Football Fuckeries - John Terry

The Musings of a Failed Football Fan…

Why have a dog and WAG* yourself?

For anyone who doesn’t know, John Terry is a British football player. He is the Captain of Chelsea Football Club and the England squad. He earns a shit load of money for kicking a ball around, missing European Cup winning penalties, and doing a few keepie-uppies (in excess of £100,000 per week, actually).

Recently, the British tabloids have gone into overdrive because the naughty little boy has been playing ‘away’ from ‘home’ in more ways than one. Not only has he [John Terry] cheated on his wife and kids. He did it with his friend/teammate’s PARTNER. The teammate is Wayne Bridge (who currently plays for Manchester City) and the cheating "wife" is French lingerie model Vanessa Perroncel (as pictured below). John Terry & ho, it would appear, have plummeted to depths that would make even Tiger Woods and his detritus-damsels blush (click here for full story).

Word on the street is, not only did Terry get his teammate’s bird (British slang for 'woman') knocked-up - he also paid for her to have an abortion (and they say chivalry is dead). There’s even been speculation that Terry has ‘scored’ with more than just one of his teammates’ wives. In addition, Max Mosley (a bigwig in the world of motor sports who has a penchant for performing sadomasochistic sexual acts with prostitutes) has stepped into the fray to defend Terry. Which, if you ask me, is a bit like Osama Bin Laden vouching for the good character of an airline pilot.

Anyhow, last weekend Wayne Bridge’s teammates were seen sporting “Team Bridge” shirts. And the whole sordid debacle has put the question of whether Terry should be kept-on as England captain firmly in the spotlight. Let's face facts, how can John Terry possibly expect to galvanize a team of players in this year’s World Cup, if it’s in his character to knock-off and knock-up his co-workers spouses?

As I beam this story to you live from Omar Towers, he [John Terry] has been given “compassionate leave” to try and save his marriage. So, for all you blue-collar workers out there, don’t pull a sickie next time you want the day off. Just knock-up your colleague’s bird – you might get a month off! Ow, and let’s not forget the “other woman” – she [Vanessa Perroncel] has already got herself a high profile publicist and is touting her story for a rumoured £250,000. No doubt she will publish her memoirs within a year or two, then fuck-off to America to try and land herself an LA plastic surgeon and a guest spot on The View.

What I’m about to say to John Terry’s wife, Toni Poole Terry (and all other WAGs), is meant with as much love and compassion as I can muster for such a cliché issue…

I’d fuck him; John Terry. He’s fit (British vernacular for ‘cute’). However, if he (or any other footballer), asked me to be his wife and bear his children. I'd take off my Louboutin shoe, spit on the sole of it (Arab stylie), then mollywop him so hard across the face with it, it’d knock him into a different squad (no transfer fee required). Then, I’d turn around and walk away with one shoe still off, mumbling, "Don’t try and fucking play me for a dumb-arse sand-nigger, ya niggard.”

The moral of the allegory is: Don’t marry a football player. They’re not called ‘players’ for nothing. Fuck ‘em, enjoy ‘em, show ‘em off to your friends and family. Hell, even live with ‘em if you haveta. But, when it comes to love – you go get yourself a scientist, a good looking Tesco’s shelf stacker, a coal miner, a taxi driver, an Elvis impersonator, a saxophonist, an orthodontist, a vet, a social worker, a shop owner, a double glazing salesman. Almost anything other than a sportsman. Trust me, footballers travel a lot; it works out expensive to have ‘em followed.

The trouble with players is, they don’t grow-up till it’s too late. Footballers are, from my perspective, part of a working-class old-boys network. A system that ensures they never have to deal with the real world – the world that we inhabit. The ‘network’ endorses the principle that what goes on in the locker-room, stays in the locker-room. It's a textbook type of indoctrination that starts at a very young age. Yes, they get paid a lot. Yes, it may seem like a dream lifestyle. But ultimately, when they turn 35 (40ish for a good goalie), unless they can diversify – and most of them can’t – it’s down hill all the way to the local community college for an NVQ in plumbing. More often than not, it’s then that the WAG will discover that the man she’s married to, is no more than a frightened little boy. A frightened little boy who has been told what to do and had his problems 'fixed' for him by either his father, manager, or agent his ENTIRE life.

The wannabe WAGs out there would do well to remember, a very wise Arab woman once said: “If you lay down with dogs you’ll get up with fleas but, if you lay down with footballers you’ll wake up with crabs…”

Happy (early) Valentines Day,

- A Failed Football Fan

(who's a wily old wolf)

* WAG - a British tabloid press term for the ‘Wives and Girlfriends’ of sportsmen, particularly footballers.

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR