Wayne Rooney is a very naughty boy. Again. But as details emerge (even though in the Mail so its not like its automatically genuine or true), it gets more and more sordid. Or, ‘better and better’ as such a thing is known among the tattling classes.

Wayne was 3 times the alcohol limit when arrested driving the most un-footballing-superstar car ever; a Beetle convertible. In fact, not only is that not a footballers car, its never a man’s car. Ever. If a man has one of those he might as well go to Sainsburys wearing a tutu. But the car (obviously) wasn’t Wayne’s. He only owns Range Rovers, Bentleys, Lamborginis and monster Chevy pick-up trucks (note the plurals).

The Beetle belonged to a woman!!!! Wayne had been drinking (that’s generally how you get drunk and over the limit) for 10 hours, apparently. And had ‘chatted up’ the Beetle owner. And this is how he did it. (Read this is a whiny Scouse accent, perhaps slurring a little for the alcohol effect; its amazing she understood what he was saying at all). “I really like your breasts. What size are they? Love to get me hands on them”. Smooth bastard. How could any woman resist that Byronic prose? Sweet nothings be damned. ‘Get yer tits out!!’ wins every time. Well, it does up north where ‘sophistication’ is measured by whether you wash your hands when you leave the toilet. Or even put your dick back inside your trousers.

So the woman agreed to accompany Rooney when they left the club. Mrs Rooney was on holiday abroad with the couple’s 3 children and is pregnant with the forth. But his woman is no ‘family breaker’, no, heaven forbid. She said so. Even though she’d have to be deaf dumb and blind to not know a. who Wayne Rooney is and b. that he’s married with kids. It was just a ‘birra foon’.

The woman basically saw pound signs flashing. I don’t like to judge but sometimes you just have to. She gets to shag Wayne Rooney, she’s made. Either he’ll pay her money to keep her onside or at least quiet, or the papers will pay more. This way is arguably better. Because sleeping with Wayne… oooohhhh…

So she gets to tell the story anyway. Must be worth 50 grand of the Mail’s sleaze-fund. If I was half the principled ethical man I like to imagine sometimes I could be, I’d stop buying the Mail on Sunday. But I can’t.

Nobody’s perfect. Not me, not Wayne and certainly not the tart with the Beetle.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx