Oh for a drive in Robbie Savage's Merc

Robbie Savage, bless his cotton (Armani) socks. The Rams star may not have quite found his form on the pitch but when it comes to grabbing headlines you just can’t keep this boy down.
Quite why Beckham’s made more of a global impact than our Robbie with his lovely, blond flowing locks, gawd only knows.
I mean, whatever you may think – and everyone’s got an opinion on Robbie – he’s just brilliant.
First, after taking stick from national press nasties just for having a posh new car when Derby are in the doldrums (the rest of the lads in the Prem are driving Ladas, of course), he comes up with the brainwave of turning his new Merc – reputedly worth anything between £95,000 and £160,000 – into a free matchday taxi.
The golden boy pulled up his “flash” motor alongside two fans waiting at a bus stop on the A52 last Saturday and offered them a lift to the ground.
The lucky blighters were then whisked to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, in the very car which allegedly riled fellow players when he turned up to training in it.
Mmmm, I can understand why they were might have been upset. I’ve noticed their battered, ageing motors parked outside the ground on match days next to all those Aston Martins, Hummers, Mercs and Bentleys. They must belong to the cleaning staff, I guess.
When Derby are doing badly all the players should, it seems, be driving eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel hatchbacks (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the nationals, who just love to put the boot into our team (I stopped reading snide, London-based rags ages ago), I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity in my lucky Rams knickers.
However, I have to admit that, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy a Ferrari.
Anyway, as if our Sav had not dished out enough good turns, he has now given a huge lump sum to the Wish Upon A Star charity. It is, we are told, a gift to say sorry to Rams fans for not playing particularly well since his arrival at the club in January. The four-figure donation was so generous, news got out.
As a season ticket holder at Pride Park, I thank him very much. My 11-year-old son, also a season ticket holder, pondered this generous gift for a moment and then said: “If he wants to say sorry to the fans, shouldn’t he be giving all season ticket holders a tenner each?”
He was only joshing Sav. He thinks you’re great. As far as we are concerned, you could not have donated to a better cause.
In this season of doom and gloom, Robbie brings a smile to my face. Larger than life, bold as brass, he is a true character in every sense. And, as far as I am concerned, you can’t have enough of that in today’s bland society. That’s a key reason why Rams gaffer Paul Jewell wanted him.
Chatty, wacky Sav is a man who can lift spirits – and frighten opposition. When Jewell signed him he said: “You don’t want to play against him but it’s great when he’s on your side.”
Everyone, it seems, has a Sav tale to tell. Shy is not a word you associate with him. When Googling images to print off a picture of him for my sons, my eye was drawn to a shot of him wearing only white underpants – on a football pitch! Or did I imagine it?
And Sav’s house has been on TV’s Footballers’ Cribs, which explores the pads of the rich and famous. A vision in white, I understand.
But away from the glitz and glam of being a Prem player, a person who cares deeply about others is emerging. Sav is also honest and sensitive.
“I am not making excuses, I have been poor,” he told our sports team. “When I’m finished I don’t want people to say ‘Robbie Savage at Derby was rubbish, he was slow, he had gone’. I am proud to play for Derby County and all this makes me more determined to lead this club to promotion.”
God bless you Sav. I’ll be cheering you all the way. In the meantime, I hope to be the next person to be on the receiving end of some Sav generosity
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!”
I’d just love a spin in that Merc - preferably behind the wheel!

Waiting at the bus stop for Robbie Savage

For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!”
Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday.
The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car.
When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot.
If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity.
As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.

Beauty secrets of an ageing siren

It was one of those stomach-churning moments, the like of which I hadn’t had since 1979 when a teacher asked an atrociously difficult question, cast her evil eye around the room and said:“Jill, what’s the answer?”This time the question came from a bubbly woman from Decleor, the ultra posh skincare company.“What do you use on your skin?” she asked an assembled group of women.“Clarins,” chirped one. “I love their Flash Balm.”“Elemis,” said another. “I love the smell.”“Clinique,” volunteered the third. “My mum loves it too.”“Emu oil,” I offered, with an embarrassed but truthful shrug.There was a momentary stunned silence. Did I imagine the disdainful stares? Were women half my age with skin so perfect a quick rub with a dishcloth was all they needed to achieve a healthy glow, assessing my mental state?I started babbling: “The thing is, I did this story on this Derbyshire woman who sells emu oil products. I tried her moisturiser (www.naturesnaturalbeauty.com) and it was really good. They melt the fat of the emus you see. It’s got medicinal properties. The Aborigines swear by it.”I’m not sure when everyone’s eyes started to glaze over but the Decleor lady moved swiftly on, and I am sure she was thinking: ‘Is she totally mad?’ Not mad, just open to ideas. And emu oil is good. As well as the moisturiser, I have a little pot of pure emu oil which eases my son’s eczema.When I’m 90 and some fresh-faced kid asks me the secret of my baby-soft skin I’ll tell her: “Emu oil, a nightly tot of rum and yelling my head off in the south stand at Derby County.”From this you may decipher that I do not take my skincare routine terribly seriously. I confess, I am a little dubious about age-defying products.Let’s face it, if the ravages of time have taken their toll it takes more than a good moisturiser to restore your zing. I’m thinking more along the lines of Sharon Osborne-style plastic surgery myself.When feeling ultra craggy, I head to the caring hands of Susy Jacob at Advanced Laser Care in Duffield. She is just brilliant. I am not revealing my beauty secrets, but suffice to say, after a visit to Susy, I no longer feel that I could be mistaken for Ozzie Osborne’s great grandmother.According to Susy, sun damage is the worst thing she comes across and it costs nothing to stop baking yourself in the Med every summer.So that’s it in a nutshell. My beauty secrets revealed. That and splashing my face with cold water every morning, as taught to me by my mother and her mother before her.I still wake up looking like Ozzie Osborne most mornings but a couple of hours at my dressing table can soon put that right. When 20-something myself I remember regaling people with the story about an ageing aunty who got up an hour before everyone else on a family holiday so that no-one would ever see her without make-up. I am now that aunty. I would rather streak through Derby’s streets than go out without full slap – because I’m worth it.
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!” Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday. The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car. When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse. I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity. As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.
But, the older you get, the harder it gets to stop the rot, prevent the creaking boat from sinking. As a 20-something, I recall telling people how my aunty had to get up an hour before everyone else on holiday to avoid being seen without make-up. I am now that aunty. I would rather streak naked through the streets of Derby than be seen without full slap.