The Weekend Ahead: No Sex Before Big Games.
The only reason men think about sex so many times in a day is because between those at payroll and those that occupy the other side of our beds, a plan has been conjured up to keep us away from the television set. Our imaginations then revert to secondary default settings, sex. It’s not because we want it all the time, but rather that we are not particularly good at it. Thinking about it gives us hope that we can improve, be on world class level because honestly enough, no one is going to imagine themselves being as terrible as they really are. We don’t have images of the tele sponging off our grey matter because we are good at that, driving too *sneers at the one insurance company*. We dream about being good at sport because we quite easily could have sucked at that too, or distracted by persuasive drinks, but rather that we sucked. The forthcoming weekend thus allows us to be great, honour a tradition passed down from one generation of man to another, that which comes most natural to us. Sitting on the couch and resuming relations with the remote.
Football enters the quarter final stages and for most of us lucky enough to escape the handbag holding duties at the mall, this is as close to the Rio Carnival the owner of that handbag will ever allow you to get. Appreciate it. Settle in on that favoured spot and take the opportunity to yell instructions into that pixelated marvel, on when a player should have passed the ball and how terrible the others are. You need only get off your throne for sanctioned trips to the fridge and the unrelenting ones to the lavatory. You can debate why James is pronounced, ‘H-A-M-E-Z’ when Brazil stops arguing about Favelas for 90 minutes. The samba can on occasion spill on into a further 30 minutes, and for those who don’t like leaving the party early, there are shots to conclude the party. There is a new party trick called, ‘Costa Rica’ and to understand exactly how to pull it off, one may just have to go Dutch regarding the purchase of thirst quenchers, should fellow brethren seek to turn the couch outing into a date. At this particular juncture several showers may have been skipped. You’d need some German resolve should the owner of the handbag take you to task regarding your decision to go French. Although not quite Evita Peron, the president of your household may require several Belgian waffles should you wish to maintain the status quo in the TV Room. Hide the batteries from the children too if you must, tell them only the hand of God can operate it should they decide to come out from the cellphone screens.
A Justice League battle of sorts ensues on the rugby field, the kind that could have one accidentally wear their briefs over their long johns. It’s a Southerners experience where one need not be an expat to get to Australia or New Zealand. Notes can be carefully examined on how much better life is and how much safer it is than South Africa with each scrimmage and ruck. Sadly though, the biggest selling point, the sheep, don’t really feature much on the brochure but expect a lot of ‘up and unders’. The rugby may on occasion make you feel like you are in a time warp of sort, you get to spend yesterday today although the Aussies tend to play by their own rules. New Zealand tends to get away without getting cited. When it comes to Samoan talent, they always come in from the side. If you really want to get your plus one excited about possible relocation, let them hear the phrase, ‘rolling maul’ but you might then have to explain it has absolutely nothing to do with shopping. Back home, but for the headgear that Victor Matfield takes up in a lineout with Cosatu, no one really cares what happens between the Bulls and Stormers. I say that with no real plans to put any Pretoria coordinate in my GPS for a good while. The other capital city, the one that haunts us with Leon Schuster and keeps giving away players, is now tasked with attempting for a bit of patriotism. They face the Sharks and *pause* the good of the nation lies on their broad shoulders *engage*.
All the grunting at Wimbledon went the way of communism and we all know the British stance on such. Sharapova’s legs had to tread back to the mother country via the US. The Russians have Ed Snowden and well the Americans, Maria Sharapova. Serena Williams offered up her singles charge as a gesture of goodwill and took her philanthropy to a new level during the doubles match too. She is just utterly brilliant, so kind too. There is a hint of maple syrup left over and I am learning how to pronounce, ‘Kvitova’. The backhand remains as beautiful as ever and Nadal fans have begun a petition banning any and all Australian players from any further grand slam tournaments. Djokovic promised not to wear any Darth Vader masks, as Federer got cited for wearing non-white soles. Wimbledon trying for what we Sans once called, ‘good neighbourliness’. All in all very exciting, the climax of which will be the sighting of the Duke of Cambridge.
With very little time to think about sex, thanks largely to Sharapova’s exit from centre court, the Proteas swing into action. Dale Steyn running in to show off his impressive tattoos, while Hashim Amla swings the Movember movement into action 4 months ahead of schedule on the opposite side of his upper-lip. He is that good. Fortunately this isn’t a tournament so there is unlikely to be slogans of, “chokers” thrown around. There will also be transformer like machines that move around at about speeds of 300 km’s. You know they’re transformers because what we pass off for cars, are not as cool. Firstly, anything past 120 km’s and envelopes occupy your post-box, and although they trick us with park assist, they don’t quite roar the same. Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg are the real life versions of Shia Lebouf and Mark Walberg, living out the dream we often have after the dream about sex. The beauty of the checked flag in Formula One often times means that you may finally go take a shower and thus will be allowed back on the mattress. It means real food, ceding the remote and back to routine. You will tap the shoulder on the other end of the bed, get the headache tale and because the next 4 days will be spent away from the one true love, they will be consumed by thoughts of sex. Happy televisioning…