Sport

Lots of blogs are mentioning sport recently, ManOfErrors is getting a lot of comments, with memories of past glories of caliper-laden soccer afficianados.
Now I will recognise that NZ is a sport mad country, where everyone is encouraged to go out and get active.
Why?
We have Taffy at Nuova Lazio High, who is mad keen on mountain biking (MB). He has helped to develop a (reportedly) magnificent MB track in the glorious hills surrounding the balmy valley of Nuova Lazio. At least that is what I think he said at last appell, sometimes it's difficult to work out what he is saying. I think he's fallen of his MB once to often, and is suffering from serious brain damage, like most sportsmen.

I hear reports on the wireless radio, and the wireless television of chaps doing wonderful things on emerald green paddocks;of coughing up the pill, of ball in hand (I thought they always had to do that in Rugby Union Football(RUF); of the secret black arts of the scrum(mage); of brave chaps running and playing with one testicle hanging out (have these chaps not heard of personal protectors?

what I believe our American friends would call a jockstrap, or at least good manners);many cries of "that's gotta hurt", of course it has to bloody hurt, they've just been hit/trampled/punched/choked/thrown/hit again/kicked/jumped on/butted/kneed/bitten/(and I strongly suspect in one instance French Kissed).


Reports on a strange variation of RUF called soccer, where 11 chaps kick a ball up and down another emerald green field (this time), where they are not seemingly allowed to handle the ball at all (unless it is a mysterious entity called the "Hand of God Maradonna")
Reports from an occupation called netball, where young ladies (scantily dressed and of a delicate mien)stand about, occasionally trot, and throw a ball to each other. This one is almost civilised.



Reports of beach volleyball....no I cannot go on, it is simply too much for a man of my advancing years and high blood pressure, but I have recorded some of the girls' games on the Digital Versatile Disc Recording Apparatus.
Sport is supposed to be relaxing.
At its most energetic it consists of 11 chaps, properly attired in gleaming white, wasting their time on a beautifully mown lawn of epic proportions, while we, the real sportsmen sit in deck-chairs under a brilliant sun centered in an azure dome and sip gin and tonics, and rumble quietly to each other about things of the day.
No sweat.
No blood.
And definitely no bloody women.



Ah well, a large whisky calls, while I watch our gallant 15 thrash the living daylights out of those ugly Welsh. Watched on that marvellous invention called Satellite Television, linked to my wireless television. This way I did not have to go to my well deserved bed too late.