I have an interesting theory about WAGs. All we hear in the papers are about the glamorous lifestyles that the wives and girlfriends of sport stars lead which are typified by their apparent lack of responsibility and constant, extravagant shopping trips. Have you noticed that the life of a WAG is only open to a select few?
Being a mere mortal I always thought that WAG stood for 'Widowed and Grieving' where sportsmen were concerned. Whenever I've been out with a bloke who was an amateur sportsman (let's face it all of them like to think they are) I've always ended up feeling like a grieving widow rather than a girlfriend.
When it comes to the weekend they just disappear off and play their sport, probably very badly even though they'll tell you that they were so good that it won't be long before he gets his England call up, and you end up left with nothing in particular to do. Not because you have nothing better to do but because they don't give you any warning about their planned absence for the rest of the weekend. It's not even as if they can keep you amused by handing over thousands of pounds for you to spend on clothing that you're bound to wear only once and then decided that actually you probably won't have another occasion to wear it on.
Then you come to their end of season at the club and one of two things has happens. Either they don't invite you because 'You don't want to talk about fielding positions and get pissed with the lads'. Maybe not but it would make a nice change to be given the option. Or you get invited but the seating plan dictates that you are sitting next to a bottle-blonde, perma-tanned, fellow WAG who comes out with outrageous questions like 'I go on the sunbed for 30 minutes every day. Do you think I'll get skin cancer?' I swear to God that did happen and it was surely a miracle that I didn't choked on my starter.
I know what you're thinking I'm probably one of those women who complains every time Coronation Street is moved to 10.30pm because of Champions League football and, therefore, carries a bitter resentment towards any man who attempts to keep himself fit and healthy by dabbling in some sporting action once a week. You'd be wrong though. You probably couldn't be further from the truth. I love sport; can't get enough of it. In fact I have been know to participate in the less thrilling sports of cricket and golf. I'm not looking at this from a biased view. But being a WAG isn't what the media portrays it to be for normal women like me.
The annoying thing is that it doesn't even work the other way round. When I'm off playing hockey I know my other half won't be twiddling his thumbs, restless in anticipation of receiving my text informing him of the all-important final score. And don't get me started on the amount of times I've screamed back down the M56, my little Corsa trembling each time I put more pressure on the accelerator, in an attempt see my beloved only to discover that he's buggered off to play darts with the local village idiot at the pub.
My advice would be: never be a WAG. Unless, and this is the one exception, your other half is a bona fide England football international. In this case a significant proportion his £118,000-a-week wage could be donated to your quest to become the most successful female golfer ever by the UK. As the likelihood of this actually happening in the future is nearer to zero than one hundred per cent, I've decided to shelve my WAG dream. Besides it's much more fun being independent and single anyway.
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