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This article is an edited version of one that originally appeared on Holly Bell's Substack. Sign up here.
Like many 40-something women, I grew up scrutinising Posh and Becks, through no choice of my own, I might add.
They were inescapable. The 90's/noughties were the decades where the paps ruled. Magazines and newspapers the internet of the day, albeit slower and with no chance of riposte.
I hated football then and I hate it now. (So many reasons… another time). And I was a little too old for Girl Power, with the Spice Girls coming up just as I was taking my A Levels. They were aimed at little girls really, us late teens were already damaged goods, we knew who held the power and it definitely wasn't us. I watched them with interest. I liked what they stood for, even if the line-up felt formulaic. I scoffed at the pen portrait character band members created by their management team.
As if a woman could be reduced to their hair colour, their anger (let's be honest this was a racist nod to skin colour, no?), their penchant for athletiwear, their innocent babyish niceness or their social class. We're all these things and more, every single one of us. Was that the very point? As the youth of today say, maybe it's just not that deep.
Anyway, I have come here to have my say about Victoria Beckham because I am really worried about her.


























