Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Of Baggy Flesh And Football

One of my fondest childhood memories is of a day out to Twycross Zoo, home of the famous Ty-Phoo chimps and one or two lesser known English actors of the late sixties.

There I espied an ostrich having a wazz.

As it pecked at the grass, its ball-of-feathers body perched on its scrawny legs like a fluffy Scotch egg on a cocktail stick at a dinner party for the damned, a huge bag of wrinkly flesh descended from its undercarriage — an inverted cone of withered purple, speckled with the stray feather scragginess of a half plucked chicken — and let fly the contents of its bladder into the dust.

That, my friends, is how slack I feel now for not posting in over a week: slack as the undercarriage of a fully grown ostrich as it wazzes contentedly in the sun.

And so, to a time-saving re-tread, a regurgitation of previous wonders. For there be no new posts today, ye scurvy swabs.*

* Remind me to post about my selection of writing hats at a later date.

So, since football is in the air — quite literally flying from the feet of Rooney, Lampard and Cole three times each to deliver a record-breaking 9-0 victory over Slovenia later this afternoon (before we all wake up from our mock Flashforward to discover even Rooney was a dream and England have been pounded into the South African veldt by a bunch of hapless Eastern European no-hopers) — I've chosen to run with a couple of old posts that most perfectly highlight my vast knowledge of this truly world-topping game.

Go here for the augury.

And here for what might have been.

naturalmente io muoio i miei capelli, sono un ladyboy

(as they say in the world of online English to Italian translation...)

11 comments:

fairyhedgehog said...

Your similes are so delicate and understated.

flying from the feet of Rooney, Lampard and Cole three times each to deliver a record-breaking 9-0 victory over Slovenia later this afternoon

If only!

My Beloved doesn't get to watch till tonight, by which time everyone (including him) will have lost all interest in the game.

(Word ver = cittini. Google knows when you're speaking Italian.)

Old Kitty said...

I for one will be blowing my vuvuzela very loudly until someone's eardrums burst.

:-)

I love my vuvuzela. Blow, honey, blow!

Take care
x

Aerin said...

Oh. This post made me understand the herds of quadrupeds prompt at leave a comment.

Ouch.

Whirlochre said...

Undershed Mystical Mammal Thing
During the last world cup, I managed to make it through the centre of Birmingam and home on a train without hearing, seeing, or sensing anyhting about the match du jour. When I got home and turned on the video, it flipped to the BBC news coverage of Sven Goran Erikson's assessment of the score.

Old Kitty
Sounds like a weird cheese with too many equally weird holes in it.

Aerin
I feel your pain.

Like a Suffering Hoover.

Plugged in, but wishing it was idle.

Or better still, a nice lamp.

fairyhedgehog said...

As it turned out, Beloved was happy to know the result and all set to watch a recording of the match - but it was upstaged by the tennis.

Robin S. said...

NO ONE has a voice like yours. You're a treasure. No joke.

Whirlochre said...

Deuce-o-Hog
I gave up watching tennis when Yvonne Goolagong got married.

Wrobin
Just what I need to hear right now. You boost me as if an Exocet missile had connected with my rear end (in a good way, of course).

McKoala said...

France, oops. Italy, oops. It's all so topsy turvy that England might even win (snigger).

Whirlochre said...

Now that Australia are out, and Scotland never made it, I imagine you're left floundering like a platypus in a pina colada...

McKoala said...

Scotland: The Sleeping Giant of World Soccer. We're just taking a little nap right now, normal service will be resumed shortly, because, as you know, soccer is the true destiny of every ginger nut and in Scotland we fire those out by the million. Including my own little ginger nut.

Robin S. said...

And I think the World Cup should be held in Scotland, and every single redheaded Scot should be trained on the bagpipes, and each Scot entering the stadium should be given a set of bagpipes to play to out-sounds and fully annoy the living fuck out of everyone who has a goddamned vuvuzela.

Plus, I love the sound of bagpipes.

And Whirl, that rocket in the ass thing sounds painful, but I know you know what I mean, so hopefully, the rocket was a pleasure ride.

Word ver: ginge (looks like the word ver folks saw McK's gingery comments, huh?!)