So where's the beef? We've had two perfectly good home-grown examples of the same kind of thing. You cannot throw a stone in a country road lately without braining a lissom lovely who has enjoyed the favours of two of our most famous footballers. Apparently, the lounges and clubs of Britain are heaving with young women only too ready to tell all. And what have we got? Heartfelt apologies from the lads? Any tears shed? Anybody's mother been kissed? Anybody voluntarily entering any kind of clinic, never mind a "sex-addiction"one? The silence from the guilty has been deafening. You'd think some Chelsea minion might at least have come up with something like "The lads is pig-sick."
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It's at times like this that your heart cries out for the magic touch of Chelsea's former Special One. Mourinho would have turned this God-given opportunity into a three-ringed circus, with himself as ringmaster. The guilty girls would be all pom-poms and ra-ra skirts, and Cheryl herself would ride off with the Special One on a white steed. That would show those Americans.
- Ski Sunday with David Vine used to be a must, even if you'd never thrown a snowball, because Sunday television was like the Gobi Desert, miles and hours of nothing. Unfortunately, this has led the BBC into the mistaken belief that we all love winter sports. So, every four years, a huge team of commentators hies off to the Winter Olympics to describe things they don't know much about, and events in which we haven't a hope in hell of winning a rubber duck, let alone a medal. Last time, Britain did win a gold in the world's most obscure sport, curling sliding a stone down an ice-rink, while two people brush furiously in front of it. So this time we're up to our ears in it. I can't believe we'll have to wait another four years to see it again.