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The Jungle
January 26, 2013
By Emelie Okeke
It truly is a pleasure to watch these noble creatures in their element. Within the dense boscage, the rough sprawl amongst which these animals hunt, fight, and gorge on their takings, there exists a multitude of species who live off their instincts to survive and, for the best among them, thrive. A painful death awaits the also-rans. Let us take a closer look at these magnificent brutes.
Perched on his usual lofty vantage point, the Cantankerous Escocesas can be seen issuing a ritual rallying cry, with all the familiar features present: fiery crimson cheeks, arms aloft, observant eyes bulging from their sockets. He can be seen constantly analysing the surrounding conditions in order to obtain the most accurate calculation of time, especially late in the day, as the sun begins to disappear over the broad horizon. His fearsome masticating at full flow is a sight to behold. The oldest of all jungle species, he is the leader of the pack and shows no sign of being endangered. Until now. His regular mid-afternoon stroll has been interrupted by an increasingly noisy neighbour.
The Astuzia Mancunia, with immaculately coiffured plumage and flamboyant gesticulations, is intent on becoming the alpha male of this sprawling jungle. His carefully assembled brood are capable of much childish squabbling and in-fighting, and sometimes he himself is caught up in the rough and tumble. Yet, for all this hot-blooded passion and wild histrionics, there remains a maternal streak in the Astuzia Mancunia’s veins, which reveals itself when he dotes over the most rebellious of his young.
As we gaze over the cornucopia of vines, greenery and exotic undergrowth, we can analyse a newer species with bountiful means for development. The Decorus Cymrus is easy on the eye and renowned as much for his purity and aesthetic wonder as it is for its sad affliction of common violent death at the hands of more physical beastly counterparts. It lives in the shadow of its past dominant generations. However, the longer that this adaptable animal gets used to its’ harsh surroundings, the more accustomed it gets to applying its undeniable mental aptitude with burgeoning brawn. For now it resides in the lowly climbs, cowering under the might of the aforementioned two species, but this may not be the case for much longer provided the development continues for the breed.
The similarly-formed Arsenis Obstinatus was previously the prettiest creature in the jungle but is now a bedraggled, surly and browbeaten fallen giant, having succumbed to many a pummelling from rivals in recent times. It is clear to see that it still gains respect, having once been invincible, and I observe more illustrious creatures at times stopping to admire the attractive exterior that belies its soft underbelly. Larger, less prettier creatures often stop to inflict injury for rich pickings, much to the behest of the victim.
Scrambling amongst the undergrowth we catch sight of the Conjurus Cocknus, a crafty species at the best of the times. This is a sprightly, albeit slightly grizzled creature which is able to survive with the most meagre of resources, sometimes using leftover scraps from those with more provisions to draw upon, other times using its powerful means of communication to call out for help in times of need. It never, though, steals things. Ever. Having endured a harsh winter in this treacherous jungle, it is clear to see that this animal’s survival and thus its very way of life is under severe threat. It remains to be seen whether it will be alive and kicking by the time summer re-emerges.
That concludes this trip to the jungle, where creatures of all shapes and sizes can be seen trying to manage their survival. It truly is a fascinating pl- hang on, what is this? Surely not. Yes it is! Prowling into the jungle with its chiselled features and instantly recognisable swagger, this is a beast which hasn’t been sighted in this environment for quite some time. Indeed, the Unico Specialis is truly one of a kind, and his renewed presence in the jungle immediately sees fear and suspicion arise in the eyes of all the animals. Where is he heading? Whose place will he take? Will he return to the top of the perch? Those questions will be answered on another day in the jungle.
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The Jungle by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
What Are The Odds?!
December 4, 2012
By Emelie Okeke
My perfect Saturday. Up at the crack, down to the offy to get the morning loaf, the currant bun and a few rashers, get back in to watch the morning line, then Soccer AM and Footie Focus before checking all the sports betting sites to find the best odds, then heading to Ladbrokes just as the lunchtime match kicks off, in time to get that accumulator in that will hopefully pay for the night’s beer money. Then meet up with the rest of the mugs at the local in preparation for watching our boys at the Matchroom, or in the local for Soccer Saturday if we’re away that weekend. Often, Jeff Stelling and his mates seems a better proposition even when we do have a home game. And even if I do have complete morons for mates.
“See what Ray Winstone said in that Bet365 ad? Torres to score first at 5/1! I’ll have a bang on that!” Dave points excitedly to the big screen. Moron.
“Dave, I wouldn’t back Torres to score first place in a Fernando Torres lookalike competition right now, let alone the first goal in a Premier League match. Besides, Ray Winstone didn’t actually say that, he’s a diehard West Ham fan for one thing, and its just a large-scale version of his face next to a screen with an example of a way to waste your money backing Chelsea”.
Dave glares at me dolefully for a moment before motioning to the bar, muttering a sentence heavily featuring the word “smartass” as he urges me to get the next round of beers in. At this moment, Roller bounds in.
“Alright Dave, Si, what’s occurring then?”
That’s the great thing about Roller, win or lose he’s always cheerful and full of life. A useful pick-me-up after a bad loss, top man to have around after a win. The muppet never stops talking though. We exchange brief pleasantries, then take our pints closer to the big screen, where the West Ham vs Chelsea match is about to kick-off.”
“Did a safe-as-houses treble with William Hill on Chelsea thrashing the Hammers, Arsenal smashing Swansea and West Brom obliterating Stoke with William Hill, should be quids-in by 5pm! Can’t see any of that lot letting me down this weekend!”
Dave shakes his head dismissively. “Call that safe-as-houses? Na mate! For easy, its all about this five-timer I did with Stan James: New Zealand to bosh England in the rugby, Celtic to wallop Arbroath in the Scots Cup, PSG to make mincemeat of Nice, Bayern to ease past Dortmund, and Valencia to massacre Real Sociedad. Easy with a capital E-A-S-Y!”
While Si and Roller indulge in some grossly over-premature back-slapping over their apparent “sure things”, I reserve my judgement and quietly sup my pint as I watch Rafa Benitez try and communicate some tactics to his bewildered Chelsea players via undecipherable hand signals. They know I like to bet a little bit differently. Instead of lumping on a list of short-priced favourites, I prefer to go somewhat left-field. Soon it will pay off. Soon it must pay off.
“Alright then Si, go on, tell us, what have parted your hard-earned 50p on this weekend?”
I clear my throat. I reckon I’ve excelled myself this weekend. “Well guys, with there being six Premier League 3pm kick-offs today, I reckon I would do something akin to my lottery numbers and back players who have my numbers on their shirts to score first. So… Agger for 5, Michu is 9, Holman will be 14, Whitehead is number 18, Fellaini for 25, and Sandro as 34. Six 7p five-folds and an 8p accumulator. That would net me a cool half a million from Ladbrokes if it comes in.”
Blank looks from Dave and Roller, then they promptly return to their pints. They think I’m crazy. They may have a point.
Three and a half hours later, and I’m throbbing at the temples with anticipation, desperately awaiting from Jeff some goal news from the Hawthorns and the Emirates, news that could make me roughly five hundred grand richer in the space of an afternoon. With Dave to the left of me bemoaning Chelsea’s defensive abilities, and Roller to the right of me strongly questioning New Zealand’s rugby credibility whilst contemplating another accumulator with Paddy Power, my ears are strained to filter out the surround negativity in close proximity to me.
Then, ten minutes of sweet madness.
“Goal at the Hawthorns! Dean Whitehead for the away side!” Brilliant! And then… “The deadlock has been broken at the Emirates! And Michu has won it!” 1…2…3… “YESSSSSSSSS!!!!” I go decidedly mental at the bar. At long last, my numbers have come up. Dave and Roller forget about their betting woes and turn to congratulate me on my life-changing win.
“Well done mate, top man, we always knew your genius bet would come in! Drinks on you tonight! Get us a bottle of bubbly each, then we’ll try and clean up at the Coral. I have a great tip!”
My friends are morons. But I love them. And I love betting, for moments like these. Win, lose or draw, we’ll drink some more. My perfect Saturday.
*
What Are The Odds?! by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Inner Demons
November 14, 2012
By Emelie Okeke
This is the fourth and final (and ever so slightly belated) piece in a series of Halloween specials here on strange bOUnce. The brief was simple: all stories must begin with the same opening line, and revolve around a poker game played by demons. Writers were encouraged to then let their imagination decide the rest, imprinting their own unique style on their version of this seasonal short story.
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They sat around the poker table. These Demons. They break down the most resilient of souls, the battle-hardiest of bodies, and the cleverest of minds. These four men. Playing a card game, yes, but only the most important card game they were likely to play in their wretched excuses for lives. A winner-takes-all prize. A shot at redemption. A new start. Their demons slain. For the other three, the ceaseless agony would continue.
There was Joey, veins pumping and temples throbbing, but concealing a distinct fear of his own body and what it could do, hence the bloodshot eyes from a lack of sleep. He had to watch himself like a hawk. His rambling scouse drawl contained a roulette of French phrases and Shakespearean soliloquies. An enigma, wrapped in a puzzle, wrapped in a maniac.
Second, Roy. Once a promising champion in the controlled arts of combat violence (in the name of sport, he claimed), now an exhibitor of cruel sadistic acts on the innocent and lame, or those simply unfortunate enough to run across his path at the wrong time of day. He could influence men, but was his influence a desired one? Head freshly shaven by what one would suspect was a kitchen implement, his was a wide berth which was well warranted. He was big blind.
Then small blind, Antonio. His pock-marked face a picture of lunacy, wide-eyed nonsensical grin spontaneously bursting into inopportune fits of maniacal laughter at the drop of a madman’s hat. Gnawing at the table. Don’t ask why. He did not have the best poker face.
Completing the set, Mario. His muscular frame was capable of causing considerable bodily harm; his rubber face capable of considerable clowning around. Don’t call him a joker though — unless you want the see the ‘joker’ make a pencil disappear.
They were all playing away, each as desperate as their three counterparts to win back their soul and their freedom. The game dragged on, time seemingly frozen, but no one man managed to achieve a monopoly. Finally, a knock came. A shrill whistle followed. The cards were abandoned where they lay and the four men ordered to run out of the tunnel and play their hearts out at a game where they were better versed — all without so much as a warm-up. The cards had failed to divide and decide their fates, for now; perhaps the adulation of those on the terraces would instead engineer an exorcism, ridding the tormented souls of the demons that afflicted these undoubtedly gifted yet highly dangerous men.
Or, like usual, perhaps not. God help the other eighteen players. Fright night indeed.
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Inner Demons by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Red Van Man
August 18, 2012
By Emelie Okeke
Poor Dear Arsenal mugs fans,
It is with great apathy indifference sadness that I write this farewell fuck you open letter. As you are all now aware, I have made the simple obvious extremely difficult decision to leave your feeder middling wonderful club for the superior more ambitious fiscally accommodating twelve-time Premier League champions Manchester United. I want to fool assure you that my move was certainly definitely not motivated by money. On the contrary, if financial benefit was my main concern I could have opted for those highly persuasive Sheiks even more lucrative offers. At United, however, I was presented with the opportunity to no longer suffer Walcott’s misplaced crosses follow in the footsteps of previous Dutch legends to have graced Old Trafford. Thus it is with a heavy wallet heart and pound signs tears in my eyes that I leave North London. I take with me underwhelming sullied great memories of my time as an underachiever a Gunner. Who can remember forget our ridiculously lucky epic FA Cup final victory over my new employers United in 2005? That afternoon at Wembley Villa Park where was it again? The Millennium Stadium was alright glorious, but sadly the club has experienced fuck all no such success in the intervening seven years.
Must I? I must take this opportunity to stick two fingers up at thank Arsene Wenger for all he has done for me during my eight fruitless fabulous seasons under his pig-headed tunnel-visioned leadership. His plain blind unwavering support of players through thick and thin is a defect quality to be ridiculed admired, and I wish him and his mediocre talented squad fun scrapping in the Europa League great success for the future. Who knows, maybe one day when you get a rich foreign sugar daddy the correct conditions arise I could return to the Emirates with a few Premier League and Champions League winners medals around my neck to reconvene my custom relationship with you gullible cash-rich magnificent Arsenal supporters. In the meantime, I must now complete my medical at Carrington and hope my back hasn’t been done in too badly from carrying your club for the past two years. I’m relishing the thought of four years of picking up six figures a week after tax like the amazing player that I am deserves intense competitive battles with your team and genuinely hope for more 8-2 thrashings success to both clubs on all fronts. When I return to the Emirates as a champion United player I appeal to you not to boo, and if you are to throw money at me from the stands, five pound notes minimum please as that would ruin my memory of all the great things we achieved at your state-of-the-art ground (I vaguely remember beating Celtic 6-0 in the final of the Emirates Cup. Truly epic…).
I will be forever demanding seven wasted years back indebted to your club.
Yours, for the right price
Euro 2012 Knockout Drinking Game
June 22, 2012
By Emelie Okeke
It’s that time again, ladies and gentlemen, when all four corners of our meteorologically overcast and culturally adversarial continent unite for the enthralling culmination of the quadrennial feast of football that is the European Championship. To add to the excitement, England have been thoughtful enough to qualify for the knockout stages this time, which means we can happily join our cross-channel cousins in drinking ourselves silly as we continue to immerse ourselves in the on-pitch action, this being the only social activity which unites us with the rest of Europe. Well, that and bitching about picking up the tab for Greece’s debt, anyway.
With the England team providing about as much sophistication as a Dairylea Dunker and a jug of Lambrini at an Oxford Don’s cheese and wine soireè, we long-suffering fans of the Three Lions have more reason than most to get the crates in as the quarter-finals kick-in. So, let’s make it interesting and devise some house drinking rules to accompany the action. Invite your mates from work/college/skiving and become the talk of the town with the help of the following stipulations. Hopefully the returning England players can join in shortly after their customary Valiantly Brave Quarter-Final Exit. All together now: “They’re coming home, they’re coming home, they’re coming…”
Date
June 21 — July 1, 7.45pm — 9.30pm (subsequent programming may be affected by extra time and penalties)
Location
Yours (optional), someone’s else (preferable), the local (unlikely, we’re skint, remember?), a dark lonely corner (England matches only)
Provisions
- At least two large 70cl bottles of a spirit of your choosing (NB: double all rations for England matches)
- A large bottle of tequila for Spain matches (technically a Mexican tipple but let’s not quibble over niceties)
- Uncountable cans of lager
Rules
Whenever England lose possession, take a sip of lager. Whenever Spain lose possession, down a glass of tequila.
If Roy Hodgson manages to successfully answer any question in an interview in under five minutes and without referring to “footballing reasons”, down two fingers worth of drink. Then, promptly stick said fingers up at the screen when he refuses to answer a question on Rio Ferdinand.
Down three fingers of drink for whenever Roy Keane sends a maniacal glare in the direction of Patrick Vieira in ITV’s commentary gantry.
The entire glass of whatever you are drinking must be consumed whenever a commentator suddenly becomes awash with partial and over-patriotic self-confidence and declares England will win the tournament. This usually occurs around the time England successfully defend their first corner.
Whenever Greece score, all participants must spin down a large shot of ouzo, spin around a broomstick for thirty seconds and shout “Papastathopoulos” at the top of their voices five times in quick succession. This ritual must be repeated until accomplished to acceptable standard.
If, God forbid, he gets a game, whenever that Liverpool “winger” overhits a cross, drink must be downed by the last person in the room to berate him. This is known as Last Man Downing Down.
The moment Mario Balotelli finally loses his shit, a generous shot of Sambuca must be consumed.
Three-quarters of a pint shall be downed the first time Alan Shearer refers to a player not plying his trade in Premier League yet pulling up trees on the Continent for several years as an “unknown quantity”. Half a pint the next time, a quarter of a pint the time after that, and so on.
A quarter of a pint shall be downed the first time Guy Mowbray waxes lyrical about a little-known Ukranian full-back who is apparently “the next big thing”, nailed on for the team of the tournament. Add a finger’s width of drink to the forfeit for every bonus fact extracted from the player’s Wikipedia page: his social security details, his favourite colour, his perfect Sunday.
Everything in the room brewed in Germany must be downed when Die Mannshaft are rewarded for their fearsome yet much-admired Teutonic ability to crush teams into absolute submission by winning the tournament.
If, on the tiny off-chance, England do win Euro 2012, locate the nearest brewery for the mother of all piss-ups.
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Euro 2012 Knockout Drinking Game by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Love Initially
March 16, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
CFC wanted AVB. AVB liked the EPL, its excessive pay, and the posh standard of life in the capital of the UK. FCP adored AVB, but could not refuse CFC’s GBP. AVB brought in RDM, perhaps to appease DD and JT. AVB’s season started FAB, with victory over WBA at SB. With new arrivals blending in, all seemed well, especially in the UCL. However, with Nando MIA, and young gun JOM and old boy Super FL out of the first team, fans were not exactly going OTT over AVB’s dream. Then CFC travelled to OT to play MUFC, where SAF met AVB. The initial loss for CFC and AVB saw end-to-end action aplenty, prompting SAF to reference the NBA. Then came the derby defeat to QPR. Sparks flew and red cards, too. A race row meant huge ramifications for CFC, the PFA and, eventually, the FA. With JT’s mind awry, and DL as good as AWOL, and CFC’s form went into freefall. AFC crossed the Thames, inflicting a first SB defeat for AVB, with RVP netting three. The SB faithful were far from OK, with poor results continuing through to 2011’s final day, culminating in a NYE defeat at SB to AV, masterminded by AMC. Still, an unbeaten January steadied the ship for AVB. An FAC win at QPR marked a new course, with the thickskinned JT’s heroics driving the frenzied crowd hoarse. However, February revived doubts over SB, and MU’s fightback from DOA fuelled SAF’s glee. With an end to DS’s scoring spree, worries over JT’s knee, NA and A left on the free, one each to SSFC and PSG, and Super FL contemplating mutiny, CFC were at crisis point upon their arrival in Napoli. There, they were thrashed, undone by Lavezzi and Cavani. Roman’s silence had many believing his confidence in AVB was shaken, with the BBC and ITV none too happy for their calls to be forsaken. The final straw was defeat at WBA, coupled with a revived AFC pushing CFC out of the qualification spots for UCL. Thus it came to be that CFC no longer wanted AVB. For now, RDM steps into the fray, but the permanent boss is still TBA. Roman did tell off Super FL, JT and DD, yet only one man picked up his P45 at 13:00 GMT on 04/03. Football management: it’s not as simple as ABC.
The Past Lives Of Steve Kean
February 27, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
Alright, class, settle down!
I have marked your projects from last week on the mysterious disappearance of Gary Cahill. Some conclusions were better than others, a few of you let your imaginations run away with you, but good work on the whole. Pick up your marked papers when you leave, and please read the feedback — you especially, Adams. Whatever possessed you to write ‘consistent’ and ‘David Luiz’ in the same sentence?
Quiet at the back please! It isn’t as though some of you did much better!
Right then, today’s lesson will be a study of beleaguered Blackburn Rovers manager Steve Kean, who has been routinely subjected to merciless booing and constant calls for his departure from the Ewood Park crowd. Hardest job in the Premier League, you kids must think?
Settle down, Jones! And put away that Wigan scarf, you look ridiculous.
Where was I? Ah yes, the feckless Kean. Small club, tough job, unhappy fans. Surely the abuse he gets is unwarranted, correct?
You agree, do you, Thompson?
Well, you’re wrong, as usual. He deserves every last boo, catcall and jeer. What you all fail to take into account — and, what’s more, should have done at a club where the ownership is heavily influenced by the Hindu religion — is that Steve Kean has had several past lives, and in each reincarnation has been more evil and heinous than the last.
Yes, it’s true, don’t look at me like that Fothergill! I have not gone batty. That will remark will cost you an hour in detention.
As I was about to say, this latest aberration is the worst yet. How can anyone not possessed of a diabolical mind possibly justify freezing out Chris Samba and Ryan Nelsen in favour of Grant Hanley and Martin Olsson? It’s obviously the work of the Devil.
As the overview that Smyth is now handing out detail — thank you, Smyth — once one of Kean’s past incarnations ends its sorry existence, the next body of Satan’s work comes to being almost immediately, carries out its gruesome mission and moves on. Therefore, Kean’s spree of terror must come to an end soon. In fact, events suggest that he is now receiving his comeuppance in the dark, rolling hills of Lancashire, with the renowned peace-loving Venky’s clan keeping a watchful eye on Kean to ensure that karma is rightly doled out. Either that, or they’re convinced that, in his next life, he’s returning as a chicken.
Time will tell. Meanwhile, let’s have a look at our Mr. Kean’s sinister history.
The Past Lives of Steve Keane Overview
Name of Incarnate: Alfried Krupp (13 August 1907 — 30 July 1967)
Worst Crime: Supplying weapons and military equipment to the Nazi regime during World War Two.
A convicted war criminal, Alfried was born into the industrialist Krupp legacy that came to prominence in 19th Century Germany. Despite spending three years in prison after being convicted of utilising wartime slave labour, Krupp was also a keen sportsman and won a bronze medal for his country in the Berlin Olympics, in the discipline of sailing. Unlike Kean, he was at least adept at steering clear of choppy waters.
Name of Incarnate: Alfred G “Alferd” Packer (21 January 1842 — 23 April 1907)
Worst Crime: Convicted of manslaughter after confessing to the murder of fellow gold prospector Shannon Bell, Packer escaped from jail, but was imprisoned again soon afterwards.
Infamously accused of cannibalism in 1874, after returning alone from a winter gold-prospecting expedition in Colorado, Packer had set off for the mineral-rich Rocky Mountains with five colleagues, including Bell, whom he was accused, tried and convicted of murdering. The other four, Packer is alleged to have merely eaten. Kean’s most prolific and rotund forward, Yakubu Aiyegbeni, can sympathise with accusations of over-zealous consumption. Like Packer, The Nigerian has denied feasting on four missing persons: in his case, the Blackburn Rovers defence.
Name of Incarnate: Edward Davis (1816-1841)
Worst Crime: Aiding and abetting in the murder of a New South Wales storekeeper’s clerk as part of a violent robbery.
Davis was also known as George Wilkinson. In fact, his true name has yet to be confirmed, to this day. He was originally transported to Australia for attempted theft in 1832, back in the days when the British government could afford to send its petty convicts to the other side of the world. However, Davis’s offences Down Under were anything but petty, and after four daring escapes from captivity he formed a bushranger gang. Bushrangers in 19th century Australia had a reputation akin to that of highwaymen in Victorian England. Davis’, and his bunch’s, downfall was a violent robbery/murder in New South Wales that led to their hanging in Sydney. The outraged locals wished Davis had never been sent their way by the English. Some Blackburn fans believe Australian import Vince Grella is a form of belated retribution.
Name of Incarnate: Charles Angelique Francois Huchet, Comte de la Bedoyere (1786-1815)
Worst Crime: Disobeyed military orders during the Napoleonic Wars, punished to death by firing squad.
After rising through the ranks of the French army, la Bedoyere became General de Brigade during the Waterloo campaign. He was the officer entrusted with the task of informing a 20,000-strong corps battalion to turn away from the battle towards which they were marching and report to the Emperor, who was encamped further to the east. The orders were inexplicably muddled, with the result that the troops spent the day marching back and forth without firing a shot. Shortly after the Battle of Waterloo, la Bedoyere was arrested whilst attempting to escape to exile in Switzerland. He was executed by firing squad after being tried in a military court. Certainly, regular attendees of Ewood Park know exactly how frustrating it is to see Kean’s troops traipse up and down the field all day without firing a single shot.
So, there we have it, students. As ever, I’m sure — well I hope — that you have been richly educated. Next week, we will uncover the mystery behind the regular employment of Sven-Goran Eriksson, and Johnson will be doing his presentation on why Martin O’Neill will soon rule us all. I’m sure we’re all looking forward to that one. Remember the homework on the Christmas Tree Formation is due tomorrow.
