I’m more of a Saint than Goldenballs
I LOBBED a quid into the open guitar case of a busker on Monday afternoon, and I don’t mind admitting feeling quite good about it.
My coin bounced off just one other – a two pence piece – and so at least my money would help the fella buy a load of bread.
It did get me wondering who would chuck in such a miniscule amount like tuppence, and then it struck – what about David Beckham?
Fleet Street was tripping over itself last week to laud Goldenballs for waving his new salary at Paris Saint-Germain and giving it instead to an as yet unidentified children’s charity.
But while some sports correspondents’ tongues hit the floor in gasping admiration, one or two notable exceptions pointed out that if Becks never worked again he’d still be spectacularly rich.
They also pointed out the very real fact that for Becks, the salary side of things was never his main consideration in any case.
No, it’s all about his cut of his image rights.
And at PSG last week, the same time he let slip to the world what a jolly good f***ing fellow he was, shirts with his name and number 32 on the back were already on sale at just £73 a pop.
And they’ll be shifting by the thousands.
Factor in the evitable flurry of French products he’ll be paid to endorse over the next few months – on top of his hugely lucrative off-field income already in place – and he’s left with a pile of cash you or I could only ever dream of.
Yes, the charity – whichever one it turns out to be – wins.
But Saint Beckham? Not a chance.