Monday, 6 September 2010
Wayne Rooney, Lord of the Dense
The Big Bang Theory states that at one time the Universe was just a tiny but incredibly tightly packed unit of matter. No matter how dense this initial bundle of stuff was it has been superceded in the History of All Things by Wayne Rooney.
There’s dense, there’s really dense and there’s Wayne Rooney. Here’s a man with the genius to watch the game from the stands even while he himself is on the pitch but who lacks even the smallest amount of foresight when he’s pissed up at 3 in the morning.
He’s not the first – in fact you have to remind yourself that there are still some right pussies in the England squad! I mean, some of ‘em have never been in the papers for dipping their nibs in some dodgy inkwells! The great wooftahs. What’s wrong with them? Well you only have to look at that William Hague don’t you? Footballers love to talk about their room-mates. Wink, wink.
And lets not pick on Juicy Jeni or Monica Mint! I mean these girls are making a buck from thick-headed wealthy men-children so you go Girls! But what a pair of sluts!
Sorry I’ve turned into the sort of twat who goes on the messageboards of chat-mags to offer their opinions. The dense leading the dunce.
Here’s my problem with all this... I couldn’t give a toss. I mean if Rooney can’t get on to the end of a decent Walcott cross cos he’s texting his missus then I’ll be the first to get on his back (if I can get there before a two-bit streetwalker – oh and the Theo cross was dramatic licence).
If Wazza fails to keep pace with an England counter cos of the 40 Bensons he chained last night then yes, I’m going to be at him.
If neither him nor Crouchy can get in front of their markers cos they’re lying in each other’s arms trying to work out the best text to send to their lasses – and I’d start with ‘I’m no oil painting and she was gagging for it’ – then by all means stop them playing for the national team.
But as far as these lads’ private lives are concerned, it’s up to them how they carry on. In France up until recently a man’s private life was no one’s business unless it affected his work. All right the French are a bunch of hissy-fitting prima donnas at times, and they completely overrate how good their food is - you try getting a decent curry in Paris. But I’d say letting people do whatever they want behind closed doors is fair dos and well grown-up.
When Clinton was depositing his evidence on the apparel of a young miss who completely misunderstood the meaning of the word ‘internship’, I honestly gave not a damn so long as the act happened outside the range of the Big Red Button. Monica with someone old enough to be Wazza's escort
I mean if Clegg and Cameron were caught canoodling in a Westminster bedsit it’d mean nowt to me. You can screw who you like, gentleman, just stop screwing the fucking country.
Of course, the News of the Screws is on the up right now. All this hot on the heels of the Pakistan cricketing crooks, allegedly. But that had a point to it. If blokes are making money by corrupting the way a game is played then that affects everyone’s enjoyment. If a leading footballer is ratted on by an unfeasibly well-paid whore then it’s got nowt to do with owt.
My missus and her mates are suggesting that it’s different with Wayne and Coleen cos they are this teenage love-match that’s got rich together. ‘Course she’s conveniently overlooked her husband’s looks, particularly the ones he casts in the direction of pelmet-skirted grandmothers.
I’m sure the lass is serious about hubby and if he has been doing the dirty on her when she’s carrying Shrek 2 then that doesn’t make him one of nature’s gentlemen. Although I dunno, the way he talks to the decent people that officiate the Beautiful Game has never suggested to me that he was Michael Bloody Palin exactly.
But Coleen has managed to jump-start a career off the hairy back of hubby and well, after this Littlewoods campaign it’s only a matter of time before she’s co-hosting the Brits and publishing her memoirs (working titles include ‘On The Wayne’ and ‘The Wag That Trails the Dog’).
The regulars down the Blue Bell have suggested Wazza’s a dumb pillock – true – and insisted that he must’ve known this Jeni wouldn’t have kept her mouth shut. Although I suggest Wayne pays more if the mouth is open.
Talking of which, and here’s where my point becomes a tad more serious, has this woman paid tax on this £5-6K the goal-shy forward has furnished her with? And surely if we were a bit more sensible as a nation we’d properly legalise the sort of work this young lass does so she can contribute to the exchequer on a regular basis.
I mean it’s not as big a priority as getting those braying pin-striped slatterns that parade the square mile with a Blackberry grafted on to their palms to cough up what they owe the country, but every little helps.
Anyway I look forward to Rooney continuing to play in the hole tomorrow night.
In the meantime I’m having to shower every ten minutes to get the gungy tabloid stink of this story out of me system. I couldn’t feel more soiled if I’d been sitting in a bath of pig slurry watching a triple length Jeremy Kyle. Never mind Wazza, can't someone dig up some shite on this Captain of Unacceptably Naff Television?
That and the shame of missing Chiles and Bleakley this morning. I was aiming straight at their cars as well. I'm getting that air rifle looked at I tell ya. Ahem.