Playing the Field… (and wannabe WAGs)

Up until about 5 years ago, I thought wag was what a puppy dog’s tail did.

I recently went to an England match at Wembley (apologies to my Scottish forefathers but I got free tickets!). As you would expect there were cheers when the home players came out of the tunnel, that is, for all those apart from Wayne Rooney, John Terry and Ashley Cole. When these three stepped onto the pitch, pantomime boos echoed round the stadium and I’m pretty sure I saw someone throw a tomato. I turned to the boys and said knowingly “it’s because they cheated, isn’t it” and felt secretly delighted at the predominantly male crowd’s scorn of the trio’s adulterous ways. Then the boys solemnly said “Nah, it was because they were rubbish at the world cup”. Oh.

However, there must be something in the amount of grief Rooney has got from the football crowd since his dalliances with a Granny stripper and more recently the £200 call girl. Even if their moral compass is slightly off (it may just be schoolboy banter – see the Inbetweeners for telly evidence) at least it is switched on. Us girls, however, don’t really seem to give a monkeys. In fact, there are hordes of girls vying for a play with their balls; practically scratching each other’s eyes out to be another footballers bit on (the) side. But, not only that, they also aspire to be the wife’s and girlfriend’s that are being cheated on in the first place. Eh?

I’m not saying that all footballers are rats nor that all WAGs are, well WAGs (Wanting Attention Girls) but the stories have now become so commonplace that it seems that the footballers not playing away are, in fact, the minority.

Louis Vuitton and some serious sparklers go along way to sweetening the appeal and of course there’s the fame, or infamy depending on your role. But is it worth it? It takes a whole lot of time and effort to become a WAG, I mean there’s even a special Facebook group dedicated to finding the location of potential players, or should I say ‘playas’. There’s the hair extensions, the frocks, the posh clubs… all to bag yourself a man whose beauty regime probably beats your own.

Then, once you’ve scored and you have had your celebrity wedding in OK! only to find out that your man has been caught out of his strip with a stripper. The shame. Or perhaps not, because this is when it get’s really interesting. The papers go crazy, the paps are on your doorstep and there’s the potential of a healthy settlement. You might even get your own perfume.

All that said though, even with a vague understanding of aggregates, I’m not sure anyone ends up the winner.


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