Sunday, June 15, 2014

Not The World Cup

I bet you all thought I'd be rambling on about the World Cup in Brazil this week didn't you?  Well, I'm hardly going to mention it all, except to say that Baci, Alfie, Tom and I all like to watch the games on television.  It's not so much for the football itself, we just like to see all that juicy green grass and we wonder what it takes to get a job as one of the many hundreds of guinea pigs it must take to keep it that short.  I did apply for one of the jobs but I didn't even get an interview despite my CV stating that I have vast experience of stuffing my face and that I am quite willing to commute from Australia to Brazil at my own expense. (Well, my staff's actually, but they didn't need to know that.) It may or may not have escaped your attention that the World Cup has never been hosted by Peru.  There is a very good (if little known) reason for this.  They just can't get the number guinea pigs required to keep the grass short enough there.  One can tell by looking at us that we are not stupid creatures.  Peruvian guinea pigs are rightly suspicious of humans that try to fatten them up.  They know that if they take on the job of keeping a football stadium grass short they are likely to end up in that very stadium during the game on a snack vendors stall.
 "Piggy pies! Get your hot piggy pies here!"
 "Cavy burgers and Coke! Only five Nuevo Sol!"
The Brazilian gig is a lot safer for guinea pigs except that they are likely to have to succumb to being shaved all over. Still, some of us would gladly suffer that indignity for the sake of a good feed of fresh green grass.

A Brazilian guinea pig.

That is all I'm going to say about the World Cup.  Oh I almost forgot, just one more thing.  My male staff is always banging on about what a great team England had in 1966 when the won the World Cup for the first and only time.  He goes on and on about how that team would easily beat the "bunch of losers" that form the current England side.  What he forgets is that today's professional footballers are stronger, faster, fitter and more technically proficient than those of the 1966 era. Even a guinea pig know that.  For heavens sake, the captain Bobby Moore drank lager at the same rate that Lance Armstrong consumed steroids and both Nobby Styles and star midfielder Bobby Charlton smoked like chimneys.  I'm willing to bet that even the weakest team in the 2014 World Cup would run England's 1966 winning team ragged. In fact I'm even willing to bet that even a team made up from this tournaments referees would give England 1966 a run for their money.  In any case, all this speculation about the results of games between teams of one era and another is as big a waste of time as trying to teach a guinea pig ride a bike.  It's not going to happen.

Before I get on to my main subject of the week I'd just like to say a few words about the above mentioned Bobby Moore. He was and still is my male staff's hero and role model.  He remembers that golden afternoon back in July 1966. England had just beaten West Germany 4-2 and handsome Bobby Moore, blond hair glowing like a halo in the watery sunshine climbs the steps at Wembley Stadium to collect the Jules Rimet trophy from Her Maj Queen Liz.  He's lifted onto the shoulders of his team mates for a lap of honour and every boy in the country wants to be Bobby Moore, while every girl wants to marry him.  My males staff says he could have been just like Bobby Moore, and its probably true - all he needed was talent, looks, determination and temperament.

Few people knew that only a few months before Bobby Moore captained England to victory in the World Cup final he had been suffering from testicular cancer and indeed had had one of his crown jewels removed.  It was a well kept secret because his club - West Ham United had told the press that he had a groin injury when he had to miss part of the regular season.  His testicle had become so large and swollen that he was about to be given the honour of becoming an honourary guinea pig, even though it hadn't quite reached the stage where it was dragging on the ground.

Like most men he decided to ignore the problem, hoping that it would go away and it was only when his first wife Tina rolled over in bed one night and accidentally connected with his tennis ball sized testicle with her knee, causing him such excruciating agony that he went to see the club doctor the next day. Sadly it seems it was too late because on the 24th of February 1993 he died of bowel cancer aged just 51. My male staff is certain that his testicular cancer was the start of his decline.  Do you know what?  I think that if my male staff wasn't such a dinky-di, true blue, big, hairy, Sheila chasing Aussie bloke I'd say he had a man crush on poor old Bobby. 
 "Wait a cotton-picking minute Billy!" I hear you cry. "your male staff is English isn't he?"  Well yes, technically, although since Australia currently has the better cricket team he is claiming to be Aussie born and bred.  However, in the extremely unlikely event that England win the 2014 World Cup you can bet your last bunch of basil that he will very quickly become English again.

Now look what you've made me do, encouraging me to rabbit on about football, I've forgotten what my main subject was going to be this week.  Be quiet and let me think for a moment will you.  Ah yes, I remember - Benign Positional Vertigo, or as it is also known - FAOTS. (Falling Arse Over Tit Syndrome).  My female staff has it and it causes her to lose her balance and suddenly go staggering off to the left and has to grab on to something substantial to stop herself falling over - a wall, a fence or my male staff's nose.  Her doctor is sending her to a fizzy-o-terrorist who specialises in certain exercises that cure FOATS.  It's caused by a disturbance to the ear canal - also known as the Farr Canal, at least I assume that's what its called because that's what my female staff says by way of explanation every time she falls over. 

Meanwhile the most entertaining place to be is at her belly dance class.  Regular readers will know that she teaches belly dancing and sometimes performs at restaurants.  Since she's become afflicted with FOATS I have insisted on going with her to watch her beginners class.  She stands at the front and tells her students to follow what she does.  As they're beginners she keeps it slow and simple until her FOATS kicks in, at which point she staggers off to the left and crashes unceremoniously into the wall followed by her students who apparently think its all part of the choreography.  It's great fun. I thoroughly recommend that you come along and watch.

My final word this week is a piece of advice to the young men of ISIS. It is simply this.  Read the Koran.


I'd like to play football with Uncal Billy and Alfie and Tom but Uncal Billy's staff won't let me becoz I keep mounting their heds. I don't meen Uncal Billy's staff's heds coz I'm not tall enuff to reech. I meen Uncal Billy's, Alfie's and Tom's heds.  They let me play wunce but i got a red card for mounting everywun.  Now I haff to sit and watch the others play until I've lerned that it's not akseptable to mount the other players. 

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