After all, she always looks fantastic, so she must be right.
So, back to me—I’m wearing a tight white Lycra miniskirt over my beautiful tanned thighs (£450! So when Mum said it made me look cheap she was sooo wrong), with a couple of heavy gold belts, hoop earrings and Chanel necklaces. Total jewellery cost: £2,500—so there’s no question about whether the jewellery looks good. I think, though, that it’s the matching handbag and boots by Celine that set the whole thing off—well worth paying for quality, even if they cost a grand each, more than the cost of replacing all Dean’s nan’s windows last year.
Suddenly there’s a clank of metal, the roaring sound of an engine that has not troubled a mechanic for years, and my would-be sparring partner is off backwards down the road—squealing tyres and rude words leaking through a cloud of charcoal-coloured smoke as he goes. The terrible language reminds me instantly of the words the fans were shouting at Dean when he got sent off at the end of last season. Mr Fiesta weaves frighteningly close to the pavement, much to the alarm of passing shoppers, because he’s still staring at me—thin lips clamped into a snarl. I wave and smile, delighted by this unlikely turn of events, then I start up the engine, forgetting the car’s in gear. The Land Rover pitches forward and smacks into the black and orange motorbike, forcing it backwards into the bike behind. Like dominoes they fall—four of them, one after the other—bang, thud, smack, crash.
Oh god, not again. I think there’s something wrong with this car—it’s always doing things like that.
1.35 p.m.
The restaurant is tantalisingly close, but the parking space is terrifyingly small. Indeed, it may well be that this parking spot is smaller than my car. I make a rather feeble attempt at getting into the space then think, sod it, I’m not going to try. I’m just wasting my time and I really don’t need any more crashes today. As Dean is always saying to me: ‘Tracie—one car accident a day is enough for anyone—even you.’ So, with those words in mind, and with my car’s substantial rear end poking out into the road, I climb out. I won’t be long at the lunch, and I’m not going to drink so I’ll be able to drive it home in a couple of hours’ time. It’ll be fine.
I clamber out to see everyone staring me. Ooooo…how lovely. I wonder if they know who I am? They’re probably fans of my husband. Should I offer an autograph? Then a man starts singing, ‘Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land’, and I realise exactly what they’re staring at. I always forget just how tiny this micro-skirt is. Now, everyone on Luton High Street has just had a clear view of the Cross of St George sitting proudly across the front of my knickers. Hmmph…
I stomp away on my white ten-inch platform boots, and swing open the door to the restaurant.
‘Darlings,’ I shriek. ‘Let the party start. Tracie’s here.’
I’m a good party animal because I like people—I like seeing other people and being seen by other people. I like football parties best of all because I LOVE being in the football world. Although I’d prefer to be in the England team’s football world—with Victoria, Coleen, and the one who always wears crop tops—but until Dean gets his act together that’s not going to happen.
I squeeze into a chair next to Michaela and Suzzi—the loveliest people in the world. I’ve known them for ages and they both always look great, with shiny white teeth and permanent tans. I always say you can tell things about someone’s soul by how shiny and white their teeth are.
The waiter puts the menus down before us, and in one great synchronised move we all push them away quickly. The last thing you want to do is look at the menus, in case you see something really yummy on there.
There are twelve of us round the table—one girl has dark hair, all the others are blonde. The dark-haired girl is Michaela and she is not, strictly speaking, a Wag. All the blonde girls are. I’m not saying that for any other reason than to state the facts as they stand, but it does rather confirm my long-held belief that the real key to a footballer’s heart is a head full of bleached hair. Mich has luxurious long dark hair that tumbles over her shoulders. It’s glossy and healthy-looking and people stop her in the street to compliment her on it. Trouble is—it’s not blonde. I’ve told her a million times to stop worrying about whether it will suit her or whether it will wreck her hair and just dye it—only then can she be sure of attracting a football-playing man.
While Mich has devoted her life—rather unsuccessfully, it has to be said—to attracting a footballer, and has gone through players from most clubs in the London region in the process, Suzzi is very much a one-man woman. She married her childhood sweetheart—Anton Chritchley. They’ve got three kids so far—Bobby and Jack (named after the Charleston brothers, who I assumed were a comedy duo but it turns out they were footballers) and Wayne. No need to tell you who the last one is named after!
Sometimes I’m envious of Suze. I’ve just got one daughter and I think I’d like to have had more. Then I go round to her house and see these boys crashing round the place and making a real mess and I think ‘Wooooaahhhh…Trace—you got off lightly there.’ I’m from a one-child family and so is Dean, and though I’d have loved to have brothers and sisters when I was growing up (and a father!), I’ve found myself repeating the pattern and only having one child myself. Odd, isn’t it?
Still, I’ve got an extended family here at Luton Town, so I never feel lonely, and my daughter, Paskia Rose, loves watching the football (she does—seriously—she actually loves watching the football, whereas I only go to watch the other women and see what they’re wearing, who they’re talking to and what they’re saying).
Some of the girls have gone to town today and, as predicted, they’re really dressed up. I think the total cost of clothing around the table would pay off the debts of most third-world countries. Twenty-four eyes flicker around the room, taking in the assortment of clothing on display. The predominant colour is baby pink, of course, with white in second place. No change there then. We have a peculiar relationship with fashion, I guess, in that we have to be bang up-to-date on all the latest styles, but we still like to have them in the same shades of soft, girlish colours. So, in that latter respect, you could say we have our own distinctive take on fashion.
I recognise most of the outfits around the table.
‘Mindy, you went for the Pucci swirls,’ Suzzi says sarcastically. ‘How brave of you. I saw that blouse but thought it looked just a little bit too much like Mum’s shower curtain so decided against it.’
Ooooo…nice one, Suzzi. An early goal to us: 1-0.
Suzzi’s pregnant at the moment but she manages to look great all the same, in a white Lycra sheath dress. The lovely thing about it is that it’s so tight you can see her belly button through it where the Lycra’s stretched over her bump at the front. Ahhhh…sweet! I’m so proud of her for continuing to look so great. You can tell just by looking at Suzzi that she’s a Wag, and that’s more than can be said for some of the girls I see on the terraces. Some would-be Wags last season didn’t have a hope of bagging a footballer. One of them had trousers on with flat shoes. FLAT SHOES!!! At a football match!! I thought I’d die laughing when I saw her. Someone needs to do something to help these poor lost souls.
‘Tracie, you’ve gone for pom-poms,’ says Mindy. ‘How last year!’
I smile, and they smile, and we all drink. 1-1. Shit.
Our group divides into the newer Wags (we call them the Slag Wags), and the more experienced Wags. Mindy is the leader of the Slag Wags in the same way as I would be considered leader of the Old Nag Wags—that is,the Wags over twenty-five. We’re a bit outnumbered these days, to be
