Jackson: Theo Walcott is the new star of footopoly

Sep 15 2008

ENGLAND has a new hero!

He’s slightly built, dark-haired and his name is Theo.

And you can bet he has a few quid packed into his back pocket.

That’s right, it’s Theo Paphitis, star of Dragons’ Den!

Only kidding.

I’m talking about Theo Walcott, the hat-tricking hot shot, who gave England fans fresh hope with an inspiring performance against Croatia last week.

But if Theo really wants to make it as a top player, he better learn the code of conduct that a Premiership star must live by.

Which can be even more challenging than playing Alan Sugar at Monopoly.

Because the name of this game is Footopoly.

Dice at the ready? Here’s how it rolls.

Playfair:

A useless square to land on. Footballers don’t succeed by adhering to the rules of the game.

Instead, you must collapse upon entering the penalty box. Even if the defender closest to you is 30 yards away.

Now roll around. Squeal. Demand medical attention. Roll round some more.

Froth at the mouth.

Act your little socks off, fella, because Guy Ritchie may be watching the highlights on Match Of The Day.

And Mr Madge bagged Vinnie Jones a backstage pass to Hollywood – so why not you?

Fleet Street:

Some dozy dame just sold a kiss-and-tell story about you to the papers.

“Seven Times A Night Love Rat Dumped Me By Text” screeches the headline.

The shame of it.

Especially since a midfield player from your squad was the subject of a similar headline the previous week.

Only he was an EIGHT times a night love rat.

And it’s a damned lie that you dumped her by text. Why waste something as intimate and loving as a text message on a bird you met in a bar?

Truth is, it was your agent’s secretary who dumped her by text.

Go to Jail:

(Do not pass Go, do not collect your £150,000 a week wages)

Effin’ hell! A careless bint walked in front of your shiny red Lamborghini, causing you to smash into her.

Her own bleedin’ fault, of course – and she ruined your bonnet!

Did she really expect you to notice her in that get up? You only eyeball tarts wearing seven inch stilettoes and three inch mini skirts.

And the stupid moo didn’t even have the common courtesy to dye her hair platinum blonde. It was auburn. Auburn! Practically a cloak of invisibility for a Premiership star.

Plus she had plenty of time to duck out of the way. Probably would have made it, too, if it wasn’t for that pregnant belly.

Now the cops are wacking the handcuffs on YOU.

Thankfully you remain calm. The three bottles of Cristal you glugged half an hour ago are doing wonders steadying the old nerves.

Waterworks:

Has it all gone hideously wrong?

Well, it’s not your fault! So what if you splashed all your dosh at the bookies, battered the missus, enjoyed sordid affairs with an amorous army of Page 3 babes, and boozed every Friday night, instead of training like a serious athlete?

If people genuinely expected you to act like an adult, why did they force you to wear a pair of schoolboy shorts every Saturday afternoon?

Clearly you’re no grown-up. So blub like a baby, or someone less mature, such as Paul Gascoigne.

Soon the public will absolve you of all sin.

Which is great news!

Now you can resume splashing your dosh at the bookies, battering the missus, enjoying sordid affairs...