I spotted Queen WAG* today. Well, not the Queen WAG. That would be Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria of Beckham, a lady so posh that they actually call her 'Posh'. And she got married on a throne. Sorry ... the sarcasm is just dripping off me like sweat today. Or is that actually sweat? It's 38 degrees here.
The WAG I saw was dressed in a white cheesecloth dress that complimented her orange perma-tan and was just transparent enough to show off her expensive and barely decent underthings. The jewellery was chunky, the heels high and her sunglasses, naturally, D et G. Every time she took them off she somehow managed to waggle her head and show off her Beckham Bob hairstyle as if she was starring in a shampoo commercial. While we ate cheese toasties (get me and my international playboy lifestyle), she sat in the shade doing her make up. It took her 20 minutes and her make up bag was the size of a briefcase. And she was already immaculate when she'd arrived. And all this effort just to impress a few beer bellied Brits on holiday with their families. It was just so ... misplaced. She needed to be putting on this performance outside the players' entrance at Man Utd. Watching her became hypnotic but also hilarious, her obvious vanity and airs and graces a joy to behold. She didn't sit. She posed. Every movement was a calculated decision. She pouted almost continuously as if she were sucking on an invisible straw.
Now then, I try normally not to be quite so bitchy. Really I do. But she was laying it on thick. About the only thing she didn't do was stand on a soapbox and howl, 'Look at me!' through a bullhorn. The many other diners at the snack bar were also finding her antics unmissably funny and there were a number of whispered conversations of which I caught just the occasional snippet ... 'Who does she imagine she is?' ... 'What does she look like!' ... 'Look! It's a WAG wannabe!'
But the best moment came when she opened her mouth. Her bloke, a perfectly normal, good-looking guy in unpretentious polo shirt, shorts and sandals was happily sipping a cold beer when she says, in perfectly clipped East London English ...
"Oy Gary, get us some champagne, babe."
Absolute, pure essence of WAG. If I could bottle it, I'd make a mint.
Thanks for dropping in while I've been away. Back Monday!
*WAG is an acronym used particularly (but by no means exclusively) by the British tabloid press to describe the Wives And Girlfriends of the England national football team. It came into common use during the 2006 World Cup, held in Germany, although it had been used occasionally before that. Sunday Times columnist India Knight was waiting in an airport queue when she spotted some WAG wannabes. She observed that ... "it's as if a low-level wannabe footballer's wife vibe that is neither aesthetically pleasing nor edifying has become the norm ... I saw this phenomenon en masse". Among other features, Knight identified "enough pink glitter to satisfy the girliest of five-year-olds", massive handbags and huge designer sunglasses. Reflecting on sunglasses as an accessory, Sunday Times Style's senior fashion writer Colin McDowell suggested that, whereas women had been sure that the poise of Jacqueline Kennedy (1929-94) and Audrey Hepburn (1929-93), style icons of the mid-20th century, had been due to their shading their eyes, "Wags ... far from using dark glasses to encourage others to leave them alone, treat them as a weapon to attract and excite the paparazzi". (Definition taken from Wikipedia).
So now you know.