AS starting line-ups go, it’s the equivalent of pitching a Panini All-Star Legends XI against Accrington Stanley.
In the former first 11, clad in a dazzling kit of Hermes, Roberto Cavalli and a lick of caramel hair extension, we have Victoria Beckham, Coleen Rooney, nee McLoughlin, Cheryl Tweedy, Abbey Clancy and flamboyant journeywoman Nancy Dell’Olio.
The latter, a team of identikit smooth-foreheaded influencers, names available on Google.
Yep, on the eve of the Euros, the question remains: Where have all the good Wags gone?
What we all wouldn’t do to bring back the glory days of BadenBaden, Germany, 2006, when England was awash with first-team talent.
Eighteen years on from that memorable World Cup — probably less memorable for the £140-a-pop bottle of Moet-swigging wives and girlfriends — the glory days are long gone.
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Today’s generation are a bunch of camera-ready, media-wary young women who’ve grown-up on TikTok.
And where’s the fun in that?
As a cub reporter of 24, my first foreign assignment for a national newspaper was in Baden-Baden.
It was a baptism of fire. And pear bellinis. Sooo many pear bellinis.
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After being dispatched to the Black Forest, I decided to invite my German housemate: The Bavarian Batman to my Robin.
Initially, it proved a masterstroke.
On night one — after the Wags went to the quiet spa town’s local bar, Garibaldis — German Martin and I followed and I made him charm the local barman . . . and get a copy of the girls’ astonishing £3,300 bar tab.
Meine damen und herren, we were up and running.
This first night quickly set the tone for the most exhausting two weeks of my hitherto relatively sheltered young life.
Each night, Martin and I would traipse to Garibaldis and watch the Wags in action. (Soon joined by the rest of the media “pack”).
They were a glorious, life-affirming, carefree sight to behold — and provided thous- ands and thousands of words of copy.
Or “content”, as their 2024 counterparts might say.
Unquestionably, Head Wag was Mrs Beckham.
Unlike the rest of the squad, the Spice Girl was accompanied by a shaven-headed, ex-Forces body- guard at all times.
Unfortunately, he clocked Martin and I (pretending to be a couple) early doors, during a quiet family dinner in the Wags’ Michelin-starred hotel restaurant, Wintergarten.
‘META-FEMINISM’
He pointed me out to Victoria, who veritably swivelled in her chair and stared me menacingly in the eye.
She audibly tutted in disgust over her steamed broccoli. My card was marked.
From here, I became enemy No1 with Coleen and co.
“You’re scum and you know you are,” chanted the late Neville Neville, Gary’s dad, and quite the character.
He was swiftly joined by a 40-strong contingency of family and friends, their voices ringing loud and clear — certainly louder than any of the muffled, on-pitch national anthem renditions of their loved ones — in the Brenners Park Fritz and Felix bar.
Unembarrassable, because I was 24 and on a crucial work assignment, fearing instant dismissal if I failed in my 007 Wag mission, I resolutely stayed put, smiling gormlessly and cheerfully sipping my champagne.
(Many of these would later appear on my newspaper’s expenses tab).
These ladies knew how to party, and they were staunchly, admirably, unafraid to spend their partners’ cash however they saw fit.
Which is meta-feminism, I suppose.
Starting with some shopping-shopping in Baden-Baden.
They were up at around 9am for a spot of breakfast (and caffeine) before a busy morning hitting the designer stores.
While the men dribbled and tackled, their womenfolk dribbled with excitement and tackled Gucci and Prada and Co with the enthusiasm of Goldenballs eyeing a free kick.
While they shopped, I trailed.
On June 19, the eve of England’s final group game, £57,000 was spunked in an hour.
A Spanish paper dubbed them “hooligans with credit cards”.
“Everywhere I go, there’s that annoying little blonde,” hissed “hooligan” Coleen, in her new £900 shades, pointing at me in my sensible M&S ensemble, total cost approx 50 quid.
She had a point, to be fair.
I was one of the few reporters based at the Wags’ hotel, and by the end of the stay even I was sick of me.
Fleet Street’s assortment of high-brow, knowledgeable football reporters also loathed my presence.
My esteemed colleague actually rang our news editor at one point pleading for me to get sent home (sent off?) as my constant Wag coverage was “undermining the credibility of the game”.
The Wags were accused of many things, frugality was not one of them
Clemmie Moodie
He said he was losing the trust of the families because I was writing about the ladies’ karaoke habits. (More on these later.)
But the Wags were selling papers. I stayed.
Afternoons saw the gang hitting up the hotel spa for various facials and manicures.
Naturally, I booked in and spoke to a lovely therapist, who praised Mrs Beckham’s tan and gave me an identical treatment.
When not utilising the hotel’s five-star facilities, or getting papped — one memorable shot saw Posh, Coleen and her mate, Claire, Louise Bonsall (Michael Owen’s missus) and Elen Rives (Frank Lampard’s partner) confidently strutting into town like the line-up scene from The Usual Suspects — the gang were making the most of their in-room entertainment.
Honourable mentions here to Ms Rives and Alex Curran, Stevie G’s other half, who racked up hotel bills of £28,607 and £25,321 respectively.
The latter’s included 60 bottles of pink champagne.
The 22-strong contingent’s cumula-tive hotel spend was just shy of a reported £600,000.
Their total spend, including alcohol, almost £1million.
‘RAUCOUS NIGHTS’
As I wrote at the time, “the Wags were accused of many things, frugality was not one of them”.
Elsewhere, the genteel Black Forest town’s nightclub, Maxi’s, soon became the extra-time venue of choice.
While management refused to give the girls freebie drinks, they were allowed off the £7 entry fee.
A 3am finish became the norm. While the women slept it all off, I filed copy, by now a shell of a creature.
“More, more, more,” came the newsdesk cry, at a time when tabloids were at their peak and social media was but a twinkle in Joe Cole’s eye.
On the subject of the former Chelsea midfielder, his beautiful, athletic girlfriend Carly Zucker briefly became a star of the show.
A ripped personal trainer before abs on women were a “thing”, she would go jogging most mornings.
Martin and I, especially, had a vested interest in making her a star.
She worked for £22 an hour as a personal trainer at the Virgin Active gym opposite my then office.
Obviously, weeks before the tournament kicked off, I made hapless Martin sign up for a course of PT sessions with her, hoping we’d have a ready-made friend out there.
Alas, when she saw us both, her look was not one of unconfined joy.
Anyway, karaoke became a big theme of those halcyon few weeks — We Are The Champions, I Will Survive and The Black Eyed Peas’ 2005 classic My Humps were regularly requested.
Victoria was largely absent from these raucous singing nights.
Perhaps she was missing Ginger.
When we weren’t working 19-hour days we angered the women even more by setting up camp outside the hotel and playing raucous games of football beside the gently flowing river.
It’s safe to say manager Sven-Goran Eriksson’s squad had little to fear in the way of last-minute selections.
By the end of my stint in the salubrious town there was no amount of health-giving spa water that could heal my broken body.
But my heart was full.
These women, superstars one and all, partied like it was the apocalypse and did it, on the whole, with good grace.
They knew we had a job to do and were savvy enough to know such exposure could prove hugely lucrative in the coming months. And, undoubtedly, it did.
WORLDS AWAY
And the husbands? Lost on penalties in the quarters, naturally.
(Mrs Beckham’s husband was crocked and Mrs Rooney’s husband got sent off).
So what of today’s Wag world?
While the tournament bases are only 475 miles away, the Wag fun possibilities seem worlds away.
Well, I suppose there will be some drama.
England’s star defender Kyle Walker will have not one, but two Wags in attendance as he hopes to score purely on the pitch for once.
Five of the six children he has fathered with both are also expected to be there to cheer on daddy-o.
Wife Annie Kilner — perhaps the most famous of this generation of Wags — and her four children will be sitting among the rest of the players’ families in pitchside seats arranged by the FA.
His ex-mistress, Lauryn Goodman, is also planning to support him, alongside son Kairo.
The possibility of thuggery threatens to overshadow anything Serbia’s militant fans could possibly throw at the tournament.
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Otherwise though — with no Jack Grealish and his semi-famous gf Sasha Attwood — the pickings for mischief, madness and good old- fashioned front-page fun look decidedly limited.
Looks like it’s down to the boys to bring it home, then.
Source: Soccer - thesun.co.uk
