WHAT’S HECTOR BELLER-BEEN WEARING? Every now and again, with the same frequency of an eclipse, or view of Haley’s Comet, comes a photo of a footballer so unbelievably chic and not funny, you cannot help but stare. My man, Hec is in that photo. I’m going to do my best though. London, Borough Market. Christmas Eve. You and Hector’s cuffing season has fizzled out and you are wandering the streets, lost and alone. Your friends can’t lift your spirits, and everywhere you turn, things remind you of him. That’s when you turn the corner to your flat, and see him there. In this coat. You drop your bag of Waitrose Jamón Iberico that you’d planned to eat alongside necking a bottle of cheap red wine at midnight whilst watching Sex and the City reruns. But he’s there. You run towards him, skidding a little in a way that’s cute and endearing, and he catches you in a steamy embrace, before whispering “feliz navidad mi amor” in your ear, scooping you up and carrying you up the stairs. Coats out of ten: idk, fuck it, 20.