Can't buy me love

Well done Wayne!  Your pathetic posturing and pouting stroppiness has, at last, resulted in Manchester United selling its soul to your agent and doubling your (already obscene) salary.

I’m just wondering how on earth you go about spending £50,000,000 over 5 years?  Given that he’s already said to have a net worth of £33 million, don’t forget.  And that’s not counting Coleen’s earnings which seem to emanate from being the, er, wife of a footballer and not a lot else.  Let nobody fool themselves that we would have heard of the lovely Coleen had she not hooked up with the distinctly un-lovely Wayne at an early age.

Isn’t it also staggering how many people are prepared to trample all over their principles (assuming they had some to start with) once a few pound notes hove into view?  Wayne has allegedly told his wife’s family that most of what they now enjoy (a large house, a lavish lifestyle and vicarious fame) is due to him.  This may well be true but it’s hardly gracious, is it Waynio?  His wife’s family are said to have been the guiding force in ensuring they stayed in the North West and rejected even more lucrative offers from the likes of Chelsea and Real Madrid, both of which were apparently interested in securing the talents of Mr Rooney.  Ironically, it looks as though those talents are currently on the wane (pun entirely intended).

It would have been an interesting scenario, had Manchester City managed to interest Wayne in joining them.  Had he been foolish enough to even consider this move, he would undoubtedly have been putting his own, his wife’s and even his baby son’s lives in considerable danger.  You may think this is a dramatic over exaggeration but that would be to underestimate the fervour of the average Man U fan.  To them, this would have been a betrayal of the highest order and it is said that the authorities took seriously the graffiti found scrawled across a Nike poster which read “Join City and you’re dead”.

I can only hope that this disgraceful episode which casts Alex Ferguson and the Manchester United Board in just as poor a light as Rooney, enables the general populace to wake up to the fact that greed is not good.  There are hints that, despite their fanaticism, the fans are beginning to tire of Rooney who seems to be all mouth and no trousers at present.  Banners reading “Who’s the whore now?”   have been on show at matches and a large mob went round to his house to “have a word” when this whole fiasco first erupted.

Rooney has admitted that it may take a while to regain the trust of the fans – those fans to whom he signally failed to apologise once the new deal was done.  Well one way might be for him to make substantial donations from his new salary to say, his local hospital which is no doubt under severe stress from the current spending cuts – that might be a start.

But despite all this, there will be those who continue to idolise him.  So the message seems to be this:-  Disrespect your wife, your family, your team,your fans and your boss.  Obtain a super-injuction to prevent repellent details of your repulsive behaviour emerging.  However, ensure that multiple press leaks 'just happen' and that you are photographed shopping for toys for your baby son in an entirely cynical attempt to manipulate the press and the truth. Then effect a rapid U turn and smooch up to the Manager you defied at a photo call.

I have been to Old Trafford twice.  Both times TS and I were given tickets by a friend for the “posh seats”.  There is nothing quite like it – as a nominal Man U fan (where I grew up in the North West, everyone supported Man U and anyway, I fancied George Best) there is nothing quite like the atmosphere they generate – they really go for it – guards of honour as the players run onto the pitch, sonorous announcements such as “Welcome to the Theatre of DREAMS” all of which is greeted by 75,000 people yelling their heads off...it was amazing and I’d go back tomorrow.  However, to get back to my point, there we were, me and TS who was aged 10 at the time.  Man U were playing Chelsea and someone in our posh bit made the mistake of cheering Chelsea on at one point, little realising we were seated next to the diehard fanatics of the Stretford End.  As one body, the whole lot turned round, pointing their forefingers aggressively and chanted “FUCKING CHELSEA RENT BOY, FUCKING CHELSEA RENT BOY!”  in our general direction.  I didn’t know whether to be upset that TS had heard this rant or that he didn’t ask me what a Rent Boy was....!

BRITAIN’S GOT TALENT’S GOT TEDIOUS

Thank God it’s over for another year – Britain's Got Talent, I mean.  It’s the kind of car crash television that I generally despise, but there is undeniably something compelling about it and, like anything addictive, the only way to escape its weaving tendrils is not to watch it in the first place.  It is Medusa TV – once glance and you are turned to stone, forever caught up in the horror and needing to know who got through, to laugh at the deluded and cheer on the truly talented.

Each week we tune in to see what outfit Amanda Holden has poured herself into, whether or not Simon is smiling (a blinding flash from his veneers usually gives the game away) and whether Piers can get any smugger.  Each year it becomes sadder and sadder to see everyone hanging on Simon Cowell’s assessment of their performance.  No matter that Piers and Amanda have already given them the two ‘yeses’ needed to go through to the next round -  it’s Simon who really counts.  It’s astonishing that someone has managed to build themselves up into an almost God-like figure (if not here, then certainly in the US where he is almost literally worshipped) simply by telling people a few basic home truths and puncturing the bubbles of the self-deluded.  It really helps if you are either a child or a pensioner as both will be over-praised and are guaranteed to get through at least one round, only to be brought crashing down to earth later on in the competition.

There is, I suppose, an argument that says that it is at least clean and a programme that you can watch with children of any age (even our teenagers were hooked).  But I still feel that there is something of the Roman Games about it and the hosts and judges don’t help by talking about each round in the most dramatic of terms:-

“Tonight – little Wayne Cliché is literally singing for his life.”  Cut to shot of little Wayne, staring wide-eyed into the camera, looking totally constipated.  He speaks in a piping northern monotone, his eyes moving side to side as he reads from the autocue:-

“This is me dream come true.  I want it so bad.  This means everything to me.  This is all I've ever dreamed about, singing into me hairbrush in me bedroom.  Tonight I’m going to give it all I’ve got – 110%.  Tonight, I’m literally singing fer me life.”

Get a grip – NO YOU’RE NOT.  Calm down dear, it’s just a talent contest.  You’re singing for a fat cheque and a chance to sell your story to the red tops.  Meanwhile, his parents Gary and Sharon Pikey-Fatchav are proudly mopping their eyes while simultaneously dialling the number of The Daily Mirror on their top of the range mobiles and cutting a deal for their exclusive story, proposed title “Singing through the pain with Wayne.”

They belong to that peculiar band of people who would “do anything to be famous”.  Why is this?  I've never got it.  Even my kids say they would relish fame – huh?  Fortune, yes – no problem with having a couple of million quid land in my lap – thanks very much.  But fame?  No thanks!  Why on earth would I want everyone to know who I am, to follow me down the street, to make me unable to do the simplest thing without a band of screeching fans dogging my footsteps?  Why would I want to become tabloid fodder, to have sleazebag journalists digging into my past and that of my family, snouting out any tiny transgression that they can ‘sex up’ the better to sell their ghastly rags?

The over dramatisation continues with a somewhat over-excited Simon Cowell announcing to a pole dancer that “tonight you have literally risked your life”.  Oh pur-lease!  

I think there is a place for a “Kindness Judge” to preview some of the contestants and weed out those who are simply going to embarrass themselves and make the viewing public cringe with their delusions of talent.  I know that the contestants already go before a preview panel but it seems to me that it exists simply to weed out the overweight, the seedy and the sad and make damn sure we get to see them on national TV.

Maybe one day, some bright spark will start up the Medusa TV Corporation – utterly addictive, if trashy, programmes that once watched, cannot be ignored until the final credits roll.  The only way to escape would be to buy a lifelong subscription to Perseus Programmes Inc – but would that simply mean that you had to watch Medusa TV through a mirror?!