The hurdles is a pretty weird athletic event. It's as though we got bored with people just running round a track, but couldn't think of another distinct physical skill to add to the Olympic canon. They could have tried to institute distance urination or speed head-vibrating, but instead they got lazy and thought up hurdles. Just running, but with stuff in the way. The event might as well be called Hindered Running.
I'd love to watch the Hindered Running section of athletics. You'd have to expand it a little, though. Having little fences to jump isn't that interesting. I'd like to see the runners pelted by stale scones. You could hand them out to the audience, and ask them to throw them as the race was underway. The first athlete to the finish line, of the last athlete alive, would have shown they had the strength to succeed.
Or have each athlete's wife or husband to say they want a divorce just before the race. They can throw down their wedding ring and spit on it in disgust. Any athlete faced with that emotional trauma would have to have real strength of character to complete the event.
OR (and I'm only brainstorming here) put a badger in a flat-cap on the sidelines of the track. Not in the middle, where it's obvious; just so that the athletes can see it in their peripheral vision. "Was that a badger in a flat-cap?" they's wonder. The true athlete would give it no further thought and sprint on like an electric cheetah.
If you were on the podium, hearing our dirge of a national anthem, knowing that you'd blocked out badgers, scones, and the breakdown of your marriage, the experience would be that much sweeter.
Hindered Running. 2012 beckons.
***
Staying with sport: Kieron Dyer. I wouldn't wish a broken leg on anyone, believe me. But there comes a time when you have to realise you probably weren't made to play football. Especially when you're sullen, perenially over-rated, and seem to have legs made of nothing but masking-tape and good intentions.
The purge of the mediocre from the England team should begin with Mr Dyer.
Jermaine Jenas, you're next.
***
'The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill' on The White Album is one of the weirdest songs I've ever heard. If goes from major to minor so often it makes me feel like I've gone back in time. It's a curious mix of Ziggy-era Bowie and the theme tune to some fucked-up Eastern European cartoon from the early 80s.
Them Beatles were crazy. Wrote some good songs, though.
***
I've gotta stop watching the Rockford Files. Aside from its awesome theme tune, I'm beginning to think being a Private Dick (no, I'm not going to make a joke, thank you) might be a good career move.
You get to work your own hours, all your clients are beautiful women, you get to trade witty barbs with loads of character actors, and you get to live by the sea, eating tacos for breakfast.
Now, I'm sure the perks of the job might not be quite the same if I lived in, let's say, Bolton. But I'm sure I could still have some fun. I'd need to get a distinctive car, though. All private detectives need to have the most conspicuous vehicle they can get their hands on.
I'd drive a milk float. I can just see me tailing someone on a dark winter evening:
"Hey boss, I think that milk float's following us!"
"Shut up, Rocko! There's hundreds of milk floats in this city."
"Well, shouldn't we at least speed up to 10 miles an hour, so he can't catch us?"
"I said shut up!"
***
Time well spent, I think you'll agree.
No comments:
Post a Comment