At 19.05 yesterday, Martin Deeson tweeted the following. "Why do people keep talking about Shane Warne's 'antics'? He's pulled Liz Hurley and lost a few pounds... Where did it all go wrong Shane?" I replied with the following. "He's the cat who got the cream, she has the hue of a woman who's been fucked properly for the first time. Fair play to them."
That he replied "nicely put squire" doesn't, in the grand scheme of things, mean that much, except to me. Deeson's reinvention of Gonzo journalism at Loaded convinced me that maybe, just maybe, I could drag my sorry arse out of a one horse town and earn my corn by bashing a keyboard while chain-smoking and cracking into whatever booze lay closest by.
The wider point, however, is why are men, women and magazine editors so keen to deride this coupling, and Shane's remarkable makeover, as something toxic? Well the magazine editor part of the question is easily answered. They sell copies. With Cheryl in hiding, Posh in the middle of a pelvic floor regime that would make the Takavar Takavaran's Krav Magra training seem lazy and WAGS still torching their skin in Barbados, the dailies, weeklies and monthlies need a celebrity couple du jour to get their coffee stained and highly sharpened teeth into. I might not like it, but I understand it.
So what of the men and women?
Shane Warne is perhaps my favourite sportsman. He's definitely my favourite cricketer. As a larrikin fond of a fag and beer, seen by most of the world as a fat, pizza-eating idiot, he reinvented the most cerebral of cricketing arts - leg spin. While the blazer-clad twats accepted him as one of their own, they really couldn’t understand how a man who didn’t speak in clipped tones or give a toss for Chaucer could’ve done this. But as he was box office and played a huge part in dragging an archaic pursuit boozing and sledging into the 20th Century, they mostly left him alone.
She might've looked like she was getting the cream, but it was actually two pumps, a squirt, and another bean-flicking read of Wuthering Heights as the Indian rolled over and snored like an asthmatic warthog.
For men, Warne is a cult hero. The type of sportsman who made you think, as you sat dusting the icing sugar off that sixth Mr Kipling’s fancy, that, with a fair wind and a few press ups, you too could be an international sportsman of repute. That sporting greatness was only a bit of luck and judgement away, that the extra belt notch was nothing more than a passage to plundering wickets. Let’s get it right, had Warne pulled Hurley when he was a fat bastard you would’ve championed him. That he’s done it as a newly paid up member of Metrosexual Mansions makes it feel like he’s cheated on you. In a whirlwind of eye cream, Macrobitoic shakes and, good god, lunges, Shane has shat on the male race.
Men don't like Warney sticking his googlies into Hurley, or indeed looking good, because it makes them feel inadequate. While they are still holding their guts and saying 'they'll definitely start exercising on Monday’, Warne, a man who gave hope to lazy cunts everywhere, has ditched the pies, started running, shaved ten years off his face and bagged a woman who probably goes like a pack of rabid stoats. Good on him I say.
And what of the women?
To be honest, it's probably similar. Liz was allowed to look ace at 46 as long as it was painful. That her endless dieting, chain smoking, exercising and whatever to look that good was paid off with a loveless marriage to a man who looked about as much fun as Herpes of the mouth. She might've looked like she was getting the cream, but it was actually two pumps, a squirt, and another bean-flicking read of Wuthering Heights as the Indian rolled over and snored like an asthmatic warthog.
Where beforehand Liz needed endless photoshop to make her blush match her buff, she is so clearly glowing with the hue of a woman who is in the middle of a sexual awakening and people are just fucking jealous. I bet Warney bends her over with a rough hand, rogers her senseless and sticks his thumb in her arse while doing it. I bet she loves it. In fact I hope she does. That chinless wonder Grant probably spent so long preening in the mirror it was no wonder she lost so much weight.
For anyone about to call me a misogynist, get a fucking life. I'm in a loving marriage and am a satisfied human being. I might have a belly and drink and smoke too much but my wife fucking adores me and I adore her.
Shane loves Liz, Liz loves Shane. I reckon they're having a whale of a time. I think it's ace, so stop fucking whingeing.
As Ian Healy, the former Australian Wicketkeeper, would’ve said…Bowwwwliiingggg Warrrrnnneeeeeeeeeyyyy, Oh yessssss Shaaaaaaannneee, stick it in the faaaaaccckkkkiiiinngg blockhole.”
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