The Rise And Fall Of Tiger’s Wood

Oscar Wilde once wrote, ”The less said about life’s sores the better”. But what the fuck did he know? Last night I sat down to watch ‘Tiger Woods: The Rise and Fall’ on Channel 4. I’d been made aware of the programme by a friend and the following are my impressions of the piece.

The idea of the show was not just to wade neck-deep into the mire of shit which was for so long Woods’ hidden life, but also to sit down and have a chat with it on a strip-club runway. It began with a documentation of Tiger’s less than ideal ‘childhood’ – you see he never was a child, rather just a machine that his father Earl fine tuned into the greatest golfer who ever lived. Earl would prepare his project, I mean son, for all sorts of set-backs and obstacles, things like criticism and fidelity. The elder Woods is portrayed as a morally bankrupt father determined to live vicariously through his son, with almost no regard for the consequences to young Tiger.

We are thus dragged kicking and screaming to the idea that maybe, just maybe, Earl’s actions and sterling example influenced the reckless debauchery which ultimately led to Tiger apologising to the world via a pre-written statement which he read word for word like a fucking robot. Suddenly the mechanical references from earlier take on a more sinister meaning, perhaps he is the first sign of alien life? Soon our planet will be enveloped by thousands of mechanical, emotionless beings, sexing our women and dominating our sports.

Throughout its duration, the documentary is at pains to point out that there is much more to come out about Mr. Woods’ unsavoury actions. The defining moment comes when our cheery, muck-loving host is interviewing a reporter in a parked car. Our man on the inside puffs dramatically on a lit cigarette and gazes uneasily into the middle distance as he suggestively drops hints like he’s an informant in a fucking mob movie.

This wasn’t the only highlight however. We were also treated to an interview from a Las Vegas Madam (lady pimp) in which she mentions the price list of the girls she ‘looks after’, this ranges from a measly $10,000 to a nut-wrenching $1 million. The latter price securing you one night with a super-model, whom we must assume has a golden vagina and beer-spewing nipples. This turns out to be one of the more insightful interviews in the piece; we are reliably informed that Tiger was ‘big’ and ‘likes it rough’. And the Academy Award for Best Documentary goes to…

Amongst the more distressing moments are a lap dancer who was a long-serving ‘companion’ of Tiger’s, talking about how she lost two children to which he was the father, one through miscarriage, the other through abortion. This momentary sadness is soon lifted however when she answers that the experience has taught her not to let men exploit her anymore, as she sits in her underwear next to a stripper pole.

Overall I can’t say I gained too much from the programme, other than the fact that the National Enquirer are happy to send a reporter to collect a blood-soaked tampon in order to use it as incriminating evidence against a famous sportsman. Wilde must be turning in his grave.


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