This story starts just over a year ago. We had been away for the New Year and got back to our house in West London to find that someone had parked a smart little Fiat 500 in front of our garage, blocking the entrance.
It was only a mild irritation as we unloaded children, dogs and baggage from our car and my wife Mary left a note on the windscreen wiper asking whoever it was not to park there in future. That evening, the doorbell rang; it turned out to be a very polite, very pretty girl who apologised for blocking us. ‘I’m Georgie’, she said, ‘we’re just moving in and I needed to get the car out of the way for the removals truck. It won’t happen again.’
I told her it didn’t matter, introduced myself and we parted amicably.
‘The Beckhams. They’re moving in while they find a place to buy.’ Jane, our next-door neighbour had told her, and she’d heard it from a painter who was working on the house.
‘No,’ I confidently told her. ‘I met one of them and her name was Georgie something. Definitely not the Beckhams.’
Next morning, I was making breakfast in the kitchen at around 7.30am when I glanced out of the window. There was a man in a tracksuit and a beanie hat jogging down the road, with a small child on a bicycle in tow. As he got closer there was no doubt whatsoever that it was David Beckham (I found out later Georgie was Victoria Beckham’s personal assistant).
Well, I’m not sure who the most famous and recognisable living person is, but David Beckham has to be up there in the top ten. When I told my oldest son, he was unfazed. ‘Oh yes? Well he was in the pub last night,’ was his response.
The interesting thing about having the Beckhams as neighbours was how nice they were
Of course, being a neighbour of a world-famous celebrity doesn’t actually alter the price of fish in any way, but it was certainly a novelty to which a little adjustment was needed.
The biggest change was in the most mundane sphere: car parking. Our grotty Vauxhall was now jostling for space in the residents’ parking bays with the various Bentleys, Range Rovers and Audis that make up the Beckham transport fleet.
We also began to notice little knots of men lurking around the neighbourhood, often next to motorbikes or cars with the engine running, sometimes hiding behind hedges or cars. These turned out to be paparazzi.
For the first few weeks, they would photograph anything that twitched, but eventually they lost interest and moved on, returning occasionally when the Beckhams were back in the headlines. Sadly for them, they didn’t have our grandstand view.
Our kitchen is on the first floor of the house and offers a commanding view of the street, so as we stood making tea or doing the washing-up, we were treated to a kind of animated version of Hello! magazine as our famous neighbours came and went.
The key indication that something was about to happen was a shifting around of cars by members of the Beckham entourage. Then David would emerge with the children to do the school run; or Victoria would head off to her fashion design studio to work. Meanwhile, we rubber-necked shamelessly, popping up like meerkats at the window.
Our street is a cul-de-sac, and ever since my own children were small, they and the other local kids have played football and cricket outside in the road. Last year was no different, except the gaggle of kids playing together now included Romeo and Cruz Beckham — 11 and eight — occasionally 14-year-old Brooklyn and sometimes their dad, too.
When David wasn’t about, the children were watched over by their team of polite, well-dressed bodyguards who would also join in with the football or cricket.
At full strength, I suspect that our team — with four Beckhams and a local boy called Kit, who is already in the Fulham Football Club Academy, plus my daughter and all the other kids from the street — was pretty much unbeatable.
While the boys were tearing around, baby Harper normally opted for a more sedate role, being mothered by the local girls (and their mums) and occasionally pushing herself around on a three-wheel scooter, carefully protected by an oversized helmet I suspect she had borrowed from one of her brothers.
After a few weeks, it became entirely commonplace to see the children all playing together outside. I got home from work one day and found a child’s tracksuit top draped over our garden fence, evidently left behind after a kickabout.
Looking inside, it had a ‘Romeo Beckham’ nametape sewn in, so I asked my daughter to drop it round at their house, which she duly did. I mentioned this to a friend later, and her response was immediate: ‘Idiot: you should have sold it on eBay!’
That hadn’t occurred to me, but it struck me as a mean idea, and I’m glad I didn’t — even though it might have made me a few quid.
The street football had one unforeseen consequence, though. During a match last May, David called to my ten-year-old daughter: ‘You and me, Dido, one-on-one!’ With a burst of speed, she turned and slotted the ball past him, to widespread acclaim.
A couple of days later, the great man announced his retirement from the professional game. Now I admit that his son Brooklyn was holding his father’s arms down when Dido left him clutching at thin air, and he may well have been considering retiring anyway, but I like to think she bears some of the responsibility for this momentous decision.
As the months passed, we came to realise that our new neighbours were noticeably early risers. On sunny summer weekends, the Beckham children would be out playing in the street — or even heading off to the park — before many of the local residents had stirred, and it’s fair to say that some of us no longer in the first flush of youth found this a bit trying.
On the other hand, the local kids loved it. It was even better when the Beckhams bought a mobile basketball hoop and a small skateboard ramp; combined with our spring-loaded cricket stumps and a parking barrier that doubled as a tennis net, this left most sporting bases covered. As word spread, increasing numbers of small children turned up in their Chelsea, Arsenal and Manchester United shirts to take part, and some of the games got quite big.
They were supplemented by teenage girls who would lurk giggling on the corner, though I was never sure if they were on the lookout for David, Brooklyn or Romeo — who has, of course, already starred in a Burberry fashion campaign.
On one occasion, while laboriously working through a Gordon Ramsay recipe for Sunday lunch, I looked out of the kitchen window to see Ramsay himself, along with his wife and children, evidently arriving for lunch chez Beckham.
In reality — and I’m sorry to disappoint those hoping to hear they are spoilt superstars — the interesting thing about having the Beckhams as neighbours was how nice they were.
They were always polite and friendly, their children are well-behaved and grounded, and they made every effort to ensure the whole Beckham ‘operation’ didn’t interfere with daily life in our quiet street.
David didn’t even complain when our new ten-week-old bull terrier puppy bit him. He said to the little monster: ‘Aren’t you sweet?’ before it nipped his hand and jumped up to lick his face.
It can’t have been a pleasant experience as she had just been chewing a dried tripe snack, which smells like manure. But he smiled as if nothing had happened.
As for his wife, if you haven’t seen her in the flesh, Victoria Beckham is a wonder to behold: always beautifully turned out and so glossy and shiny I’m convinced she must be visible from space.
She would never join in the football, but would sometimes come out and chat while the kids were playing. I can refute the myth that she never smiles; she does.
She also waves cheerily at her neighbours and their children. When she and David were away from home, her parents would often come to stay to look after the children, and they turned out to be very pleasant, too.
The family moved out just before Christmas to go to their new house in Kensington, and we were sorry to see them leave, even though we can now park our car outside.
Oddly enough, my middle son bumped into them recently while they were being shown round his school. He didn’t think they’d recognise him out of the street context, but he got a friendly hello from David.
We do at least have something to remember them by. Before they left, Victoria popped round to our neighbour Jane and asked if she would mind looking after their goldfish over the holiday.
Jane couldn’t, but my oldest son was planning to stay in our house for New Year with his girlfriend, and was happy to take on the role of celebrity fish-minder. The fish was duly delivered in its designer bowl.
And, er, we’ve still got it. I’m not sure if they meant to abandon it and, to be fair, moving live fish about isn’t easy — but it’s still in our kitchen, gulping away. Because we think it belonged to Romeo, we have christened it Juliet.
I told her it didn’t matter, introduced myself and we parted amicably.
On sunny summer weekends, the Beckham children would be out playing in the street before many of the local residents had stirred
I was away from home working most of that week and it wasn’t until the Friday evening when Mary and I were walking the dogs that she remembered the latest hot gossip: someone really famous was renting the house two doors down. ‘Who?’ I asked.
‘No,’ I confidently told her. ‘I met one of them and her name was Georgie something. Definitely not the Beckhams.’
Next morning, I was making breakfast in the kitchen at around 7.30am when I glanced out of the window. There was a man in a tracksuit and a beanie hat jogging down the road, with a small child on a bicycle in tow. As he got closer there was no doubt whatsoever that it was David Beckham (I found out later Georgie was Victoria Beckham’s personal assistant).
Well, I’m not sure who the most famous and recognisable living person is, but David Beckham has to be up there in the top ten. When I told my oldest son, he was unfazed. ‘Oh yes? Well he was in the pub last night,’ was his response.
The interesting thing about having the Beckhams as neighbours was how nice they were
Of course, being a neighbour of a world-famous celebrity doesn’t actually alter the price of fish in any way, but it was certainly a novelty to which a little adjustment was needed.
The biggest change was in the most mundane sphere: car parking. Our grotty Vauxhall was now jostling for space in the residents’ parking bays with the various Bentleys, Range Rovers and Audis that make up the Beckham transport fleet.
We also began to notice little knots of men lurking around the neighbourhood, often next to motorbikes or cars with the engine running, sometimes hiding behind hedges or cars. These turned out to be paparazzi.
For the first few weeks, they would photograph anything that twitched, but eventually they lost interest and moved on, returning occasionally when the Beckhams were back in the headlines. Sadly for them, they didn’t have our grandstand view.
Our kitchen is on the first floor of the house and offers a commanding view of the street, so as we stood making tea or doing the washing-up, we were treated to a kind of animated version of Hello! magazine as our famous neighbours came and went.
The key indication that something was about to happen was a shifting around of cars by members of the Beckham entourage. Then David would emerge with the children to do the school run; or Victoria would head off to her fashion design studio to work. Meanwhile, we rubber-necked shamelessly, popping up like meerkats at the window.
Our street is a cul-de-sac, and ever since my own children were small, they and the other local kids have played football and cricket outside in the road. Last year was no different, except the gaggle of kids playing together now included Romeo and Cruz Beckham — 11 and eight — occasionally 14-year-old Brooklyn and sometimes their dad, too.
When David wasn’t about, the children were watched over by their team of polite, well-dressed bodyguards who would also join in with the football or cricket.
At full strength, I suspect that our team — with four Beckhams and a local boy called Kit, who is already in the Fulham Football Club Academy, plus my daughter and all the other kids from the street — was pretty much unbeatable.
While the boys were tearing around, baby Harper normally opted for a more sedate role, being mothered by the local girls (and their mums) and occasionally pushing herself around on a three-wheel scooter, carefully protected by an oversized helmet I suspect she had borrowed from one of her brothers.
After a few weeks, it became entirely commonplace to see the children all playing together outside. I got home from work one day and found a child’s tracksuit top draped over our garden fence, evidently left behind after a kickabout.
Looking inside, it had a ‘Romeo Beckham’ nametape sewn in, so I asked my daughter to drop it round at their house, which she duly did. I mentioned this to a friend later, and her response was immediate: ‘Idiot: you should have sold it on eBay!’
When Victoria and David were away from home, her parents would often come to stay to look after the children
That hadn’t occurred to me, but it struck me as a mean idea, and I’m glad I didn’t — even though it might have made me a few quid.
The street football had one unforeseen consequence, though. During a match last May, David called to my ten-year-old daughter: ‘You and me, Dido, one-on-one!’ With a burst of speed, she turned and slotted the ball past him, to widespread acclaim.
A couple of days later, the great man announced his retirement from the professional game. Now I admit that his son Brooklyn was holding his father’s arms down when Dido left him clutching at thin air, and he may well have been considering retiring anyway, but I like to think she bears some of the responsibility for this momentous decision.
As the months passed, we came to realise that our new neighbours were noticeably early risers. On sunny summer weekends, the Beckham children would be out playing in the street — or even heading off to the park — before many of the local residents had stirred, and it’s fair to say that some of us no longer in the first flush of youth found this a bit trying.
On the other hand, the local kids loved it. It was even better when the Beckhams bought a mobile basketball hoop and a small skateboard ramp; combined with our spring-loaded cricket stumps and a parking barrier that doubled as a tennis net, this left most sporting bases covered. As word spread, increasing numbers of small children turned up in their Chelsea, Arsenal and Manchester United shirts to take part, and some of the games got quite big.
They were supplemented by teenage girls who would lurk giggling on the corner, though I was never sure if they were on the lookout for David, Brooklyn or Romeo — who has, of course, already starred in a Burberry fashion campaign.
On one occasion, while laboriously working through a Gordon Ramsay recipe for Sunday lunch, I looked out of the kitchen window to see Ramsay himself, along with his wife and children, evidently arriving for lunch chez Beckham.
In reality — and I’m sorry to disappoint those hoping to hear they are spoilt superstars — the interesting thing about having the Beckhams as neighbours was how nice they were.
The reminder of the Beckhams is the goldfish they left with one of their neighbours to look after!
They were always polite and friendly, their children are well-behaved and grounded, and they made every effort to ensure the whole Beckham ‘operation’ didn’t interfere with daily life in our quiet street.
David didn’t even complain when our new ten-week-old bull terrier puppy bit him. He said to the little monster: ‘Aren’t you sweet?’ before it nipped his hand and jumped up to lick his face.
It can’t have been a pleasant experience as she had just been chewing a dried tripe snack, which smells like manure. But he smiled as if nothing had happened.
As for his wife, if you haven’t seen her in the flesh, Victoria Beckham is a wonder to behold: always beautifully turned out and so glossy and shiny I’m convinced she must be visible from space.
She would never join in the football, but would sometimes come out and chat while the kids were playing. I can refute the myth that she never smiles; she does.
She also waves cheerily at her neighbours and their children. When she and David were away from home, her parents would often come to stay to look after the children, and they turned out to be very pleasant, too.
The family moved out just before Christmas to go to their new house in Kensington, and we were sorry to see them leave, even though we can now park our car outside.
Oddly enough, my middle son bumped into them recently while they were being shown round his school. He didn’t think they’d recognise him out of the street context, but he got a friendly hello from David.
We do at least have something to remember them by. Before they left, Victoria popped round to our neighbour Jane and asked if she would mind looking after their goldfish over the holiday.
Jane couldn’t, but my oldest son was planning to stay in our house for New Year with his girlfriend, and was happy to take on the role of celebrity fish-minder. The fish was duly delivered in its designer bowl.
And, er, we’ve still got it. I’m not sure if they meant to abandon it and, to be fair, moving live fish about isn’t easy — but it’s still in our kitchen, gulping away. Because we think it belonged to Romeo, we have christened it Juliet.
It looks happy enough, but I wonder if it isn’t pining a little, wishing that one day it could return to its celebrity lifestyle.
