kenny hodgart

Climate change and other matters cut and dried

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This article appeared in The Herald

Channel 4 is to celebrate the start of the World Cup by screening a Come Dine With Me special featuring four Wags. I read about this in the hairdresser’s the other day. As you’d expect, all the Wags are either married or affianced to footballers, some of them reasonably famous, although clearly not famous enough for their Wags to be getting on with, hence their desire to go on television.

There was a Wag in the hairdresser’s too – the strangest thing, reading about them in the paper like that and there’s one sitting there, her lump of a footballer waiting in the corner, giving the game away somewhat.

Not a player who does it for me on the park, I have to say and, by all accounts, not half as bright as a pork pie, but she seemed happy enough. And why not? One in four girls wants to go out with a footballer, I read a while back. It’s probably more than that now.

A bit of a mouth on her this one, though. Yak yak yak. If she had been his missus, I’m not entirely certain John Terry would have had the balls to mess around on other manors, as they used to say round where he grew up. “I wanted to go to Dubai but he didn’t fancy it, but anyway my friend says it’s not all that good and it’s too hot.”

“It’s getting hotter out there, I heard,” said the middle-aged woman next to her, in an idle sort of way.

More stuff about Cheryl and Cashley in the paper. Posh has done something with her hair. Some other stories not about Wags. Give it time, though. In a fortnight there will be stories about Wags going shopping, and there will be stories about Wags whose menfolk have been messing around on other manors, and there will be nothing else.

The Wag shows off her new all-white iPhone, then remembers her sister has just given birth and proceeds to tell everyone about it. Lancashire: that’s where she lives, the Wag’s sister, but not the bit where all the immigrants are.

The demure, attractive Polish girl having her fringe chopped sits demurely and attractively. The footballer grins as though he’s just remembered how much free money he gets paid every week.

Some schoolboys walking past recognise him at the open door. One of them blows a raspberry at him. Bit lame, I’m thinking; but then, just for a second, he looks genuinely hurt.

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