Welcome to S.Africa Mr.Beckham

Wayne Rooney is officially the new King of England. Official? But what makes him so official?
Because he has been stamped by quite a few endorsements, some he can hardly say, most he can hardly spell. Official, because with 30goals in an already champagne season he sits lofty and proud on a castle turret with not many to knock him off his perch.
Official, because he holds the ability to light the torch that millions of English fans across the country hold so tenderly.
He is officially the best player in England, officially one of the best in the World and without doubt he holds the only right footed and square headed chance England have of winning the trophy that realistically is way beyond our reach without him.
But all that is yadda yadda talk compared to his predecessor as footballing royalty and now part time paparrazi prince, part time model, full time father but always full time game changer, Mr.Beckham to you.
The former Manchester united, Real Madrid pin-up poster boy, L.A Galaxy marmite muncher and Milan makeshift midfielder still has it all.
The King may have scored and scored and scored again during the Champions league tie between two of the top teams from England and Italy but it was still Beckham, of no goals and no assists and only 30minutes match time that caught the front pages.
Why? Because, Beckham inspires, is interesting, is looked up to, is lauded by all and is right now a dead certain for Mr.Capello to be included in England's World cup squad.
Well he should be. Imagine 20mintues to go, World cup semi-final. Penalties a real option. Crosses aren't landing on Crouchies or the King's head. Free Kicks are flying into the stands, who do you turn to SWP? I don't think so.
I rest my case.
Welcome to S.Africa Mr.Beckham is what he will hear and not welcome back to L.A.

One tattooed belly to regret?

Picture a big fat belly. A really big fat belly whose home is the south coast. A huge beachball of a gut covered in blue ink that scrawls an upside down smile, slightly wonky in times roman. It says Portsmouth FC.
Being close to the naval epicentre of Britain's floating fighting industry has done something for the 'Pompeii' fans love of blue ink and the stigma that comes with it. But now times are different and the ship is sailing in a different direction, firmly upstream.
All fans on board, fighting against the winds of change and desperately trying to plug the hole that is leaking through their club.
Hemorraghing is more accurate to what has happened to the fortunes of Portsmouth over the past 18months. A mutiny would have seen less unrest from FA cup glory runs to World class players on ridiculous lottery wages. And therein lies the problem. Lottery wages and misguided wealth spent by a crook?
I'm sorry to offend but look at Leeds, look at O'leary. Surely the time has come to look at Portsmouth, look at Harry?
Has the once loved, neigh, idolised son of the South coast gone and blown a fortune right in front of everyones eyes?
Well, we know that is a yes but has he done it without any sign of management and more signs pointing to mis-management.
You have to feel sorry for the clubs fans, loyally inked and shirtless on another drab Winters night, tirelessly shouting for their United Nations squad to impress on the frost while Harry is tucked up nicely down the road in his Sandbanks mansion having just returned from North London's Jewish community.
Now there's an irony.