tabloid press is doing its best to bring a little rain into the world of
the WAGs (Wives and Girlfriends) whose glittering presence and
extravagant spending habits caused a recent media storm; but can this
hail of words penetrate their world's 24-Carat sunshine? Oh for the life
of a WAG, muses Croydon J Hounslow…
e red-tops on certain days over the past few weeks, one could be
forgiven for thinking that England's World Cup bid revolved not around
11 strapping male athletes on the pitch in Gelsenkirchen, but rather the
occasionally dubious antics of a group of Cristal fuelled, bejewelled
glamour queens in Manolo Blahniks and oversized sunglasses.
Certainly this does not constitute any great departure from form on the
part of either the tabloid reporters or the WAGs themselves. The likes
of Victoria Beckham (neé Posh Spice), Coleen Mcloughlin et al enjoy a
tumultuous but mutually beneficial relationship with the tabloid press
the year round; the designer label and conspicuous consumption led
lifestyle financed by their HABs' (Husbands and Boyfriends')
nosebleed-inducing salaries providing the perfect fodder for the type of
journalist that eschews 'real' news and the tabloids in turn providing
that all important limelight presence that is the lifeblood of glamour
models and dried up pop has-beens. Few can have been generally shocked
at the 'mistake' that saw the WAGs and other family members of the
England team booked into the same hotel as the majority of the British
press deployed to cover the World Cup. For a few short weeks the
Brenner's Park Hotel played host to a bona fide match made in Heaven as
the WAGs trailed journalists pied-piper-like around Baden Baden's hot
spots, handing out tabloid-friendly photo opportunities and
faux-shocking examples of 'scandalous' behaviour with the generosity of
spirit of an anorexic at a soup kitchen. This was truly the blonde
leading the bland.
Tabloid journalists, by their very nature, are risky bedfellows who
specialise in biting the hand that feeds. That docile, friendly poodle
in the lap of the IT girl can turn to a ravening, bloodthirsty pack
animal quicker than you can say 'deviated septum', and this summer's
WAG-watching exercise saw its fair share of savagery. Like wolves or
hyenas, when packs of tabloid journalists select their prey they single
out the weakest individuals on the outside of the herd. Top spot on the
tabloid maul-o-meter in this case must go to Abigail Clancy,
(erstwhile?) girlfriend of Peter Crouch, lambasted not only for having
done the dirty on England's Unlikeliest Athlete but for having come
clean to him about it mere hours before England's game against Trinidad
and Tobago in which Crouch scored the opening goal. Whilst we can all
appreciate that such news is never good, and few would deny that its
delivery could have been better timed, the majority of tabloid umbrage
at this fact seems to be drawn from the assumption that the pain of
receiving such news might have stymied Crouch's game. This, of course,
quite ignores the fact that until Crouch's golden moment in the 83rd
minute and his subsequent lamentable dance display he was one of the
lesser known stars of English football whose very inclusion in the squad
was the subject of dark and doubtful mutterings in some quarters. Had
Abi Clancy's relationship misdemeanours indeed put the kybosh on
Crouch's ability to play at top level, the goal would never have gone in
and the entire sorry episode would barely have been newsworthy to start
with. There again, when did we ever look to the tabloids for logic?
Of course, now that England have returned in ignominious circumstances
it's not just Abi Clancy who has strayed within the tabloid zone of
terror. Having made such a towering media edifice of the England team in
recent weeks, the hacks of Middle England now balk at the prospect of
knocking it down, so instead they cast around for a scapegoat. All
accusations seem to slide from erstwhile manager Sven-Goran Eriksson
like droplets from a well-oiled silver duck, and in any case what does
Sven care? He's already packed his bags for Sweden and kissed his love
affair with English football a fond goodbye. All in all, it looks like
the blame for England's poor performance (it just wouldn't do to recycle
an excuse from the past 40 years) may well be laid at several pairs of
immaculately manicured feet in very expensive heels! Come to that, so
what? In return for such a lavish existence and a media presence second
to none (certainly to none who do so little to warrant it) couldn't they
at least shoulder a little blame now and again? Is that too much to ask?
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