Feast your eyes on David. The man got a hair cut and my loins are on fire. Does he have a brain underneath those beautiful blonde locks? Hell no. Do I care? Absolutely not. The man has a package, he knows what to do with it, and we have it on great authority that he"s an excellent lover… so what do I care that he doesn"t know the difference between "teach" and "learn". On a rainy evening in New York, when I"m wearing a trenchcoat, false eyelashes, a pair of kick ass Louboutins and nothing else, when I find myself in an abandoned building, locked in an elevator, with only Becks to keep me company, it ain"t gonna matter how dumb he is, as long as he"s saying "Baby let me love you" over and over and over again. Then there"s Vicky. Vicky with the c*ck-stained lips, the frozen cheeks, the silicone, the waxy complexion…Vicky my vice, my terrible obsession, my forbidden idol. I do love her in spite of myself. And her appearance at Paris fashion week only illustrates why. Weave? Check. Starvation? Check. Bronzer? Of course! Couture? Come on…do you need to ask??? Who else but Posh could make a prom dress look so dazzling with gold shoes and a matching clutch??? Yes, yes, yes, gossips. It is a sickness. But to me, the Beckhams are like cigarettes. I will always, always crave a drag.