Coles to Newcastle
Disclaimer: The following piece is fiction based on an issue in the press and needs to be read in a high-pitched Geordie accent. I understand that it could be seen as a cheap shot at people in the public eye, but I actually do feel for the person it's based on. Although she would feature in most of those ridiculous 'Most Beautiful' lists, her husband can't get enough of other women. It just goes to show that there can never be enough when you're chasing vanity and it's trappings ... blah blah blah.
There were always difficulties with my marriage. Looking back, a black gay footballer probably wasn’t the ideal match for the racist member of an all-white girl band. But these conditions had been agreed, they were in our contract. He could continue to see his six foot six centre-half while I could smack whoever I liked in the face and I’d still be able host my telly shows.
In the end, it was his fault. Everyone was telling me to get rid of him. The Sun, the Daily Mail, the Star, even the Mirror: everyone. I phoned Adriana, my solicitor and she said that he didn’t have a leg to stand on. That was quite funny at the time, because he was injured with a broken ankle.
It was the women that did it, that destroyed the wonderful life we had together. And there wasn’t just one; you needed two hands to count them on. I didn’t mind that they were pretty; he’s got to keep have standards. And a couple of them were OK. Like Sophia the glamour model, and Laura the air hostess. But Julie was a hairdresser and Jacqueline worked on a market stall. I thought he’d broken into a TV soap. How he could touch me after being with them, I don’t know. Good riddance. That’s what my mam said, anyway.