dedalus Posted December 23, 2010 Share Posted December 23, 2010 (edited) Train train a sky of blue, a winter morning crisp and tight like ice, like trouser creases. My heart lifts, it rises, as I head off in the wrong direction looking at the hard-etched houses lined against an azure sky, viewing the sharpcut yellow stubble of a tiny rice meadow that can feed five families angled between two rather squat office buildings with a flourish of Chinese characters. The return train, it seems I am running late and I couldn’t care less. The fellows are still waiting for the stadium bus, knocking back tinnies at the stop, and then there is Aya, a sad Filipina with purple contacts and a helluva bad story. I have heard so many of them that I feel like a hidden priest, perhaps I should parade in rough Christian robes to hide the ice within. I could learn to like Aya, trouble is Aya's been "liked" before, repeatedly, been badly done over and so I’m only half listening, as you do, politely. Then the match begins, and it goes on for a bit, with oohs and aahs from the crowd. I used to love this stuff, this rugby, in my young youth I played on the green lumpy fields of three continents, one of the gay silly things I did before old age took over. Rugby, savants say, is a metaphor for war, for the playing fields of Eton: untrue, but it can be physical chess when the many healthy resplendent lads stop fussing around a badly bouncing ball, with their girls all bright and smiling, pretending an interest they could never conceivably possess in the furthest tiniest re-cess of their capacious rapacious female brains. Aya is looking over now, and I'm sorry, but I'm not looking back. I am on the track of an over-priced fizzy beer; if a man won’t drink, he could be labelled an Irish queer for trailing the ladies instead of the booze. No, no, for all of my life I've been looking, searching, waiting to choose, hope sadly slipping away. I reckon in the end we all may lose, even in the hardass canyons of the USA where rugby, I presume, is a pussy game. We had a joke going, one of them weak no-brainers, as the pink-cheeked girls, annoyed, yanked off their boots, figure that one out; but then Shem tapped me upside the head. Fuckin hurt, too. Didn’t even know the gentleman, a situation soon and forever about to change. Stick out your tongue. Wha’? More, more, more, is that the best you can do? Was I talking too much? Glaarh --; glaa...aaarh!! Roll your eyes: flex your knees and elbows, Jesus Christ, man, are you bleedin paraplegic? and what happened that tongue, that tongue, it should be licking the end of your pimply nose! The fuckwit silly losers they send me down these times would wear the balls off the Virgin Mary had she had any, beggin yer pardon, Ma'rm. Sir? What? Can I stop licking my nose and go back to the crap daily rhythms of ordinaryl life? Ho, Irish are we? Limber up, Paddy, for I’m going to teach you once, once and once only, for the first and for the last time, how a man should feel, how he should live ... and dance! -------------------------------------------------------------------- The Haka is a Maori war dance. The New Zealand rugby team performs it before every international match to intimidate their opponents. It works. Edited December 29, 2010 by dedalus Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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