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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.
UEFA New Year’s Irresolutions: What Will Almost Certainly Not Happen in Football in 2012
January 9, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
JANUARY
In a desperate attempt to curry favour with his club’s owners and to escape the wrath of the vehement Ewood Park home ‘support’, Steve Kean reaches an agreement with the Premier League and Venky’s to play the remainder of Blackburn Rovers’ home games this season at the Wankede Cricket Stadium in Mumbai. In their first game in the club’s new surroundings, Blackburn lose to Fulham by an innings and 26 runs. A defiant Kean claims after the match that Rovers played in a style worthy of the name of this great stadium.
“Yeah, by playing absolute wank,” chimes in a nearby journalist.
FEBRUARY
Manchester United make their long-awaited debut in the Europa League, away to Ajax. Despite the widespread criticism of the tournament’s format and credibility, United manager Sir Alex Ferguson maintains the club will take their involvement in UEFA’s second competition very seriously.
“We want to win it,” he proclaims as the teams run out on the pitch, with United boasting seven players from their under-14 squad and a strike partnership of Brian McClair and Sir Bobby Charlton. Channel 5 broadcast proceedings live from Amsterdam, with commentator Stan Collymore enthusiastically poring over the action in his Tactics Truck situated in a nearby car park.
Sensibly, Wayne Rooney is kept away from the Red Light District. And female-only senior persons’ homes.
MARCH
After successive, damaging defeats to Napoli, Manchester City and Tottenham, Andre Villas-Boas is unceremoniously sacked by Chelsea. In a short statement issued in the aftermath of the dismissal, Roman Abramovich expresses his regret, then confirms the details of Villas-Boas’ “modest” severance package: £17million, multiple share options, five yachts, and the Maldives.
The young Portuguese coach departs Stamford Bridge denying claims that he was not mature or experienced enough to stand up to the big characters in the Chelsea dressing room — but immediately spends half his severance money on Vimto and Wham bars, while texting his dad to help him shift the yacht, so he can get home quickly for a mega Championship Manager sesh.
APRIL
Manchester City wrap up the title with a typically emphatic 8-0 victory over Wolverhampton Wanderers. Mario Ballotelli has a quiet game, scoring four goals in the first 10 minutes, before being sent off for round-housing a mascot (Wolfie the Wolf), whose only offense is sporting the same haircut as the young Italian. Balotelli is then spotted in the Molineux Main Stand during the second half, distributing 5,000 chicken balti pies amongst supporters, the resultant case of mass indigestion sparking an epic pitch invasion at the final whistle.
Upon receiving a six-month suspension from the FA, Ballotelli’s appeal consists of only three words: “Why Always Me?” The FA respond by extending his ban by another month.
MAY
Real Madrid defeat Barcelona 5-4 in one of the greatest Champions League finals of all time, at the Allianz Arena in Munich. Departing manager Jose Mourinho denies any foul play on his part, dismissing claims that he needs ‘dirty tricks’ to defeat the Castilians’ great rivals. UEFA, however, announce an investigation into Real’s fourth goal — scored from a Cristiano Ronaldo free kick, wherein Barcelona’s keeper Victor Valdes appears to be shot by a firearm.
“A bullet was found in Valdes’s midriff etched with the initials J.M.,” a UEFA spokesman confirms.
Meanwhile, as Euro 2012 comes to the forefront of the minds of fans and players alike, Real’s German international players, Mesut Özil and Sami Khedira, deny setting out to deliberately injure Barca’s Spanish contingent with a string of highly dangerous tackles. Still, accounts of Xavi, Andres Iniesta and Sergio Busquets, all seriously injured, being driven aimlessly around the streets of Munich for hours, with the ambulance drivers maniacally singing the German national anthem, suggest that UEFA might launch another investigation.
JUNE
Eyebrows are raised by Fabio Capello’s squad selections for England’s forthcoming European Championship finals campaign. “You want-a youth, I want-a experience, we both-a happy!” Capello defiantly declares as he picks Brooklyn Beckham, Tom Daley and the kid from the John Lewis Christmas adverts, to provide “fresh impetus” into the squad, alongside “experienced heads” Jimmy Greaves and Peter Shilton. As well, he announces Papa from the Dolmio adverts as his new Assistant Manager. England are eliminated at the quarter-finals stage, losing 3-0 to Italy. It is to be Capello’s final game as boss of the Three Lions although footage of ‘Don Fabio’ high-fiving Papa Dolmio as Italy’s third goal goes in, as well as reportedly enjoying a post-match bunga bunga party in the victorious Italian dressing room, leave more than a smidgen of doubt into where his allegiances really lay.
JULY
Germany win the European Championship for a record fourth time, defeating a surprisingly depleted Spanish side 3-1 with an excellent display of attacking verve. Mesut Özil does not succeed in deflecting the pressure surrounding the ongoing Champions League final investigation, delivering a cryptic message during his post-match interview on German television: “My undying thanks to the Munich ambulance drivers. You can pick up your envelopes at the party!”
AUGUST
English Champions Manchester City conclude their summer spending in typically reserved fashion, splashing out £100 million to buy Blackburn Rovers. Manager Roberto Mancini insists the deal is good value for money, and that all of Rovers current staff and facilities will be utilised.
“It’s a good deal — Ewood Park will be our new training ground, Steve Kean takes on an even more challenging position than his last, as Mario Balotelli’s anger management coach. Also, I am happy to say that I now have at my disposal three full teams capable of challenging for trophies — plus the current Blackburn squad — and the buy-out includes Rovers’ history, too.”
The last, somewhat controversial clause is confirmed by a new plaque unveiled at the start of the season, inscribed “Welcome to the Etihad — home of Manchester City Rovers, Premier League champions 1995 & 2012.” Rumours of City Rovers naming a stand after Graeme Le Saux prove unfounded and Mancini remains defiant in the face of the subsequent outrage.
“What do you think, we have more money than sense?!” Mancini chuckles, as he refutes the rumour during a press conference unveiling the signing of Michael Owen from rivals Manchester United for £20million. “Besides, it’s not like it’s the most money we’ve ever spent. We did invest £130 million in seven vials of Lionel Messi’s sperm for our new youth project.”
SEPTEMBER
Jose Mourinho makes his long-awaited return to Chelsea, replacing interim coach Guus Hiddink on a long-term contract.
“I wanted a contract duration that suited both my long-term ambitions and symbolised my relationship with the very patient Mr. Abramovich,” Mourinho insisted, as he put pen to paper on a three-week tenure, with a clause stating that first class air tickets to Manchester be purchased immediately if “so as much as a sneeze” is heard from Sir Alex’s dugout.
Mourinho finds it difficult to find believers willing to accept his claims that he is less egotistical nowadays, especially after arriving at Stamford Bridge for Chelsea’s opening game parading down Kings Road in a giant white chariot, with each of his three Champions League winners’ medals adorning a separate FHM High Street Honey — one blonde, one brunette and one redhead.
OCTOBER
Despite Arsenal falling 15 points off the pace after just 10 games, Arsene Wenger remains adamant that he will not yield in pursuing his club’s evidently flawed transfer policy.
“We will only make value signings,” he vows in a press conference, where he denies claims that he threatened to give Thierry Henry back to the New York Red Bulls “piece by piece” if they did not stop making daily calls enquiring on his return.
“Probably, we should have not kept him past March. Or April. Or May. Or against his will,” Wenger admits. Now, after having made short-term moves for previous playing legends Sol Campbell, Jens Lehmann and Henry, Wenger remains coy on rumours that Igors Stepanovs is his next target for a temporary mid-season spell at the Emirates.
NOVEMBER
Harry Redknapp enjoys a golden honeymoon period at the outset of his reign as England manager, winning all of his first four World Cup qualifiers. His task is made somewhat more arduous, however, as he is no longer able to call on the services of captain Steven Gerrard, nor regular squad members Glen Johnson, Stewart Downing and Jordan Henderson. Fueled by increasingly strained relations with English football’s governing body, Liverpool FC dramatically withdraw from their affiliation with the FA.
Embittered Liverpool manager Kenny Dalglish confirms, “We have had enough of being victimised. Its always big old FA picking on little old Liverpool. There’s been the Suarez affair, refs picking on poor shy Bellamy, and the final straw was today, when Fergie cheated at Kerplunk at the managers’ summit and no-one told him off!
“With our 40,000-capacity stadium and countless trophies, I’m sure we can find a new league to accommodate us.
“What? No, it doesn’t matter that the hardware is mostly from before 1990, or that we haven’t played post-Christmas European football for quite a while now.”
At month’s end, Liverpool proudly join the SPL, but do attempt to leave the door open for a return by offering Andy Carroll back to the FA and Harry Redknapp’s England set-up. Redknapp says, “Thanks, but I’ll scrape by somehow.”
DECEMBER
The year closes with Mario Balotelli returning from his seven-month ban just as City Rovers open up a 20-point lead at the top of the Premier League. Balotelli gets into the spirit of the season by doing a lap of honour dressed as Santa Claus, whilst spraying the contents of a Lucozade sports bottle clearly marked “FOR SPECIAL USE ONLY” into the adoring City Rovers crowd, who lap up every drop.
At exactly the same time, Roberto Mancini bursts into the home dressing room, frantically asking, “Has anyone seen Messi’s semen?”
UEFA’s New Year’s Irresolutions – What Will Almost Certainly Not Happen In 2012 by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at strangebounce.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://strangebounce.com/2012/01/13/the-great-spl-brainstorm/.
The Down Side Of Beating United
January 5, 2012
by Roge Slater
Brrrrrt-cht, Brrrrrt-cht.
Brrrrrt-cht, Brrrrrt-cht.
“Ullo, Pards here.”
“Ciao, Halan. Iz Roberto, current King of Manchezzda, he-he! I ring coz I wanna said thanks to you.”
“Hi Roberto. No problem, it was nothing”.
“No, no. I no juss wanna said thanks you for the United’s no score, I wanna said thanks for the goalz you score also. It makes a big difference, no?”
“As I said, not a problem. We did it for us, really, not for you”.
“Ah Halan, that is so — ow you say — cute? But come, you know dis teetle race iz really only between City and United, no?
“Oh?”
“Look around, il mio amico. Arsene, he’s a nice guy, but he spenn more time to learn his good Henglish than to run his team. He gotta many sharp suits but no sharp shooters — escep’ than Van Persie. Everyhuan know you can no make de team from one person. You can never have enough, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so, but then, you have raided Arsene’s cupboard more than once, ‘aven’t you Robbie?”
“Well, if he no pay his players, someone must. He-he.
“Anyway, oo helse make a challenge, eh? Villas Bore-us? He bring the Portuguese manner to the dressing room, no? Much Latino blood running hot a-dere. Dey no gonna win, dey no even talk. Iz more likely eez old blokes throw a –- ow you say –- a strop?
“An as for Tottingham –- dat Arry, lovely bloke I tink. But I can no unnerstan a word he said! His team, dey good one day, den dey no so good dee nest. I tink he’s a few players short — maybe, I send Arry more elp… what you tink, Halan?”
“Actually, I’d prefer you send it to us, Robbie!”
“Hmmm. I tink about tat. I do owe you one. You see on the internet for Ales? He spend last week sit in a dark room for his birtday, he no believe the result. He drink and someone tell me he smoke again. He sit there with some transistor radio to listen to us play, and he only come out when we lose, like iz ‘Game On’ or something. He tink dey av a chance again because we loose. But I know — I know is jus’ one of dose tings –- we play well and sometime, we lose. They play sheet, and of course dey lose. Iz different, no.”
“Yes.”
“But look I say thank you an, okay, also I say you need any elp dere? Iz mad January, so maybe you wan’ me send you a couple of players? Dey no play against us, of course, but I like to elp you for gratitude. I got Bridge, De Jong, uuhm, Tavares, you take any you like. But, of course dey no come cheap but maybe we elp a little. De capo has a few quid, so we can — ow you say — split the difference? You pay and we pay and you get the players you want, eh? You still ave to play Tottingham and Harsenal has well, no?”
“Yes, well I’ll think about it, but the result was really for the fans. They’re great up here, and really get behind the team and the club…”
“Haha, Halan. That is — what is the word — quaint? LOOK Halan, you know dis really no matter. My chairman ave more money than some countries, so we can buy a players to stop him signing somewhere helse. Like Carlos bloody fandango. He go nowhere, unless I said he go. An he no go anywhere is a close game. Iz why I say you can have him. Maybe I even ring Sir Ales and see if he wan take him back…”
“You don’t think we can give you a game, Robbie? We’ll have to see about that. You’d best hope the title’s wrapped up come May, boyo!”
“No, no, Halan! I no meena this with you –- iz my Heenglish –- is okay but not great. You become my friend after last night, so I wan to elp you out. Iz always a difficult match with you, but I still think we shade it! Anyway, you ave interest? Bridge iz no bad, maybe he get fitter up there with games and he do a job for you. Or De Jong. He iz ard player, so he fit right into your midfield, no? Tavares, he is de same, an he score goals no doubt. Only, I be onest to you. He will sing like a canary about hanything if you let him. An, if you no let him, he go home at de drop of a hat.”
“Look, Roberto, thanks for your call. I’m grateful, honestly, but we’ll go out and try and win every game, whoever we are playing because that’s what’s best for us, not because of what it means elsewhere. You’re doing well and perhaps we’re a bit envious, but I’m sure we’ll get up there with you soon. I’ll let you know about the players, but I need to think about that. Our Club Secretary will be in touch formally if we’re interested.”
“Okay, Halan. But you know dese boys, dey no be around all month, so think fast, eh?”
“I will. Goodbye –”
“HALAN, HALAN!! Don go, yet! Iz one more ting. Dis Ba, ow much you wan for him? I reckon he do a job an fit in well here. Maybe we do a deal, yes? Perhaps you take Teves, and Ba, e comes as part of the fee, no?”
“No!”
“No? Tink about dis, Halan. Milan, dey are tinking has well. Can he sing?”
“What? No!”
“You sure? Maybe you juss no bring it out in him, yet?”
“Goodbye, Robbie!”
“Ok Halan, you think about it, yes?”
“Goodbye!”
“Goodbye — iz good to talk! I tink I watch another ‘Carry On’ now, to elp my Heenglish. Now which one has dose Red Devils in skirts? It always make me laugh.”
Light At The End Of The Tunnel
January 2, 2012
by Roge Slater
It was like a scene from one of those old black and white gangster movies: a dark room, deep in the bowels of the edifice. Few had the privilege of direct access without an invitation into the heart of the empire. Fewer still felt privileged when leaving; lighter in spirit, or pocket, or both, after transgressing the regime’s strict rules.
With no windows and a single weak bulb hanging shadeless from a cord in the centre of the ceiling, it was gloomy at best. Above the light whirred a four-bladed fan, though its languid swirling did little to disturb the dust on the lamp, let alone circulate the fug of the afternoon around the room.
On the desk, a cigarette butt smoldered away, rested on a saucer. The matching cup was long gone, shattered into pieces against the far wall, evidenced by a faint splattering of coffee droplets and a lone piece of china protruding from the soft, yellowing plaster.
There were pages and scraps of paper torn away from a notebook randomly covering the desk. Torn and discarded, as though plans had been drawn and redrawn but now were in complete disarray. Their owner was hidden deep in the shadows of the room, shielded from the despair of the day by the high-backed padded chair. His right hand rested on the worn leather, slowly rotating a pencil between rough, nicotine-stained fingers.
There was a sharp crack — like a gunshot — as the pencil snapped. It was an almost involuntary reaction to the frustration, anger and tension that electrified the atmosphere. Immediately the two halves were discarded, thrown to one side where they joined a growing pile, ready as if to be used as kindling for some future fire. The hand stretched out and took another from the drawer. Unconsciously tapped twice on the desk, the new pencil was soon being slowly rotated like its predecessor.
On the right of the desk was an opened bottle of wine — a 1957 Nervi Gattinara — a great vintage red from Piedmont, aged in wood. The cork, discolored from the wine at one end, was discarded to the side, and a single lead crystal broad bowl glass stood half empty nearby, the stem and bowl unmarked. The contents were perfectly still. A fleck or two of dust had settled on the surface of the deep red liquid to tell it had been untouched for hours, perhaps left as though the first mouthful had added to a bad taste in the mouth, rather than bringing forth the richness and depth of the fruit and the complex tar and tannin mix of the vintage.
In the background, a radio played. Poorly tuned, the voice was indistinct. It was difficult to make out any of the words, though the occasional yelp of excitement at least gave a change in tone before the hiatus subdued and the general drone returned.
Slow, deliberate breathing was the only other sound in the room, regular and keeping time with the movement of the second hand on the wall clock. It was almost too dark to make out the time.
Occasionally the stillness was disturbed by a light throat-clearing cough and a faint whirring sound, almost as if there was an echo of a hairdryer churning away outside. Neither sound disturbed the rotation of the pencil. The perpetrator was deep in thought, churning over and over some mystical gargantuan problem, looking for the solution and perhaps a ray of light in the gloom.
Timid footsteps sounded from the corridor outside, the sound mixing seamlessly with the chink of light creeping fearfully under the closed door. The light streaked across the carpeted floor but faded before reaching the desk, insufficient to cast another shadow into the mixture of blacks and greys. After an abeyance, just as fearfully the footsteps receded, replaced by the monotone rhythmic breathing and a crackle of French music amongst the semi-audible commentary from the airwaves.
Still spinning, the pencil paused as the voices on the radio raised to a new high. Suddenly the fingers clenched in hope, but after a second or two the moment passed, the radio returned to the laboured, tedious delivery of most of the previous hour and a half, and the hand fell to the desk. Then it slowly raised itself, as if carrying the weight of the world, before the pencil again began to spin between the second, third and fourth fingers of the aged but pliable hand. Time wove its silent path to conclusion, the seconds passing faster and faster to the inevitable end.
The pencil maintained its synchronous movement with the second hand while the fan drifted on laboriously, still failing miserable in its task to lighten the atmosphere. Even now, it seemed that dust was starting to settle on the blades as they fought their way through the dense aura.
The breathing was still deep and precise. Then the radio peaked again, and there was a sharp intake of breathe, then a pause. Ears strained, tuning themselves to the fuzz of the out of tune signal, filtering out even the merest though of any other sound while searching for the confirmation of a moment just passed. There it was again. One excited, extended but distinct word: “Goooooaaaaaaaal”, followed by the confirmation that Ji Dong-Won had scored for Sunderland.
There was an outpouring of relief, and as if by magic, the light under the door suddenly shone brighter. In the corridor there was the sound of footsteps running, and in the distance a cheer. The hand stopped rotating the pencil and the fist clenched, this time banging on the desk. The pencil shattered and the wine glass rattled into the bottle, the reverberation enough to force the cork to roll onto the floor.
There was a single word –- “Yes” –- uttered with such a relief of tension and pressure it seemed almost venomous. Sir Alex stood, emptied the glass and strode forcefully across his office, recharged and ready to face another day, another step, another year, another battle in the challenge to repeat Premier League success, safe in the knowledge that the blue noses had lost.
Game On.
The Light at The End of The Tunnel by Roger Slater is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
A Visit From Saint David (Beckham)?
December 24, 2011
‘Twas the night before Christmas; all tickets were sold
For Elland and Loftus and old Vicarage Road.
The press rooms were wired and ready to air
In hopes that King Kenny might break down and swear.
The Reds were nestled so snug in their suites,
All happy and eager, except for Luis.
His reputation sullied, mood turned to black;
Eight games he must sit for racial attack.
And over in Paris, there arose such a ruckus,
Cried PSG coaches, “They’re going to f— us!”
Qataris forsaking wisdom for cash,
In Kombouaré, not seeing a name with panache
To Castile, whose white knights again were run through,
As Pep and his mob rocked the Bernabeu.
And thus did the Special One’s ire provoke,
Though there was no eye to hand, so lovely to poke.
Looking to FIFA, excuses were tired, retread and lame,
But spouting them freely, Old Sepp stayed the same.
Louder than wolves, how his critics they howl,
While he lies, and dissembles, and at the British does scowl!
“Poor losers! Abusers! Disillusioned and vain!
From Triesman to Coe, Not a one has a brain!”
Thus, to the edge of the desert and the land of the Steppes
The hosting’s been given, and the rest have all wept.
Like piss in the wind and pie in the sky,
The bitching and moaning, and crying, “Oh Why?”,
Has left the Brits and the Yanks all feeling blue,
Predicting heat stroke, no-shows, and race riots, too.
And then, in a sound bite, it all comes to a head
and no-one believes what the Swiss boss has said.
Should f-word or n-word, or more dire be heard,
Just proffer a hand and it never occurred.
Now then at Christmas, while the remainder do sit,
The Prem and Championship increase their remit
Suarez and Terry likely both will appeal,
And wounds slashed wide open may never quite heal.
But Rio will Tweet! and Anton won’t matter,
Fergie will grumble; and Keane-o will chatter.
His droll little mouth runs on and how,
Happy as ever to cause a big row.
Yet, not far away, just a hop, skip and jump,
The disagreement at City is the one which holds trump.
Tevez’ work rate, his untiring hustle,
Give no carte blanche for a manager’s tussle
Though Anzhi, Milan and Paris beckon and call,
His pride has left him no ground to give all.
Therefore, Manchester Town a hero now needs,
Be it City or United whose colours he bleeds.
Over land and cross sea, in a Lear Jet will he ride,
Posh wife and fair children close by his side?
Title now won as was the design;
A new challenge, not money, for that he will sign
The time draws near when the window yawns wide,
and Sir Fergie might choose to add to his side.
Becks is old and he’s slow, lacking all pace,
But his touch is still there, and evergreen grace.
So, he smiles on camera and gives us his plea,
It’s been a long time, but United needs me.
Carrington’s halls echo empty, with no-one to deck them
A leader is needed… so why not sign Beckham?
A Visit From Saint David (Beckham)? by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Lost Race Row Voicemails
December 20, 2011
by Emelie Okeke
Brrrrrt-chp
Brrrrrt-chp
Brrrrrt-chp
click
–You have reached the voicemail of John Terry. If you are a tabloid reporter, please contact the Chelsea FC Public Relations Department. If you are Veronica Perroncel, Max Clifford or Wayne Bridge, please contact my attorneys. If you are anyone else, please leave a message after the tone–
Beeeeep
“JT? JT? It’s Rio here. I heard what you’ve been saying to my bro and before I jump to conclusions — you disgusting, uncultured swine — I just want some clarification. Did you really call Anton blind? Because that’s one of the worst insults you could aim at anyone. He may defend like he’s visually impaired, but blind is just politically incorrect, man. I’m totally gonna tweet about this.”
Beeeeep
“Bonjourno Signor Terry! I errr… I would-a like to say you have made-a the squad for the next two England-a friendlies. But errr… I won’t play you against the Spain as I fancy Jagielka with a broken-a toe to play-a better than you would-a right now. Hehehe. By the way, I err… spoke-a to-a Rio, and he won’t be in squad. He threatened to-a merk you in training if I picked him …… escusa, but what is a merk?”
Beeeeep
“By the way, It’s-a Signor Capello. Call me back. Ciao.”
¤ ¤ ¤
Brrrrrt-chp
Brrrrrt-chp
Brrrrrt-chp
click
–You have reached the voicemail of Anton Ferdinand. If you are a tabloid reporter, please leave a detailed message and I will answer all your questions; I’m tired of Rio hogging the spotlight. If you’re anyone else, piss off–
Beeeeep
“Alright, Anton, its Lamps here. Just wanted to apologise for all this nonsense. I’ve known JT for a long time and I just want to say I have never seen him do anything abhorrent towards anyone in all that time, except for that night at Bridgey’s house when we got… well, we probably should leave that alone.
Anyway, I’ve known your bro for an even longer time than JT and I am happy to lend an ear to you guys whenever you need. You have a fantastic footballing family, and you’re possibly one of the top three players in it. Congratulations! I know how tough it can be to be surrounded by relations of the highest repute — oh, hold on, I’ve got another call — Sorry, mate, that’s my lawyer. I’ve got to testify as a character witness for my uncle. If you need anything, leave a message with my agent.”
¤ ¤ ¤
Brrrrrt-chp
Brrrrrt-chp
Brrrrrt-chp
click
–You have reached the voicemail of Rio Ferdinand. I can’t talk right now because I’m busy tweeting. If this is an emergency, you can reach me @RioFerdy5–
Beeeeep
“Rio it’s little bro. Thanks for your support, man. I’m calling ‘cuz the gaffer asked me to pass on the message that if you’re ever fed up of riding the United bench, then you can always come down here and get some games with the Hoops. Apparently they can’t get enough of players with our surname at Loftus Road.
By the way, I’m absolutely gutted you didn’t make the England squad again. I was looking forward to you dealing with you-know-who in training. Do you reckon I have more chance of making the national team than you now?”
¤ ¤ ¤
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click
–You have reached the voicemail of John Terry. If you just want to breathe heavily and hang up, I know it’s you Bridgey. Get over it, mate. Everyone else is moving on with their lives…..–
Beeeeep
“JT, me old mucker, its ‘Arry here. I’m recovering nicely, thanks for the lovely flowers. According to the doctors, I should be back in the dugout in enough time to clean up whatever mess Clive Allen has made.
Just wanted to say I respect you for keeping a dignified silence throughout this painful time you’re having to endure. I know what it’s like to have police matters hanging over your head. Literally. Those helicopters make a hell of a noise when they’re circling just above your mansion, as I’m sure you know. How do you manage to hide away so successfully from the limelight? I’ll need to take a leaf from your book, mate. Preferably around late January.”
¤ ¤ ¤
Brrrrrt-chp
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–You have reached the voicemail of Anton Ferdinand. If you are a tabloid reporter, why aren’t there helicopters buzzing over my flat? I want my fifteen minutes!–
Beeeeep
“Anton. You there? Pick up if you are man, its JT here — but you can call me The People’s Skipper.
I know under the terms of the investigation we’re not meant to be in contact but I feel I need to put the record straight. You must believe me when I say I did not mean to say anything harmful to you. I feel that I have become a more modest and humble man ever since I took back my rightful armband from your bro– er… regained the England captaincy, and that includes the race relations seminars that I have been undergoing outside of football.
I mean, I watch MTV Base three hours a day and you guys say that word all the time, surely? Why can’t I use it?
I’m good friends with several black people. There’s Droggy, and Shauny, and Shauny’s brother who’s not quite as good as Shauny. Ermmm… there’s Shauny’s step-dad, as well. I always read his articles in the paper. Well, I look at the pictures anyway.
Also, I come from a very honest family. Everything me Mum has ever stolen she’s admitted to, and me Dad has the best rates in East London for his gear… But enough about that, though, you never know who’s tapping the wire, these days, hehe.
Please, just pick up the phone, I know you’re there! What are you, deaf or something?”
The Lost Race Row Voicemails by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at strangebounce.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://strangebounce.com/2011/12/20/the-lost-race-row-voicemails/.
The Totem
December 19, 2011
— 2 Comments
by Jude Ellery
Sit down, child, and I will tell you the history of the tribe.
Long ago, a people settled on the bank of a wide river. On the whole they lived a good life and thrived. There was ample game, roots and berries in the wood, and fresh water aplenty. The soil was good for tilling and growing and the winters were not too harsh or long. Still, the people were unhappy. Another, smaller, tribe lived on the opposite bank, but no matter how the people tried, their neighbours always seemed to have more and better. When traders came up the river, they would always stop on the far bank first, and the neighbours would have first choice of the best wares.
One day, a long-boat came up the river, its bow strangely marked. On board was a master gardener from a far off land. He brought with him a tree of magical wood. The neighbours were enchanted with it and bargained furiously. After many days of haggling, they finally agreed to meet the gardener’s exorbitant price.
The neighbours were extremely proud of the tree. They carved it lovingly, creating a strong totem to represent their village, painting it in a brilliant red. When they were through, they raised the totem up and faced it across the river where it would always see and be seen by the people on the other bank.
Of course, the people were consumed with jealousy. Every morning when they awoke and emerged from the longhouse, the totem was gazing at them mockingly from the far bank. A few of the people crossed the river to see the totem up close. When they returned, they confirmed that the totem was indeed majestic and hid a strong enchantment. The news only made the elders of the people more envious and, soon, the people were forbidden from crossing the river to gaze upon the totem.
A year passed, and then another, but the jealousy of the people did not. Finally, a plot was hatched. The people’s finest warriors would row across the river in the dead of night and ‘liberate’ the totem from the overly proud neighbours, bringing it to the near shore, where it would be truly loved and admired
The next morning, the people gazed in wonder upon their prize. The elders cried out with joy; this thing was so beautiful, so perfect. The totem was laid gently on a row of wooden horses and the people’s best craftsmen were summoned. With only a few minor alterations, the totem would represent their tribe forever.
Needless to say, the neighbours were enraged at the theft of their dearly bought totem. They rowed across the river in force, but they were few and the people were many. The neighbours were easily repelled and fled back across the river, shaking their fists at the people and cursing the totem.
The craftsman set to work on the tree, day and night. Chisels large and small worked in unison, re-shaping the neighbour’s carving and adding the tribe’s unique markings. As the craftsmen worked on the tree they told stories: epic tales of heroes, filled with fearsome villains and happy endings. Some of the children overheard these stories. Every night, after the campfire rituals, the boys would recount these stories to the others with much exaggeration and repetition. Neither the craftsmen nor the boys ever tired of their stories, such was the allure of the totem
The village was filled with a magical spirit; life was the best it had ever been. Then, as the carving neared completion, one of the craftsmen found a knot, right at the heart of the tree. Refusing to panic, he pointed it out to the chief and the senior craftsman. Both agreed that the blemish could be removed with little difficulty and that the tree would remain the most beautiful thing they had ever set eyes upon.
Thus, the craftsman adapted the design, carving a hole in the middle of the tree where the knot had been, working a new pattern. Everyone agreed that the imperfection was in fact a blessing. It was, they believed, representative of the tribe’s own imperfection, no matter how they strived for honour and obeisance to the Spirits. Only the Spirits were faultless.
When the craftsmen were done, the elders came forth and added finishing touches. A beautiful set of wooden wings, carved by the first members of the people to settle by the river, was bound onto the wood with strong hemp rope, and bright turquoise gemstones were embedded as eyes. Where the totem had once been red, the elders painted it a vibrant blue and white which reflected the limitless sky. It’s fearsome visage would surely strike doubt in the hearts of any invaders and infuse the fighting spirit of their own warriors.
Finally, the chief took from his robe a small ivory knife, and carved a second hole in the tree. This would be its mouth. The warriors who had brought the totem across the river were tasked with raising it. As one, they lifted the creation high, placing it into a neat hole that had been dug in the middle of the camp.
But the tree did not fit.
Mysteriously, the tree had grown thicker despite their whittling away at the neighbour’s original carving. Unperturbed, the craftsmen busied themselves, enlarging the hole to accommodate the tree’s girth. After a short while, the hole was ample and the tree stood proudly in the clearing. Now, it mocked the neighbours across the wide water, and not the people.
For a year, the people’s lives were bliss. Men and women of the village brought offerings to the totem and prayed for the continued growth of the village. As far as anyone knew, the totem was pleased, because the settlement thrived. Traders now docked on their side of the river first and emissaries from far off tribes came to visit them, instead of the neighbours.
With the anniversary of the totem’s raising nigh, the chief declared a commemorative feast. On the morning of the special day, a longboat docked at the village and the master gardener disembarked. All the village took his arrival as further confirmation of their new status. The gardener was given a special seat of honour for the feast. He thanked them graciously but said nothing more about the purpose of his visit.
The feast took place in the square in front of the longhouse, with tables set on three sides, facing the totem. To commence the festivities, the chief and his wife laid a special offering at the feet of the totem and sang it a song of praise. To everyone’s surprise, the totem answered.
Speaking in a sonorous rumble, using simple, halting phrases, the totem pole thanked the tribe for all they had done in making it look so beautiful, but then it reminded them it had not asked them to do so. It thanked the boys and girls for the lavish gifts they had placed at its feet throughout the year, but, again, it stressed that it had not requested any such favours. It thanked the tribe’s elders for worshipping it every night, but noted that it had never sought a position of such responsibility.
The people were stunned at what they heard, but the totem had not finished.
It thanked them for painting it in their sacred colours, but reminded them that the winds would chip away at that paint over time. It thanked them for giving it wings, but wondered at what purpose they served if he remained anchored to the ground. Finally, it thanked the tribe leader for giving it a mouth. Though it had taken it many moons to learn the speech of the people, it hoped that they would understand that it hadn’t meant to lead them on. All it really longed for, it said, was to return to its own forest, to be with its own kind. The totem pole then asked the people to free it from its hole in the ground, that it might return home with the gardener.
The chief was furious. He decried the totem pole as work of evil spirits. He ripped down its wings and scraped off the blue paint. Some of the tribe lamented the traditional methods they had used in the totem pole’s construction and erection, and concluded its base must have rotted in the short time that it had been immersed in the ground. Others declared the totem pole was representative not only of the tribe, but also of the nature of decay, and that it was bound to turn sour in time. Some desperately attempted to restore the totem pole to its former glory, but the love and spirit no longer existed to achieve such wonder. Others argued that it should be burned to the ground, but the gardener pleaded that he had never meant for the tree to leave its home permanently. It was only meant to travel for a time, he said, to gather support for the poor tribes in its homeland.
The tribe could not reach a consensus. Their squabbling was a disappointing contrast to the euphoria of the previous year. Across the river, the neighbours laughed at the people believing they had gotten exactly what they deserved. Rather than themselves, however, the people blamed the totem pole.
All the forlorn totem could do was remind them that he had asked for none of this.
