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Andrew Sandham: Football legend or urban legend?
BBC talk show host, Jonathan Ross once described football as a simple game played by simple men. I have to agree. All the smart ones played rugby. All the really smart ones played cricket. Sure, rugby had its share of coke snorting Dallaglios, handbag-wielding Umagas and celebrity-dating Hensons, and cricket had Shane Warne. But for sheer repetitive public stupidity right across the board, football was your game. An excellent case in point was Andrew Sandham. England’s richest sportsman by the length of a stretch limo, Andrew Sandham earned fifteen million pounds a year playing for FC Barcelona and God knows how much more through product endorsements, the most lucrative of these being, of course, Asok Marauders and their over promise catchcry ‘Swerve it like Sandham!’
Sandham famously married socialite Celebrity Big Brother winner, Amanda George, a former stripper from Bournemouth. George, blessed with no celebrity status at all, had been planted in the house amongst all the ‘real celebrities’ as a bit of fun and was expected to be outed within days. So it surprised everyone when she went on to not only win, but become instantly more famous than all those with a supposed talent. Her most endearing features were her inherent outspoken stupidity and her love of makeup and Ug boots, attributes which made her ideal as a footballer’s wife. No one expected that footballer to be Andrew Sandham. While not blessed with any brains himself, he could certainly afford someone smart and a full time interpreter. But no, he married someone stupid and got fulltime nannies so Amanda George couldn’t get near enough to their kids to accidentally stand on them while drunk.
Then came the alleged affairs – Geri Halliwell and Emma Bunton – both denied and never properly confirmed by the paparazzi. Then came the first confirmed affair: a hotel room cleaner named Stacey Dobbyn. Admittedly a very pretty and extremely young hotel room cleaner named Stacey Dobbyn, but a nobody who cleaned loos nevertheless. No paparazzi required – she sold her story to the News of the World for the equivalent of five years cleaning. Sandham was duly vilified for not sleazing with someone famous, while the hotel room cleaner named Stacey Dobbyn snuck quietly into the night and wasn’t sighted again until I’m a Celebrity. Get me out of here!
There were other much publicised, yet unsubstantiated flings: a dog walker named Nancy and two student stripogrammers named Brit and Heidi. Throughout the ensuing tabloid massacre, Amanda George stood by her husband as steadily as she could hammered in high heels.
All of this scandal took up more real estate in the tabloids than a hundred housing estates. A Google search of Andrew Sandham brought up five lists of lurid gossip sites before a single mention of football. More importantly for this observer, it would be page nineteen before I found a single mention of his cursed boots and their scandalous origins. Either the public didn’t care or the message wasn’t getting through, delivered as it was exclusively by fanatical librarians nobody took a blind bit of notice of. I had to wonder what would happen now that the equally fanatical, but considerably more unhinged Marcus Friend was on the case.
Nevertheless I had no desire to witness the cold, calculated dismantling of Andrew Sandham’s will no matter how errant he had been putting his name to the stupid boots in the first place and no matter how much I wanted the cull to cease. Intimidation didn’t change attitudes, it merely altered behaviour. What really mattered more long term? What really brought about lasting change?
Speaking of lasting change, I was party to a fair bit of it myself, most in the form of recent or impending messy ends: The end of Gabriel and I; the end of a short, sharp relationship with Hartley Castle House and its working farm; and, it would seem from latest media reports, the imminent end of Chicken Colditz and Windy Dale Eggs.
This from Saturday’s Times: ‘The small North Yorkshire hamlet of Skipton-le-Beans continues to lick its wounds and look over its shoulder as a terror campaign by animal activists enters its fourth month. In a war of threats, arson attacks and vandalism reminiscent of the tragic Newchurch guinea pig farm saga, activists attempting to force the closure of local businessman, Austin Hogg’s battery hen farm, Windy Dale Eggs, have targeted anyone alleged to have dealings with the Hoggs, including the local pub, bank, and even a sports club where Austin Hogg’s son played rugby. The Hogg’s own house has also been attacked. Spokesperson for Windy Dale Eggs, Mariabella Hogg, said the family were already at their wits end. ‘We saw what went on at Newchurch and how long it went on for. They’re not going to leave us alone, are they? We may as well give them what they want, pack it in now and save ourselves years of heartache. Our farm’s worthless. We’re worthless.’
It was a long quote, but I’m sure she said considerably more that was unprintable. Interestingly, no mention of any apparent inebriation. The article went on in some detail about the letters, the attacks and the aftermath. A gent named Ian Blackmore – who must have been the wet feather – spoke on behalf of the Pig in Muck Inn. He was quoted as saying ‘We are still in shock. But we must move on. It pains us greatly, but for the safety of all our customers, the Hoggs have agreed not to frequent our establishment.’
It was strange witnessing the Hogg’s demise in print from across the moors having had such a vested interest in their success and Austin Hogg’s heart failure such a short time ago. Leaping on the bandwagon of Gabriel’s hatred. Leaping even more enthusiastically on the mountain of cash we only had to keep our mouths shut to inherit. Sitting a safe distance from all that with nothing left to gain or lose, I was left with just the emotional gains and losses to assess in an objective, unfettered light. And I have to say we were all as bad as each other. Mariabella was still there for one reason. Attie and Melissa Joubert were still there for one reason. And, it would seem, we were all going to get pretty much what we deserved.
Not very much.
The only certainty in any of this was that Austin Hogg was going to die. Current events may even have advanced that eventuality. And there would still be money, once the bulldozers moved in and knocked down everything but the big, old white house, the former Chicken Colditz HQ and left ten acres of boggy dale land. Blessed as I was with such a long history of the North Yorkshire property market, Windy Dale Eggs seemed about as valuable as a spent hen. Yet properly killed, gutted and cleaned it might still fetch a few hundred thousand pounds. A far cry from what might have been.
What was done was done. Now, with nothing left of my England odyssey – no fiancé, no wedding, no big wad of cash – nothing but me, my dogs and a couple of new friends, it was time to bury what was left of the charade once and for all.
It was time for me to take my leave.
