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The Guardian reports on Victoria Beckham's troubles in Los Angeles. The paper says she's trying too hard:

Beckham has the spray tan, grapefruit chest and glossy nude mouth of the Valley's favourite industry: porn. Hollywood plastic surgery is supposed to be the equivalent of dinner party music - you shouldn't notice it's there. A good nose job looks like your own nose, if it lost weight. Good breast implants look like great genes. Juicy Couture made their fortune inventing a figure-enhancing tracksuit - so starlets, even at airports, could be body-con (an aspirant's ass must be on proper display, even if they're doing a midnight drugstore run for Tylenol Flu, because you never know when you're going to run into someone who could help your career). That Juicy has saturated the British high street just goes to show how fashion directives no longer come from NY but from Hollywood.

A new T-shirt company is born every minute, hatching in the California sun, downy and soft: Splendid, James Perse, C and C. Ric Owens does schlumping around clothes as haute couture and when the Olsen Twins' high-end label, The Row, debuted, it too essentially consisted of really expensive, really thin T-shirts. Jewellers do really well in LA, because they alleviate the monotony of always dressing down. I especially like my Gretchen Julius earrings with their gold elephant and raised trunk, a good luck sign. I wear them with a locket bearing a photo of Ruth Gordon, my personal Hollywood heroine for writing Adam's Rib and making Mia Farrow pregnant by Satan in Rosemary's Baby. LA women always wear talismans with their T-shirts, and that speaks somewhat of the desperation the industry can instil in them. You could see Lindsay Lohan was heading for a fall from her excessive number of charm necklaces.