Glenderful's Shit List: Sir David Beckham

Glenderful's Shit List: Sir David Beckham

Let's get this out of the way: I mainlined the entire three-part Netflix docuseries on Victoria Beckham. Was it for Posh Spice? Hard pass. I was there for the real star—the man who could make a mannequin blush, whose tattoos could start a cult, and whose smile should be rated NC-17. That's right, the next addition to Glenderful's Shit List is none other than Sir David Beckham. Yes, Sir. Because the man finally!! got his knighthood from King Charles III at Windsor Castle.

Beckham isn't just a retired athlete; he's a damn sculpture carved from sweat and will, moving like a panther across the pitch. His form? Precision, honey, like a line drawing etched with a steady hand. Every muscle's taut, defined, not bulky but lean, like a Greek statue that traded marble for flesh. When he sprints, it's all sinew and grace, legs slicing through the air, each step a deliberate stroke of power.

And those feet—Jesus Christ, those feet. Imagine them after a 90-minute match: hot, sweaty, still wrapped in those size 9 boots (UK sizing, baby). The thought of peeling off those socks, seeing those powerful, worked feet that just dominated a field? I'd be on my knees faster than a referee calling a foul. I want to worship every callus, every toe, taste the salt of victory on that skin. Those are the feet that bent physics, that made footballs dance—and honey, I want them in my mouth.

The way he bends that ball—lord, it's like he's seducing the laws of physics, making that leather sphere dance to his tune. His free kicks? They're poetry, each one a curve that's both brutal and tender, like a lover's whisper with a whip's crack.

Beckham's got masculinity in spades, but it ain't the chest-thumping kind. It's in the quiet command of his presence, the way he owns the field without screaming for attention. There's a stillness in him, even in motion—a confidence that doesn't need to prove itself. His eyes, sharp and focused, carry that smoldering intensity, like he's seeing every possibility before it unfolds. It's primal, yet refined, like a warrior who knows the battle's half-won in the mind.

The sweat on his brow, the dirt on his kit—it's raw, unpolished, but somehow he makes it look like art. Beckham's masculinity is a paradox: controlled but untamed, soft but unyielding. On that field, he's a vision—a man who makes you believe football's not just a game, but a damn revelation.

The Origins—He's Actually Human?

David Robert Joseph Beckham, born May 2, 1975, Leytonstone, East London. Classic working-class glow-up: dad (Ted) fitted kitchens, mom (Sandra) wrangled hair. Becks was that kid doing reps before breakfast, nerding out on ball handling like it was vintage Pokémon.

What's On the Trophy Wall?

Manchester United: Six Premier Leagues, two FA Cups, 1999 Champions League (Google the treble), Intercontinental Cup.

Real Madrid: La Liga glow-up.

LA Galaxy: Two MLS Cups—yes, he made Americans care about soccer.

PSG: Ligue 1 cameo and dipped.

England caps? 115, third most for any outfield player. Captain for 58 matches. Three World Cups. Becks also amassed a Guinness Book of "Did That" moments—runner-up FIFA World Player (twice), Ballon d'Or six times, English Football Hall of Fame, and flexed league titles in four countries. He wears a UK size 9 boot, so go ahead, try and fill his shoes.

Diet: Clean Eating King

Old Beckham: peak alkaline flex, greens and lean protein, dodging dairy, sugar, and processed hell. Hydration game: elite. Comfort food? Yes, but only as a reward for bossing it. Post-retirement, homeboy still eats clean, but he'll let himself have some treats if he wants—like a true king. Honestly? My gut health is gonna skyrocket if this man will allow me the honour (British English!!) of eating his shit. I'm ready to hop the pond, dude.

Fun Facts: Over 80 tattoos (mostly family icons), semi-fluent in Spanish, rides a Harley. His free kicks? Inspired the phrase "bend it like Beckham." Secret fear? Birds. Legit ornithophobia. OCD about cleanliness so intense, Marie Kondo weeps. Iconic sarong at a '98 party—Google it.

Scandals? Oh, bitch.

• Red card at the '98 World Cup for footsie with Simeone—England wept; tabloids roasted him alive.

• Got booted (literally) by Sir Alex Ferguson during a locker room tantrum.

• Alleged Rebecca Loos affair—sketchy AF.

• Paparazzi punch-ups and party-boy headlines.

• Posh & Becks era: too glam to fail, too famous for real privacy.

Beckham's brand is high-tier rich energy: Adidas (forever), Pepsi (the one before Cardi B), Gillette (beard envy), Armani (panty dropper campaigns), Maserati, Police sunglasses, Haig Club whisky (co-owner), Tudor watches, Samsung, and more. At his peak, $50+ million a year in deals—sometimes more than his football salary. His brand value? $450 million if you're counting, making this footballer one of the richest retired sports names globally.

David Beckham is a unicorn. He's handsome as hell, impossibly successful, and has that rare trifecta: straight men want to be him, straight women want to be with him, and honey, I am dead ass—I would eat his shit without Cadbury toppings (though let's be real: the Cadbury Crème Egg is an all-time fave!). He's this flawless hybrid of legendary athlete and actual gentleman. They simply do not make men like this anymore! And honestly? Now that he's in his 50s? He's somehow on a whole other, hotter level.

Sir David Beckham, let's bend it and welcome to my Shit List! 💩