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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.
*
The Jungle 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.
*
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.
*
Inner Demons by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 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.
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
Terry England: An Unsubtle Metaphor
July 8, 2012
— 1 Comment
Through Oxo tears, Terry England logged on to his Facebook account, fully aware of what he was going to find. His amazing ex, and her new mate, Juan Espana. Kiev bedrooms. Champagne. Carpet-burn.
His defence mechanism, always his strongest feature, kicked in. Tackled the subject. If you can’t beat them, discredit them.
“Terry, Terry, don’t concern yourself with Juan. His muscles. His beauty. The way he makes her smile. And scream. He’s boring, Terry. Boring. It’s not about (squad) size, length or girth. Nor is it about touch or proficiency, stamina or ability. Mutual orgasms mean nothing when they’re so… predictable.”
Knotting in his stomach. Terry lurched to the bathroom of his dilapidated studio flat. How did he get here? How did it come to this?
Leaking lukewarm Carling, he stared at his dishevelled member. It used to be bigger. It used to be impressive. Oh, the things it used to do. The envy it inspired. What happened? Where did the virility go?
Unable to stem Juan’s inarguable strengths, Terry’s mind soldiered on. With no results, nothing empirical, to work with, the situation required something less quantifiable. A level playing field.
“This isn’t a results game, Terry. It’s not about performance or ability or talent. It’s an entertainment industry. It’s all about the anticipation, the potential mistakes, the attempts missed. The fouls and the corners and the offsides. A laugh is as good as a sigh.”
Disconsolate, Terry sat back at his desk, scrolling through emancipating pictures. His ex, beaming, flushed, satisfied. The pictures of his own heyday were in black and white. How long could he live, vicariously, through past victories?
“Terry, think how long Juan takes to reach a satisfying…”
He couldn’t listen anymore. After all, this was football, not mental gymnastics.
*
Matt does a lot of writing. This includes sport, comedy, poetry and short stories, among other things. Check out his blog at imnotinterestedinmattpottinger then heckle him on twitter @mattpottinger
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.
*
Euro 2012 Knockout Drinking Game by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Roy Hodgson Gets Revenge On Rio Ferdinand
June 7, 2012
by Andrew Smith
After Rio Ferdinand was overlooked for the twenty-seventh time for England’s Euro 2012 squad, England manager Roy Hodgson has stuck stubbornly to his story, insisting that Rio had been left out merely for “football reasons.”
Roy has now picked John Terry, Gary Cahill, Martin Kelly, his dog, his postman, his hairdresser and Titus Bramble ahead of Ferdinand.
“I have picked Kelly purely for football reasons,” he explained, “in particular, his performance against Brighton & Hove Albion in the League Cup. They are widely known as the Spain of the Championship, and are obviously the perfect preparation for facing the likes of Ribery and Ibrahimovic in the group stage. I was also especially impressed by his starring role on the bench in the 0-0 draw with Wigan.”
Despite Roy’s stout defence, rumours persist that Rio’s exclusion relates to an unfortunate incident when the Manchester United defender merk’d Hodgson, several years ago.
Poor old Roy had been sitting quietly in his favourite armchair in front of the fire, in his dressing gown and night cap, sipping on some fine wine and enjoying an improving book, when Rio stormed in. Affecting his best Italian accent, and through the cunning use of a fake moustache, Rio pretended to be a member of the Mafia, attempting to arrange the assassination of Silvio Berlusconi. Remembering Roy’s fine work with Inter, his suave nature and cool head in a crisis, the Mob had apparently identified him as the ideal man for the job.
Now, Roy is no mug — indeed, he is a wise and cultured man of the world. He was not easily convinced. He immediately asked a pertinent, piercing question.
“What is your favourite food?”
What would Rio answer? Pizza or pasta? His research was fool proof.
“Pizza and pasta!”
Roy was convinced, and after throwing a few essentials into a night bag, he was instructed to wait at the bus stop where the car would pick him up and take him to the airport. Little did Roy know — still in his dressing gown and night cap, now waiting patiently in the late evening drizzle — that the bus stop was an expertly done fake. He was actually being filmed by a secret camera while Rio crouched behind a bush, literally pissing himself laughing. However, the plan also backfired on Rio, as one of the neighbours caught sight of him and called the police, suspecting him to be a peeping tom. Old Trafford spin doctors brushed the affair under the carpet at the time, passing off Rio’s eight-month ban as the result of a missed drugs test.
The whole incident rather rankled with old Roy, and the pair’s relationship has reportedly been strained ever since; dark, meaningful glances, muttered insults, excessively firm handshakes and even a heated argument over the last custard cream have all been witnessed in the last few years.
Revenge is, they say, a dish best served cold, and one suspects Roy is cheerfully supping upon a large bowlful of the stuff. Look who’s laughing now, Rio.
Andrew Smith is a council worker and National Trust for Scotland volunteer from Edinburgh who finds the world a scary and disturbing place. To escape he reads, watches lots of sport and writes nonsense about it.
