JAN MOIR: Do us all a favour Cheerless Chops and lighten up!
Why does Victoria Beckham look so world-weary when she has so much to be happy about
The Coalition is under fresh attack, Obama’s popularity has taken another dip and Ken Clarke’s plans to launch a system of secret courts to dispense justice behind locked doors chills the blood of any right‑thinking person.
Yet let’s focus on the real issue of the week, shall we Which is this: why won’t Posh smile Why Why won’t she do it
For weeks, months, years now, former Spice Girl Victoria Beckham seems to have made it her personal mission in life not to smile in public.
The determinedly grim, cement set of her cheerless chops is becoming one of the wonders of the age. She’s making everyone depressed.
Cheer up, girl, for God’s sake! Halve yourself a tomato, pour yourself a stiff coconut water and lighten up for once.
Fat chance. From party to pavement, from big events to shopping trips, Victoria, 37, is like a one-woman Mount Rushmore — forever stony and unyielding, the very picture of bottomless granite gloom.
Even at the Oscars parties earlier this week, she managed to wander around Hollywood looking as if she was sucking on an extra-sour lemon while her shoes pinched.
Why She was at a fabulous party on the arm of David Beckham, who had dressed up for the occasion in a stunning Dior suit.
They both looked amazing, as they always do. Everyone in the room knew her name, while the film star Cameron Diaz added even more elation to the evening by wearing a dress from Victoria’s new collection.
What a sensation. On this night of nights, her cup runneth over!
So why does Victoria always look as if it is full of vinegar and crushed hope
Perhaps she thinks it’s cool to look so jaded Maybe she even hates her teeth Let us hope that neither of these suggestions is true. For they are unworthy of any grown woman.
What makes her world-weary affectation so exasperating is that she has no reason to affect such pained despondency. Posh is one of the most fortunate women on the planet. She is rich and successful in her own right, with a handsome husband and four lovely, healthy children to come home to at night.
Another day, another grimace in front of the cameras for Mrs Beckham
She has many blessings to count, including a bumper share of good looks and good fortune.
Out of all the Spice Girls, she is the one who has gone on to become the biggest success. No one watching her thrash around doing her zig-a-zig-ah stuff nearly 20 years ago would have given her a hope for the future.
Yet, here she is, a woman who has gone on to make the second act of her life an even bigger triumph than the first, which is no mean feat. Surely that must make her smile
Not a bit of it. Her range of expressions seems to have only three settings: melancholy, forlorn and abject misery.
For a photoshoot splashed on the cover of the glossy magazine Madame Figaro this week, she managed to appear both wretched and homicidal at the same time — a look only previously achieved by recently arrested serial killers.
Even at the royal wedding last year, she had a face as long as a court fiddle. Indeed, Posh could do much worse than take a leaf out of the Duchess of Cambridge’s book, whose relentless good cheer is a tonic to all.
OK. Yes, agreed. Victoria did have the pained glimmer of a grin at the end of her fashion show recently, when she came on to the catwalk to acknowledge the applause of the audience. And I do recall a dazzling smile on the day she got engaged to Beckham back in the mists of time.
On chat shows and in person, she has always seemed amusing and amused. But mostly it has been an endless parade of cheerlessness, gloom and deadpan VB doom.
Apart from anything else, it is so graceless, particularly as the Government has just made Victoria Beckham an ambassador for this country. From now on, she is a fashion insider whose new national role is to promote the VisitBritain’s Great campaign in a bid to encourage tourists and investors to this country.
Once they clock dear Posh wandering around with a face like a torn scone — as we say in Scotland — the only thing they’ll want to invest in is a ticket to somewhere else.
So enough of the misery, please. Especially now that she is representing all of us. Like I said before, if any woman in the world has reason to walk around with a melon-slice grin splitting her face, that woman is Victoria Beckham. Her lack of cheer is getting really boring.
ARE SOME ACTORS NOW TOO FAMOUS TO ENJOY
This week I went to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, the film adaptation of Deborah Moggach’s charming novel.
plot follows the adventures of a group of English pensioners who meet
when they retire to a supposedly luxurious sanctuary in Jaipur.
course, the Marigold Hotel of the title is not quite the idyll promised
in the brochure, even if the guests find themselves charmed by the
young owner, played by Slumdog Millionaire star Dev Patel.
And the pensioners themselves are
played by an all-star cast of golden-nuggety British greats: Bill
Nighy, Maggie Smith, Judi Dench (right), Tom Wilkinson, Penelope
Wilton and Celia Imrie.
all amazing. I love each and every one of them. Bill’s a genius. Tom’s a
doll. The Dames Mags and St Jude can do no wrong. And instead of hosing
down all the women in emulsion and glossing over everyone’s wrinkles as
usual, the film almost makes a fetish of them.
the presence of so many megawatt acting talents in one small film was
just a little overwhelming. Almost too rich for the blood.
Easter Island statues, they have each been around for a very long time;
they all carry the weight of history on their shoulders.
have collectively ticked off myriad roles and appearances, the chat
show couches, thrillers, comedies, spinning out down the decades. In
short, a lot of baggage to take on board.
did enjoy the film, but there were too many moments when it was
impossible to get my grappling hook over the huge cliff face of this
squad of National Treasures Doing Great British Acting.
Can character actors become just too famous
I wonder if the current popularity of Scandinavian films and television
series is partly because we haven’t a clue who the actors are.
Here comes (the FATHER of) the bride
Why does Richard Branson keep invading his daughter’s privacy by publishing snaps of her wedding It’s not as if Holly or her new husband Freddie Andrewes are even public figures.
The snaps from the Caribbean that he posted on Facebook were lovely, however — even if Sir R. couldn’t give up a lifetime of camera-hogging, not even for his only daughter’s marriage ceremony.
Me again! Richard Branson edges into shot in daughter Holly's (centre) dressing room
He was right there when they were cutting the cake, he was in the forefront of the napkin-waving game (eh). He even managed to get into the bride’s dressing room before the ceremony, grinning away among all the bridesmaids and tulle.
The old egomaniac has just got to be the centre of attention, even on his daughter’s wedding day.
It is hilarious, but also rather sweet.
And even royal guests Beatrice and Eugenie did the decent thing and left their hats at home.
Everyone was happy.
THAT'S PRETTY RICH COMING FROM JULIA
Julia Roberts (right) says her children don’t know she’s famous. Neither does 2012.
She also says she pities young female stars who are rocketed to instant fame today because the only choices they face are ‘the express elevator or rehab’.
Interesting. I have noticed that Julia rarely says anything nice about anyone — particularly not actresses who have the temerity to be younger than her.
Roberts, now 44, got her big break 22 years ago in Pretty Woman. Oh my goodness! Can it really be that long ago
Thank heavens there have been few films since then that have portrayed prostitution as a rather glam career option.
How did she even get away with it at the time Prostitution is an express elevator to rehab — and worse.
But it’s what made Julia a star, so it’s OK.
It's chucking-out time for this MP
Every now and then, the tattered curtain is lifted on what really goes on in the House of Commons. And what a shambles it usually turns out to be.
Foaming pints of Top Totty beer, served at cheap prices, subsidised by me and you; treble duck houses all round; sexy Russian secretaries shipped in by the lorry load to assist overworked MPs of course, not to spy; and now, to cap them all, the incident involving Labour MP Eric Joyce.
Disgraced: MP Eric Joyce
Following an alleged booze-fuelled brawl in the Strangers Bar last week, the Member for Falkirk now faces a court case, accused of head-butting Tory MP Stuart Andrew.
It is also claimed he struck Labour Whip Phil Wilson and assorted other MPs who got in the way.
It took five police officers to restrain Joyce, which might be OK at chucking-out time in downtown Falkirk on a Saturday night, but is completely unacceptable in Parliament.
And any sympathy anyone might have felt for 51-year-old Joyce would be dissipated if allegations of an affair two years ago with a 17-year-old schoolgirl who was helping in his office during the election turn out to be true.
Brawling is bad enough. But if he has abused his position of power and authority with an impressionable schoolgirl that would be something else.
What Joyce is said to have done is a disgrace — anyhow, I hope he never sets foot in Westminster again.
I can’t be alone in thinking it is a bit off that some English footballers refuse to join in the singing of the national anthem before an international football match.
Yes, I know they are focusing on the match ahead (ball, foot, foot, ball), but come on. Every other national team seems to manage a lusty chorus from all involved, why not England What is their problem
Once upon a time, playing for your country was an honour that every schoolboy dreamed about. It was the apex of ambition, a privilege beyond measure.
Today, too many footballers think we are the ones who should be honoured by their even deigning to take part. It is about them, not the team.