Confessions of a secret WAG
Girl in tartan hotpants meets England football star. Girl installs plasma TVs at wedding – and obsesses about her rivals... brace yourself for the brazen exploits of a Premier League wife!
THAT’S the slut who’s going out with that footballer...’ I bit my lip. I was in the Ladies, and a group of girls by the sinks was far from pleased to see me. The bitching continued – my ‘tacky’ dress and ‘bet your boyfriend bought them for you’ platform shoes. But I was on my own and I didn’t want any trouble.
As I headed to the door, one of them blocked my way. She wore a cropped T-shirt, with her pot belly and pierced navel on show. Her face was so close to mine I felt the odd spit-ball land on my cheek. ‘If you don’tstay away from him, I’ll have you,’ was one of the lines I recall.
‘He was talking to me before you came along, you slag’ was another. Then she spat in my face, pushed me over and dragged me by my hair into a cubicle, slammed the door on my leg and swaggered out. It was quite a welcome to the world of WAGdom.
I had never intended to ‘snare’ a footballer. In fact I thought ill of girls who hovered around rich and famous men. I certainly wasn’t interested in sharing a prospective boyfriend with other girls. Despite their good looks, the players I saw behaved obnoxiously – they were rowdy, boozy and leery.
One night, however, I found myself at a club for an 18th birthday party. I was dressed in tartan hotpants and a lace backless top. I teamed my outfit with black stilettos and a black leather bag covered with metal studs. As my man later admitted, I had made a lasting impression.
The bar was at its busiest when it was my turn to buy a round of drinks. One of the footballers got there at exactly the same moment, and it was the local team’s star player, no less. Even my father had talked at the dinner table of his prowess.
At that moment we were so close that we almost rubbed noses when we turned to look at each other. He was absolutely gorgeous. It would have seemed rude not to talk. Then, to my surprise, he invited me to do a tequila slammer with him.
It wasn’t a romantic gesture, but I appreciated the sentiment. So he ordered two shots of tequila, we banged them in unison on the bar, then threw them down our throats. Then we had another, and another.
I thanked him and moved to walk away. Before I could, he asked me for my phone number and I gave it to him. He caught me off guard.
The remainder of that evening passed in an alcoholic haze and I
‘We had a 6ft wedding cake and helicopters’
barely remember returning to my student accommodation. Although I do remember that when I flopped on to my tiny single bed, my chunky mobile phone beeped with a text message. It was the footballer.
‘So glad you gave me your number. When can I take you out?’
We clicked in no uncertain terms. In the week, he would go to training every day while I would attend university lectures. In the evenings, if I didn’t have to study, we would spend our time as happy couples do. Conversations about marriage did not occur. I considered myself far too young and I was immersed in my degree.
So when he produced an enormous diamond ring in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant, I was genuinely flabbergasted. I said ‘yes’, of course. We booked the venue, a stately home, which included rooms for us and our guests. But the costs were mounting. We’d had a preliminary budget of £50,000, but we soon realised that wasn’t realistic. I began to panic.
Fortunately, help came in the form of another WAG.
She reached into her Stella McCartney handbag, produced a small crystal-studded diary and pointed her long, manicured fingernail to WEDDING PLANNER.
I booked an appointment with the planner and instantly warmed to her.
She researched all of the options and alternatives for the items and services we wanted and suggested things for our wedding that I would never in a million years have considered: personalised ice sculptures, plasma screens inside the church so that everyone was ensured a good view, a champagne fountain, a 6ft tall wedding cake and helicopter transportation to the reception! We booked a lot of these ‘frills’.
As the big day approached, our £50,000 had grown to an obscene £250,000. I feel sick with guilt now that hat we spent that much money on just one day. A well-known glossy magazine wanted to feature us across six pages, with a front cover. It was a lucrative opportunity, but we had to guarantee that we’d have famous faces there and our guests would not be allowed to take any photographs.
After consulting our family and friends, the decision was a resolute ‘yes’. Our guest list grew from 120 to 260 and to cover our backs, we invited some celebrities we had only met a few times! To some people, it might have seemed narcissistic, but I felt more than flattered that a magazine was interested in my wedding.
In the early days of being a WAG, my daily routine consisted of making my man’s breakfast, completing a few household chores, then heading to the gym where I would stay until he rang to tell me that he was on his way home from training.
We would meet up for lunch at one of our favourite restaurants, then head home for rampant sex. Alternatively,
he would play video games on his Xbox. It was not long after we became partners I found the sum of £2,500 was automatically transferred from his bank account into mine on the first of every month.
I didn’t ask for it, and it was a huge amount of money.
From that moment onwards, I was officially a kept woman. I called it
‘They all want to be the next Wayne and Coleen’
my first WAG deal. When we returned from our honeymoon, my new husband sat me down once again and declared that he’d like to revise our monthly money plan.
He very tenderly told me that he thought I deserved a bigger housekeeping allowance, that I could consider the money my own, and do what I wanted with it. So WAG Deal Number Two was put in place and my new husband began to donate £5,000 into my bank account.
To put things into perspective, his wages were well into £30,000 a week by now.
WAG Deal Number Three arrived when I became a mother. It consisted of £7,000 being put into my bank account on the first day of every month.
It seemed an enormous amount, but I didn’t refuse it. He wouldn’t have allowed me to anyway.
I found a good use for my savings. I had never been happy with my breasts. I struggled to fill an A-cup bra and used stuffing in my bra – chicken-fillet-shaped sponges and gel pads.
I’ve had some hilarious times with those bad boys – in fact, the pads had names, Bobby and Barb. One drunken night out, we were throwing some shapes on the dance-floor when Barb flew out! Some poor guy who was dancing behind me slipped on it and collapsed with a thud.
My concerns got worse as I got older. After I’d had my second child, my breasts became hideous, like what I can only describe as old tea-bags. I lost my confidence in the bedroom.
I met a private doctor who had been recommended to me by a WAG friend with great fake boobs, and agreed to surgery which would take me from a 32A to a 32C. It cost £5,000, but was far from easy.
I had to remain relatively still for at least ten days, unable to exercise. I couldn’t pick my kids up, or even give them a proper cuddle. My breasts felt like they would burst.
But when the discomfort subsided and I saw my perfect pair of breasts in the mirror, I confirmed to myself that the short-term agony had been worth it.
Appearance matters in WAGworld and, for some, adultery is a major concern. A friend of mine, Paranoid WAG, checks her husband’s phone at every opportunity, and examines his clothing after a night out for lipstick stains, perfume aromas and phone numbers.
She even challenges her friends. I have received a few 3am calls from her enquiring as to the locations of
‘My breasts were a bit like old teabags’
our husbands. When I once replied to her the truth that mine was asleep, drunkenly snoring next to me, Paranoid WAG turned into Angry WAG and screeched, ‘Where the hell is he? I’m gonna kill him!’ before hanging up. Whoops.
WAGdom today is much more competitive than it used to be. It seems that WAGs today aren’t happy being in the shadow of their footballers. Everyone secretly wants to be the next Wayne and Coleen or, the ultimate couple, David and Victoria.
I, on the other hand, will not miss the public exposure. WAGs are getting younger, prettier and biggerbusted. It’s a fearful prospect.
When footballers retire, the percentage of their marriages that fail is shocking. I love my husband unconditionally, and I would not care if his retirement meant that we had to move to a smaller house or drive a smaller, cheap car.
Right now, unlike many of his football peers, he has no intention of going into coaching or management. He would like to try his hand at punditry, as he has dabbled and enjoyed it.
My biggest concern is how my husband will adapt.
I’m terrified that he will change from being the person I married. I’m unsure who he will be once football and the limelight are taken away from him.
However, a part of me believes that when it is over, my real life can begin. I have many dreams that remain unfulfilled because only time can allow them to be achieved.
I’ve been building a business in my spare time and I’m determined to stand on my own two feet – and perhaps to be able to buy my husband the treats, for once.