Any of the above might be on her list of preoccupations, and, if it were, we wouldn’t hold it against her. She is the original Wag, and we respect the fact that our footballers’ wives cannot be expected to stress about SUV emissions and deforestation. A commitment to parties and shopping and building in-house cinemas is the only requirement for Wag membership.
The trouble is, if you were to look inside Victoria’s head, you would, I expect, find no such broad spectrum of interests but, instead, thoughts of only hairstyles, nail colours and designer labels. The Burberry Manor bag in black or not? That is the central question haunting Posh when she wakes. Superfine jeans or Tsubi sunnies? There is nothing else going on bar the occasional anxiety that she may have accidentally ingested some butter. And this is the root of our problem with VB. She has taken fashion — an area that many of us can get quite obsessive about — and applied an Italia Conti Academy-style, teeth-gritted dedication to Getting It Right. Every aspect of her look, from the fingernail polish to the make of her mobile phone, is forensically researched; every detail of her image, down to the thumb slotted into the belt and the pouty “wah-mah” slightly open mouth, is studied. There isn’t a single aspect of a VB public appearance that hasn’t been plotted and choreographed for maximum score on the “she’s got the look” barometer. She’s the only celebrity who would be gutted if there weren’t paparazzi outside her front door, waiting to record the results.
Fashion victims are held in awe in our culture. You won’t catch us sniggering at the idea of someone packing a trunkful of jeans for different leg-size days. And, on paper, Victoria ticks the boxes. But that’s precisely the problem: she makes something that is supposed to be fun and sexy look such hard work. There is nothing spontaneous or original about the way she dresses, and — above all — her entire existence is dedicated to sourcing her next big outfit. It’s one thing being a self-conscious clothes horse who has somewhere to go (see Paris, Nicole, Sienna), but it doesn’t work if you spend your evenings indoors, hunched over the accessories-match computer program.
Posh’s mistake is nominating herself as a fashion inspiration. She’s like Susie in Big Brother, who auditioned umpteen times and ultimately paid four grand to be a “personality” in the BB house. Both have got what they wanted, but neither has the satisfaction of knowing she’s got what it takes. If Victoria lightened up and steered off the icon-by-numbers program; if she sometimes had a cold sore or a Tesco bag or some mud on her knees or a hat she borrowed from Keith Richards, or looked like she was having any sort of real life, then we might love her for her styling. As it is, we really, really don’t.