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They’re Here, You Know
November 27, 2012
By Roge Slater
They’re here, you know.
You may not realize it, but they are. Sitting next to you, standing beside you, working with you – even sleeping with you – but you wouldn’t know. You might sense it, but you wouldn’t be sure. They can be here at any time, even all the time, but if you did sense it, it would only be because they let you.
They’re that strong, you see.
They can force you to think something and then discard it in an instant. All that they leave behind is that little doubt, a niggling, lingering thought gnawing away at your inner self, as you try to equate what you sense and what you see (or don’t see, actually), and then you balance that with form, with what you know, what you believe with all your heart, what you can touch, what you can feel and what your superhuman brain will allow you to work out for yourself.
Amazing, isn’t it? We have all that brain power yet use only five percent – but we will believe that five percent over instinct ninety-nine percent of the time. Something doesn’t add up. They control instinct. They pass that fleeting thought behind your eyes, to tantalize and disrupt a chain of thought or for just plain mischief. They understand because they were here, and now they are here.
When they were here, they were just like us. Now they are here again. Back at the races. Or at least, we think they are.
Do we? Our senses perhaps don’t allow us to see, feel, hear or touch them.
We would normally discard them. But then they get inside your head. An image, a sound, a word in your mind or a thought in your subconscious. Just enough to be aware…. They become tangible if we believe – then, we can put the mortgage on them…
Not sure?
Listen to them – turn off salient thought and listen to instinct. Just for a moment. Don’t use your mind or analyse and study, let instinct tell you what is the right way.
Just don’t let them know!
If they know, they’ll mislead you.
You have to follow your first instinct no matter what , and maybe you can do the same with the second, but then you have to discard the rest. By then, they will know and they will play games with your mind.
Later maybe, when you have tried and seen what instinct can do, then you’ll learn how to tell what is instinct and what is mischief, and you’ll be able to follow more and more. But they will learn too and they will make things harder. The more you learn, the harder it gets – otherwise everyone would know they were there and everyone would be able to follow.
Then all our instincts would be the same.
We’d all back the same horse, just because – at first glance, the first instinct – it would seem like the name jumped off the page.
*
They’re Here, You Know by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Ace Of Spades
November 3, 2012
By Roge Slater
This is the third 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.
*
They sat around the poker table.
Each was more foul, their actions more onerous, than the previous. Like an eternal optical illusion there was no start and no end, but an increasing spiral of evil, intensified by each realisation and every thought.
And yet here, no one individual was the most evil.
Not even Mephistopheles, the keeper of souls; his every breath coated with the odour of rotting flesh as the spirits he holds pass momentarily from one world to the next. Each transition increases his power, sees his attraction to the evil that remains in all of us grow like clouds of smoke rising from a new fire, rolling and folding, increasingly emergent with every final breath.
Or Amy, benign in name but far from it in spirit: a senior demon in Christian theology and the presiding demon of Hell. His aura was that of intense fire, engulfing, capturing the weak-spirited that found themselves nearby, each adding to the power and the demonic wiles of the pretender to the throne. Manipulative and capable of multiple existences, one of them was here, sitting at this table of wrath, while others maintained his quest for power in another plane, waging battle upon battle against humanity.
Then there was Leviathan: transforming at will from sea monster to serpent, a ruler of hell and the afterlife and one third (the most evil) of the triad of Kings. Alluring and luring at a glance, then in a split second transforming to the most evil of monsters, not to devour his pray but to feast on the terror that his image creates.
Finally, together yet apart, adjacent and yet opposed, Abaddon (The Destroyer) and Astaroth. A Prince of Hell and a Chief Devil respectively, each responsible for the evils that are lust and temptation. Each capable of guiding their disciples to torture and damnation in perpetuity, destined for the eternity that is the second level of hell.
A swirling draught created a circle around the table and inside this invisible ring the thoughts and wishes of these five most evil demons were transmitted — without acknowledgement or sound — an ethereal pentacle linking each to each other as a vehicle of transmission.
The game began in a void. Not the silence that may be expected, but in a silence that was overpowering and all-encompassing in its depth, as the combined evil sucked at the atmosphere, draining it of any sensation — even drawing in the light, dull as it was, into the vacuum of soulless destiny.
The combatants — for that is what they were — were each gaining strength from their foes as one evil fed another, tipping the balance of power one way and then another as destiny balanced precariously on the edge of the chasm the game had created in the very heart of time. Each card chosen and each card laid in turn ripped and tore at the feint threads that were holding humanity together.
Every laconic movement of these combined evils stirred up a yet more dense and pungent fog than its predecessor, until the room was filled with the dank mist of death. Then the atmosphere would momentarily abate as the demons awaited their final card; the card that would decide the victor, the card that would grant a temporary authority over peers and ethereal empires, the card that would complete the sequence.
With no sense of passing minutes, hours, days, years, aeons, the game continued, each hand played and won with uncountable souls bet and lost, but still the sequence was incomplete; no hand was great enough to achieve the pinnacle of demonic mastery.
The stakes grew higher with every round. Spirits were the currency bartered and traded, the service of the living rated higher than the eternal adulation of a dead servant, and the bloodletting of a thousand disciples beaten by the eternal torture of the lustful living. The destruction and devastation being wrought on humanity at the turn of each card would take generations to recover — if any real recovery was possible — but in truth, humanity was the master of its own destruction, providing the want and the need (and more importantly the power) that these demons both needed and thrived on to go about their business.
The bartering was not of the physicality of life, but of destiny, as each card was laid. Earthly tragedy was played out with every hand, the supplication of races their only plea for leniency, but even these pleas were too numerous and ever weakening to be resolved.
And then it was time.
The cards were about to fall one more time; the sequence would be complete.
The pack had been turned and shuffled and dealt a thousand times, and now, finally — though the players didn’t know it — the final sequence, that which would determine the future of both evil and destiny, was at hand.
The stakes had risen like insatiable flames on a hay bail this hand, each player sitting with four cards of a royal flush, each in a different suit (as the five were playing Demon Stud using a De La Rue pack with the fifth ‘Royals’ suit added to Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds and Spades), yet none could see even their own cards any longer as swirling clouds of darkness enveloped the table. Each knew they sat on a winning hand, yet were oblivious to the repeated thoughts in their soulless minds that their opponents too could be victors, their own greed and lust for power finally becoming their destroyer.
Each of the final five cards was laid in turn, each bringing one side of the ethereal pentacle to a crescendo of intense light. As the final card was laid and the five pointed star completed, there was a rush of air stronger than that if all the hurricanes of the world had combined, the intense volume greater that a multitude of concurrent explosions. In unison the demons shattered as if they were glass. The fine dust that remained was caught by the winds and distributed throughout the very substance of time.
As the wind subsided, the dust and darkness cleared and all that remained were those final cards.
The Ace Of Spades by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Sparks Will Fly
August 23, 2012
By Roge Slater
The dark haze of silence hung in the air, the atmosphere decidedly subdued. All that could be heard was a soft whimpering, like that of a terrified child, an almost strangled murmur just audible across the room as the perpetrator struggled in vain to keep his emotions in check.
Surveying the scene, heads were bowed, no-one wanting to make eye contact or look at the closed door which they all knew would soon open, bringing fate and retribution ever closer. The only movement was the slow, apprehensive raising and lowering of the player’s chests as they sat in apparent gloom awaiting their fate.
Finally, it was time.
Preceded by solid, measured footsteps on the floor outside, the door handle gave a slight squeak as it moved, then the door opened. Not flung to the wall as some expected, but pushed gently and allowed to slide smoothly open. There was no accompanying sound. Nor did anyone enter the room.
The whimpering immediately silenced and, looking up as if some telepathic command had been given, the team – acting as one for the first time that afternoon – raised their heads and focused on the doorway…
Adjusting to the bright light, each made out a silhouette. Stood stoically between the frame as if solidly defending his territory (something that had sadly been amiss in the previous ninety minutes), there was the faintest movement. A trembling, as if caused by a buildup of pressure suppressed deep inside, like a volcano about to erupt or the rush of pressure through the air – unseen but often felt – before an earthquake or tornado. It was swiftly followed by a single deep inhalation of air, then a slow, controlled release.
Then silence.
The fear in the unseen eyes of the players intensified as their expectation and anticipation rose, their minds each imagining the worst fate from their childhoods and their homelands, each separated by their history, but in the present all together, all having failed as one. Straining to see through the glare, they were desperate for a hint of what was to come. There was no reaction from the doorway, the faint trembling remained evident, but there was nothing else.
They could not see the eyes that were searching the room, moving from each partially illuminated face to another in turn, the features on each reflecting the light from the corridor. Continually scanning the room as if looking for a target – the first victim; they sat unmoving, each uncomfortable in the gloom, each imagining that they were the one, yet wishing and hoping that they would be spared the inevitable wrath.
There was a moment, the most fleeting fraction of a second, when each sensed the change. A millisecond when blood pressure rose beyond all reason, the feeling so intense that eyes were bulging and skulls were set to fracture, but as quickly as it came, the sense dissipated as a sound emanated from the shape in the doorway. A deep, thoughtful Gaelic tone, cultured by years of travel and press interviews.
“Well, that was fucking crap, wasn’t it?”
Sparky had spoken, and the door closed.
Sparks Will Fly by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Death Of A Champion
May 31, 2012
by Roge Slater
It came from nowhere really. It wasn’t the result of a challenge or anything, just one day it was there, where previously it wasn’t. There were no headaches, just a slight feeling of pressure behind the eyes and occasional blurring of vision. It was an irritation, but little more, and it certainly wasn’t enough to warrant a discussion with my club or the team doctor. No one noticed, performance didn’t suffer and with no pain, there was no need.
The pressure was strange though. Not pressure like it was forcing the skull apart, but it was there none the less. You know, like the feeling when you press on an eyeball, only from the inside.
After a while, the symptoms worsened a little. The eyes were slow. Well, not the eyes themselves, more the muscles around and controlling them, especially late in the evening when tiredness played a part, or going from indoors to outdoors on a sunny day. It was only momentary, but it was definitely there.
The muscles felt like they were trying to move a great weight rather than just reacting to light, though they did (after a second or two) catch up. All that meant was a slight change to the match day routine, making sure that everything was working before the game started.
Still, no discussion with the doctors though. Especially not with a final coming up.
* * * * *
Man, its been a long season, but here we are. Lined up, eyes working and a European Final about to start. Come on eyes, we can get through this then there’s the whole summer to get over it!
OK, we’re off. Oh, a long ball forward, got that one, take that on the chest, knock it down, trap and a simple pass forward, now we’re on the attack. Move up, half way, OK stay close, keep my man in close, don’t want to give him a yard to turn in if the ball breaks out.
Come on, knock it wide… there, easy, now, round the man, hit the bye-line and swing in a cross. Oooh! Unlucky. I thought he’d misjudged that, looked like he’d run under it, but he’s just held on. Back we go, here comes a long bomb!
My way… watch it, watch it, and attack, there. Two steps and up… need to get some distance on this… that’s it, well away and off we go again…
* * * * *
No changes at half time, back out and ready. Our kick off this half. I’ll need to be careful of the lights though. Facing this way those long balls are going to come right out of the floodlights. I’ll need to get my angles right or I won’t see a bloody thing. I don’t want to be remembered for a cock-up that costs us the game.
Tracking left, tracking right, he’s not getting away from me. They haven’t threatened yet, not had a touch so far this half.
Here we go. Corner. Right, need to time my run here. Left hand side, start at the back of the box, jink in, run across. If their marker comes with me the cross comes into the gap behind me, and we should get a clear shot at goal… Ok, run. Jink… and again… there goes the cross, beyond me, right on the spot that one, a simple side foot and there we are, one up! They didn’t see that coming.
Right then, back to our box, line up, ready to go again. Got to keep it tight now, one-nil might just be enough, but we have to concentrate. Maybe ten or twelve to go. There’s more pressure in my head than in our box. Twelve minutes or so and my time’s my own for a few weeks to get this sorted…
* * * * *
That’s it, the final whistle, we’ve won the bloody thing! Christ, listen to that roar from the fans. Shit, that’s making my head bang. That bloody hurts now.
My ears, it feels like someone is sticking knitting needles through them. Even the pain is deafening. My eyes, too, my vision is blurring, everything is turning red, it hurts like hell. Heavy, very heavy, and the pressure…
Everything now. All of me. It feels like my head’s going to explode.
Who’s that? Clapping me on the back as they run to the fans. I can hear but I don’t understand. It’s all like white noise. I can’t focus, I can’t see more than shapes. I need to rest a moment.
Stop this pain.
Get my head back together.
My knees. I’ll drop to my knees for a second or two and close my eyes. Just to settle down. Relax. Deep breaths, then I’’ll be alright.
* * * * *
With all the celebrations on the field, he dropped to his knees, his arms resting in his lap. It looked to all around that he was giving thanks to whoever his god was. Born out of the emotion of the win, coming so close to the end of his career.
No one realised how close. None were aware that when he dropped to his knees he had a problem. His head bowed forward, shoulders dropped, arms hanging loosely in front of his body, his hands clasped in his lap, it looked as though the tension and pressure was pouring out of him.
When the manager ran over and tousled his hair in celebration, he fell to one side. It was only then anyone realised there was a problem.
There was no immediate indication that he was dead.
The main tumour was about the size of a golf ball. Right on the parieto-insular cortex of the brain, it had deadened the body’s sensation of pain. It had metastasized and a secondary tumour had engulfed the optic nerve. Between them, they accounted for the pressure in the head and the sensations in the eyes.
Finally, the main tumour had grown to the point where it caused the brain to stop. There was no shock or burst or haemorrhage. Simply, he ceased to function, an instant death as all bodily function ended in a single moment. His body had to all intents and purposes locked joint for joint in that kneeling position until the manager arrived.
The autopsy said there would have been a less than one percent chance of a cure, even if surgery had been attempted. Once the tumours had progressed to the point where the effects were noticed, they were too large to resolve.
Death of a Champion by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Twenty-Three
May 25, 2012
by Roge Slater
Morning, Sir.
Morning.
Look, I’ll get straight to the point, Q: we have a problem with Twenty-Three.
Twenty-Three?
Yes. You know, “B (OBE)”.
But surely he’s almost at the end of his time with us isn’t he? What problem can he be at this late stage?
Well…
Come on, spit it out. What’s the problem?
Well… he wants to play, Sir.
What do you mean he wants to play?
Erm… Actually, it’s that he’s demanding to play. Otherwise he says he’s going to tell the whole story…
Tell the bloody story? We only got him on board in the first place because he wouldn’t realize what the story actually was. When did he find out and what bloody use does he think it would be telling everyone? No-one would believe him because no-one would think that he was capable of doing something like this. And anyway, he’s nearly bloody 40 isn’t he? Isn’t there an age limit — what does he expect now — does he want us to inject him with sheep hormones or something and then just ‘disappear’ every other year of his life? Christ, he’d only just be young enough if we did that!
I know what you mean, Sir, but there’s a rule — apparently each squad can pick three overage players and he’d demanding to fill one of those spots. And he wants to play each game. Oh, and he wants to be captain, too.
Amazing. Are you sure he didn’t ask for his wife to be Official Team Knickers Designer as well? Surely we can get his children involved somehow as well — no wait, aren’t some of them American now?
No I don’t think so, Sir… Look, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know how we can stop him, I mean, if he told the whole story and people did believe it, there would be all kinds of ramifications. Worldwide even.
Now just hold on. Look at this logically. A spy he may be. But it’s not as if he ever brought us a secret, is it? He’s much too stupid to be relied on for that and he’s only a bloody footballer after all. All we’ve done is tell him things at this end then send him on trips to meet people — our Ambassador if you like — knowing full well that he couldn’t keep a secret. Misinformation really, just keeping the other buggers on their toes.
I know, Sir, but he still insists.
Amazing. He nearly got rumbled all those years ago, that Scotsman, what’s his name? Oh it doesn’t matter, but we got him out of that, changed his number and everything and got him four years — four bloody years no less — in Spain. He nearly cocked that up too. Got a bloody good tan and all the while we were still flying him ‘round the world ‘representing his country’, then when he’d failed miserably to learn the language over there we moved him again; another new number another new location, another new identity, this time in America. Well, that went down like a lead balloon for a couple of years didn’t it? We even had to ship him off to Italy for a while.
It did settle down though, Sir.
Yes, I suppose it did after the first couple of years, but he’d upset so many people that we’ve had to limit his travel — particularly when we had that Italian in charge over here — and there’s no way this new bloke, Hodges or whatever his name is, will even consider him.
That’s his point I think, Sir. I think he’s realized that would be a step too far, so he sees this other tournament as his swansong, a sort of last chance.
I’ll give him last chance! Bloody hell, I mean, I know he’s ingratiated himself with that President fellow — Obama isn’t it? — and that could be useful, but all they seem to talk about now is his underpants. Not sure that’s going to deflect any serious interest they may have in what’s going on here, but… Christ. How do we end up in these bloody situations?
He’s very insistent, Sir.
But we’ll be a laughing stock. Good god, what next? We’ll have to give him a zimmer frame and a place in the Octogenarian Olympics. Bring him up here. Go and get him, bring him up here and let me have a word with him.
Sir. Number Twenty-Three, Sir.
Right. Yes. Sit down Twenty-Three. Or would you prefer it if I called you “B (OBE)”?
Twenty-Three is fine, Sir.
OK. Yes. Right. Well, what is all this? What’s it all about, you spilling the beans and all that? Come on man, speak up.
Well, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want…
Twenty-Three by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Emotional Rescue
May 16, 2012
— 3 Comments
by Roge Slater
Mornin’ Bri,
‘Allo Jim. Good weekend?
Yeah not bad. Fancy it’s gonna be a busy one t’day…
Yeah. Make you right.
See the game?
Sort of. Watched three or four on one of them text feeds. You know, where you get updates every few minutes. ‘Ad United on, City too, and I kept flipping back an’ forth, then I ‘ad a look at Stoke Bolton un’all. Bloody nuts it was. Christ knows what we’ll get in ‘ere today.
Well, two minutes an’ the doors are open, so we’ll find out soon enough…
The Football Association have announced that there has been a major breakdown at the Manchester branch of football’s Emotional Rescue Unit.
The Unit was set up specifically by the Association and their colleagues in the FA Premier League as a rehabilitation centre, intended to treat those lost souls that at the end of every season (traditionally around the middle of May), who need time to recover from the stresses and strains of following their team, home and away.
These are people who struggle to cope with the rigours of normal everyday life. Once their Saturday (and nowadays, often Sundays and Mondays too) become devoid of the football fix, they often have hallucinations, inventing games in their mind that combine many of the best (or in some cases worst) of the previous season’s games. Then, they seek out like minded souls with whom to discuss these fantasy matches.
Sometimes these poor souls have been known to become so engrossed in these fantasies with their peers that they lose all sense of reality, and, in extreme cases, they have even been so engrossed as to miss the start of the following season. This in turn can cause seizure, blackout and epileptic fits, and is extremely difficult to treat. The most prevalent cure involves the subject being held lightly restrained in a darkened room, while re-runs of all missed matches since the start of the season (including the Charity Shield) are played over and over, until such time as the subject’s consciousness is overtaken with the full belief that he or she was present at each game. (This cure has become more and more successful over the last two or three years with the advent of High Definition Television and Surround Sound, both of which add to the completeness of the experience.)
This coming summer the facilities were anticipating little use, if any at all. The craved wall to wall football is available at the flick of a switch, with the finals of European Competitions, the European Championships, the Qualifying Rounds of the Europa League (now Channel 5, struggling to compete for high quality live matches, has signed a deal to show both legs of a number of these matches) and even the Olympic Soccer tournament, all combining to bridge the gap between last season and the next. Indeed, the only foreseeable problems were at the end of the summer recess, when the only available live games would be the Olympic Women’s Soccer Tournament, as so few people grasp what is actually going on in the game.
However, no one had predicted the events of Sunday 13 May, in particular the mood swings associated with so many football followers late in the second half of the final Premier League matches of the season. The FA have released the following report, illustrating the timeline and severe mood swings in the table below:
| 4.05pm | Man City 1-1 QPR Cisse scores | MCFC fans shockedBolton fans depressed | ||
| 4.12pm | ManCity1-1 QPRJoey Barton Sent Off | Stoke 1–2 Bolton | Sunderland 0-1 Man Utd | MCFC fans deliriousMUFC fans elatedQPR fans distressed / angry
BWFC fans nervous / excited |
| 4.23pm | ManCity1-2 QPR Mackie scores | MUFC fans deliriousMCFC fans distraughtBolton fans stunned
QPR fans elated |
||
| 4.32pm | Stoke 2- 2 Bolton | Boltonfans distraughtQPR fans delirious | ||
| 4.47pm | Sunderland 0-1 Man Utd Final score | MUFC fans think they are championsMCFC fans start to leave the Etihad disappointed | ||
| 4.48pm | Stoke 2-2 Bolton Final Score | Boltonfans realise they are relegatedQPR fans start the party as they are safe | ||
| 4.50pm | Man City 2-2 QPR Dzeko scores | MUFC fans party’s quiet down, willing the clock to move faster.Man City fans suffer severe anxiety and clock watching in hope and desperation. Others without smartphones continue a desolate journey home.QPR fans don’t give a sh*t. | ||
| 4.54pm | Man City 3-2 QPR Aguero scoresFinal whistle blows. | MUFC fans shocked into silence.MCFC fans apoplectic with pleasure.MCFC fans without smartphones get in, kick the cat, turn on the TV, pass out with excitement, wake up disbelieving, pass out with excitement again, wake up and apologise to the cat.
QPR fans plan abuse of Fulham and Chelsea fans starting August 2012. |
Where normally at this time of year the admissions would be limited to those people suffering withdrawal symptoms, the peculiar circumstances surrounding Sunday afternoon have added a new dimension to the type of treatments required.
There are a number of supporters from the red side of Manchester who, having pitched between euphoria and desolation in such a short space of time, are physically and mentally exhausted and appear completely unable to grasp the reality that is ‘Runners-Up’. Their bodies are also producing serotonin, norepineprine and dopamine in vast quantities, creating a depressed and subdued mental state, which must be controlled before any sense of stability and reason can return.
Diametrically opposed to this are supporters from the blue side who, having felt desolation for so long — in many cases 44 years rather than 31 minutes — have suddenly seen a massive increase in adrenalin level and production of endorphins leading to overuse in the body of stored glycogen.
This is similar to the ‘rush’ that has previously been felt by imbibing of only the blue Smarties in a packet. To counteract this effect, scientists from the Emotional Rescue unit are talking to the confectionery manager about extracting the serotonin from the reds and injecting it into the blues in an effort to maintain a sense of proportion.
The required dosage is understood to be Reds: 19, Blues: 3
Emotional Rescue by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
***INTERNATIONAL OLYMPIC COMMITTEE PRESS RELEASE***
May 14, 2012
by Roge Slater
With less than 2012 hours remaining until the London opening ceremony, the International Olympic Committee is pleased to confirm that a number of countries have now selected their final ‘Team Songs’, each representative of their Olympic goals and aims at the forthcoming tournament.
Though most national committees have chosen a team song, some countries have selected songs for specific events, and a handful of athletes have even had their own choices ratified for selection.
Under IOC rules, each song will be chosen by the countries’ national committees, but there are a set of rules and guidelines to which they must be strictly adhere. Each song must be sung in one of the main languages of the host nation; for London 2012 this means songs have been allowed in English, Hindi, Punjabi, Patois, Romanian, Polish and Croatian.
One change from previous competitions, however, is that each song will be available on CD and for download from london2012.com from 1 June. At the closing event of the Olympics on 12 August a Top Twenty Chart will be released and medals awarded to the countries occupying the top three places.
Team GB will take to the field with a specially recorded song, One Vision by Alfie Boe and Kimberley Walsh. Some of the songs that are expected to be among the favourites to win medals are (in no particular order):
|
Team USA |
It’s My World by Mettalica |
|
Sweden |
The Winner Takes It All by Il Divo |
|
Jamaica |
Ire Feelings by homegrown Rupie Edwards |
|
China |
The Ying Tong Song by The Goons |
|
Australia |
Two Pints of Lager by Splodgenessabounds |
|
Netherlands |
Green Green Grass of Home by John Otway |
|
New Zealand |
Counting Sheep by Sarah Blasko |
|
Columbia |
Cocaine by JJ Cale |
|
Italy |
Shaddup You Face by Joe Dolce |
|
South Africa |
Ebony & Ivory by Paul McCartney & Stevie Wonder |
|
Germany |
Das Hokey Cokey by Bill Bailey * |
*The GB Olympic Committee have raised an objection to this song. Though performed by a Brit it is to be sung in German, not one of the seven listed indigenous languages. The Germans have been advised by neighbouring countries to back down, as last time they tried to come to London and have it all their own way, they failed.
It is yet to be confirmed that the Republic of Ireland team will use a newly recorded version of the famous Cher song, Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.
From the individual event teams and athletes, the pick of the bunch seem to be India’s sole representative in the Synchronised Swimming, who has chosen Ever So Lonely by Sheila Chandra and Monsoon, while Brazil’s Women’s Beach Volleyball athletes will take to the sand to Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini by Bombalurina
In addition to the main event, a similar competition is being considered by the Paralympics organisers, though the rules may have to be tightened in regard to the selection of songs. When the subject was discussed at the last meeting of the international committee heads, far too many of the teams selected Bladerunner (Vangelis).
INTERNATIONAL OLYMPIC COMMITTEE PRESS RELEASE by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
