Too bad the people around Pete Rose refused to allow me to interview him last week. I couldn’t have knocked him around worse than the baseball writers did. Who knew he’d be afraid of a girl?

I wouldn’t even have bothered to ask him about the bets. I’m more interested in finding out whether Nike is paying him to show up in top-to-toe logo togs. Nike: Proud sponsor of The Hall of Shame.

You want to talk about Rose’s real offense? Let’s talk hair color. Admitting you bet on baseball is one thing, but admitting your wife smuggled Grecian Formula into jail for you is quite another. The tragic results are enough to bankrupt the company. I mean, he looks like Jackie Mason‘s evil twin with that orange tennis ball sitting on his head.

As for his big confession – I say, better a bettor than a rapist. But this isn’t the way guys see it – especially sportswriters who seem to consider Pete Rose’s, er, action a bigger offense than rape, murder, drug abuse and any of the other leisure-time activities professional athletes love so well.

Why? Probably because Rose betrayed their trust. And they trusted him to never bet on a game. After all, a thing like that could throw the odds and ruin everybody’s bets.

But really, what Rose did is not worse than what drugged-up players do. Every time a drugged-up player gets on the field, he’s throwing a game. How many have been won or lost by these spoiled brats who are welcomed back as heroes every time they dry out?

ROYALS SHOULD’VE WORSHIPPED DI

At the end, poor, paranoid Princess Di was the one holding the royal flush.

Just months before she died in a car crash, she wrote that she feared that Prince Charles was plotting to kill her by fiddling with her car brakes. Hey – just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.

And her theory turned out to be not so far-fetched after all. I mean, look who she was dealing with – Her Majesty’s Secret Service! James Bond! – the best assassins on Earth!

If for nothing else, the royals should have worshipped Diana just for bringing better-looking genes into the family. Savile Row suits aside, all that inbreeding had started making the whole clan look like escapees from “Deliverance.” No wonder Prince Charles’ mother didn’t want him to marry Camilla until she was too old to propagate.

They probably would have tolerated wayward Princess Di marrying some broke, tarnished Euro-trash son of ruined nobility – but a Muslim merchant’s son and nephew of Adnan Khashoggi? Not in this lifetime, sister.

BRITNEY IS OUT OF THIS WORLD

The first pictures from another planet were transmitted back to Earth this week. No – not the ones from Mars – the ones from Las Vegas, where Britney Spears got hitched and unhitched at the speed of sound.

While the pop-rock pop tart’s first hitching lasted only about 11 minutes, it was sincere all the same. You know how young love is – one minute you’re watching “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” and the next you’re either slicing someone’s legs off or getting married.

At least Britney, who’s been unfairly called common, proved how unique she really is. After all, how many drunks get married on a whim in Vegas? Oh, right. Well, it can’t be more than say, 100,000 out of the over 200,000 people who wed there every year. Can it?

Her fans are worried though. Is Britney turning into the new Liza Minnelli? A Liz Taylor for the 21st century? Maybe. Watch for the danger signs: blowing up to the size of Marlon Brando, marrying a gay man (or one with a mullet), or becoming addicted to painkillers. But, hey – she’s still young.

YOU’VE GOT E-MAIL . . . YOU’VE GOT E-MAIL . . .

From BudMan: “Pseudonymphomania: Compulsive desire to have sex under an assumed name . . . Hairpiece Swimplex: Rash caused by wearing a toupee in a pool . . . Herpes Cineplex: Rash caused by $10.25 movie tickets.”