sentiment begins to turn ugly and resentful,
“One day I’d show them. One day I’d be famous and then they’d be sorry.”
Ahh, I do love the tale of a young, burgeoning ego forming. You know the general public Victoria (those you constantly look down upon throughout this book), really don’t care, let alone want to swap with your uber-famous life. Get over it.
What frustration Victoria is writing about is the familiar celebrity “misfit at school” story. She says it was Hell. ‘Why am I the most hated person in school?’ etc etc. I’m wondering if she has developed some sort of awareness of others complex. She really just had no idea why she didn’t get on with the folk. Was it the simple fact that she was different? I mean, her parents only made sure that she was dropped off in her immaculately ironed uniform in their gold Rolls Royce while she spent the majority of the time telling tales to the headmaster about her fellow student body, getting them into trouble in the process.
Why can’t they all just get along!, she wonders.
Posh Spice truly is the Rodney King of Rural Hertfordshire and spends an odd amount of time being naturally hateful without realising so.
What she is, is the sort of pupil that I spent five years avoiding. Smart, priviledged, goody no good, back biting swots. My school was full of them. Always putting forward their own agendas. Selfish, uncaring bitches destined to stay in their god awful small town and bring up multiple children on welfare and blowing up to the size of the archetypal Superking smoking, bitter Lambrini drinkers, sat at home contemplating their huge phone bill after voting on one too many rigged reality shows. All of those women (be honest, you all know at least one) have a very thin Victoria Beckham just waiting to get out.
It’s so sweet reading how the clearly deluded younger Victoria really could not see the extent of how much she rubbed people up the wrong way. She was so despised she wrote, she needed to have protective escort from the scool grounds to avoid recriminations from the other pupils. What did she say about these people behind their backs to warrant such victimisation, I wonder? People are not hated to that extent for no reason. Even Hitler was liked at school. He gave out sweets and trinkets. Perhaps she should have tried a similar tactic.
This book isn’t just sweet though, it’s also very funny. Chapter Three opens thus,
“Like me, Dad is a complete workaholic.”
He he, see the girl’s comedy timing is priceless. I truly believe she has lost her calling. As comical as she is though, I do wonder why she needs to think about why she is the most hated woman in Britain.
I feel that I am slowly discovering why she might be just that.
“I’d always said I’d showed them and I had.”
Posh writes in almost a style of magical realism sense when she describes of her excitement and reaction of her initial fame, upon the release of the Spice Girls’ first hit, “Wannabe.” She brims with glee and a smugness at her new found popularity and not to heed or take notice of those who describe themselves as friends of hers from school, in order to sell their stories about her to newspapers. For she had no friends and shows us again why as she cattily calls them all liars and with no reservations at doing so.
She explains to us the phenomenon of the group. That, at the time, what set them apart from everybody else was that they were unique. A fresh idea. They jumped on the desks of executives during auditions and were five individuals with their own personalities. They were the first of their kind.
“Like Elvis, like The Beatles, like The Sex Pistols.”
Ok, stop.
Did Victoria Beckham just compare The Spice Girls to The Sex Pistols?
(head in hands)
Away from the ludicrous sentiment and the ridiculous image that statement conjures, I do understand what she means. It’s just that she’s wrong.
The Sex Pistols (and The Beatles) weren’t the first at all to do anything within their time and genre that followed, they were just the protagonists, the right snotty little bastards at the right time. The catalysts, if you will. Many would argue that what The Beatles did was not unique in any terms. The Beatles image came from other established Merseybeat acts who already existed in the area. Ringo and the boys actually started out with a biker image and had a completely different sound but like The Pistols were the focus of the success around them and the culture that they duly influenced through their success. Again, the catalysts.
Another example would be Nirvana. Ok, wait a minute, as much as it is also true, I’m not comparing the fucking Spice Girls to Nirvana.
She continues to describe this global acheivement. That of... Girl Power.
“By Christmas, ‘Wannabe’ had sold three million and was Number One in twenty seven countries. I don’t think I could even name twenty seven countries without looking at an atlas.”
I agree. Surely, you would just need to read out all of the stamps on your passport anyway?
How can you not remember where you have visited? Even when it is limo, stage, hotel, plane, limo, stage, hotel, plane as she describes.
“No other pop band since The Beatles had done what we had done. One of the reasons was that there was no competition. There was no American equivalent to what we were doing. Not since New Kids on the Block had there been anything in America that was what you might call pop. It was only after our success that pop music began to take off in America, with people like Britney Spears and ‘Nsync. We opened doors for acts like this.”
Humble, is she? Well, yet again when she is writing about her chosen profession, the music industry, she is not entirely true.
Michael Jackson, back when it was okay for kids to like him did pretty alright sales wise. Ok, he’s not a band but Sweden’s Ace of Base are and in 1994 they sold sold 8 million copies of their debut, 20 million worldwide. Perhaps not competition during the reign of “Girl Power” being that it was in 1994, but definately since The Beatles.
The likes of ‘Nsync and more importantly, The Backstreet Boys existed and had chart success abroad but not back home. Doors may have been opened but they were certainly already ajar. The Spice Girls didn’t make music labels rush together similar groups or anything and they were not a great an influence like Victoria clearly believes. The US in the late nineties was essentially focused on RNB, Hip Hop and Country music, not as she writes, just Pearl Jam and Nirvana ‘whose songs are all about death and drugs and all that.’
To those not familiar with those two highly influential bands, they’re not and they are certainly more credible and were more highly regarded than The Spice Girls. To put Victoria straight, Nirvana were long disbanded by 97 and the US rock industry had moved on in the four years of the said bands popularity and highest grossing albums and this was highlighted solely by the success of No Doubt’s album Tragic Kingdom (which spent more weeks on the Billboard album chart than Spice in 1997), an epic display of singalong melodies fused by ska, uptempo punk and essentially (whether she likes it or not), POP.
This very fact was confirmed by singer Gwen Stefani’s prescence on the American Idol judging team this year, a credible position and honour Posh Spice would trample over any member of her family in her Jimmy Choos for.
Speaking of losing a member, Victoria insists there was no in-fighting or falling out like the press intensely speculated.
“Nobody was to blame for Geri leaving except Geri.”
But she didn’t let that hinder from musing about why she did too. In fact, she’s quite clear that it was her dancing that wasn’t upto scratch.
“She did get criticized for it, and its horrible. When people say you’re the one with no talent, which they did. And I should know.”
...actually being the one with no talent. I know. I know. Low blow. But come on, what exactly were you talented at? Dancing? Pouting? Being a style guru? It’s certainly documented that it wasn’t signing. Even when you did live concerts, you sang over a backing track and mimed the choruses. No amount of saying that you are concentrating on dance routines can excuse that.
At the time of this book’s release, the press twitched and bemoaned about Posh making David move from his beloved Manchester to a London club, near where they were both from as she talks about the temporary nature of their initial purchase together up north.
“When it came to our real home, the one where we’d bring up our family, then it would have to be in London.”
Ok, so how do you explain the move to Madrid? Oh, wait a minute, aren’t you moving to LA? Oh, the logic and how times change.
Victoria forever tries to convince us through this book that this is how their life operates. That they are just another mum and dad in the playground, cleaning up sick from the front of their child and changing nappies like everyone else. She tries to hard to convince us and I end up not buying it towards the end. I’m quite happy to admit that the press (collectively) have behaved appalingly towards her, despite sometimes showing some random and often heartfelt restraint.
I realise life can be hard for her despite her vast wealth, a thing she annoyingly plays down. The snatched moments she gets with her husband and the time they get to spend with one another is sometimes heartbreaking and I couldn’t imagine going through the same rigmorole that they have to apart to make their vast wealth, yet that much more vaster. The amount of holidays that they go on is nauseating and there is no mention of the good I’m sure that they probably also do for people less fortunate than themselves, within all this. Or maybe that’s it. Maybe they just don’t.
In regards to her weight we get (through the course of the book) about ten different diseases/reasons for why she is thin when really, the pressures of soceity and the world that she is are the ones to blame. That and her raging self consciousness and belief in herself for what she really could acheive if she really stopped worrying about being in the shadow of such exceptional talent. A talent that is adored by millions. Victoria is wonderfully arrogant but also incredibly naive and uninformed about the music industry, which is a shame. She talks about music like kids do in the playground, with no sense of experience or knowledge and seems to have had no fact checker working on this book.
Primarily, this is a masterclass in puppy dog eyes deception. That is what is in essence Victoria. Media manipulation. It takes a lot, a hell of a lot of manipulation and in many ways, desperation to stay in the media focus so much when in essence, your brand (as a single person and a couple) is faltering in the country that made you such a success. Victoria’s solo career fell at the first, unwise, spacey vocal, dance music, hurdle. The Spice Girls never recovered after losing a member, two albums into their world domination and as a brand, the gradual extraction of David from our world essentially (first losing him from domestic football to a Spanish team and then his step down from international duties) affected their profile. Almost certainly. Their obvious progression to Hollywood and the making of the Land of the Free, their home.
The thing with Victoria is that the public have never warmed to her. She seems incredibly insincere and Brits do not like that. The fake and staged photocalls of her looking up at him adoringly like you are posing for a fashion shoot don’t cut it in the real world. Our world. Her quest for fame has been a choppy one and the gradual realisation from the general public of her limited talent at a number of ventures matched with her extreme wealth is hard to sit with. That’s got nothing to do with women’s envy over her union with quite possible the most eligable spotstman of his generation, she’s just not very likeable.
This book is quite good. It’s entertaining. It flows and is written quite well, it’s coherent, established and covers a great deal of emotions. A fascinating expose of an interesting mind. I just don’t think she had a great deal of input. This was highlighted when she went onto Woman’s Hour upon release and admitted that not only did she not write a word of this tome, she hadn’t even read it yet.