Verwandte Artikel zu Learning to Fly

Learning to Fly - Softcover

Beckham, Victoria

 
9781405916974: Learning to Fly
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1405916974 ISBN 13: 9781405916974
Verlag: Penguin, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

Discover the truth behind the headlines in Victoria Beckham's fascinating memoir, Learning to Fly.

'Juicy and compelling' Heat

'Extraordinary... compelling and honest, devastatingly frank... like a rummage through a close friend's private diary' Daily Mail

'The sensational autobiography of one of the most photographed and talked-about women in the world' Mail on Sunday

From the time she saw the movie Fame, Victoria wanted to be a star. A line from the theme song stayed with her - 'I'm gonna live for ever, I'm gonna learn how to fly.' With this amazing book she gives us the chance to fly alongside her on her journey from lonely teenager to international star.

This is the real Victoria Beckham, telling us what it's like to be part of the most watched couple in Britain. Standing up for herself, David and Brooklyn, and setting the record straight about controversies that have surrounded her. She reveals the truth behind the beginnings of the Spice Girls, her wedding, her health and the terrifying kidnap and death threats. And what it took for little Victoria Adams to become the star she is today, and why she wanted it so much.

Incredibly frank and told with coruscating humour, Victoria Beckham's autobiography Learning to Fly is more compelling than any novel.


Victoria Beckham rose to fame as a member of the Spice Girls who have sold over 55 million records world-wide. She is now an internationally recognized style icon with her own denim brand called dVd Style, a range of sunglasses and fragrances named Intimately Beckham and has also produced a range of handbags and jewelry. Victoria has published two bestselling books: Learning to Fly and That Extra Half an Inch. She is married to footballer David Beckham, and they have four children.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Victoria Beckham rose to fame as a member of the Spice Girls who have sold over 55 million records world-wide. She is now an internationally recognized style icon with her own denim brand called dVd Style, a range of sunglasses and fragrances named Intimately Beckham and has also produced a range of handbags and jewelry. Victoria has published two bestselling books: Learning to Fly and That Extra Half an Inch. She is married to footballer David Beckham, and they have four children.

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'Daddy! I'm going to be killed.'
'No, you're not, Victoria. I'm right behind you. I'll look after you.’
I can't see him. We're too close together, jammed in by the crowd. But I can feel his hand on my shoulder, and his hand and his voice are just enough to keep me from screaming. Calm, in control, like he always is. Not like my mum who lives off her nerves. When people say, who do you take after, I say, my dad. But when I panic like this I know I'm like my mum.
Another lurch from the crowd. I need space, air. I'm being pushed, my dad behind, me in the middle, the bodyguard in front, so big that all I can see is his back, wet with sweat. I can hardly breathe. Only one thing is louder than the roaring of the crowd and that's my heart thumping in my ears. Even when I'm about to go on stage it's never this bad.
Without my glasses, I'm half blind. But I can sense the crowd towering up on my right. painted faces that loom up from nowhere, red, white and blue. A hand reaches out and pushes my baseball cap down over my eyes. I'm shaking.
'Over 'ere, Posh, Posh.'
They're drunk. I can smell the beer. Laughing and shouting. Their hands sticking out, jabbing their fingers in some drunken impression of Posh Spice.
'Oi, Posh.’
'Get yer tits out.'
Don't make eye-contact, one of the Spice Girls' security once told me. That's why celebrities wear dark glasses. Like me today. So head down. A flash of a camera. Little red lights everywhere, infra-red autofocus. Like they have on guns. A lens pokes through the wire fence on my left that separates the crowd from the pitch. There are people the other side. Fingers are poking through the wire trying to touch me. That fence shouldn't be there. Haven't they heard of Hillsborough, these morons? The semi-final of the 1989 FA Cup when ninety-six people were killed, crushed against the wire? Only this week they'd had the pictures on the television again. A court case was just starting against the two policemen in charge.
'We love you, Posh.' Then laughter. 'Only kidding!'
We're on the strip of concrete that runs around the pitch at Eindhoven trying to get back to our seats. I know it's concrete because I saw it on our way up; now I can't see anything. Just a blur of bodies and arms reaching out. Trying to touch me.
It's Monday 12 June 2000. The Football Association had organized everything as they always do for all England away games: a chartered plane from Stansted to Brussels, then a coach to Eindhoven. The driver parked in some backstreet, so we'd had to walk a good twenty minutes to the stadium. But we'd still got there two hours before kick-off. Our seats were about five rows from the front, in the middle, opposite the tunnel where the players come out and when people saw me sitting there like a bloody lemon, out came the cameras. Some of them were press: Sky zooming in on my face. some were just ordinary people, taking a snap to show their friends. Show them what? A moody cow with a baseball cap pulled down over her eyes. I felt a complete idiot, just sitting there with hardly anyone else about. Wasn't there somewhere we could go until kick-off, I asked my security. I mean, what were we supposed to do for two hours. Read the programme?
It was then that we heard about the VIP lounge. We asked Ted and Sandra, David's parents, who were in the row behind if they wanted to come along, but they said no thank you, they'd rather stay.
It was the other side of the pitch, but as the place was practically empty getting there had only taken five minutes. They'd got us champagne and we' d been so busy chatting with Doreen, my mum 's friend who was over from Athens and had never been to a football match in her life, we hadn't noticed the stadium filling up. Now with only ten minutes to go the place was absolutely rammed. Thank God I'd decided not to bring Brooklyn. He was safely back at my mum's house in London with my sister Louise.
I'd never wanted to come to Eindhoven. I was booked into the studio in London all week, working on my solo album. But it wasn't just because of that. Everybody was expecting so much from David that I thought it better all round not to go. It's like when he takes an important free kick, or a penalty, sometimes I think it's better not to look.
And David was already out there, kicking the ball around, as they always do before a game. I'd seen him as I walked down the steps into this nightmare. Even without my glasses I can pick him out on the field just by the way he moves even if l can't see the big number 7 on his back. But he hadn't seen me. He'd been looking the other way, across the pitch where the wives and families are always put. He always looks for me. It calms him down to know I'm there, he says. I knew he'd be worried now, not seeing me. I shouldn't have come. I should just be sitting at home, with Brooklyn watching his Daddy on television. Then at least David would know his family were safe.
You have to have been to a football match to know what the noise does to you. I'd seen football on television before I went near a stadium and what you hear on television is nothing, even in those pubs with big screens and wraparound sound. Mark, my first boyfriend, would sometimes take me to watch football in pubs, with his friends - his idea of an evening out. Funnily enough, I'd even watched the semi-final against Germany in Euro 1996 in a pub in Enfield; that time when Gareth Southgate missed the penalty. If anyone had told me then I'd be married to a footballer I wouldn't have believed them. It's the noise that's as frightening as an express train when you're standing on a platform. It engulfs you. It's a noise that makes you want to scream.
Dress down, David had said. I knew all the other wives would be in their Away-Day best - first England match in Euro 2000 and all that. And bring security. My dad and a bodyguard - that would be enough, he'd said. But it wasn't.
It was the Friday before that the Daily Mail found out my name wasn't on the list and said I was snubbing the other England wives and girlfriends by not going. It was picked up by the radio. I heard them talking about it on Capital as I drove into work. They were talking as if my going would make the difference as to whether England won or lost. Phil Neville's wife wasn't going, nor Gary Neville's girlfriend. No one said anything about them. Just went on about how I thought I should be treated differently.
But didn't they understand, I was treated differently. Were the other wives having fingers poked at them now? No. Even if they were dressed up in their England-Expects best, nobody knew who they were. But Posh Spice. Who everyone knows wants to take their precious Golden Boy away from Manchester United, everyone knows who she is. The most hated woman in England, that's what I've been called. Nice.
And what do football supporters do when they hate? They shout abuse. When I was little my mum used to say that old thing about sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never harm you. That was when I was being bullied at school. But she was wrong. It wasn't true then and it's not true now.
I remember not long after I started going out with David, my mum came up to Manchester to a match and when they saw me the crowd began chanting 'Posh Spice takes it up the arse'. And she said, 'What's that they're singing, Victoria?' She'd heard the Posh Spice bit, but not the rest. I mean, how embarrassing is that? I just said I didn't know and could she please pass me another bag of crisps.
The abuse that me and David get at Old Trafford is hideous - at least it never gets physical, unless you count banging on the glass of a corporate box - but since Euro 2000 started all we'd heard about in the English press was football violence and yob culture. People think I read the papers just to find out what they're writing about Posh and Becks. And I would be...

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Verlag
Penguin
Erscheinungsdatum
2013
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1405916974
ISBN 13 
9781405916974
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
560
Kontakt zum Hersteller
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Verantwortliche Person
Penguin Random House Ireland Limited
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