Our various correspondents give their drunken opinions about whether or not they think England Manager Sven Goran Eriksson should be sacked, following allegations that he had an affair with an FA secretary.
What puzzles me most about this whole episode is what exactly that women seem to find attractive about a bulb-headed, nearly bald, four-eyed speccy geek with no obvious personality. Perhaps it's because the women involved, who are all apparently "former models", want to appear on the front page of The Scum for a few days. What was he like in bed? Oh well, he was really exciting for the first five minutes, but then seemed to simply lose interest and just did the same thing for the next 85 minutes when it was obvious that he needed to try something else. Any changes he did make were in all the wrong places. In the end, he seemed to have no ideas left and I was just relieved when it was all over. The whole thing was a big let down and I was left feeling unfulfilled, cheapened and dirty. I don't know why but I kid myself it would be so much better next tine.
If I was Nancy Del'Olio, I'd kick him in the bollocks, then sue him for millions. I'd spend the money on more leopard skin print leggings, bright red trouser suits and other clothes that are not really appropriate for a woman of my age. And big sunglasses and black hair dye. Then I'd replace him as my boyfriend with either Martin O'Neill or Arsene Wenger.
The man's a cad and a bounder to treat such a fine figure of a woman like that. I am appalled at the way the tabloid press have treated her. What did she ever see in him? Well, my dear, let me introduce myself. I am Michael Wiggy, bon-viveur and socialite, racconteur and resturanteur. I am a short, fat, sixty-eight year old man, whose blazer buttons are straining from the pressure of his expensively constructed stomach and whose trousers are bulging from his fat and swollen wallet. My shock of thick black hair has oft been admired by queens, but alas is now gone, and in its place there is perched an unconvincing polyester rug that doesn't even come close to looking like the same colour as the few remaining strands of my own hair, which is by now mostly sprouting from my ears and nostrils. I'm boorish, smug, opinionated and invariably drunk, but I have most of my own teeth, even if they are yellow. Despite all of this, Nancy, I believe that I can be a better boyfriend than Eriksson, please will you marry me. Providing of course Nigella doesn't get back to me.