The World Cup is over, finally. Let’s be honest, it was over two weeks ago when we sucked the big kumara and took a baguette up the pooper from the French. Since then it’s really only been a case of waiting to see who the Saffas would meet and beat in the final. In fact nobody was more surprised two weeks ago to see the All Blacks lose than the Saffas because the cup was theirs to lose after that. I’d hate to imagine just how many celebrationary games of soggy biscuit got played that night at their hotel.
Canterbury of New Zealand will be chuffed though. The Saffas wear their shirts and as one of my early entry’s revealed, the clothing company had called on some World War Two technology to give teams jammy enough to be wearing their jerseys a 3% increase in performance. Looked like it worked for the Saffas aye? After all they had to beat two of the luckiest, but not necessarily the best, teams to win the cup. Ireland on the other hand had a 3% change too, only theirs was a decrease as they bombed out at the group stage against all the odds. Scotland got through the group stage, just, but were really only making up the tight titty top numbers at that stage.
But despite all that, at least one Kiwi brand is on top of the world right now so full credit. Interestingly the All Blacks have never won the World Cup since signing up with Adidas. Maybe there is something in that? And we’re not really too perturbed rally that the Boks won. A gloating Saffa is only marginally more bearable than a gloating Pom and neither team beat us so we’ll hold on to that as the only comeback we’ll have for the next four years.
The All Blacks had a wonderful reception upon their return to NZ too. It certainly surprised them alright because they were expecting to be at least bottled as they came through customs. It surprised me too because the first step in accepting mediocrity is celebrating it. We must be getting used to losing huh?
Nope, it didn't take us long to get over it and onto more serious matters like the palaver we had last week about suspected terrorists training in the bush up north who were planning and plotting to rage a guerrilla war against the state. Or so the media said. I’d hate to imagine just how many games of celebrationary soggy biscuit got played in newsrooms up and down the country the night that story broke.
Now I’m not going to go into whether anything the Police did was kosher or not because a) I work for them and am therefore biased in my opinion and b) it all sounded like a few fellas sneaking off for a quiet bum in the wopwops to me. But if between giving and receiving these lads are playing with illegal firearms then that shit is serious. That alone is worth locking the nutters up for, because guns can kill. So too bums if not handled right.
And nothing makes someone look like a terrorist than wearing a balaclava on national TV whilst you’re trying to protest against having been called a – wait for it – terrorist. Obviously not the sharpest tools in the shed these guys, I wonder if we really have anything to worry about? I can understand you wanting to protect your identity in a TV interview if you’re dobbing in the Black Power or some Triads, but when you’re trying to convince the nation that you have nothing to hide, then hiding your face is probably not the best start.
Now the hoodie on the over hand – by that I mean a hooded sweatshirt, not an uncircumcised male - is a wonderful garment isn’t it? Nothing else quite says ‘non confrontational’ quite like the hoodie. Why is it some folk like to drive with their hoodie on? Is it because they think they can’t be seen? Like the outstanding example of a state funded education system who nearly tasted cold hard Hyundai steel through his driver door today - on account of him being parked in the middle of the major roundabout in J Town. He had decided to not give way to the car before me but chickened out half way through only to find that the distance between that car and me, was quite a bit shorter than he had anticipated. Wearing a hoodie in a car tends to do that to ones peripheral vision I suspect.
I got a nice finger in response to my seven seconds of horn which is fair enough I suppose; I was clearly in the wrong in expecting the right of way like it says in that shit stirrer of a publication; The Rode Code. Oh how I wish sometimes that my reflexes were not those of a highly trained Ninja or that my passion wagon was not the mint ride that it is, for otherwise I would gladly t-bone fuckers like that without prejudice. If I hit the prick hard enough - which I would - I could write of my car and claim a new one each time. Hey, it’s not insurance fraud if you’re in the right!
And in my claim I could mention that I had a Cantebrury rugby jersey, size extra tight in the boot. And a balaclava although strictly for non terrorist purposes. Now that would be believable.
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