Kudos to Cheryl, says VICTORIA GALLAGHER-O'HOULIHAN
IT IS A truth, universally acknowledged, that a single Wag in possession of good teeth and hair extensions must be in want of a footballer. This week, who could resist a little cheer as Cheryl Cole finally came to her senses and welcomed Ashley back into the marital waterbed.
Dumped by Simon Cowell and the entire United States of America, the future was looking bleak for the former Girls Aloud star. We’ve all seen it happen before. One day, you’re sitting pretty on the cover of Hello; the next, you’re filling in on Loose Women.
But plucky Cheryl was never going to slide into relative poverty and daytime TV. Why should she settle? Why should she make do with anything less than a headline-grabbing romantic reunion with her philandering, multimillionaire ex-husband? The dejected heroine! The birthday barbeque! Because she’s worth it.
Clever girl. I always suspected she didn’t hang on to that surname for nothing. A Wag just isn’t a proper Wag without a headballing husband.
The X-Factor might be the most important cultural phenomenon of the age plus a zero heavy paycheque, but it’s not the same as having a rich celebrity spouse coming home every evening. Even if he is sneaking in after hours.
Just ask Colleen Rooney. Or Stacey Cooke. Or Abbie Clancy. These women have enough self-regard and maturity to not let a little thing like an elderly prostitute or an oversexed sister-in-law come between them and the important things in life.
What could be more important for a Wag than being a Wag? And what use is a Wag without exclusive stories about wedding plans and new babies? There are only so many “Looks forward to a new life” or “Lives it up with Latin dancer” headlines you can milk out of newfound single status. Just ask Jordan’s cage-fighter dude.
Haters can hate, but the world would be infinitely crappier without Cheryl and her big-haired chums. Why else would anybody want to watch a football match? Who will buy designer pieces with big logos on the front? Without the Wag, uneducated girls would have nothing to shoot for, nothing to drive them, no reason to wear acrylic nails. Without them, our streets would be lined with grungy sensible clothes instead of spaghetti string dresses and heels. Without them, we’d have to make do with the likes of Amanda Holden and Dannii Minogue on Saturday evenings.
Trashley or not, Ashley Cole is just about to open a restaurant with Jay-Z. Ask yourself how many indiscretions it would take for you to pass up an invite to that opening night? How many women would there have to be for you to miss out on an opp to be Beyoncé’s new BFF? A hundred? A thousand? Or an even bigger number than the one written in your joint account?
Well played, CC, well played.
