If you cut Brent Sadler, does he not ooze?
Sadler, has-been war correspondent in search of relevancy, wants the world to know that #HeToo has been the victim of scorned women who simply could not get over his fabulousness.
So often, when a marriage falls apart in the public eye, all the attention is focused on the woman in the equation, especially when infidelity plays its part. The wronged wife. The new love. The battle between two, often furious, females.
But what’s it like to be the man in the middle of such a storm?
It is something I’ve been thinking about recently, as actress Alice Evans, 53, the estranged wife of Hornblower star Ioan Gruffudd, 48, vents her anger, despair and heartache through social media towards her famous husband, who is now in a relationship with actress Bianca Wallace, 30.
It’s a situation that has certainly struck a raw nerve with me, enduring as I have decades of very public acrimony with not one but two warring ex-wives. And while I feel genuinely sorry for both women involved in the Ioan saga, I also wonder how he is feeling.
Stand strong, Ioan, Brent’s here for you, Baby. To pivot that spotlight back to himself and off you and those wronged women “in the equation.” (What equation is that, Brent? Are there triangles and hypotenuses?) Oh what Brent has endured. Ladies warring for him!
Tracy, I have no idea who you’re talking about.
Brent! Brent Sadler! Surely you’ve pined for him.
No. What am I missing?
If you could squeeze unctuousness out of rectum, you’d get this face:
A smile that says, “I sell reverse mortgages.” Those droopy lidded bedroom eyes. Is it palsy or did he accidentally drink his own mickey?
Perhaps one of his quarrelsome ex-wives could tell us what the allure is? Two of the three are friends apparently. United in mutual antipathy for Brent.
Many submitted Brent’s 2,000-word humblebrag to the Universal Bullshit Translator. But it was reluctant to fully commit. “Tracy, what if I fall into the gravitational pull of Brent’s charm?”
Occupational hazard, I replied. We agreed it didn’t have to translate the entire load of self-congratulatory wank.
Does he suffer guilt and self-recrimination for his role in all this pain, as I did? No doubt there is some significant hurt to see the woman he used to love now so unhappy.
After all, you once shared the limelight together and spoke about your love and professional respect for each other in glossy magazines, as I once did with both of my ex-wives — and meant it, wholeheartedly.
Are you 62 or older and need quick cash? Draw down that equity…
I loved and respected you, ex-wives. Just up to the moment of your obsolescence.
I saw both my marriages as being in a terminal decline when I stumbled across and fell in love with my wives’ replacements
You’re all replaceable, should I stumble.
My second wife, Debby, was an altogether different story. She was an air stewardess I met on a flight during the summer of 1984, three years after I joined ITN as an ambitious reporter.
(Soon after, I became ITN’s award-winning correspondent in the Middle East — an upward trajectory that led to me being headhunted by CNN.)
I’m ambitious, award-winning, and air stewardesses fling themselves at me.
(The parentheses are a coral for my ego. Like if self-regard were a raging bull and the fencing was flaccid punctuation.)
But over time the marriage became a cracked vessel because we had been steadily drifting apart.
You birthed a child and your vessel is cracked. Next wife appliance!
In less than a week, impetuously, we started to plan a future together, even though I was still with Debby, albeit with the marriage on its last legs.
My marriages were in terminal decline, drifting apart, on its last legs!
My dick, however, was impetuous.
However, once Mrs Sadler the second got wind of my new romance, she went on the warpath, accosting us in the lobby of the London hotel where Tess and I were lying low. It was an unfaithful man’s worst nightmare.
I’m the real victim here.
Next, she began to brand me a ‘love rat’ in the newspapers.
Ambitious love rat (award-winning cheater, upward trajectory, unparalleled in pomposity).
If I hoped for a fresh start by marrying Tess in 1993 (a wedding covered by Hello! magazine), it didn’t happen, even as two more children came along, Henry and Matthew, now 27 and 24.
Our marriage lasted barely six years — an all-too-typical lifespan for my doomed relationships.
I have no idea how my relationships doom themselves. (Hello Hello! magazine! Is it you?)
Happily, for me, I found my fairy tale, though Tess was the price to pay for it…
Hell certainly hath no fury like a Tess scorned. She dubbed me ‘an insecure, attention-seeking emotional child’ in print and said I was nothing more than a man who ‘cheated and lied and who put himself before the needs of his children’.
Four abandoned children, three chumped wives, but HEY, I found my fairytale.
That’s AWARD-WINNING insecure, attention-seeking emotional child to you!
I saw things differently. Genuinely, I had always wanted marriage, family and stability. But being sent to boarding school aged 12, after my father died from heart disease when I was just nine, left me emotionally scarred, and being an ambitious war correspondent made a sustainable family life almost impossible.
I blame my wandering dick on boarding school. (The sort of elite institution you didn’t go to. Sure, family and stability are laudable — but do they win awards?) Was it the cruel headmaster? The classics? Or the sodomy and rhubarb custard that made me this way?
My father died when I was 9 and as an ambitious war correspondent, I thought what better way to honor his legacy than to fuck around on countless women and natter on about it in the Daily Mail.
The UBT has expired. Send lebkuchen.