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Kevin Myers: You hope to soon have the Christmas of your dreams -- Trevor White is already having his

I HAVEN'T seen anything of Trevor White in a while, which is a bit of surprise since the downfall of the preposterous and philandering buffoon, Tiger Woods, should have brought to Trevor's face a smile so fat and wide that it would have been clearly visible from the Orion Nebula.

The Irish TW was the editor of 'The Dubliner' magazine when it did a spoof story on the American TW at the start of the Ryder Cup in Kildare just over three years ago. This included a bogus picture of the golfer's wife, Elin Nordegren, posing topless. If you were really thick, you might have believed the item; otherwise, it was what it was -- some bad taste in good fun.

The Empire State Building then fell on Trevor. Woods declared he was inconsolable at the publication, no doubt having just unhooked himself from the spread-eagled torso of some foxy Straffan doxy.

"It's hard to be very diplomatic about this when you have so much emotion involved," he wailed, discreetly disentangling a peroxide Prosperous wench from his nether parts.

"My wife is an extension of me," he wept, as a brace of flaxen Saxons he had kept since a trip to Germany slunk out of his luggage.

"We are in this together," he said (of Elin) as a Dane, two Swedes and a Finn emerged from his bathroom and sidled down the corridor.

"We are a team and I care about her with all my heart," he sobbed, while a fair-haired Jane from Clane slid down one trouser leg, and vanished into the K Club undergrowth.

In an adroit defensive manoeuvre known to chess-players as "abject capitulation", Trevor promptly sang Woods' virtues, as he had to, simply in order to prevent the bailiffs moving in, and leaving him with just an old toothpaste cap, some pencil-sharpener scrapings, and a mummified dead mouse behind the wainscoting.

This is what happens when the mightiest sportsman of all time takes on a tiny little publication in Dublin. You do what your lawyers tell you to do. If they insist, you drink the National Pig Sperm Bank dry. Or stand naked and leering outside a girls' convent during outdoor gym time. Or lead a march of the Mossad Sons of Zion Brass Band through Fallujah.

"We have the highest regard for the personal integrity of all the Ryder Cup players and their families," the 'Dubliner' statement whimpered.

Quite right too. Otherwise, the only job Trevor could have thenceforth found was ferrying tourists back and forth on his little pleasure craft across those fun-filled waters between Aden and Somalia.

That miserable Christmas three years ago, with his magazine in tatters, he could never have foreseen the blessed dawn when the man who had tearfully told the world -- "My wife is an extension of me. We are in it together. We are a team and I care about her with all my heart" -- would be revealed as the Bill Clinton of the fairways. But at least the lying old satyr of Little Rock never pretended to be Cliff Richard.

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Woods, on the other hand, has been crooning chastely as if he were the most winsome nun in 'The Sound of Music', while in private he was skewering a selection of diced & layered party-girls, like he was running a she-kebab stall.

Some black woman columnists in the US have complained that he seems to have only been banging blonde girls. But maybe that's because only the blondes have owned up.

And that, in turn, is probably because they thought they'd landed President Obama, and being blondes, they're pretty gosh-darned angry about it. (You mean he's only a what? A golfer? You mean, like Bob Hope?)

No doubt Woods has been sinking the final hole with legions of discreet redheads, brown-heads and black girls.

We all know that men are far more promiscuous than women, yet women nonetheless are keen to surrender themselves in moist and babbling droves to famous athletes.

But paradoxically, Cindi, Debbie or Jade are then quite likely to brag to the media about the conjoining of their sticky curly-wurlies with those of a muscular celebrity. (Girls: what is this about, please?)

The myth of the boastful Lothario listing the women he has bedded is just that: simply myth. James Hewitt is barred from all decent male society in London because of his disclosures about Princess Diana and himself. Real men shun a bounder who blabs.

We chaps certainly don't condemn a man who is sexually promiscuous, for that's how men are programmed to be. Nice work if you can get it.

And in Woods' case, the meeting of the races produced the most physically beautiful, perfectly co-ordinated, athletically superb human being in the world.

But it also produced the world's greatest anus, an uxorial humbug whose "you-complete-me" folderol was merely his lying public face. The reality was slightly different. The DNA on his hotel bed linen resembled the dance floor after the swabs' annual shindig at the FBI forensic laboratories in Quantico, Virginia.

You hope to have the Christmas of your dreams? Well, Trevor White is already having his. I wish you one like it.


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