Rooney Causes Contemplation at Crusty Hall.

One was shocked recently when one saw the headlines relating to the alleged Rooney sex scandal. Quite frankly, poppets, who wouldn’t be?

At first one thought, this Hollywood great must be older than Tutankhamun himself by now; if his circulatory system still pumps blood into his man-biscuit for a little how’s-your-father, then more power to his elbow.

Indeed, one had just made that very point to Kitty, who had stopped by for a spot of tea and cake in the conservatory, when she clarified it was Wayne Rooney all the fuss was about and not Mickey Rooney, as one had assumed.

This, of course, threw a completely different light on the subject.

“Ah! You know, one finds it incomprehensible why that rather peculiar looking sportsman need look further than his adequately attractive lady-wife to satisfy his yearnings. Further more, Kitty, one believes – if the stories are to be taken as gospel – that he had his hanky-panky during the motherly incubation period, post breeding process.”

Sipping her tea, Kitty nodded and made a rather delightful ‘mmmm ‘ sound. “That’s men all over, Crusty” she said.

“Quite, dear!”

We sat in a relaxing silence for a few minutes, before one continued after a moment of contemplation

“Footballers seem to be a blessed section of our society, do they not? Take the delicious David Beckham for instance. He just has to walk past a young lady – and many a man - and they can feel their undergarments dissolve immediately as a volcanic surge of sexual desire wells up inside them. Even Peter Crotch, Couch, or some such fancy has managed to acquire love in his life with just such a reaction… and he’s like an albino Pepperami.”

“Which one is Rooney again. I heard the name but wasn’t sure?” Kitty asked.

“You must have seen the advert, poppet. The one where he’s running around in slow motion with his top off and whacking his balls off the end of his boot; rivers of sweat trickling down his hairy frontage in the most unsightly manner (One’s always compelled to throw a napkin over the screen to stop one’s nibbles shrivelling up and to avoid the almost certain gag reflex). Do you remember, dear? A sort of Shrek in monochrome, if you will.”

“Ah yes, I know who you mean now!”

“If it comes out in the laundry that these allegations are true, one suspects Mrs. Rooney will take him to task over his shenanigans and it will be her who is whacking his balls off the end of her Hush-Puppies. Anyhoo … it surely couldn’t be true that such a famous footballer would have to pay someone to have sex with them, could it? That would be highly embarrassing for them to live down, would it not?”

Kitty shrugged her shoulders and went in for another slice of Lemon Fancy.