War of the Wags is the light relief we all needed
SOME weeks ago I scoffed at the upcoming case of warring wags Coleen Rooney and Rebekah Vardy. But I must eat my words. These girls have done us all a service for which we will forever be indebted.
After enduring the misery of recent years – with Covid and now the Ukraine war – into the breach come two footballers’ wives with entertainment for the ages.
Lady Justice has never before seen the likes. Before a gavel was banged, there was the fashion-off on the steps of the courthouse, as the adversaries fought for style supremacy. Then an unrelated third party, Peter André, got thrown into the dock with his manhood on show as defence exhibit A to show Vardy’s predilection for being a leak.
A contrite Rebekah stood accused of condemning his manhood to a lifetime of being the butt of all jokes. It seems the jury is hung on whether André has a chipolata or not.
Then there was the overboard phone that Vardy could neither confirm nor deny – once she had understood the question that is. We have at least settled that it met a watery end and was resting at the bottom of the ocean in Davy Jones’ locker – whoever this mysterious Mr Jones was anyways. (Wasn’t he one of the Monkees?)
The judge, though fluent in the law, had to be inducted into the lexicon of the Wags – with Vardy spelling out what FFS means. Then there was the put-upon Wayne Rooney who was reduced to bagman as he carted in his defendant spouse’s designer tote-of-proof.
Coleen came ready to put the boot in, literally and figurately, as she hobbled into court in one Gucci loafer and one medical boot.
According to reports, she had a fall at home in March and is in an air boot for the next few weeks.
Her outfits ranged from cheapas-chips Zara to a pair of €2,000 Chanel shoes. Well, not a pair.
The War of the Wags is one woman’s quest for vindication, but it is also something we are all invested in and require, for entertainment’s sake. As that old war hero himself Winston Churchill once said, ‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few’. Ladies we salute you for the many, many laughs.
If it seems too good to be true, then it is
A FEW months ago, I was having dinner with a very dear friend who was quite chuffed as he imparted to me that he had just gone and bought himself a chunk of cryptocurrency. His financial foray into the cryptosphere had already bolstered his bank balance.
His fortune was set to soar, and he was on the way to stratospheric riches he revealed.
Me, being inherently sceptical-ofsoul and having coincidentally just watched a documentary into the chicanery around virtual currency, posited that cryptocurrency was a digital ponzie scheme.
Money, I told him was only of worth if it was spendable. Given his cash was currently floating about somewhere in the ether, it was both virtually and literally worthless. But he was not for turning.
He trusted his pot of gold lay just over a Google-doodled rainbow.
Both being stubborn, neither yielded from our stance. We set the matter aside and enjoyed our dinner and copious amounts of wine.
Dinner done the waiter arrived with the bill. Predisposed as I am to wanting to not only be right but also to be seen to be right, I passed the bill over to my buddy suggesting his new crypto wealth ‘should have no problem footing the bill’.
Fixing the waiter with a look I enquired if they accepted Mastercard, Visa or cryptocurrency? Sensing a squabble the waiter said cash or card only and skedaddled.
Conceding I had scored something of a point, my friend clung to
the dream his investment would work out. In the end, we chinked our glasses and toasted to mates over money and split the bill.
But alas this week the internet riches were reduced to rubble with billions wiped off digital markets leaving investors wondering where in the real world their money had gone. While the internet is all too often an alternate universe, it seems that just like in reality, online get-rich-quick schemes are also a case of the
emperor having no clothes.
Fridge gives me food for thought
WHILE we’re on the subject of food, Leo Varadkar’s fridge reveal gave me all sorts of indigestion. Each to their own and all that but the Tánaiste’s tendency towards colour-coding his meals, and then thinking this is something the nation would want to digest, is an overshare.
First and lasting impression is Leo’s fridge didn’t resemble any fridge I’ve ever tucked in to. Apart from the perfectly aligned Tupperware fridge family there was a few packs of ham, yoghurts, a block of cheese that looked like it was at tipping point and a random bowl of mulch. And what purpose does the packet of Crayola laying listless atop the appliance serve? In case he misplaces his Tupperware tops, and he has to draw on the days? Another layer to Leo’s enigma.
Where I pondered were the edibles? The midnight snacks? There was no milk. Milk is a must, just on the very off-chance a Mr George Clooney comes calling for an espresso. A remote possibility but, given the unprecedented nature of our world at the moment, a girl – or boy – can dream. And no sign of wine. While my fridge is certainly not a culinary cooler of dreams, there is wine, and vodka (and also a random bottle of Blue WKD). Aside from the basics of ham, cheese etcetera there is also an assortment of Chewits (yes I am that person who keeps sweets in their fridge) some chocolates and other treats. If you are what you eat, what does this make Leo? Or me.
A sickie, and Queen could be throne out
WHILE there are bountiful perks in being the Queen: a portfolio of palaces at your disposal; servants to cater to your every whim; diamond-encrusted tiaras for every day, not to mention having your very own golden carriage, the job does also come with its downsides.
Take this week the Queen missed the opening of the British parliament. You take one sick day (only the third in 70 years) and your son is eyeing up your office (or in this case throne).
And the world ruminates on when one will shuffle off this mortal coil and let the young wanes have a go.