Random mutterings, sighing and gasping, finger jabbing, brow dabbing and general bleatings about everyday bollocks. Brought to you by Angie Annetts, author of the highly-acclaimed short story collection, 'Tales From Around The Bend'. http://www.talesfrom.co.uk/

Friday, 9 September 2011

The All Blacks' Secret, Concorde and A Jumbo Pad

It's here. It arrived this morning and I've already passed out twice. Not to mention a couple of blindly thrashing lunges to get to the karzie in time. Yes, it's Rugby World Cup time and I've come over all queer.

Oh, go on then. If I have to.

The opening game saw those nice young chaps from New Zealand, in their nice black outfits, playing some big fatty boom booms from Tonga (I bet they can all shit a pan full...). Anyhoo, they had their dance off at the start (I have already blogged my thunderpants off about hakas and dance offs. So, if you've ruthlessly missed it - or had the gaul to blatantly ignore it, but want to make it up to me and become my new bezzie mate; here's the link).

Unnervingly, Tonga devoted a large part of their allocated dance-off time to
the tried and tested tactic of trying to catch their opponents off guard by doing
the old, 'Look! It's Concorde!' routine. Meanwhile, the wily old fox at the front
adopted the strategy of pretending his plimsole's fucked.
Alas, it was Tonga who got fucked in the end. They lost 41 - 10.

Yes, they're bloody good those All Blacks. I don't know how they do it.
Actually, that's a complete lie. I do know how they do it. And because I like you, I'm going to tell you how. But you mustn't tell anyone else, okay? If those All Blacks find out I've given their secret away, then I fear I may wake up one day with a (decorative) maori stick inserted (brutally) up my crapper. And we wouldn't want that. Well, not on a school day. Here goes...

They talk a lot about 'getting the basics right' in rugby - but no fucker's got a clue
what this means. All the other countries believe it's some kind of 'urban myth'.
But the All Blacks know wotswot. So their secret to getting the basics right?
Simples. Throw the ball to someone in a matcing outfit.
Check out the picture. Man in saucy black outfit throws the ball (with an element
of flourish) to someone else in a saucy black outfit.

Which results in said someone else in saucy black outfit scoring a jolly nice try.
And 10/10 for artistic impression.

So now, I'm bracing myself for Eng-er-land's first game tomorrow against the Argies. Which by all accounts should be a real fuck up as Eng-er-land will have black outfits on - but the All Blacks wear black, and they aren't playing tomorrow, so I don't know how Eng-er-land are going to throw the ball to the men in black, and now my head hurts just thinking about. I'm praying it's going to get abandoned by some rogue sub-standard stitching in their shorts.

Naturally, the old man's girding himself for Sunday's clash between the Mighty Springboks and our old mates, Wales. Naturally, being a Springbok fan he has the standard calm aura of smugness about him and has taken to goading anyone Welsh (or with a singsong voice). I fear this is a strategy he may not have entirely thought through, as one of the guvnors who kindly dispenses me emergency vodka is Welsh. And I wouldn't want any taps being turned off. No Siree.

Sometimes the old man wakes me up as his legs are going like the clappers under
the duvet. At times like this, I know he's having his favourite dream of Bryan Habana
'dotting one down' after leaving a trail of (hopelessly) lunging boyos in his wake.

But despite the smugness and the puffed-out chest, he still gets
the odd nightmare. 

With all these games been shown early in the morning, I've had to knock the pub on the head and go a bit limp on the drinking side of things - otherwise, I'll never be able to slide down the bannister and onto my couch in time for the kick-off (or dance-off).  And replays are for poofters.

But in these parrrrts, it's our annual Carnival tomorrow night and some audacious humans keep pestering me to go. I keep saying, fuck off - it's shite. But they're not having any of it.

Carnivals. Do I look like I want to stand on a kerb waiting for Spooky Choochoo
HuckyDuck to limp past with some waving youfs can-canning on it? And every
year the procession gets stuck on our narrow streets (cos I have actually tried
all this caper), resulting in a good 10 minutes of the same Spooky Choochoo HuckyDuck
float stuck in front of you, and the same gurning youfs hoofing their legs about.
Sometimes I fantaize about having a slingshot...
...and when it all gets going again, a relieved ripple of applause breaks out...

Then you get all this caper. Give me strength.

They've got the right idea on the continent; they propel the fuckers
through the air.

And naturally there'll be all this kind of horror floating around.
Munch one of those, and I'll be spending the duration of the world cup
camped out in the karzie.

 No. I'll be better off having a quiet night in with my favourite liver basher.
And up nice and early for the ruggers. After all, I've waited four bloody years
for it. Whereas, Spooky Choochoo Whateverthefuckitwascalled will be limping
around in twelve months time.
And then, I'll still ignore it.

If you like rugby, I wish your team well. And beyond that, I wish all the players the best and hope that no one has to suffer the heartbreak of an injury during (what I hope to be) a fantastic World Cup.
I'm having a blog break for a month. Why? I hear you cry (once the smelling salts have rendered you conscious once more). Two reasons. (1) The bleeding obvious. It's world cup time and I'll be getting up at peculiar hours, which in turn may make me 'tetchy' and tired. Plus I'm busy getting boss-eyed in the day job.
(2) I've finally started work on a sitcom. There, I've told you. So now I'll have to finish it. Or you'll diss me and have me marked down as a rubbish tart. Yes, I finally got a jumbo pad, a new quill pen and started my sitcom. I can't tell you too much about it at the moment or you'll wake up with a (decorative) maori stick inserted (brutally) up your crapper. But I can tell you that I aim to keep true to my style (as vile as it is..) and give it a bash. Naturally, if any of you out there are bezzie mates with the head of comedy at Channel 4, give me the nod; there'll be a large voddies in it for you.

So back in a month (unless I find an overwhelming urge to blog and just break down and do it - like the big jessy I am). Hopefully, I would have made progress with my sitcom (catchy working titles I'm kicking around are 'Moist' or 'Slack'....that is, in fact, an untruth...). And hopefully, Eng-er-land will be marching on (and back in their nifty white outfits).

Be well. Byeeeeee!

PS. If any of you have got a photo of those fuckers who put a (invariably) straw hat and box of tissues on the ledge in the back windows of  their car, please forward it on to me. These fuckers need some serious dissing.
And I'm just the top tart to do it.

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