Well Written / My Write

Life, they say, is all about learning. Now don’t ask me who “they” are. I possess not even the slightest idea about their identity. But “they” have been saying so much for so long, a lot of which has been actually proven true, that I feel safe to continue with the assumption that “they” know what they’re talking about.

So anyway, they say life is about learning. Some lessons are important, life altering ones that you never forget and which change your very outlook on the world forever. Like learning that a shrimps roti with plenty pepper, followed by a Cappuccino chiller with extra whipped cream is not a good idea when far, far away from the amenities of home.

Other lessons are simple ones that are easily learnt and easily forgotten, like the hand signals you have to memorise to pass your driver’s test. Nobody in this day and age is mad enough to put their hand outside their car, even if their indicators aren’t working. The driver behind will figure it out eventually and if not, well, once you get hit from behind you’re in the right.

Now you can learn anything anywhere, at any time. Enlightenment doesn’t have to be confined to a classroom or a bedroom, although I’m sure most will agree the latter is a far more fun place of schooling than the former.

Enlightenment can happen anywhere, which I found out this year watching the World Cup. Suddenly, it became less about watching life support systems for well toned legs and muscled backs (except for Peter Crouch and Wayne Rooney. Shudder!) and more about the subtle lessons that I may otherwise have never learnt and without which my life would have been less rich. I now dutifully share these with you.

Lesson one. Never, ever tell an Algerian/French footballer that he is the son of a terrorist whore. Never. Even if you have irrefutable proof of her antisocial, trollopian proclivities. Even if she comes up to the window of your car with her funbags pumped up to under her chin, a bomb strapped around her chest and an offer to show you endless joy for a twenty, resist the temptation to inform her male offspring of this unfortunate career choice. It could end detrimentally for your chest, not to mention your sense of shame. Even if you are blessed enough to have a surname as confidently sexy as Materazzi.

Yes, having a surname commonly pronounced the same way as the name of a car known for its orgasmic exclusivity is no guarantee that you will not end up looking like a Good Friday bobolee when the aforementioned Algerian decides to imitate the four footed, cloven hoofed terrors that the steppes of his country are known for and pummels your chest with his battering ram of a head.

Lesson two. Yes, exaggerating an injury may lead to sympathy and even a penalty. But often times it’s not worth the shame. See lesson one. In the case of Materazzi it would have been better if he’d stumbled slightly.

Especially since enquiries have now proven that he is guilty for pushing Zidane’s head with his chest. The entire Internet refers to him now as a girl for flinging himself to the ground in a paroxysm of agony. I take offence. I would not have fallen so easily. And I would have butted him back. Far better to do like our own Dwight Yorke after his ball-to-groin injury in the match against England. Lie down for a while, rub your crotch, then, when you feel better, get up and get on with things.

Lesson three. The World Cup comes and the World Cup goes but the same teams win forever. And ever. Amen. They seem to take turns doing it, except for that upset with France in 1998. There’s an important lesson here about true world power remaining in the hands of an exclusive few but I’m too tired and lazy to make it.

And now I’ll finish it off with a joke. Not a very funny kyar, kyar buss your belly sort of joke but it makes fun of the English using two things they’re associated with so it’s good enough. What’s the difference between the English and a cup of tea? The tea stays longer in the Cup.

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