June 4th, 2009
What Your Favourite Footballer Says About You
We’ve all got a footy player that makes us smile or swoon. Sometimes, it’s easily explained. Other times, they remain your guilty secret. Regardless, wouldn’t you like to know what your favourite player says about you? Our best boys at The Spoiler give female -and male – readers the benefit of their insightful, snark-filled, but always entertaining analysis. They also have rather smashing hair.
As an admirer of a man with a soul patch, you are almost certainly an African American jazz musician from the 1950s. You are Dizzie Gillespie. What’s that? He’s dead? Okay, you probably just like spangly earrings or something.
You own every episode of Prison Break on DVD – even the fourth series that made absolutely no sense. The only thing you hate more than Lionel Messi’s ability to expose defensive frailties is rainy weather.
Thanks to some lucrative investment and some luck at the races, you are richer than Thailand. The best year of your life was 1998, and you value a cheeky smile more than a personality.
Although hugely popular among your peers and spectacularly photogenic, people are bewildered by your arrogance and sense of entitlement. Your favourite baby names are generally inspired by hot beverages.
As a child, you were put in charge of the house when your parents went away, despite having several older siblings. Since then, your head has grown heavy from wearing the crown, and as result you are a little cagey and petulant. Your preferred form of salutation is spitting.
Punctual, efficient and dependable, you are more determined to get what you want than Cristiano Ronaldo in a brothel. You find the fail of others completely unacceptable, and will hound down those who have wronged you with more persistence than, er, Cristiano Ronaldo in a brothel.
You’re not particularly discerning when selecting a life partner. Either that, or the idea of picturing your fantasy ‘baller jacking it in front of a webcam is a turn on.
Such is your love for incongruous body art that you spend your weekends hanging around provincial tattoo parlours, encouraging patrons to get the Japanese characters for “Thug Life” in the space between their Celtic knot and Maori tribal symbols.
When others zig, you zag. When a friend buys a Ford Focus, you get a Rolls Royce and airbrush a picture of your kids on the bonnet. When colleagues ask for “the usual” at the hair salon, you request a hybrid of cornrows and a Mohawk in all the colours of the rainbow. Essentially, you’re an ass.