The trouble with Becks

Damn David Beckham. We all know how horribly perfect he is, and the male side of the population would like to stop having our noses rubbed in it. There he is appearing in a Christmas TV commercial, on a magazine cover as a cross between George Best, Tom Ford and Lady Di - every woman's dream and every man's nightmare: perfect spouse, perfect athlete, perfect father, perfect looks and perfect car (Bentley Arnage T).

Just what can the remainder of the British male population offer? My advice would be to escape the omnipresence of this all-too perfect person by taking a flight through several time zones. But now we hear that in Japan, Mr and Mrs Beckham are starring in an advert that uses their image as the ultimate devoted couple.

The commercial for a chain of beauty salons shows them reclining on a sofa sharing a kiss, further cementing Beckham's reputation as a devoted husband.

For years, women have been complaining about the unrealistic goals set by role models who have it all and so effortlessly: devoted husband, perfect children and the ability to cook like Nigella Lawson. Well it's about time men started getting vocal about the entirely unrealistic strain they are put under by Beckham.

Like many married men in Britain I would say that as a husband and father I feel considerably closer to Homer Simpson than I do to Mr Golden Balls.

As someone in the latter half of their thirties I have long ago torn up the envelope on which I mapped out a glorious career: Nobel Prize for my impeccable dress sense, world champion sportsman (well, backgammon is a sport of sorts), life as a much-loved celebrity, etc. I have been happy to trade these modest aims for life with a wonderful wife with whom I have two lovely sons.

Despite my heavily mortgaged house with its leaky roof, moments such as seeing my elder son perform in the school nativity play and the odd chance to buy my wife something from Joseph, mean I might have counted myself content. But then along came David Beckham.

The trouble with him is that he seems superhuman. He has his sons' names tattooed on his back and emblazoned on his boots; he manages to look cool while carrying infant Romeo in one hand and the baby carrier in the other. As my wife loves to tell me, I neither looked cool nor was any good at carrying the baby, let alone doing both things at the same time.

But it does not stop there: Beckham can mix with the lads in the locker room as easily he can with the stars at Elton John's palace.

Hitherto, successful sportsmen appeared to have made a Faustian pact, paying for their skill with a tendency towards self-destruction: George Best, Hurricane Higgins and Paul Gascoigne are but a few examples.

But it is his relationship with Victoria that is most galling. There are few men who could survive the revelation that they wear underwear belonging to the wife.

Yet Beckham emerged from knickergate as neither henpecked nor camp but as a man so confident in himself as to be in touch with his feminine side (he's also man enough to paint his nails and braid his hair).

Nor does the money make things easier: we would all love to buy some stunning his 'n' hers jewellery. The difference is that he can spend the price of a small house on a big bauble. We even know that he is tidy to the point of obsession, and loves to cook.

I suppose I resent Beckham for what his apparent perfection represents: he is a young man who is instinctively sorted; I am a middleaged one who is not. So I turn to the wisdom of Homer Simpson, who once said: "No matter how good you are at something there's always about a million people better than you."

How true, how accurate, unless of course you happen to be David Beckham.