Tit has reached one of the most expensive defamation cases in British history: Rebekah Vardy v Coleen Rooney, or to give it the proper name, Wagatha Christie. It was so dramatically nonsensical that for the court to simply put it on its website feels quite inadequate. The judge should have given it to a self-destructing Snapchat, or at the very least, skywriting.
Here it is, though: Coleen Rooney won. But before we consider whether we agree with this as a newspaper (just kidding! I only speak for myself and I agree with it), here’s a quick summary of what happened between Vardy and Rooney, and the social conditions that created their epic feud.
Between September 2017 and October 2019, a number of stories appeared in tabloid newspapers, leading Rooney to suspect that a member of her friendship circle had leaked them. The details ran the gamut between the mundane (a flooded basement), the slightly embarrassing (a plan to revive her TV career) and the outlandish and potentially reputation-damaging (she had traveled to Mexico to see a treatment for her chosen child by gender).
Through a complex social media process that probably has a name like “forensic triangulation,” Rooney spent five months sifting through potential culprits, before limiting her Instagram access to just one and staging a car accident. She sat back and waited for the bogus story to appear in the Sun. He did it right. She then dramatically told the world that the leaks came from Rebekah Vardy’s account. I won’t bore you with who these women married, that would be too long – let’s just say “football players”.
This all took place at the end of 2019 and was incredibly engaging, breaking through normally unbreakable barriers like “I’m not interested in football” and “I’m too depressed about Brexit to be interested in anything “. That was partly because Rooney is a natural digital storyteller, her keen visual sense clashing with an innate understanding of the mechanics of suspense.
But that’s largely because the media undermines Rooney – indeed all these wives and girlfriends – as constant sources of banal copycats. They’re fighting, or they’ve lost weight, or they’ve gained weight, or they’re sporting new eyeshadow. Stories that are outlandish enough to divert — like that trip to Mexico — are unlikely to be true, and stories that are true usually don’t even pretend to meet a minimum standard of human interest. Women are treated as pretty, their personalities hollowed out by the weariness of the content that flows from them.
So then Rooney comes up with a look, a plan, a scheme, some feelings, and it brings back its lost properties – a bit like looking at the Mona Lisa and suddenly it speaks to you.
As for Rooney, her work is done. But by June 2020, Vardy felt her reputation had been so deeply tarnished that her only option was to launch defamation proceedings. Maybe she didn’t heed the advice she was given (it seems she hadn’t expected it that long CONTENT to be asked by Mrs. Justice Steyn in establishing the facts). They leaked the WhatsApp messages between Vardy and her agent, Caroline Watt. They honestly read like a nightmare we must have all had at our worst moments – quick to rant, slow to pick up, right there in green and white for all to see.
The defamation case was not a mistake because it was so revealing of Vardy, or because its costs look set to reach £3m, thanks to the reported £800-an-hour fees of Rooney and Vardy’s lawyers , as each woman tried to match the finances. the other’s firepower. It was a mistake because the appetite to see women fight each other is endless and limited only by the limited amount of material. Now we have enough to last us for decades.
In a week that could end with England winning the Euros, isn’t it interesting that we don’t really care how the Habs (husbands and boyfriends) of the women’s team are doing, never mind if they get on with each other ? Years ago, I interviewed Kim Cattrall at the height of Sex and the City, when it was said that the four-way ensemble hated each other, and I asked her about it. She said (I’m paraphrasing) “Our show alternated with The Sopranos, and yet I’ve never seen anyone question whether they got on well with each other.”
It was a fair point, put succinctly: the fascination with a whore war is rooted in garden-variety sexism, an attempt to infantilize women, erode their credibility, and minimize their emotional range by amplifying the histrionics of theirs. And yet, at the same time, I’m not at all interested in whether James Gandolfini has moved on with Tony Sirico. Just because you realize there’s shampoo in the water doesn’t mean you’re not drinking it too.
Many lessons have been learned (from Twitter) through this ordeal: never do business with the (fair) Sun; don’t try to destroy someone’s life with a lie if the truth can destroy yours (after all, can’t we all be destroyed by the truth?); and never, ever go to court if you can avoid it (soundest advice). I would add “maybe get off social media for a bit”. But that’s easier said than done.
Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist
Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a letter of up to 300 words to be considered for publication, email us at [email protected]
