I think it’s great to see men, just as their testosterone levels are starting to dip, heeding the ancient call of the hunt – the clue’s in the name: a Trophy Wife is a ‘deer’ with a ‘big rack’ you ‘mount’ in the den. And the F-Bloke is proud to sport his own prize: hunted, bagged, stuffed and mounted. A good specimen too: long hind legs, shiny pelt, limber haunches. Startled expression.
Jerry Hall described the perfect wife (referring to herself, presumably) as a ‘lady in the drawing room, a chef in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom.’ Which sounds great, actually. I’d marry her. Where she went wrong was finishing there – with a Trophy Wife you also get something else: Energy. That’s irresistible.
The problem is keeping up. The TW doesn’t want to stay in and watch Grand Designs. Your stupid friends bore her. The bedroom is a psycho-sexual battlefield (or playground, randomly) not a nice place where the Kindle lives. She plays Candy Crush in restaurants and forgets what she ordered. She loses her keys. Airport shops make her miss flights.
And by dragging you along through the chaos, she keeps alive the guttering flicker of your youth, you old fart.
You don’t have to marry them to make them trophies, it’s true. But I married mine.
Except she earns her own money and we’re the same age more or less. And she’s cleverer than me. And we have kids. So, arguably, not a trophy at all. More of a wife really.
But I’ve been taking her over the jumps for nearly 20 years and she’ll still go at a fence with enthusiasm. She can buy her own handbags and file her own tax returns and still lick her lips at the promise of a Westfield voucher.
So, really, what a result. For me anyway. I wonder what she gets out of it?
I mean, look what happened to Jerry Hall.