My dad works on a building site and the company assume that all builders like to read either The Sun or the classier option, The Star, so they produce them for the bargain price of just 20 fine English pennies. My father opts for the latter and tries to ignore the silicone breasts staring up at him, looking for something slightly more savoury to entertain him on his hour's lunch break while he eats the packed lunch my mother has prepared for him the night before. Two sandwiches, one Penguin, one packet of crisps, a banana/pear, a stray mince-pie or other left-over festive treat and the Sports section. Riveting stuff. He then folds up the newspaper-that-should-be-used-as-toilet-roll, chucks it in the back of the van, and presents it at 5:15pm to his disdainful daughter to secrete until the time comes when she makes her big page three collage ('What is sexuality?' or something similar) to display at her university's bunfight, the FemSoc offering for the day.
But today I had to indulge in pages four, five and six - the front page's dazzlingly witty title was simply irresistible "GET OUT WAYNE, ROO DIRTY RAT" (the comma was of my own providing, it doesn't really make sense without). On reading, I was genuinely horrified. And not just by the atrocious witch-hunt-esque journalism, would you believe! The article was deeply saddening, revealing that if Coleen chose to divorce him, he could stand to lose 100million in a court settling, with him almost certainly being dropped from sponsors. Yikes! That's the real tragedy of the story. Not the fact that a 24 year old mother of one was repeatedly cheated on by her childhood sweetheart and partner of eight years, while she was six months pregnant with his baby.
Perhaps Wayne thought that Coleen had put on a few pounds with all the baby stuff and he felt, him being so attractive and charming and all, he could get it elsewhere while fatty stayed at home. But no, not even regular women want to sleep with Wayne it seems, hence why he was willing to spend £1200 a night to sleep with this classy bird. Because saving for your child's future is just silly anyway.
I'm not going to lie - I love Coleen. 'Coleen's Real Women' was a cracking series and actually condoned being bigger than a size 10 and being taken seriously as a model for charisma and natural beauty, not your breasts. Not to mention the fact that it was generally just a thoroughly humorous, engaging and enjoyable programme.
My approval of Coleen is possibly the reason why this has moved me more than all the other cheating scandals of the football squad - that and the fact that the grimacing, illiterate bastard had genuinely convinced me that he was an alright kinda guy. Now I feel a fool - how can anyone trust a man who at the tender age of 16 paid to sleep with a 47 year old prostitute? I thought perhaps the sudden influx of money and stardom had gone to his virginal head but nay, it seems that footballers cannot change their stripes. I should have known.
Divorce the shmuck, Coleen. And as for you Wayne: I know it's difficult to understand, but women aren't like football teams. You can't trade them off against each other for vast sums of money. A tricky life lesson, I'm sure.