These are odd specimens. As a man your natural inclination is to accept these wives and girlfriends as something out of the extraordinary – with their toned, tanned bodies, little black dresses and perfect, pouting lips. They’re dressed from head-to-toe in designer gear, they have the come-to-bed eyes and – let’s face it – you know that they put out on a regular basis.
But the fact is that these women are, in the most part, the worst kind of scrubbers. They stake out nightclubs and private members clubs in dresses so short they need two haircuts to wear them, waiting and watching their prey. They know where these highly paid footballers go, and they follow them there with just one purpose in mind – to snare a sportsman.
They’ll do anything to achieve their goal, whether it’s blowjobs in the toilet or gang bangs in Ayia Napa, and all because when they look at a Premier League footballer they see one thing – pound signs.
The problem is of course, that footballers are thick. They don’t forsee the possibility of these women selling their stories to the tabloids; they don’t look at the bigger picture. Instead they see what any single man would see when a nubile fittie approaches them – a chance to get their end away with a hottie. So they invite them back to their mock tudor mansion just outside of Barnet and shag them senseless. They’ll probably capture some of the action on their mobile, and they’ll inevitably get one of their footballing mates to come over and watch, to cheer from the sidelines. And then they’ll send the woman on her way, never planning to hear from them again.
And then they get that phone call. It could be from The Sun, or from the woman herself. She’s pregnant. She wants half your money. She wants marriage. She wants to be a WAG. And she’s succeeded. Well done Danielle Lloyd. Well done.