Frock The Kasbah

‘ANOTHER day and, with the new dawn, another chance to see what Posh and Becks are up to in their secret African hideaway.

‘D’you think it would help if we shout?’

To set the scene, the Sun introduces Vicky (sunglasses, green mini dress) repeatedly embracing her husband (white Stetson hat, black vest).

They are seated beside the pool at the £1,500-a-night Amanjena Hotel, Morocco, sharing tender kisses and intimate jokes.

At this point we must ask you kindly to excuse the lack of detail but, what with this being a highly secretive retreat for the couple, even the Sun has only a few facts to go on.

But what we know, we know for sure, since the Star can confirm the Sun’s report that the Beckhams look to all the world like a pair of ‘love-struck’ teenagers (i.e. spotty and gauche).

And that while they had lunch, Posh threw pieces of bread at the sparrows that danced round them.

‘Ugly little things, aren’t they?’ said Posh, looking at the sparrows and not at her chest or the photos of the women who claim Becks has slept with them.

‘Come on, open up,’ she then ordered, before popping pieces of bread into her husband’s rictus.

And in case the cameras didn’t catch this magic and personal moment, Posh grabbed her own camera and snapped away at her husband.

The Star fails to tell us exactly how many pictures were taken, but do not be hard on the paper’s daring reporters for failing to deliver the facts on that matter.

As we say, the Beckhams are obsessed with secrecy and, in getting within a mile of them, let alone being able to hear every word she says, the paper has pulled off quite some scoop.

And then Posh pipes up again. ‘What’s Spanish for ‘hello’?’ she asks a waiter, as David munches on spring rolls and salad, while his linguist wife gorges herself on pineapple salad and lashings of carrot juice.

‘Steve,’ says Posh, calling over one of her security guards, ‘come and look at these photographs of Brooklyn’s birthday party. We had a lovely time, with fairground rides on the lawn.’

And then the story ends. Perhaps Steve, in searching for something else to do other than cooing over his employee’s children for the umpteenth time, spotted the Star’s reporter and threw him out.

We hope so, and we hope that Steve threw him all the way back to the sewer from whence he emerged. It’s high time we left this intensely private couple alone – for good.’

Posted: 6th, July 2004 | In: Tabloids Comment | TrackBack | Permalink