Chapter 43: A Beckham or A Clooney.

I'm perusing a newspaper someone had left on our table while Andrew ordered our food at the bar, which from what I've come to know—it's a standard practice at English pubs.

The newspaper has Victoria and David Beckham, or, as the Brits calls them, "Posh and Becks," plastered across the front page. I just don't get why David Beckham is a big deal in England. The dude isn't that cute. Sunken cheeks, stringy hair. And I hate the earrings in both ears.

Andrew returned to our table and I made my observations about David Beckham to him.

Andrew pinched his mouth and kept mute, as if David is a personal friend of his.

"Have you seen him play soccer?" he asked me finally.

"No. Who watches soccer?"

"The whole world watches soccer. It happens to be the best sport in every country but America."

"Whatever. As far as I'm concerned this David guy," I said, tapping his picture, "is no George Clooney. That's all I'm sayin'."

Andrew rolled his eyes just as an unkempt waitress brought our food to th