Blogger: #14
Following the lukewarm response that my last post along similar lines elicited, being the shrewd businessmen we are, we decided to make it a series of sorts. So you'll be hearing a lot more of the time I spend during these dreaded Interlulls dreading these Interlulls. Along with my partners in crime #s 18, 7 and 25. And Billy, he of the shotgun notoriety, of course.
Now, this time, the delightful world of club football has stopped to enable a few nations to take part in qualifiers for the World Cup in Brazil, 2014. Not that anyone cares of course. This particular Interlull grates with its timing. It has hardly been a month since the previous one, so you're neither in the stage of still reeling from the blow of the previous one, too numb to notice a new attack, nor are you in an advanced stage of recovery. So this little virus has come hit you right where it hurts. Now, blokes like myself and other members of the Wall are the sort whose notifications on Facebook (again, like us here) are largely comprised of invitations to play Criminal Case or Farmville. So take away this day our daily bread and we look at each other with that quizzical expression you find on owls. I think.
So, anyway, we decided like good Spartans to not be cowed by this period of drought and met up at #7's place and revel in the company of old friends. Billy had a nice vacation planned with his girlfriend, so he couldn't make it, but we didn't have that luxury, so we made it. The luxury being the girlfriend and the vacation. We're poor and we got no game. Or rather, we got no game and we're poor. Symmetry and all that guff. The evening was off to a promising start when 18 to much merriment of the others failed to name United's starting lineup for the 1999 Champions League final against Bayern Munich. #25 went a step further, and praised Scolari's and AVB's Chelsea tenures. #7 just punched everyone when he got bored. But all this mirth was for naught, because some cretin mentioned Hindi commentary. If this weren't enough, another cretin (or it could be the same one, I have conveniently forgotten who these cretins were, forgive me) asked who Liverpool were playing next and the fatal blow was dealt. The Interlull, so happily forgotten for a couple of hours, announced itself like a loud fart in a library. Like a striptease at a kindergarten. Like a black metal concert at a church. Like Voldemort at Harry's wedding. Like an 'important announcement' right in the middle of lunch break. You get the idea yes? Anyway, after that, the evening resembled one of those funerals minus the hysterical wife beating herself to death that you see on these Hindi soaps. Not that I watch any. P'ffft, of course not. That'd be not macho. #7 does, Not me. #18 too. And #25. But me? No sir.
On a personal note, the past week has been something of a horror show for me. Arsenal lost to Manchester United, and Robin van Persie scored. Yay. As if that wasn't enough, my mum starts deleting my comments on her Facebook statuses because they are "embarrassing". What will her friends think apparently. Oh, oh, AND I KEEP LOSING FOLLOWERS ON TWITTER (Follow us here. I'd put my handle too, but #7 didn't let me).
It got better though. I found this juicy hamburger. Except that the calories have been replaced by a large dollop of mentally unbalanced homosexuality. Though the guy who made the video insists it's not gay if it's with Aaron Ramsey. Hopefully it kills some time for you lads. And ladies. Because I believe women do read this blog. Yessir.
Anyway, I have digressed quite enough, back to the Interlull whining. It's peculiar how, regardless of your team's form, the Interlull is a bad thing. Losing streak? Getting back on the horse is the trick you say. Winning streak? Momentum is key you say. We have a thousand different opinions but that's one good thing about the Interlull I suppose, it unites us all. Diversity in unity and all that. We all suffer together, not as Gooners or Cules or Madridistas or Mancs or Scousers or Geordies but as Interlull cullings (Interculls, get it? HAHAHAHAHAHA). Except Billy, of course, and his gorgeous girlfriend. Speaking of Billy, where's that shotgun when you need it? #7's tried to drown his misery in drink (Diet Coke), and is now kicking the milkman screaming "FOR THE IRISH"(Henry hater, if you must know). Though how good old Balagurusamy resembles Thierry Henry is beyond me. Alcohol eh? Bloody hell. Why is the milkman here, you ask? We spent the evening drinking hard liquor (REALLY!) and we passed out and now it's morning. Anyway, I'm off to try to save the poor old milkman. Toodles lads.
Want to know if the milkman died? Want to know if I shot #7 or the milkman? Want to know why I'm allowed to roam freely in public? Drop in a comment.
Till next time,
Thanking You,
Yours sincerely,
#14
Following the lukewarm response that my last post along similar lines elicited, being the shrewd businessmen we are, we decided to make it a series of sorts. So you'll be hearing a lot more of the time I spend during these dreaded Interlulls dreading these Interlulls. Along with my partners in crime #s 18, 7 and 25. And Billy, he of the shotgun notoriety, of course.
 |
| Billy. |
 |
| "You're telling me to kill time without watching football?" |
So, anyway, we decided like good Spartans to not be cowed by this period of drought and met up at #7's place and revel in the company of old friends. Billy had a nice vacation planned with his girlfriend, so he couldn't make it, but we didn't have that luxury, so we made it. The luxury being the girlfriend and the vacation. We're poor and we got no game. Or rather, we got no game and we're poor. Symmetry and all that guff. The evening was off to a promising start when 18 to much merriment of the others failed to name United's starting lineup for the 1999 Champions League final against Bayern Munich. #25 went a step further, and praised Scolari's and AVB's Chelsea tenures. #7 just punched everyone when he got bored. But all this mirth was for naught, because some cretin mentioned Hindi commentary. If this weren't enough, another cretin (or it could be the same one, I have conveniently forgotten who these cretins were, forgive me) asked who Liverpool were playing next and the fatal blow was dealt. The Interlull, so happily forgotten for a couple of hours, announced itself like a loud fart in a library. Like a striptease at a kindergarten. Like a black metal concert at a church. Like Voldemort at Harry's wedding. Like an 'important announcement' right in the middle of lunch break. You get the idea yes? Anyway, after that, the evening resembled one of those funerals minus the hysterical wife beating herself to death that you see on these Hindi soaps. Not that I watch any. P'ffft, of course not. That'd be not macho. #7 does, Not me. #18 too. And #25. But me? No sir.
On a personal note, the past week has been something of a horror show for me. Arsenal lost to Manchester United, and Robin van Persie scored. Yay. As if that wasn't enough, my mum starts deleting my comments on her Facebook statuses because they are "embarrassing". What will her friends think apparently. Oh, oh, AND I KEEP LOSING FOLLOWERS ON TWITTER (Follow us here. I'd put my handle too, but #7 didn't let me).
 |
| A face to sum my week up |
Anyway, I have digressed quite enough, back to the Interlull whining. It's peculiar how, regardless of your team's form, the Interlull is a bad thing. Losing streak? Getting back on the horse is the trick you say. Winning streak? Momentum is key you say. We have a thousand different opinions but that's one good thing about the Interlull I suppose, it unites us all. Diversity in unity and all that. We all suffer together, not as Gooners or Cules or Madridistas or Mancs or Scousers or Geordies but as Interlull cullings (Interculls, get it? HAHAHAHAHAHA). Except Billy, of course, and his gorgeous girlfriend. Speaking of Billy, where's that shotgun when you need it? #7's tried to drown his misery in drink (Diet Coke), and is now kicking the milkman screaming "FOR THE IRISH"(Henry hater, if you must know). Though how good old Balagurusamy resembles Thierry Henry is beyond me. Alcohol eh? Bloody hell. Why is the milkman here, you ask? We spent the evening drinking hard liquor (REALLY!) and we passed out and now it's morning. Anyway, I'm off to try to save the poor old milkman. Toodles lads.
Want to know if the milkman died? Want to know if I shot #7 or the milkman? Want to know why I'm allowed to roam freely in public? Drop in a comment.
Till next time,
Thanking You,
Yours sincerely,
#14
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