Rafael nadal dating shakira
No doubt at this point all his millions of fans will start screaming with jealousy and resolving to kill me, but honestly, kiddos, it was a bit rude.He just lay there glowering at me while I perched awkwardly on a nearby table until eventually his PR, Benito Perez-Barbadillo, fetched me a chair.
Nadal’s command of English seemed highly variable but never great.His bad day only consisted of playing one short tennis match and signing a few autographs, which I thought was what tennis players were paid to do.He admitted at the press conference that he had played badly, dropping a set to a completely unknown Italian, but he offered no excuses.However, other people were quick to offer them for him: it was the day of Seve Ballesteros’s funeral and Rafa adored Ballesteros.A bizarre and tension-filled interview in The Times (subscription only) sent in by Emma (thanks).I think when it starts with the interviewer upset that she can see Rafa’s undies (guess she doesn’t cover sports much if men in their undies is upsetting to her) and then asking about him tugging his undies, it’s not going to be a good interview… He’s the tennis superstar who has netted a fortune, has hordes of admirers and is happy with his girlfriend.
Yet something’s bugging Rafael Nadal Lynn Barber Published: 5 June 2011 If anyone else tells me what a lovely lad Rafael Nadal is, I shall scream.
He is not a lad, he has just turned 25, which is admittedly young, but he is in his ninth year on the professional tennis circuit, has won nine Grand Slam titles and is worth at least £68m. When I finally met him in his hotel suite in Rome (he was playing the Rome Masters), he was lying on a massage table with his flies undone affording me a good view of his Armani underpants — Armani being one of his many sponsors, natch.
Everyone kept telling me that Rafa was so tired and had had a bad day.
But then I was so tired and had had a bad day too, traipsing round the boiling Foro Italico stadium, surviving on bottled water, watching his boring match, waiting for his press conference, then hanging about with mobs of screaming fans waiting for him to emerge from the players’ entrance.
He eventually came out with a posse of security men, signed a few autographs, and was whisked off in his car.
I was told to follow and meet him at his hotel, which turned out to be some characterless sports/conference complex miles outside Rome — it could have been in Croydon.