I think I might have found the best Tiger Woods headline, ever.
It’s “Tiger’s not a lion cheetah. But his wife still went ape-she used two clubs on his caddy.”
It’s from the News of the World.
I bet the sub-editors on The NOTW treated themselves to a magnum of champagne when they cracked that one.
If there weren’t real people and children involved.
Sometimes it is hard to remember that celebrities are real people.
Both The National Enquirer and TMZ claim that, at the time of the now notorious accident, Woods was “fleeing” his irate wife, ex-model, Elin. She, after a week of rumours about his alleged affair with party hostess Rachel Uchitel, apparently exploded, scratched his face then set upon him with…(oh poetry! ) a set of gold clubs.
Mrs Tiger, hissing, spitting, mad as a wild animal, claws and fangs bared, has been “unavailable” to discuss the matter with police.
I bet Tiger wishes he’d married a Toyger (“willing”,” easily trained,” “plays catch”) instead of this fuming feline.
A case study for Onse Amor?
One week: one unfaithful, one allegedly unfaithful spouse, two unhappy wives.
All the players and indeed, playas, in these two dramas are likely to be tarnished in ways that really matter to them. Their images, their brands and even, very likely, their livelihoods, have been and will be affected.
But much as the two couples are linked by the fact that the fallout will be disastrous, more then a vast discrepancy in celebrity wattage separates them. There are oceans between the two wives’ responses: one spitting mad, wielding a weapon. One “smiling and waving and standing by her man” as if her life depended on it.
What would you do?
Although in my evil secret heart, I’m Team Elin all the way, it is, naturally, ill-advised to attack your man with your nails and golf clubs because he has, or might have, been unfaithful.
(Even if it is a little tempting to indulge in the fantasy.)
Imagine if the roles had been reversed.
Isn’t life in a soap opera horrible?
Celebrities lives must be exhausting, scripted as they are for bad television.
For the millionth time, I am so glad that I am not in that particular club.
The “civilian” way of grieving and betrayal is as sordid and heartbreaking, for sure.
But the rich and famous are different.
At least, us commoners have the privilege of public disinterest, when things go horribly wrong.
And there’s nothing like a dark room, a box set of The Wire, a bottle of wine, unlimited boxes of tissues and your best girls offering snot-sodden shoulders, to get over the pain of a cheating man.
All the money and success in the world? Very nice indeed.
But being no-one “special” when it all comes crashing down?