Ashley and Cheryl Cole – two thick working-class pikeys who we somehow expect to behave respectably, simply because of the very thin veneer of respectability afforded them by the presence of a shed-load of money. Cheryl Cole is a convicted thug as is her brother Andrew Tweedy who has 70 convictions. So far, Ashley Cole only has the usual array of a footballer’s driving convictions but his current claim to fame is his infidelity.
Footballers are not renowned for their intellect – in fact, most of them are inarticulate meatheads who also enjoy the advantage of not being overburdened with any obvious value system. The result is that they are only dimly aware that they may be doing something wrong when they are unfaithful, grope strange women, crash their cars, beat people up or spit at each other.
Cheryl Cole is a Newcastle council-estate-reared girl who happens to have been through the showbiz “star machine”. If she hadn’t got lucky, what would she be? A doctor, an artist, a geologist? Unlikely. At the age of 27, she would most probably be on a Tesco checkout with three children of various shades in the local crêche.
The saying “Put lipstick on a pig and it is still a pig” applies in equal measure to both Ashley and Cheryl.
Designer trainers, frocks, 50K watches, shoes and handbags only serve to paper-over the lack of class – the inner person remains a fully paid-up resident of pikeydom. They are the absolute equivalent of the lottery winner who blows his wad within two years and then admits that he has always felt better when claiming Social Security. That is what he and they are designed for. They will always be well outside their natural comfort zones. The stained velour tracksuit and rust-encrusted Ford Escort are only several pay-cheques away.
Cheryl had a pushy mum who helped an average girl realise a mother’s dream. There are thousands of wide-eyed hopefuls with ambitious mothers, but only a few make it. It is a combination of work, luck and barefaced chutzpah but for the few successful ones, it is the equivalent of a lottery win. Unfortunately, when they do “make it” they never have the class to cope.
The journalist who invented the WAGS classification was the first to realise that we are dealing with a whole new sub-species which was crying out for its own label. We do not admire them – we mock them. The only group that does admire WAGS is the next generation of aspirational bimbos who have themselves been bred and reared to be WAGS.
To the rest of us, people such as the Coles are not people we either admire or aspire-to. They are merely an entertainment. Three pages in a Sunday red-top. The formula is simple – Act One: wife on holiday, being “comforted” . Act Two: husband pays big bucks to publicists and lawyers to keep as much garbage out of the press as possible. Act Three: Enter a posse of bimbos with their brains between their legs. Act Four: A grovel by the randy husband and usually a reconciliation.
These are only FOUR elements to this 21st century morality tale.
In the last few weeks, we’ve had Tiger Woods, John Terry and now Ashley Cole. There are many more waiting in journalist’s notebooks, folders and hard drives.
The formula is now well established so all that the story needs to keep it interesting is an occasional change of cast.
What is the next Act in the Cole saga? That’s easy – it’s approching time for the public grovel so let’s hope that Ashley Cole does not use the same writers that screwed up the script for last week’s Tiger Show !
The epilogue is usually in two parts – firstly, the “other women” hire a publicist ( usually Max Clifford) and their stories are published. Finally, the husband and wife are photographed on their “make-or-break” holiday.
Final line: “The trouble is that I really love him.”
Exit to the sound of clicking snappers, as the brand-new diamond necklace/bracelet/ ring twinkles in the Ivy candlelight.