My message to WAGS: Stop playing the field and go get on one.
IMAGINE WALKING into your local pub and suggesting switching the TV channel from the AFL match to a game of women’s footy. Would you live to tell the tale?
When it comes to sport, women are not given a sporting chance.
According to a report into sport and gender in the Australian media, Towards
A Level Playing Field, women make up 9 per cent of all sports coverage in TV news media and 7 per cent of non-news programming.
Male sport occupies 81 per cent of TV news reporting and 86 per cent of non-news programming.
It would seem that women not only face a glass, but also a grass ceiling.
Surveys of school girls show that many give up sport once they hit their teens. Their only interest in athletic pursuits is a secret ambition to become the girlfriend of a famous sportsman, draped decoratively over his arm – a human handbag.
But is it any wonder that girls don’t aspire to be athletes when more press attention is given to the wives and girlfriends of footballers, than to female players? What WAG actually stands for is Worst Acronym (for) Girls.
With the World Cup about to kick off, we will shortly be inundated with images of WAGs, whose only skill seems to be sports-car-alighting with minimum knicker flashing.
Actually, a WAG is best known for drinking so many cocktails that she ends up face down in the guacamole, only to regain consciousness 24 hours later in the jockstrap of a spent goalkeeper. WAGs are women on the go, but going nowhere. A “new direction” for a WAG invariably ends up horizontal.
All said and done, a WAG is little more than a fake tan with teeth; a life-support system to a pair of breasts – and I’m talking breasts that arrive five minutes before she does. They even have their own post code. (Breast implants are like TV evangelists – you know they’re fake, but you just can’t stop watching them.)
A WAG’s outfit, sequinned boob tube and Lycra hotpants, is a look that doesn’t quite come off, but definitely gives the impression that it will later. Probably for the whole team.
Clearly, the medical term for a woman paralysed from the neck up is WAG.
Quite obviously the only thing a WAG works on is her tan. With no employment skills, the WAG is little more than a sabretoothed husband hunter. Although really, a WAG’s wedding ceremony should be held in an accountant’s office as she’s so deeply in love with her footballer’s cash. “Do you take this man to the cleaners, for 50 per cent of his income from this day forth, for richer and richer?” “You bloody well bet I do!”
But aspiring WAGS, take heed. Living vicariously through a man doesn’t make you an It Girl, but a Past-it Girl, because looks are a diminishing asset.
Your footballer will invariably trade you in for a new and improved model.
Judging by the amount of sex scandals reported in the British press, a footballer treats a woman just like a football – he makes a pass, plays footsie, then drops you just as soon as he’s scored.
Since the birth of WAG-dom in the ’90s, footballers have scored an own-goal.
The sexual kleptomania, the racist slurs and drunken escapades have proven that the difference between a footballer and a brontosaurus is about, oh, three brain cells.
So, my advice girls, is to stop “playing the field”, and go get on one. It’s time to close the gender gap in sport.
At the last Olympics, Australia’s sportswomen equalled the gold medal tally of the males. With the success of Cate Campbell, Alicia Coutts, Brittany Elmslie, Yolane Kukla, Melanie Schlanger, Emily Seebohm, Libby Trickett and athletic co, it’s clearly time we created a new acronym, HABs – Husbands and Boyfriends.
Yes, I think it’s time female sporting heroines have some human handbags of their own, something hunky and chunky, taut and tanned to drape decoratively over their arms at premieres and parties.
For any wannabe WAGS out there, don’t sign up to become a member of Underachievers Anonymous. Otherwise you’ll have to immediately leave your brain to medical science – as it’ll obviously never be used.