Right now I’m sitting here trying to force myself to do something productive, wondering if 3.34pm is too early to crack open the G’n'Ts (it is Friday, y’all), kind of longing for the days when I had a full-time job in a real office, where if I couldn’t be bothered doing any work and preferred to sit around wasting time on a Friday afternoon, it was someone else’s money going down the drain, not mine. Ah, those giddy days of employment, how I miss them! (And don’t judge me because you know you totally do the same thing).
Clearly this is not the case as a freelancer, because now if I don’t do any work, turns out I don’t get paid. I know, WTF right?! But it’s true; for example, if I spend three hours solving the world’s problems, like writing letters to the Prime Minister about my idea that if someone would just sterilize every single past, present and future guest on the Jeremy Kyle Show, the country wouldn’t have such problems with poverty and benefit fraud and stuff. Obviously this isn’t wasting time, per se (I’m not an idiot), but if I spent time doing that on someone else’s clock and they had a problem with it, they’d be the asshole, and I’d be all, dude, I’m solving the poverty crisis! Why do you hate poor people? I deserve an award. If these three hours get in the way of doing actual paid-for freelance writing however – well, it turns out it’s hard to make a living from spouting half-baked, unsolicited advice, even if you are doing society a favour. I know! Work that one out if you can.
I would much rather be doing anything rather than staring at this computer screen right now, a point I can illustrate by the fact I just spent an hour and a half cleaning my house, pretending to be domesticated and stuff. And of course, while cleaning the house, I let my mind wander to an alternate reality where I don’t have to force myself to clean the house as a distraction from staring at a computer screen, and came up with the following three business plans which would bring the money in and make me a millionaire:
1) Marry a footballer, never have to work again.
I know that’s only one option as opposed to three, but it was the first one I thought of and so amazingly brilliant that I didn’t even bother thinking up a second and third. Also, you may be thinking it’s not a real business plan as such, but to you I say why are you trying to stand between me and my dreams? That’s just mean and I would never do that to you. Of course there is the small problem of already having a husband, but I believe the universe or God throws us challenges as a way of making us stronger, and I don’t want to anger the universe because that would probably involve, you know, locusts or something, so really I’m doing us all a favour. You’re welcome. Here I have written down my business plan as a way of putting ideas into action, and as a helping hand to any other girls out there who might dare to dream the dream.
How to marry a footballer
First things first. Move to the north of the country, at least Manchester or above. Work on your accent. If you really can’t leave the south (in which case I question your dedication), at least relocate to Essex.
Coat yourself in fake tan. The last stronghold of the fake tan brigade, everyone knows any good WAG has skin the colour of an old leather satchel. And I’m afraid slapping on a bit of Dove gradual tanner isn’t going to cut it, girls. A quick browse of the B&Q website tells me you can buy Terracotta concrete-spray for £6 a litre. That should do it. What? Fake tan is so 2004? Trust me, you really don’t want to miss this step or you’ll end up looking like the ginger one from Girls Aloud, and why would you want to do that to yourself? Why? WHY? Yes. You think about that.
Lose all sense of style. Repeat after me: Bootcut jeans. Juicy Couture tracksuits. Ugg Boots with jeans. Tighter! Skimpier! Shorter! SHORTER! This is now your style mantra. Remember: If you aren’t in danger of being photographed accidentally exposing a boob, don’t even leave the house.
Hair extensions. Ladies, you simply must sport a ratty looking set of hair extensions if you want to bag that footballer. Sure, Posh gave hers up, but she really just needs to man up and stop whinging about going bald or whatever. Also, she’s like the Queen of WAGs and she can do what she wants. And I know they’re pricey, but once you’ve got your footballer husband you can keep a bunch of refugee orphans in a cellar somewhere and grow your own privately and save yourself a bucket load of cash. It’s an investment.
Be prepared to turn a blind eye. You need to know this upfront: footballers? Not such fantastic husbands. Not so much with the faithfulness; more with the having sex with the grandmotherly prostitutes/nannies/chavtastic hairdressers from Essex. Look, if Coleen and Cheryl can get over it, so can you.
Be ready to educate your public. With any luck, your footballer husband will be followed by regular column in OK! magazine, where you can educate your public with small pearls of wisdom, and share important life-lessons. You should probably start practising now, because you will be moulding the minds of young women everywhere and you want to be up to the task to deal with issues such as: How to dress to disguise knobbly knees, Leave Katie and Peter alone!, and When is the right time to have Botox?
Ditch your career. Dude, your future husband earns, like, a squillion pounds a week. Your job now is to support the economy by shopping.
Get a ‘show-biz’ career. After giving up real work, you’ll need something to pass the time between facials, and the answer is totally SHOW-BIZ. You know, where you are surrounded by gushing PAs and television executives, and you won’t have to come into contact with the poor people who shouldn’t even be allowed to look at you now. If you are a WAG wannabe, there is a job out there for you. If all else fails make an exercise DVD or open a fashion boutique.
It’s not going to be all rainbows and lollypops. Sure most of the time it will be fantastic, but you have to be prepared to take the good with the bad; just ask Cassie Sumner. Cassie, who used to go out with Chelsea star Michael Essien, ‘confesses to breaking down in tears in her Range Rover at the thought of going shopping. Cassie explains: ‘I could shop whenever I wanted and spend as much as I liked – but it was no longer a thrill. It was a chore.’’ DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU.