Okay I’ll come straight out and say it. I slept with a Docker recently. Yes that’s right, this precious design disciple with supreme claims to sophistication, delusions of inner city grandeur & attitude to die for was added to the Dockers 2013 trophy cabinet.

My goal kicker is much braver in the social pages than he is on the field but he made a dashing run down my half fleshy flank & tampered with my back pocket. After attacking in my forward line for 6½ minutes he rolled on to the interchange bench & flexed his VB cans for my approval.

My football conquest was a divine looking creature but thicker than treacle. He thought the Chemical Bros were the lyrical voice of the generation & he doesn’t read he plays station. Even more comical he didn’t understand why people found Woody Guthrie (sic) movies funny.

Why did I shag this simpleton you ask? To be honest with you I don’t really know. As a woman my deep seated need for attention is insatiable & fame has an aphrodisiac quality that makes oysters look lamely contraceptive. Women are drawn to those in the spotlight. He could have been a pop singer, DJ or soapie star. He happened to be a footy player in a town where heroes come real cheap. He could have had any girl in the room & he chose me!

To a woman even the most predatory advances of “SOMEONE” are more flattering than sincere professions of love from Joe average. We girls are a sucker for fame in all its guises. We hope that any brush with it may make us less anonymous. We hope stardust is contagious & deep down we pray it will make us feel better about ourselves. The answers to these questions are it won’t, it isn’t & it definitely doesn’t… but you other girls already knew that. Didn’t you?