Hours out from the Rugby World Cup opening ceremony, and journalists are still trying to make Wags happen again. It’s an incredibly moving scene.
In fact, if you want the essence of the relationship between Her Majesty’s Press and the idea of Wags, picture a cop whose partner has just been fatally shot in a routine call that turned into an ambush. You know that at some point, he’s going to have to stop administering CPR, and fall back against the wire fence with his head in his hands, as the backup sirens fade too late into earshot. But right now he’s desperately pumping up and down on his buddy’s chest, crying great snotty tears and screaming: “Don’t you die on me, you bastard! I can’t do this without you!”
Unfortunately, that ship has sailed. As, indeed, has the idea of the Wags as the gripping subplot to every single sporting event in which England are involved.
But, God knows, the last week has seen some really graphic heart massage. According to reports – certainly reports of what reporters wanted – the girlfriends of two of England’s Rugby World Cup side are minutes away from a Sammy Jo/Fallon-inspired catfight. They are Camilla Kerslake, whose gentleman caller is Chris Robshaw, and James Haskell’s girlfriend Chloe Madeley, scion of broadcasting’s Richard and Judy. Apparently, Camilla used a recent team event to inform Chloe that she was a “low-rent attention seeker” and Chloe “isn’t the type to take that lying down”.
A thrilling scenario, if one slightly undermined by Chloe posting a picture of the two women together and looking slightly perplexed. “This was taken the night the slanging match supposedly took place,” she explained. “I’m just super surprised that a tabloid pitted the classical singer and the half-naked selfie-taker against each other …whaaat a shocker. So, I have an idea, let’s focus on and support the important people shall we tabloids? Hint, they’re the big ones in white.”
Oof. Guys: it’s over. It was over years ago. God knows it was good while it lasted – and Lost in Showbiz was there back in 2006, when the FA made the historic miscalculation of billeting the Wags (an FA coinage, don’t forget) in the same Baden-Baden hotel as the journalists, in a town with three bars and a single after-hours venue. With my own eyes, I saw Victoria Beckham (version 1) wearing high heels in the actual swimming pool. I met the tanning therapist who had travelled in the entourage of Coleen Rooney (McLoughlin, as was). I recall a selection of women screaming at an FA official when the private jet they had chartered to a match venue a couple of hours’ drive away was delayed by refuelling problems.
But that was almost 10 years ago. You can’t keep chasing the high. The fellowship has now scattered. Victoria is an internationally acclaimed designer; Cheryl has moved on to Potemkin Frenchman Jean-Bernard Fernandez-Versini (who I think looks at me funny in pictures); Steven and Alex Gerrard live in LA; and Coleen is no longer picking up £31m contracts for her autobiography. This stuff is done. There was no second great team, no Nou Camp moment. They’re basically the Chicago Bulls dynasty. The Wags either failed to rebuild or didn’t care to, and media attempts to breathe life into the trope are look-away poignant.
We’ve had Gwags (golf wags, innit) during various Ryder Cups, we’ve had Twags (tennis), and now, on the eve of the Rugby World Cup, there are some diehards still trying to make Rugby Wags a thing. In the name of everything that was good and pure and unrepeatable about the Baden-Baden era: no. Let’s make our peace with it: we shall not see their like again.
