On paper, John Terry is a hero/protagonist prototype dream come true. Handsome, athletic, a major God in the Premier League and Rei de Toto* at his career-long club Arsenal, John has been on my radar for a long time. Even his well-known penchant for self-destruction didn’t put me off, I can work with that. I’ve redeemed worse assholes.
Over time, however, his problems began to compound. Drunkenly mocking stranded Americans after 9/11. Selling his gratis box seats at Wembly for cash. Racially slurring QPR defender Anton Ferdinand.
The biggest problem has been the adultery. The adultery with his teammates girlfriend. Convincing said girlfriend to have an abortion. His wife, Toni, is willing to forgive him anything as invested as she is in TeamTerry.
Now aged thirty-six, John has announced his retirement. The obvious path is to sign with a US team for some serious post-retirement cash, yet the MLS has expressed close to zero interest in bringing him aboard. He, true to form, has snubbed them as well.
That’s the thing with John Terry; I just walk away with the stupid taste in my mouth.
Romance writers have a short list of commandments readers expect us to follow, and he broke the ‘no adultery’ rule which is a dead stop (I’ll have to check if he’s made a graven image but I wouldn’t put it past him). So he’s been filed under ‘Tis A Pity, He’s An Idiot, where he can keep Lance Armstrong company.
*Latin for King of Everything
