The WAG’s Diary. Alison Kervin
coming.’
I collapse onto the bed in pure relief. My shocking-pink fingernails hit the snow-white duvet and stick immediately. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
3.10 p.m.—the season has just started
‘Why’s he doing that?’ asks Helen.
I don’t have a clue.
‘Why did the referee blow the whistle?’ asks Helen seconds later.
I don’t have a clue.
‘Who’s winning?’
I don’t have a clue.
‘Who’s playing?’
I don’t have a clue.
‘How long did you say you’d been coming to these matches?’
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a confession to make—I know nothing about football. I’ve been coming to games since I got married a couple of years ago (sshhh) but I still don’t know what they’re all doing out there. I suspect that if I were to spend the rest of my life devoted to watching football I’d still be no more able to identify a goal-scoring opportunity than I could walk past Gucci without going in.
Someone called Trevor once tried to explain the offside rule to me by saying it was like shoe-shopping. Apparently, it’s all got something to do with the fact that you’re at the back of the shop with your husband and the shoes you want to buy are at the till. When you walk up to the counter to pay for them, if you forget to bring your bag, your husband has to bring it to you—he can’t kick it to you or you’d be offside.
‘I’d be offside? If he started kicking my handbag around, he’d be offside, out of the house, divorced, and paying an eye-watering amount of maintenance, thank you very much.’
‘No, I’m just trying to explain,’ Trevor had said. ‘He couldn’t kick your handbag.’
‘No, he bloody couldn’t!’ I was starting to grasp why offside is so important. Kick my handbag? Who would ever do that? I’d rather he kicked me, to be honest.
‘Anyway, Dean never goes shoe-shopping with me, Trev.’
‘No, but if he did—that’s how offside would work.’
‘But Dean wouldn’t come, and he’d never kick my handbag, so offside doesn’t really apply to me.’
‘But, say he did…’
‘He wouldn’t go shoe-shopping with me ever. End of story. End of offside rule.’
Trevor, in common with every other man I’ve met, never tried to explain anything about football to me again.
Helen leans over. ‘I’m confused,’ she says.
‘I’ve been confused for over a decade,’ I reply. Then I realise what I’ve confessed to. ‘Since I was about ten,’ I say quickly. ‘Yes, I’ve been confused since I was at school.’
‘Do you know what the offside rule is?’ she asks, scared now.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘It’s all about getting your boyfriend to go shoe-shopping with you. But I wouldn’t if I were you.’
5.30 p.m.—the season has just got off to the worst start imaginable
‘Three-nil,’ says Suzzi, shaking her head. ‘Three-nil to them. I can’t believe it.’
‘No, it can’t be three-nil to them,’ says Helen, who has been very quiet and wearing a rather bemused expression since the offside conversation. ‘Dean scored twice, so I know we got some goals.’
I just smile and back away so I don’t have to explain. There’s very, very little that I know about football, but I do know that you have to get the ball in the right net.
‘Oh,’ I hear Helen say, when my husband’s double faux pas are explained to her by a gleeful Mindy. ‘Is that why he decided not to come out and play any more after the interval?’
‘No,’ says Mindy, her voice rising so she can be sure that I can hear her. ‘That’s because he was subbed off. You see, he wasn’t very good today. Captains never get subbed off.’
‘Oh,’ I hear Helen say as she looks around for me. She walks over. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks me.
I nod and tell her that I’m fine. Dean had an ‘off match’ but he’ll be fine soon and back on song.
‘Oh good,’ says Helen. ‘Look—I’ve got a massive favour to ask you. When are you going to write your handbook? You know—the one you said you’d write. I’ve been asked to be a promotions girl at a posh race course—you know, with horses and that. I just don’t know how I should behave there as a Wag. I don’t want to get it wrong and let my man down. I’ve also been asked to be a topless waitress at a stag party that’s being held in a private room at the opera. I’ve never been to such posh places before, Tracie. You have to help me.’
‘The first thing is not to worry,’ I tell her. Then I promise to think about this difficult dilemma and let her have my thoughts. ‘One thing I want you to remember, though, is that you can take a Wag out of a football club, but you can’t take the football club out of a Wag. Not a true Wag. You need to be clear about who you are, Helen, even if you’re surrounded by posh people.’
‘That’s great advice, Trace,’ she says. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Yes, always remember that,’ I declare, and I promise that I’ll have a proper think about her tricky situation. ‘Now, I must find my husband.’
7 p.m.
Dean has never looked sadder or more dejected than he does this evening. We’re sitting in the players’ bar with all the guys and their Wags, but my Deany is too distressed to get involved with anyone. His head has dropped right forward and his chin is resting on his chest, while his big blue eyes are shutting, trying to block out the pain and misery…the sheer horror of what happened today. His hands lay over his heart and I watch his shoulders start to heave forwards gently. He’s silently sobbing inside. I drop to my knees next to him, appalled that this strong man is crumbling before me.
I’m devastated that this should happen to him—my beautiful, talented husband. I see his hands rubbing his chest, as if trying to mend his broken heart. Then his shoulders heave again. He’s obviously going to start crying. I don’t think I can bear it.
He throws his head back and, just as I think he might start wailing in pain and misery, he emits the loudest, most disgusting belch I’ve ever heard.
‘Oooo, that’s better,’ he declares, sitting up properly and smiling at me. ‘Way too much lager.’
10 a.m.
Helen’s dilemma has been on my mind all night. We have an early-season party at the club this afternoon, and I know Helen will be eager to have answers to her questions. Her turning to me for advice in this way has made me realise more keenly than ever just how valuable, how essential, my Wags’ Handbook will be. I will write out an answer to Helen’s question and it will be the start of my book. This afternoon, when I hand the piece of paper over to Helen, I will tell her that she is making history by being the first person to see a piece of advice that will one day change the Wag world.
‘Paskia,’I shout, walking up to my daughter’s bedroom and knocking on her door. I ease it open and peer in. She lifts her head off the pillow and squints at me. Her short brown hair is all messed up. (I know, I know—it’s such a giveaway. Children should be born with hair the colour that you’ve