Last night Graeme Joffe aired his sportspodcast. I mention this because it has led to a rather acrimonious bitching session and airing of dirty laundry out in the blogosphere. The reason? Yes, you guessed it, it’s that Kings vs Lions thingy again.
If you’d like to hear the podcast (from Radio Today), here is the link – don’t worry, you only need to listen to the first few minutes!) - http://joffers19899.podomatic.com/entry/2012-05-03T21_45_08-07_00 .
Basically he was saying that Mark Keohane keeps putting the Lions down – if you read his Business Day column this week, you will see what Joffe means. Joffe tried to get hold of Keohane, without any success, and then went on to, well, …..slag him off (tee hee hee). Mentioned his HSM connection with Watson, and basically had a bit of a rant. If you want to see the argument check out @joffersmyboy on twitter.
Well, who should come galloping to Marky-boy’s defence, but a knight in shining armour, oozing bravery and armed with a battery of words, but non other than King Simon Borchard III. Of course denying any link to the Kings, and waving the “Marky is squeaky clean” card in front of him, he cut and thrust with his words, slashing the air with reasoning, and stood back for no one. Could Joffe the Dragon be about to meet his slayer.
But this was not just hero’s fighting. No, I tell you, suddenly, from nowhere, the surprise element of a bit of wildlife too. Crashing out of the woods, brandishing a half chewed squirrel in his talons and with fiery red eyes to boot (he’d probably had one too many honey meads again last night), was non other than the grizzly bear Tank Lanning. This mighty king of the American jungle (sounds better and more fearsome than ‘wood’) stopped amid stride, roared mightily and beat his rather hairy and rotund chest, before meekly sitting back, taking no side but offering a couple of half chewed bones to each of our hero’s, before continuing to lick on his squirrolly.
The scene was set, I tell you, the battle lines drawn. Both sides poised, ready, knowing that there were going to be many word deaths before the dawn played out, but non-the-less, eager to do battle.
As the battle waged on, wave after wave of words came crashing down. Letters were strewn everywhere. Dots, apostrophes, question marks and commas lay where they had fallen, bravely punctuating to the last.
It was carnage to say the least. But neither side would give in. As the sun grew bolder in the sky, and the words began to grow thin, suddenly, from nowhere (again), brave foot soldiers came bounding in. Men, armed with bows, and quivers full of fresh words, and with famous, saintly names like Gareth, Wesley, Shaun and Anton (last one must have just been a hanger-on, because his quiver contained words like “appluad” and “pitty”), stepped onto the battle front and took careful aim.
But with the smoky haze over the battlefield now, it was too difficult to see who’s side the archers were on. Could this be the final death blow for the Fiery dragon, or could they be readying themselves to fire into the heart of Marky-boy, now cowering, nerves in tatters behind the heels of that, oh, so brave knight King Simon. As the smoke slowly moved away, carried along by a light and oblivious wind it became all too clear. Oh, how horrid.
The ‘poing’, ‘poing’,'poing’ was followed by a ‘whoosh’, ’whoosh’, ’whoosh’ as the final words were released from the tensioned bows. Almost in slow motion, they arched over the battlefield. A slow steep trajectory to start, then levelling out, before beginning to pick up speed on the descent to their target. Straight and true, these final words hit home with nothing more than a slight ‘thump’, ’thump’, ’thump’. All finding the heart of their target with unrivalled precision.
Silence fell over the the bloody mess that was the scene for this gory battle. Nothing moved at first (except Tank, who had by now finished his squirrolly and was beginning to get a bit bored and peckish again, so just buggered off home), until there was a faint stir at one end of the battlefield. Slowly, gathering up what little words he had left, Joffe the Magic Dragon stood up, gave the merest hint of a nod to Gaz, Shaz, Waz and Ant (why change the last one, he’d never have got it), turned on his heal and disappeared into the night (I know it’s not even midday yet, but it sounds better, alright?).
From no more than a hundred yards away, King Simon stood up. Tears streaming down his muddy face, eyes just staring into the distance, and a pathetically undead Marky-boy (words do bugger-all physically to the heart, you know) lying in his arms, slowly walked away, beaten. Back to his nest they call ‘Voldy’ to recoup, regather and reword himself with his fallen master (or is that mistress – I don’t want to be sexist, but I honestly don’t know), Marky-boy.
A battle, I tell you, was fought here today. Brave men went to war. Wild animals got caught in the cross fire. All in the name of journalism. Pathetically tragic, but I love it!