Monday, October 01, 2007
Ham Shanks World Cup
Apologies for yet another late late diary but IT'S THE WORLD CUP!!!
Rugby on council telly! WOO HOO!!
Aye ok ok ok - here ye go
Kind Regards
Ham
Ham Shanks World Cup
Patriotism [pa-tree-uh-tiz-uhm] – Noun : Devoted love, support, and defence of one’s country; national loyalty Or ‘Bloody Hard Work’ if yer a
Yes it’s the Rugby World Cup, that’s why old Ham has been so quiet. Glued to the box watching sport. This is the ‘real’ world cup where they play with a proper shaped ball. Not the one where a strangely spherical object is kicked by mincing over paid primadonas nancying about in their hair nets. Apparently that’s every four years as well; probably takes them that long to get ready in the changing room ‘Does this shirt clash with my eyeliner?’, ‘Oooh stop darling you look simply divine’ – Nuff said
Saturday night was a bit of a nail biter in the Shanks household. My evil twin and I had settled down in front of the telly to watch the drama unfold. In a break with tradition he had actually brought the beers and the snacks rather than raiding my house and leaving it looking like a plague of alcoholic locusts had flown through. Suitably impressed with this display of uncharacteristic thoughtfulness I fished a can of beer out of the cool box he had so kindly placed very carefully by my seat.
My delight was short lived. The can I had retrieved was completely white with the words ‘Spar lager’ scribbled in pencil on the outside; it was also warm. I cracked it open; the sound it made was not dissimilar to the last croak of a dying invertebrate. The fetid chemical aroma which accompanied said opening made me check for the poor animal inside. There are over twenty muscles in your face; it’s not pleasant when they all try to contract at once. The corrosive fumes boring into my sinuses ensured my face was a picture; but not a very pretty one.
I took time out from my enforced girning to glance across at my twin brother as he dipped a hand into his cool box and fished out a bottle of blizzardly cold Stella
My petted lip nearly reaching the ground he must have sensed the anguish with his special ‘twinny’ powers because he turned to enquire ‘is there a problem?’ I stared in disbelief, my eyes flicking back and forth between his bottle of expensive branded lager and the generic can of p*ss I was clutching in my own. This subtle gesture seemed to go unnoticed so I accentuated the movement by swinging my entire head back and forth rather theatrically ‘is there a problem?’ I gasped incredulously ‘is there a problem!’ I continued whilst bobbing my head furiously from side to side ‘well ye look like ye’ve got a dodgy neck?’ replied my brother quizzically.
‘It’s my beer’ I replied whilst making sarcastic air quotes around the word beer ‘what’s wrong with it?’ I thrust the hand written can in his face, stammering in disbelief ‘w.w.w.what’s wrong!’, ‘what’s fecking wrong!’ a light coating of spittle settled on the can as I spluttered with rage. He pushed the container away from his face with a derisory swat of the hand ‘I wish you’d stop repeating everything I say’ Oh dear, that was the straw that broke the camels back….. WALLOP!
‘Fer fuuucdcksake!’, ‘whad do oo aat foor?’, ‘Eeer uuum sorry … I slipped?’, ‘Ooo punchded me inaa ucking dose ye prick!’ my rage having now dissipated I was feeling quite guilty about skelping my brother. I’d completely forgotten all the rules of anger management: Counting to 10 before you act, listening respectfully to others, looking for alternatives to conflict or perhaps using a little humour to diffuse the situation. I’d gone straight for the smack the smug git in the face approach. Although in my defence I have to say my anger was now completely gone so perhaps I was right?
Anyway watching my brother hold the ice pack I’d hastily retrieved from the freezer to his fractured hooter I was filled with remorse and decided to stick with the betta buy lager and just let it lie. The frosty silence was eventually broken by the teams coming on to the pitch ‘C’mon Scotland’, ‘dumon dotlaaand!’ we cheered in unison as the boys in blue raced on.
It was always going to be a tense affair with a place in quarter final at stake. For the first time in a long time
In my despair I’d jumped from my chair and ‘bumped’ into my twinnys elbow with my knee. This would be the elbow attached to the hand that was clutching the icepack against his nose. It’s simple physics really. In physics, a lever (from French lever, "to raise", c.f. a levant) is a rigid object that is used with an appropriate fulcrum or pivot point to multiply the mechanical force that can be applied to another object. This is also termed mechanical advantage, and is one example of the principle of moments.
Now I don’t want to baffle you with science for two reasons a) it’s boring and b) I don’t know what the feck I’m talking about. However lets just say if I’d kicked him in the face then danced a light fandango on his nostrils it probably wouldn’t have been as sore as that wee ‘nudge’ I gave him as I leapt out of my seat.
When he came round I almost managed to blag my way out of it ‘Bruv bruv are you alright?’ I enquired with mock distress ‘aye eer w.w.what dappened?’, ‘aw man ye must have blacked out with the cold from that icepack’ He eyed me suspiciously as I lifted him back on to his seat. Just then Patterson slotted another penalty to put us back in front ‘FUUCKINGYEESS! I bellowed dropping him back to the floor ‘ooomppfff’
Unfortunately for me the penny dropped for him as well and his left leg rose swiftly to connect with my jewels and I crumpled to the floor. He managed to jab in another three blows to my spuds as he pushed his way back up, I’m sure I heard cracking ‘we’ll call dat quits den will we?’ he enquired whilst reapplying the icepack to his swollen nose. Neglecting to reply I took the time to savour what it must feel like to be Italian as the final whistle went and
So the Argies next, then the Boks and finally the All Blacks again in the final. We could do it you know, we really could!
