Monthly Archives: July 2012

You Need to Score More Goals Man!

Went to a soccer match the other night. This one had a twist though, it was in the USA.

Floridian third division side Orlando City played Stoke of the premier league in what must have been the worst match anyone has ever witnessed ever. Despite this disgusting pile of footballing fecal matter we were watching, the atmosphere the Americans were generating was commendable to say the least. However, there were some things we witnessed that were nothing short of tragic.

The national anthems played before the game, with my sibling and I happily humming along to ‘God Save the Queen’ in half hearted fashion, as we’re clearly too cool for patriotism. Expectedly though when the American national anthem played, people put their hands to their hearts and sang, everyone. What I didn’t expect though was the streamers, confetti and balloons being released when “the land of the free, and the home of the brave” was belted out. By this point I was instantly a Stoke fan, and for the rest of the night I could only picture the Orlando City fans with colourful face paint, honking a horn and driving a tiny car while the children run away in terror.

The game kicked off and was played in typical boring Stoke city fashion, so the vast majority of our entertainment came from the sheer stupidity and cringe worthy quotes coming from the fans sat around us. For example, every time Thomas Sorensen took a goal kick, screams of “you fat bastard” in Britain we’re replaced by “you suck, asshole”. Which frankly sounds like a back handed 9 year old insult you throw at someone when they nick your juice box.

Other nuggets of joy we couldn’t help but overhear from anonymous fans while we were eavesdropping include:

“You need to score more goals man!” – when Orlando went 1-0 down.
“Whoever came up with that is a genius.” – referring to the “you suck, asshole” chant.
“America is the best country in the world.” – a drunk college students comment which was greeted with a high five from a hairy man in the row in front.
“Why is there 4 minutes injury time? There wasn’t even any goals. This is rediculous.” – a man clearly not grasping the concept of ‘injury time’.

The fans were by far the most interesting part of this game. I guess it was kind of nice to hear fans applaud players for trying their best in contrast to English football supporters, who basically tell the players how awful they are as they themselves eat a pasty and drink two pints at half time.

But even so I’d rather see the players get waves of abuse than staff squirming to clean up confetti thrown by overly patriotic Yanks.

Stupid Fish

Fishing is overrated. Maybe that’s just because I can’t catch anything. I get one of them weird feelings while I’m fishing where I keep thinking they’re plotting against me.

They keep suggestively splashing in the water, reminding me that they’re actually there, taunting me. They’ll eat algae off the bottom of small ponds but they’ll not touch my bait, I mean who doesn’t like reduced fat turkey hot dogs?

I read somewhere that fish don’t feel pain. I can’t help but think that’s just an excuse so fisherman don’t feel bad about themselves. If I had been granted three wishes I’d make it so fish can vent their physical and psychological anguish to their captors, then hopefully they’d need some heavy counselling.  That would be after I’d wished for an unlimited supply of spicy tacos and a talking pet chimp.

Maybe I’m just doing it wrong. Those guys on “Hillbilly Hand Fishing” make it look so easy. Just reach in and pull ’em out. When I tried that I got nothing but an old bike tire. Eventually the boredom sets in and the stench of failure invades the air, what the hell is their problem?

I know, I’ll try worms. I pierce the hook through the worm, and submerge it into the swampy depth. After another age of disappointment passes by, the worm looks bored.

I’m boring the bait.

At this point I’m packing in, I’m not letting a worm make a mockery of my pride. I can’t handle the humiliation, I can feel the fish laughing and sniggering at me. I feel bullied and lonely and retreat back to the dock, if I could catch anything I’d release a swarm of small tiger sharks into the pond for instant revenge. That would teach them to play with peoples emotions. Jerks.

What Seems to be the Problem Officer?

Got pulled over yesterday. I’m on holiday and it was the type of pullover that would make any inexperienced, hormonal, pasty, post – teenage driver stain his undergarments.

I only noticed her in my rear view mirror after I had not completely stopped at a stop sign. At this point I thought my life was over. I was overreacting about as bad as a women’s football coach would after being beaten on penalties at the world cup final, it’s alright, nobody cares anyway.

She didn’t pull me over though, not yet. She decided to stick herself so far up my backside for the next 3 miles I had to just leave her there until it didn’t hurt anymore. The flashing lights then turned on, I pulled over fearing I’d done 65 1/4 in a 65 zone.

She casually walked over to the car. I had a moment of clarity and thought to myself “it’s alright, I got this.”

“What seems to be the problem officer?” I slyly enquired as I lifted my shades.

“License and registration please.” She stated with authority.

She was playing hardball.

“Certainly mam.” This was like an episode of COPS. I must admit I was loving every minute of it despite the growing urine patch on my shorts. She took away my license and I had this horrifying image of myself being thrown onto the car bonnet and being violently searched. At least it was a woman and not the kind of hairy trucker looking man that would eye me up in the prison shower.

“Here you go”, she said as she casually handed my license back to me after faffing about in her police-car mobile. Then she just drove off and left me. No explanation.

I felt like I’d been stood up on a date. I didnt even get to first base. Not even a hug. Is this how Americans usually get treat while driving?

I think I’ll get a job at KFC and serve a police officer. While they’re stepping out I might just stop them and ask:

“Do you like fried chicken?”

When they answer I’ll just walk off with a side order of righteous swagger.