I dunno... what's David Beckham going to do with himself now he's retired from football? Poor chap. It's been his life for so long. I mean what's he going to find to distract himself? Apart from appearing in his pants. And, in his strangely charming way, leading another delegation to FIFA and tugging his superstyled forelock in the direction of Blatter and his shifty acolytes. (No. Never again.)
It's a strange fact that for all the utterly mesmerising footballers that have slid effortlessly across out TV screens in recent years: Ronaldo (fat), Zidane, Messi, Ronaldo (thin), Robbie Mustoe... David Beckham has become the most well-known of the lot. You can't put that down to his football.
No, it helps that (1) he's a pretty boy, and (2) he married a famous pop star. The one known as Posh Spice - and if she's posh then I'm related to the Duke of feckin' Westminster. It seems ridiculous to think that she was slightly famous than he when they met. Fate had smiled on Victoria Adams and given her enormous wealth to compensate for her lack of ability.
Beckham's rise to prominence came in a Manchester United team full of 'kids'. He was the best-looking one, made even more so when he walked on to the pitch with Gary Neville, Nicky Butt and Paul Scholes at his side. Beckham didn't lack ability. Or, more importantly, a work ethic.
The single most important aspect to the man's career has not been tattoos or sarongs or film premieres, but his application. He worked his right foot into one of the sharpest tools ever used by an Englishman. We've never had a bloke who could deliver a cross like him. Not ever. (If my Dad's reading this can you not start banging on about Tom Finney and Stan Matthews).
Now of course, he lacked pace. He didn't even manage to break clear of Victoria let along the average left-back. Apparently that boot that Fergie 'accidentally' kicked at him would have missed any other player in the squad, but poor old Becks couldn't shift quick enough. Yes he was slow, but he rather made up for it by hitting sixty-yards passes on to the toes of onrushing centre-forwards and, on occasion, covering every blade of grass himself - in his own time.
Indeed there's not a club he represented which doesn't hold the boy dear. And this is simply because he works his bollocks off (metaphorically speaking or that underwear contract would be a lot less lucrative).
We needn't go on about his United career. God protect us from more OTT OT eulogies. I never wanted him to do well at Man U (save for that night in '99 when I confess I wanted them to win). I'd like to concentrate on his performances in an England shirt.
And as Sven might say 'Well...' it was all a bit up and down. I remember in '98 when Glenn Hoddle, What with having Eileen Drewery in one ear and God in the other, failed to select wither Becks or Owen in the opening fixtures and after defeat to Romania we were worried. Beckham netted a glorious free-kick against Colombia and we all wondered why Hoddle had been so conservative.
Cut to Beckham's sending off for the least effective kick out at an opponent ever seen on a football field. But he walked. He walked all the way home to desperate pillorying from all and sundry. It was far more brutal than that served up to Wayne Rooney after he trod on Carvalho's nads. But then Wayne was an ugly stroppy Scouser who never wore skirts and used old hookers. Not a pretty boy gay icon with the world at his feet.
Fast forward to that game against Greece. Greece were shit then, unlike when they won the Euros - no wait a mo, they were shit then, too. But they were beating England 2-1 and we were off to the play-offs. Cue the shaven headed skipper running around the park like an untethered Jack Russell, snapping at the ball as if it were a rolled up squirrel.
His crowning glory, that free-kick that speared past the stationary keeper and rescued England's qualification, was the single finest moment I've seen from an England player since 1990. He was reclaimed as the darling of the nation and from then on the lad couldn't break wind, let alone a metatarsal, without an enormous fuss being made of him.
There have been further lows - missing penalties in abject fashion: the one v France in 2004 which would have put the game beyond the restorative powers of Zizou; the one v Portugal where a mole popped up at the wrong moment and forced him to scoop it over the bar. Horribly.
But he kept turning up, regardless of which numpty had grabbed hold of the brolly. His loyalty wasn't in doubt. His desire to pull on the shirt - and this at a time when many busy professionals looked upon international football, particularly friendlies, as a right bloody chore.
Frankly, we can all take the piss out of Becks. His children have really odd names: Brooklyn, Romeo, Cruz and Harper - more like a collection of early automobiles than little people. His wedding did look well chavvy. He's probably not as simple as he's made out to be. He's certainly sincere. The donation of his Paris St Germain wages to charity is just further proof of his good heart. And he's very good at playing poster boy, shaking the right hands, staying smiley and handsome and all that horrible schmaltz that someone, sadly, has to do.
And well, basically, he's a decent lad, with a bit of talent who's got where he is by working hard at the thing that he gets paid for. Forget the modelling and all that nonsense. Well, try to. He will be remembered as a very good footballer who happened to make the most of his pretty face too.