Beckham takes the biscuit.

For those of us men who are not entirely happy with their own body shape the news of the retirement from football of David Beckham produces very mixed feelings.

On the one hand his skills on the pitch will be missed, the long precision passes and dead ball kicks, that slow calculated game that meant that he did not have to run about too much in the 90 minutes of a crucial game. I have tried to emulate that particular aspect of his repertoire on many occasions down at the 5-a-side facility.

On the other we gleefully await his piling on of the pounds in body weight as that finely tuned athletic form returns to the natural cycle that we, of chubby status, find ourselves in.

At long last we will be able to resume walking about our homes in our pants without that inevitable and prejudicial judgement, a direct comparison with Becks, by our spouses and loved ones.

We can relax those straining stomach muscles that voluntarily go into spasm in the company of women.

Importantly we can probably now dismiss that fantastical thought of having our hair braided into cornrows, just for the summer holidays.

He has maintained the status of a bit of an Adonis for much of his period in the public gaze. This is surprising in that he is not the stereotypical figure for this high office. There may be a little bit lacking in his character, you know, he gives the impression of being a bit slow but yet I have invariably overheard exclamations and comments from his admirers upon seeing his latest marketing campaign.

The rest of the male species remain confused over what it is that women want based on their apparent infatuation with the Becks.

We have developed a keen and succinct sense of humour because we are told that this is appealing. David does not appear to have this, apart from that rather vague but mischievous grin.

Our sensitive side has been nurtured to be able to respond to the first indicators of  distress or upset and a hug or cup of tea is speedily despatched.

In the house, we have honed and extended our skill base from not just the noisy, dirty, tool-box based activities to operating the likes of the washing machine, steam iron and the Dyson.

And yet, I cannot myself visualise Becks having to do any of these things in any of his homes.

There must still be something he has that we can never attain. It is not Victoria.

I will continue to contemplate this modern conundrum whilst I finish off the lower half of the new packet of Digestives.  I can always go for a kick-about with the lads later. Get in there!