This guy says basically what many of us have been saying
Louise Evans: New-model Scud marks time with Paris love match
October 26, 2004
DELTA Goodrem is the type of girl you take home to meet mum. Paris Hilton is the type of girl you take home when mum's not there.
Is it any wonder that a lowly ranking Australian tennis player such as Mark Philippoussis has been distracted away from Delta by the Hilton heiress? And for a player who changes his coaches as often as he changes his socks it is entirely consistent that he should rotate his girlfriends with a similar frequency.
Why stroke short hair when you can stroke an heiress? Why take home the girl next door when you can take an heiress up against the door - any door.
If Paris so much as smiled at most men on this planet, whether they be gay or straight, they would dine out on it for the rest of their quiet lives. Paris has what most of us only dream about
: endless money, sexual freedom and total independence to do as she pleases. And she does - usually in front of a camera. Plus she's 23, pretty and blonde. So we deal with our envy by hating her. We label her a bimbo and a slut. It's a nasty word, slut, one we reserve for women we don't like and who may also be sexually active with multiple partners. The equivalent word for a male root rat is stud. "Scud the stud in tryst with slut." Now there's a headline. If it lasts more than five minutes put "long-term" before tryst.
Let's be honest. Delta was too good for the Poo. The same goes for Kim Clijsters and Lleyton Hewitt. Kim was far too nice for Lleyton. Hewitt has a mean streak that's reflected in his parents' grim courtside frowns. It works for him on the tennis court because you need that killer instinct to win. Ditto Pat Cash and his model ex-wife. He was mean. She was lean. Pat Rafter got to keep the whole package - the sweet model wife plus baby - but then Pat's a nice guy who lacked the desire to grind his opponents into the dirt.
The fact that Kim and Lleyton were together for five years is the surprise, not that they did a Jimmy Connors and Chris Evert and broke up - five months before the fairytale wedding. Imagine going through life with those omnipresent parents sitting on the end of your bed.
The Poo quite liked having Delta sitting sweetly at the end of his bed, even if there may have been too much sitting. She's talented, her career is on the rise despite all those dirgeful songs she insists on singing. She's also beautiful, rich and she has princess status. She's the type of girl men put on a pedestal.
As for the Poo, his career is on the slide and may have already hit the wall.
He has become the Anna Kournikova of the male tennis world - a model tennis player - which is fitting because the Poo and Anna have had more than the odd tryst together.
Any social tennis player will tell you the problem with the Poo's game. When his giant serve goes west, his game goes south, and he's back in the locker room before you can say: "New balls, please."
And he has the concentration span of a rabbit. In post-match press conferences, the Poo can get halfway through answering a question when he forgets what the question is. It's a wonder he can remember who his girlfriend is.
But he's also rich and so pretty he has advertisers begging to use his flexed pecs to flog their must-haves. So in fact he's the perfect physical and intellectual match for Paris. Isn't Paris Match a French magazine? "Paris Match brings you Paris's perfect match." Good cover story.
Philippoussis got his taste for dating famous girls with Anna Cupcake at grand-slam tennis events where grand-slam sex should be posted on the menu in the players dining room as the plat du jour. Because of drug testing and the need to be constantly on your game, drugs and alcohol are off the menu but sex is a good way to let off steam without getting fat or a hangover. So there is always a queue of players lining up to get some in the dining room. (For further insights see the movie Wimbledon.) The Poo was expecting more of the same at the Olympics. He rolled up to Athens expecting to be treated like the Greek god that he is and all anyone wanted to talk to him about was Delta du jour, who sang and got sick.
There was a wonderful slice of television during the Olympics when the Channel 7 team was reading out emails sent to the Australian team. One came from a boy addressed to Philippoussis. It started "Dear Mark" but that was where the interest in the Poo ended. The boy wanted to know how Delta was and if Mark could ask her to come and visit his school when she came back home.
The Poo was cool about playing second fiddle in Delta's backing band. He could even have coped with the lack of grand-slam sex. But then the heiress smiled at him. He must have left skid marks escaping the dirgeful Delta for his perfect match. Or should that be scud marks? Stud marks?