Some of you (bear with me, it’s a conceit whether or not there’s an audience) may have been aware of the story over the past few weeks about Ryan Giggs, Manchester United midfielder extraordinaire, using a super injunction to try and quash press coverage in the UK of his exploits, ah, playing away from home.
(If you’re not familiar with super injunctions, they are a legal mechanism designed to let one not just suppress a story but even the announcement that a story is being squashed. I haven’t seen anything more concise and to my mind accurate than Marina Hyde’s take in the Guardian, should you be interested in the actual story: The Ryan Giggs story was not run with any noble intentions | Marina Hyde | Football | The Guardian.)
In any case, late one night I was reading about this and gave in to prurient interest: I searched to see who the lady in question might be. I saw that it was one Imogen Thomas, opened a new browser tab, typed in “Ryan Giggs Imogen,” realized that I had forgotten the last name, then saw the auto-complete “Imogen Stubbs.” So I followed it and found:
Well quite. She seemed a little old for a Premiere League player, but I thought fair enough Ryan Giggs, not everyone would go older and bed an accomplished actress.
Not so much. When I went back to the original story I realized this was the inamorata in question:
Great balls of fire.
Well, she’s certainly more the type you’d expect to find embroiled in this sort of sorry saga. I must admit to being a little disappointed that we weren’t breaking new ground here in scandals. But at least I know I’m not the only person who went and looked at the wrong Imogen and wondered, however briefly, if we had entered a new, feminist-friendly era of totty-related scandal, in which age and talent weren’t an obstacle to rumpy pumpy with a football player.