The WAG’s Diary

For Mum and Dad and for George Kervin-Evans, the beautiful little boy with the mischievous smile.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Wednesday, 1 August

Thursday, 2 August—our twelfth (ssshhh) wedding anniversary

Friday, 3 August

Saturday, 4 August—first day of OBUD

IT HAS ARRIVED...

Sunday, 12 August

Sunday, 19 August

Saturday, 25 August

Tuesday, 28 August

Wednesday, 29 August

Thursday, 30 August

Saturday, 1 September—match day and the day that Hello! Luton magazine comes out

Sunday, 2 September

Monday, 3 September

Saturday, 8 September

Sunday, 9 September

Monday, 10 September

Tuesday, 11 September

Friday, 14 September

Tuesday, 2 October

Wednesday, 3 October

Friday, 5 October

Saturday, 13 October

Monday, 15 October

Wednesday, 24 October

Monday, 29 October

Wednesday, 31 October

Tuesday, 6 November

Wednesday, 7 November

Friday, 9 November

Sunday, 11 November

Monday, 12 November

Tuesday, 13 November

Wednesday, 14 November

Day after that—Saturday, 17 November

Sunday, 18 November

Monday, 19 November

Tuesday, 20 November

Sunday, 25 November

Saturday, 1 December

Friday, 14 December

Saturday, 15 December

Sunday, 16 December

Monday, 17 December

Thursday, 20 December

Friday, 4 January

Monday, 7 January

Tuesday, 15 January

Monday, 4 February

Tuesday, 5 February

Friday, 8 February

Saturday, 9 February

Sunday, 10 February

Monday, 11 February

Saturday, 16 February

Sunday, 24 February

Monday, 25 February

Tuesday, 26 February

Wednesday, 5 March

20 March—my birthday (sshhhhhhhhh...)

Monday, 14 April

Tuesday, 15 April

Wednesday, 16 April

Saturday, 24 May

Acknowledgements

Inside the mind of Tracie Martin

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Wednesday, 1 August

1.15 p.m.

It’s quarter past one on a pleasant midsummer’s day and I’m about to have a fight with a spotty teenager in a bashed-up Ford Fiesta. Quite how I get myself into these positions so frequently is an entire mystery to me.

I’m sitting in my gleaming, mud-free, furiously expensive Land Rover (exactly the same model as Victoria Beckham’s…yeeeessss…took me ages to find it and it cost me more than a row of houses in most towns would, but it was worth every second and every penny). The Pussycat Dolls are blaring out, and the sun is shining down, bouncing off the windscreen and causing the sort of glare that makes every manoeuvre exciting for me and utterly hazardous for everyone else on the road. In short—I can’t see a bloody thing! My leopard-skin headrests already prevent any use of the rear window, and now there’s little point in looking through the front one either.

‘Doncha!’ I shout, clicking my fingers and tapping my feet. ‘Whoops!’ The pedals! The car lurches forward until it stalls terrifyingly close to an expensive-looking black and orange motorbike. The huge silver bumper on the side of my car is about an inch from its flame-painted engine.

It is at this point that I notice the ancient Fiesta directly in front of me, belching smoke and revving noisily. There’s a spotty teenager driving it and he clearly wants me to reverse out of his way. Reverse? Me? That’s so not going to happen!

‘It’s a one-way street,’ shouts the boy, like I don’t realise, and just for absolute clarity: ‘You’re going the wrong way down it.’

I smile alluringly, shrug innocently and pout seductively, but I don’t move. I can’t move. I can barely drive this thing forwards without crashing, let alone try to manoeuvre it backwards. Well, not without taking out all the bikes parked down the side of the road in the process, and if I did that I’d be even later for lunch than I’d planned to be.

We’re staring at each other over our respective steering wheels (mine has a fleecy candyfloss-pink cover on it). I remove my sunglasses and smile at him, batting my luxuriously curled eyelashes; hoping to appear tempting yet vulnerable, and thus prompt him into action of a chivalrous nature. He’s clearly not impressed. In fact, he’s sneering and snarling like an angry bull-mastiff as he growls and grimaces. He’s not dribbling—yet—but a chin full of spittle is all that’s separating him from the animal kingdom. I put my sunglasses back on. I’m sure they cost more than his car. I don’t mean that in a bitchy way—I mean I genuinely think my glasses cost more than his car. They’re VBD—from Posh’s new range—and quality does not come cheap.

‘Move your fucking car,’ he mouths, his eyes narrowing and fists clenching in an alarmingly aggressive and not entirely gentlemanly fashion. I’d make a fist back, but my nail extensions don’t allow for much movement at all in the finger department, so I just stare and smile, and leave the barbaric gestures to him. Neither of us is going to move. We might be here for the rest of our lives.

I would be more bothered by his aggression and male posturing if I weren’t completely distracted by the sign at the end of the road, saying ‘Capaliginni Piazza’, venue for today’s pre-season lunch—THE pre-season lunch, where you get to meet all the new girlfriends, see who’s been dumped, put on weight, or had a nip ‘n’ tuck.

It’s all women at today’s lunch. ALL WOMEN. If you don’t realise the implications of this then I should explain. An all-female lunch means but one thing to me and my fellow Wags—clothes! Not clothes to look pretty in, but clothes to compete in. There will be women at today’s lunch who will be more dressed up than they were on their wedding day. Those who aren’t will be outcasts—not spoken to and not invited anywhere for the rest of the season. If this sounds cruel then I’m sorry, but it’s how things work in my world. One of the fundamental rules of being a Wag is the realisation that you’re not dressing up for men—you’re dressing up for other women. If this were all about looking good for a man would we need to have the very latest handbag? Or the precise shade of nail varnish that has sold out everywhere? Be honest, the average footballer wouldn’t notice if you had fingernails at all, let alone whether they were coated in rouge noir or salmon pink. No, this is about becoming the Alpha Female—it’s a very knowing attempt at one-upwagship, and it kicks off today at the pre-season lunch.

I’m all dressed up for the occasion, naturally, wearing a pink furry jacket with a sweet little hood and featuring pink and white pom-poms, like large marshmallows, that dangle prettily over my recently inflated breasts. It’s cropped, so you can see my new tummy ring—it’s in the shape of a ‘D’ with two little diamonds on it. My husband Dean bought it for me. Ahhh…

I’m wearing about £6,000 worth of clothes today, which may sound like a lot, but it is really expensive trying to look this cheap. So, while the jacket may appear as if I found it in Primark for a tenner, it actually cost £700—that’s how good it looks! In case there’s any doubt—an item of clothing’s merits should always be judged on price above all else. If you try on a £50 top and it looks great, then you see a £500 top that looks terrible, go for the £500 one every time. Remember—the designers know best. Who are you to argue with Donatella Versace if she’s deemed that her top is worth ten times the price of another? You’re not the international designer, she is, so trust her judgement. 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 honest. Most Wags are just out of their teens. It’s only me, Mich, Suzzi and Loulou who are over twenty-five, and Loulou’s husband is injured so she’s off the scene at the moment.

There’s a certain amount of bonding between all the Wags and a great deal of competing. I guess it’s like the players themselves. During a game we’re a close-knit group, but away from matches we’re all jostling for position. We all want to be the number one in the team. The situation at Luton Town, though, is that I am the number one. My husband, Dean, is the captain. He’s a former international player and the most experienced player in the side. That makes me the most experienced Wag, and I don’t think there’s a person round this table who would dispute that while I may not know much about Middle East politics or quantum physics, when it comes to matters of a Waggish nature I know all there is to know.

I’m pleased to see that no one round the table today is the colour of normal human skin. We’re all shades of shoe polish—mainly orange tan, but with a few cherry browns from the girls who don’t know when enough’s enough at the spray tanner’s.

‘How’s Nell?’ asks Mich. ‘Still crazy?’

Nell is Dean’s nan and Mich thinks the world of her. I do, too—she’s one of my favourite people in the world. I’ve no idea whether she was always so mad, or whether the ravaging effects of age actually cause more damage than wrinkles. Perhaps she was perfectly normal forty years ago? It’s hard to believe.

Things have a tendency to go wrong around Nell. You know how some people are like that—they’re always just three minutes away from the next crisis? (Luckily I’m not like that.) Nell went to have a gentle wave put in her hair a couple of weeks ago—she was after the sort of body that Elle Macpherson has but in her hair (like that was ever going to happen), but the hairdresser insisted on giving it a perm and now she looks more like Tammy Wynette.

‘Nell’s great,’ I say. ‘Mad as usual.’ Then I tell them all about the hair. Mich and Suzzi are really upset about the perm until I explain that Nell’s not bothered at all. The thing with Nell is that nothing really bothers her. She shrugged off World Wars and not seeing her husband for four years while he was away fighting the Germans, so I suppose a bad haircut’s not going to affect her in the same way as it would cripple me. If I ever had a bad haircut it would be a drama of epic proportions, probably resulting in a suicide attempt and certainly ending in a flurry of threatening legal letters. Nell just pulls out the afro comb and gets on with life.

I can see some of the girls on the far side of the table making mock yawning signs. I ignore them. This is Nell we’re talking about, she’s not like other old ladies—she has the heart, if not the wardrobe, of a Wag. She’s the life and soul of the nursing home she lives in. She used to be the social coordinator of the place until she invited a Barry Manilow look-alike to play there, and her best mate Gladys tried to get off with him. Barry’s agent complained and Nell got an official warning. Then there was the time she was told off for chasing some old man down the corridor. ‘Only having fun,’ she said. But she nearly gave the poor guy a heart attack. She has a cat living in her flat, too, which is strictly against the regulations. Coleen (I named her) lives under the sink where no one can see her.

‘I couldn’t bear to spend so much time with an old lady, but I guess you’re that much older than me,’ Mindy says. ‘And me,’ say Debbie and Julie in harmony, before collapsing into fits of giggles.

‘Not that much older,’ I counter, smiling through the pain.

‘Aw, come on,’ says Mindy. ‘How many of these lunches have you been to?’

A grin has spread across her pinched and painfully thin face. The others stare with open mouths. They’re all rude, these Slag Wags, but even they can’t believe the viciousness contained in the question I’ve just been asked. Their faces are registering utter disbelief. I can see they’re dying to hear what I will say, and who can blame them—I’m dying to hear what I’ll say, too. Right now, I have no idea. How can I answer a question like that—more loaded than the mini pizza starters we’ve just ordered but that no one will touch?

This is the Wag version of starting a brawl. It’s like a footballer turning to a fellow player and asking him if he wants to go outside for a fight. No, it’s worse than that—it’s like one of the footballers punching another player in the ribs when he’s not looking. I just stare back at Mindy. She knows what she’s done and so do the others. Even though we are rival groups of Wags around this table, there is still a Wag bond, and she has just broken it. Certain topics are strictly off-limits. It’s like the rule about not mentioning politics or religion at dinner parties. In Wag Land it’s weight and age.

The thing is, we all lie about our ages all the time, so in order to answer questions likely to reveal your age, you first have to remember how old you said you were, and thus, with that age in mind, what the answer to the question might be. So, a simple ‘How long have you been watching football?’ demands the mathematical brain of a genius to work out the answer. I can’t tell Mindy that I’ve been a Wag for exactly twelve years (it’s my anniversary tomorrow!!!!), and that this is my eighth time at a Luton Town’s pre-season ladies’ lunch. I simply can’t say that, because it’s the truth, and the truth is outlawed. My world is a complex one…let me explain why:

Assuming Mindy can add up, which isn’t guaranteed, me telling her that I’ve been married for twelve years will make it extremely unlikely that I am the twenty-six that I claim to be, unless it turns out that Dean’s a bloody paedophile, or a podiatrist as Suzzi once said (as in: ‘There’s this child abuser in Luton advertising that he can get rid of veruccas!’).

Still, she’s asked the question, and I need to answer it. She fired a penalty at me when I was tying my shoelaces, and I have to work out whether I should leap up and defend it, or just let it go into the net and accept that we’re 2-1 down against the Slags before the starters have even arrived.

Everyone’s looking at me. There are glances and giggles, but I ignore them. I just offer a strained and unconvincing smile and down my Bacardi and Cherry Coke without answering. I’ve let the opposition score. Mindy had an open goal, and even if she did use dubious genital-grabbing tactics the fact remains that she scored. 2-1.

I call the waiter over and order myself a glass of champagne. I thought I could do this sober but, as ever, I can’t. I also order a selection of fattening nibbles for the girls on the other side of the table. ‘Deep-fried brie and tempura. Oh, and potato skins,’ I say. ‘Do they come with cheese and bacon? Do you have any deep-fried avocado?’ I shove a twenty-pound note into his hand and whisper to him: ‘If they don’t eat the fried food, put dressings on their salads and sugar in their coffee.’

This is not an unusual state of affairs. This is what we do.

‘You all right?’ asks Suzzi.

I nod, but I’m not.

I’m the oldest person here and I don’t want to be. I want to be like Mindy—a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old with the world of Wagdom at her pedicured feet and a beautiful striker from the Ivory Coast in her bed. I don’t feel pretty and indestructible any more—I feel old. In a minute, and with one barbed comment, my world has come crashing down. This happens to me far too frequently these days—my grip on positivity becoming more tenuous as time passes and the wrinkles spread. I’ve gone from thinking my glass is half-full to being able to see, quite clearly, that it’s almost empty.