Wayne Kerr

Last week, I got drunk with a girlyfriend and told her all about me and Wayne. You should have seen her face!
Anyway, we decided that it would be fun to come clean on a social networking website and now all hell’s broken loose.
I’d been shagging Wayne Kerr (which isn’t his real name) for six weeks and then he just dumped me like an empty pack of chips.
To get my own back, I initially posted that I was a gay bloke called Mustapha Fook, but it backfired in my face when the site mailed back to say that they knew who I was and that I could only post a comment if it came from me, so I did it. I told them about me and Wayne but when I saw it on the site, they’d blanked out his name, which made me livid.
To be honest, I was a fool from the start.
I thought Wayne was being nice to me at first, telling me how beautiful I was and all the things he wanted to do to me, but when he took me out on what I thought was our first date at Fernando’s, I didn’t think for a minute that he’d invite all his team-mates along.
When I was asked what I’d like to eat by the waiter, Wayne interrupted and said we were all having a spit roast. I thought it was quite funny because everyone else laughed, and then I realised that I was the animal on the spit. The drugs were good so it didn’t hurt much and I went along with it because I’d seen them all on telly. In a way, I felt like a porn star and a princess rolled into one.
Wayne went first, which I thought was a sign that he really liked me, but when he’d finished, he just pulled himself out and pointed a finger to my arse and the next thing I knew his pal Teddy was in me.
The spit was this thin wooden bench in the Champions League VIP room at the back of the restaurant, and I must have been done by about fifteen blokes that night. Almost a full squad, they said.
‘The combined value of what’s been inside you is in excess of half a billion pound. What d’ya think of that?’ one of them said, but all I could think of getting down the chemists for my morning-after pill.
The next time I saw Wayne was in a Waitrose car park. He told me that we couldn’t be seen together so we had to do it in the back of his wife’s Cayenne 3. I told him I was having my period but that didn’t stop him. He just whipped it out and stuck it in, which made him split his dick because I was still so dry. There was blood everywhere, so he had to call a mate to burn the car and fake its theft. It made me feel like I was in a Hollywood movie or something.
Later that night, I received a call from a nice-sounding journalist who said he had a lot of money for me if I’d spill the beans on Wayne. He’d found my tampax on the tarmac outside the car and said he could prove it was mine from the blood but because the windows of the car were blacked out he needed my say so that Wayne was inside.
I told him that I had no intention of splitting on Wayne and told him where to shove his money, but when I told Wayne what had happened the next time we met, which was at a public toilet, he blew up with me and told me he’d have me taken care of if I said anything. I honestly thought he meant that he’d send me to Rio or somewhere for a nice long holiday at a five-star.
I suppose I should have taken the hint that he was a bit funny in the head when he started hitting himself and swearing in a high-pitched way, but all it did was make me feel more for him. After all, he was risking everything for me; his marriage, his career and shed loads of money.
In that toilet, he decided to gag me before taking me from behind and when he came he told me how much he loved me.
‘I fuckin’ love you, you fuckin’ whore!’ he said as he squeezed out the last few drops inside me with his fist clenched tightly in my hair.
I wanted to tell him how much I loved him but I couldn’t, what with the gag he’d put on me, which turned out to be a pair of tights from La Perla.
I thought they were right posh but when I checked the price at the shopping mall the next day, they were only a fiver. And they were in the sale, which made me feel a bit cheap.
He started dressing up as an old man after that, saying that his barrister thought it best for all concerned.
He’d pick me up from the bus stop near my house and take me to the woods for sex, which I thought was very romantic, but I must admit I felt quite dirty, especially when he shoved my face in the mud and started hitting himself after coming.
One time, he took me to one of his friend’s castles for a dirty Monday. That’s when I really got to know what I thought was the real Wayne. And he gave me a pink Juicy Couture shoulder bag!
I was so confused by then that I’d convinced myself that he was just like any other bloke on the market.
We shared a Fray Bentos chicken pie with chips and beans and watched CIS together, just like a normal couple. He poured his heart out to me, telling me how difficult it was to be a footballer constantly under the spotlight, either loved or hated by everyone he met and how he hated his life and all his friends and family.
‘All I want’s a bit of fuckin’ peace and quiet from the cunts,’ he told me.
Few days later, when I told him I was pregnant, he blew up with me again and told me to get rid of it, flinging a wad of cash at me and pointing to my clothes on the floor to get dressed.
After he dropped me off at the bus stop, he got someone to ring me and they told me that he’d taken a super-injunction out on me, but I didn’t know what it was.
At first, I thought that a super-injunction was a hitman and that a bloke with a gun was going to bust my door in and mow Dad and me down but when I googled it, I found out that it was a gagging order and stupidly assumed it meant that he’d have me gagged with those tights again.
I cried my eyes out all night and when Wayne called the next day, I couldn’t stop crying and told him that I felt like killing myself.
Wayne told me not to worry, that he really wanted to be with me and that he loved me.
That afternoon, a friend of his picked me up from the bus stop. Wayne had told me that he was taking me on holiday to the Caribbean so that we could have time to think about what to do about the baby and our future, but he had to travel alone to avoid the paparazzi.
This friend of his picked me up in a limo and gave me a glass of champagne and when I woke up I was half-naked in a lay-by on some country road.
I called Dad and he picked me up but I felt too ashamed to tell him what happened. I didn’t even know myself but when I got home I clicked and went out to buy another pregnancy test. I wasn’t pregnant any more.
I spent three weeks crying my eyes out in bed and then Jade came round with a bottle of Bacardi, which was when I told her everything.
Now that my post on the social networking site’s out, everyone knows it’s me but no one knows who Wayne is, and I can’t even tell you now.
I just call him Wayne Kerr for a laugh and the papers love it. I’m all over the front pages of all the tabloids as the brazen hussy but because Wayne paid his barrister off, who paid the judge off, who paid the papers off, there’s no way they’re going to say who he is. They can’t even use his pseudonym because they think the public will jump to conclusions.
The super-injunction gets lifted in a month but he’s already got another one in place for an extra year and my solicitor reckons no one will really care after that.
‘He’ll probably have another three injunctions out by then,’ he said, which made my skin crawl.
When I asked him how the law system could protect him and not me, he told me how Labour had brought in these super-injunctions to protect the sins of the rich and rake in easy money and when I told him that I thought Labour was all about socialism and the people, he laughed and said the people didn’t exist any more, and when I asked him what he meant he told me he was talking about the newspaper, ‘The People’, like it was a clever joke.
I’ve just heard that Wayne’s taking the social networking site to court for slander and my solicitor says he’ll probably win, which will set a precedent for all the other rich bastards to keep their sins quiet.
‘By the time the case has been settled, people will have forgotten about the whole thing anyway,’ he said.
‘Where’s the justice in that?’ I asked. ‘I’ll be known as the slag who shagged him for the rest of my life and he gets away with murdering my baby.’ I said.
‘You’ll have to live with that,’ he replied.
The paparazzi have been outside my house for the last week now and every time I go out they keep asking me questions about who the footballer is but I know that if I say anything I’ll end up in jail.
Dad’s always with me, though, and he’s quite a big man, so we just get in the car and drive over their feet.
He’s been Labour all his life and when I told him about their involvement with the injunctions, he burnt all his Labour kit in front of the paparazzi and told them he’d never vote again, ‘because they’re all lying cheats’, he said.
Dad wouldn’t take the money they tried to give him when the paparazzi said they’d put the photos of him burning his Labour stuff in the papers but they never printed them.
My solicitor reckons it’s because the papers think that Labour might get back in soon and they don’t want to rock any boats with them. Either that or it might incite people not to vote.
I’m getting lots of calls from all my old school friends now they know it’s me. Some of them say they feel sorry for me and want to help but I know what they’re really after. A girl grows up pretty quick when something like this happens to her.
I’ve also been getting lots of emails from TV companies wanting me to do chat shows for lots of money and I can’t keep count of the PR people that have emailed me saying they want to help me out but Dad won’t let me talk to any of them. He says I should have nothing to do with them.
I’ve told him who the footballer is and he’s gone really quiet now. I keep on thinking he’s going to have him killed, and I don’t think I could cope if Dad went to prison.
He’s all I’ve got in the world.