Football Martyr - Day of Reckoning

I.

From the moment I escaped my mother’s womb in a back alley outside a Copenhagen whorehouse, nothing in life has come easy to me, Christian Sybørg. Truth be told, I would have died on the streets long ago if I didn’t possess my footballing talent. Still, it’s been a long road to the top. A long road to today, the cup final. Years of blood, sweat and tears played out on various pitches, in various leagues around the world just to survive. Few pro footballers have played a five-a-side game on a synthetic pitch in Kosovo as the American bombs dropped all around us, just for a hot meal.

I carry a piece of all those matches into today. Jogging around the Wembley turf, this is my final shot at glory. I am 37. I am the oldest player on the pitch. But while I’ve never been the quickest over the turf, I’ve always been the quickest thinker. Sitting in central midfield I receive a pass from North Korean team mate Su-Yside Bom. An opposing player closes in, but I drop my shoulder, shift the ball on to my opposite foot, and neatly release the ball once more. We are winning 3-0.

…No need to do anything stupid now. Keep the ball, close out the match, take home the trophy. The opposition have their tails up. We’re on the ropes. I will leave a piece of myself on this pitch before I give up an inch…

The fourth official emerges from the sidelines and holds up his numbers board. It’s number 69. It’s Goeal Meacín. It’s the teenage Spanish superstar every major club in the world courted from the age of ten. Goeal Meacín wanted for nothing. Sports cars at 13, movie star girlfriends at 14, his attacking flair and Hollywood good looks have made him a star. He only started on the bench today as punishment for turning up to play straight after a 36 hour sex and cocaine binge. He is danger.

Meacín’s only been on the pitch for 10 minutes and he’s pulled two goals back, both majestic pieces of skill. The crowd are deafening. Meacín’s trademark ‘Corner Flag Hump’ celebration brought wild celebrations from his own fans, and furious anger from ours. Our manager is on the touchline now, screaming at me to move into defence. Get tight on Meacín. Don’t give him an inch.

…I will leave a piece of myself on this pitch before I give up an inch…

There’s just minutes left now. The opposition attack wildly, lumping balls into our box. I’m so close to Meacín I can smell the women who serviced him just hours before. His movement is hypnotic. He dances away from me. I pursue.

The ball breaks between us. Meacín quickly moves to attack it. I will not be denied this time. I move my ageing body towards the ball. It’s a 50/50 challenge. No need to do anything stupid now. Keep the ball, close out the match, take home the trophy. I’ve worked hard every day of my life for this moment, and Meacín wants to take it all away from me.

At the last second I see his knee. It’s exposed. I will not be denied this time. I lunge my entire body with the speed and destructiveness of the cruise missile that destroyed by house and killed my family. I wasn’t home that day. I was performing freestyle soccer skills for pennies in the centre of Copenghagen. Every game, I play for them.

My studs connect with Meacín’s knee. It’s a direct hit. 80,000 supporters screaming all around me, but the sound of his knee snapping makes the din of a shotgun.

II.

It’s relaxing now. Nothing but clear blue sky and the feeling of soft turf beneath my entire body. That familiar feeling of grass under my fingers. The pitch has been my home all these years. Nothing to flood my senses but a cloudless sky and Meacín’s screams. They are screams of writhing pain. They are music to my ears.

My harmony is broken by the feeling of a hand on my chest. Suddenly I’m pulled to my feet. It’s Meacín’s teammate screaming at me, but I still hear nothing but the childish shrieks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Meacín’s leg. It resembles a paper clip. But that’s all I see. Now flooding my senses is this behemoth in front of me. He is angry for his fallen comrade. I am in the wrong. He is a man of honour.

Still, the red mist descends. I lean my body back six inches and spring forward, head first. My forehead connects with the centre of his face, pushing his nose several milimeters closer to his brain. But you could not longer call it a nose. My vicious loaf has left nothing but a mess of skin, bone and cartilage. He falls to the ground real fast. “Have that you cunt”, I scream.

We are surrounded now. My teammates all around me, protecting me from the angry mob we were competing against in a sporting event just seconds earlier. The red mist is blinding.

III.

The hot bathwater makes the air of my dressing room misty. It’s sufficating in here; the opposite of atmosphere I was experiencing just minutes ago. Through the concrete walls all I hear is the crowd, but the din is not understandable. The biggest game of my life is over now and I don’t know the score. Turning up my ears to help decode the noise, I hear screams of anguish. It’s Goeal Meacín in the next room. Doctors manically operate, in a vain attempt to save his leg from aputation. I dunk my head under the water. Eyes open, grinning, I masterbate to ejaculation.

The apl.de.ap Convo

The God Queens Wroth: Book 2 (Dark Mourning) Chapter 14 (Aguilac Pursued)

The branches tore at Aguliacs flesh as his memories tore at his soul. He’d been running for hours. The roads were patrolled by the Dreadlords knights so he was forced to hide in the wilds of Gnarek Tol. He had fled his village when he received word that the God Queen had dispatched famed assassin BloodThorn to bring her his head. Aguilac knew not why she wanted this he just knew he had to disappear quickly and forever. BloodThorn was not known to fail. Aguilac journeyed deeper into the forest. His fear for what lies in wait only matched by the fear of what pursued him. The evening sky deepened from a romantic purple to a ominous black. It was time to make camp. Aguilac huddled beside his small fire, thoughts racing. Why was this happening to him? He was a young farmhand. He had nothing of note to give or take from the queen. His thoughts were stilled by a faint crunching of leaves behind him. In one swift movement Aguilac turned, drew his blade and parried a sweeping cut to his face and responded in kind with a vicious riposte that clove a significant portion of his attackers head from it’s body. Four more replaced the fallen attacker. Mountain savages. 3 had crude bronze swords they must’ve stolen from other unlucky wanderers. The fourth one, a tall and grim faced man carried a great axe. The first 3 circled Aguliac, shouting in their guttural dialect and prodding at him with their swords. He remained motionless, waiting. One approached, Aguilac slashed out, the man tried to back away but the blade caught his throat. His blood jetted into the night sky. The other 2 became frantic. Circling faster. Shrieking. The tall one paced around behind them warily. The 2 warriors attacked as one. Aguilac dodged a wild downward cut and blocked a sideways slash simultaneously. He punched his sword though one attackers eye and brought his sword down on the others head in a murderous arc. He turned to face the final attacker and saw a flash of red, then black. His vision returned slowly. His nose was broken, his eyes watering. The tall warrior stood above him, triumph gleaming in his eyes. His great axe rose…and fell to the dead leaves of the forest floor. His hands raised to his throat. A tiny growth of silver had sprouted from his neck. When he tried to speak dark blood burst from his mouth smoking in the night air. He crumpled to the ground lifeless. Aguliac sat up, dazed. He saw a handsome young man leaning on a distant tree, longbow at his side, grinning playfully and waving. Aguliac rubbed his eyes, the moonlight shone on the strangers face, his smile fading. BloodThorn had found him…

Revolution yo.

Yo i got the power to blog on my phone now. This means revolution yo. More posts. More thoughts. From the streets. All up in that milieu yo. Never has predictive texting been so unpredictable. Buckle up. Brace for impact.

Take Me Out

A triumvirate member once went on Take Me Out. After the first two rounds when all the lights we’re still on, he thought he’d make things interesting by shouting “I MUST BE ON TAKE ME OUT, COS ALL I SEE IS A LOAD OF SLAAAAGS!!!”. He subsequently had sex with seven of the shows producers.

World Cup Time

The Triumvirate are excited about the upcoming World Cup. Nothing will make us happier than a month spent slamming multiple peronis as we indulge in this football feast. Well, almost nothing. What tickles our brain’s pleasure centres equally as much is a good football ad. Like that Nike one doing the rounds at the moment, where they show off their stable of superstars…Ronaldo, Rooney, Drogba, Cannavaro….and that mug Ronaldinho who isn’t even in the Brazilian squad for fuck sake! Couldn’t they have got someone relevent like, I dunno, Bendtner?!

The thing about these ads is that every footballer has to save face. So even if it’s a striker vs. a defender they both somehow have to do something brilliant. Like Drogba’s amazing solo effort that eventually gets cleared off the line by the acrobatic Cannavaro. How much time is spent dreaming up ways to make all these footballers somehow win?!

IT’S OFTEN BEEN SAID THAT WHEN IT COMES TO MACKING WOMAN THE TRIUMVIRATE HAVE THE POTENCY OF THREE LIONEL MESSI’S

If I was a footballer I’d insist being the poor bastard in the ad who gets steamrollered by Bendtner before he scores an unstoppable rocket header. Or be the cunt who hacks down Ronaldo to stop him scoring when he’s clean through. Or the cheating prick who runs into the corner of the box before taking a ludicrous dive. Then I’d get subbed instantly, walk down the tunnel, leave the stadium and fuck my WAG (read: money-hungry slag).

Stabber

Book 1

Act 1

Chapter 1

Page 1

Betrayal

A dark room. Eric Stabber enters. He arrives unnoticed, he slips in quietly, discreetly. The apartment belongs to Randolph Hutchingson. A convicted deviant whose primary life goals are rape, murder and loitering. Randy sits at his computer, oblivious to the very real, very imminent threat approaching. He utters repulsive gargled giggles at the unspeakable images on his computer. “You pull that any harder i’m gonna have to charge you for assault with a deadly weapon” quips Stabber. Randy swirls around on his swivel chair, squealing incomprehensibly. Stabber is already upon him. A bone crunching spin kick sends Randy tumbling from his chair. He bumbles to his feet, “Please mistah, i have rights, we can make a deal” he pleads. Stabber pauses, reflects, and grunts his world weary trademark laughter and effortlessly pins Randy to the wall. Randys eyes raise upward, he can sense the end approaching, he tries to make peace, he feels guilt for his crimes, he accepts that he deserves this. Stabber moves in close and whispers, “You know me buddy?”. “Sure everybody knows you Stabber, you’re that cop done went renegade due to some tragedy or some such…”. Stabber cuts in “You know why they call me Stabber??”. “I don’t think i wanna know mistah” retorts Randy, quivering. Stabber backs away from Randy and lets out his world weary trademark sigh. “Cause it’s my surname dummy!” Stabber roars and lets out a hearty laugh. Randy gasps with relief,”Well that makes sense!” They laugh into the night. Stabber stabs him multiple times shortly thereafter.

Seth MacFarlane should stop being such a media WHORE and realise you can’t exist within a system you’re trying to make fun of

Q. How do you avoid being made fun of in Family Guy?

A. Be a guest voice.

That’s because Seth MacFarlene can be bought with your celebrity friendship. This is the guy so concerned with his own profile he sang on Jimmy Kimmel.

I once worked on a fairly well know lifestyle magazine. During my time there I was introduced to their music critic, who had been with the publication since its inception. The magazine organised events fairly frequently and they’d often be attended by lowly B-list celebs, reality TV stars and small time musicians. I noticed that the music critic was terribly friendly with anyone in a band, which sparked me to remember some of the five star reviews he’s penned over the years. It became clear that he was essentially giving his friends the thumbs up to help them boost sales.

Of course ethically, this is the lowest point a journalist can sink to. It’s comparable to that prick Ben Lyons who calls himself a film critic but collects famous friends like they were Pokemon cards. Family Guy satires many thing. American family life, small town living, small town politics (does all this sound familiar *cough* Simpsons). But it also ridicules celebrity culture and celebrity worship, poking fun at many of the rich and famous. Some of the jokes are relevent, some are ridiculous, but how the fuck can we take a show seriously that will rest on it’s laurels just because they can get James Woods or someone into the voice studio.

They should take lead from the show they hate so much. The far funnier, far sharper, far better South Park. Trey Parker and Matt Stone are not for sale. They take shots at any section of American culture they feel needs to poked fun of, and you won’t see them prancing around Carnagie Hall performing ‘Singing In The Rain’. Fuckin’ douchebag.