Fewer Tennis Players, Please

I may be a fool (perhaps it’s best to presume this prefix to all my articles), but is there a less inspiring sport than Tennis?

With every ‘POCK’ sound across the court I hear the seconds passing me by, much like the point of this game, as well as any fleeting ambition to discover any.

Perhaps it’s the lack of applicable skills.

In the event of a nuclear holocaust, in a time when we are riddled with zombies in the pantry and climate change up the wazzoo; I’m not going to be pleased to have a Tennis player with me in the bunker, demanding all the canned beans for their metabolic rate to burn through and picking up my cat to see if there’s room to swing it.

Plus, Tennis is hardly transferable in a fight.

Armies of white-shorted men with rather stunning time-pieced wrists, delivering nothing but backhanded slaps to their opponents, most of the blows colliding with one another; resulting in those bird-brittle bones in the back of the hand crunching together and even damaging those marvellous European-made watches.

It’s just uninspiring, even with the grunts and screeches that emit from the battlefield, disturbing the body-clocks of local livestock and making it seem like this is all much more demanding than it really is.

Perhaps the skills could be transferred to the hunting grounds, wherein players could swipe post-nuclear bats from their mid-air flocks before feasting on them with all the grunts and screeches they can muster in an attempt to confuse and pacify the poor radioactive animals. (If a bat hears a screech; does it just presume “WALL!”? Because in that case, being eaten alive by a Tennis player must feel being beaten up by a house.)

Not to mention that male Tennis players fall victim to fashion-aging worse and far faster than most athletes.

Just take Caitlyn Jenner; she worked out how unfashionable manhood could be and got with that hip be-who-thoust-wishes trend. Penises are not ‘in’ at the moment. Ahem.

Golfers from 30 years ago are still terribly in-vogue, whereas the insistent urging of an all-white outfit, with wrist and headbands, and way too much upper-thigh for a hairy fellow like me to get away with without harnessing all sorts of pollen and debris in it…oh my.

Nuclear pollen is not something you want to get tangled up in your body hair; you could become riddled with full-body cacti perms which everyone’d find hilarious and your cat won’t want anything to do with you anymore – even with the Tennis player chasing him about.

And I should know of these worries; I’m a spectacularly furry fellow and have inadvertently captured many things in my body hair but am still yet to discover anything of worth; like a penny.

Most common thing I’ve found in my body hair?

Other people’s hair…normally the long hair of a lady amidst a moulting.

I’ve longed for a more productive offering, alas, no luck.

Which is why I’m even less keen to share an eternal after/half-life with a short shorted Tennis player; thigh hair fluttering in the radioactive breeze.

Bunkers are adorably petit, but what about the hourly appointed strolls down THE corridor for morale? Awfully cramped in that corridor. Barely enough room to squeeze past with two people, and no room in the slightest for a Tennis player in his itty-bitty shorts and yourself wearing even a suit of armour; although somehow you’ll still get tangled pubics. Tragic, but a surprisingly effective method of surviving those chilly nuclear winters; albeit with an uncomfortably tickly throat.

I’d like to state a change of my opinion towards Tennis players in the event of a nuclear holocaust.

Maybe we’ll need more psychos; and that is the definition of Tennis players in a nutty nutshell.

Perhaps we’ll need maniacs with a superb backhand, swiping aside the hordes of green-glowing grizzly birds and bees (who – having become tragically literate following the nuke’s increasing of their intelligences; have read all about the birds and the bees and find it cruel that the Great Green Creator should keep such elusive, vital and baffling info from them) as their whirl themselves towards our bunker as an alternative to the honey bees actually trying to mate with an ostrich and vice versa.

His disturbing affinity with whacking balls whilst grunting and then waiting for you to take your turn doing the same to him whilst he stares you down with furry green and white eyeballs, his very expensive European watch whirring at 100 miles per hour though all the number melted off, his pure white short shorts riding ever higher as the Tennis player grunts and swipes and screeches and then finally lets loose a different sound, one of such placid serenity that it undoes your trousers and shivers your spine:

“That’s LOVE.”

Perhaps we won’t need a Tennis player in the bunker.

Not to mention the things they’ll do for a goblet (just give them the goblet).

Sam

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Donald and Kim; Bunker Kings

This is the beginning of the end?

Nah.

The end of the beginning? I think not…

This is the interval, the intermission, in which you can pop out for a tiny tub of ice cream and swiftest of halfs before dashing back, on ringing bell’s command, to the theatre of war in which we all are about to get a front row seat (aka splash zone).

Apocryphal writing certainly is the most enjoyable! Perhaps it because of the confidence of correctness. There’s nothing better than the burden of proof than occasions on which you’ve got some proof.

And when writing about the end of the world; you’re correct.

In so far as it as an eventuality, at least. The end of the world has been about to arrive since the amalgamation of those two other twirling balls of matter in space collided and, in doing so (and with an admirable degree of spinning), created Earth.

The beginning signifies the end.

But at least the end signifies a new beginning, be it terrible or perfect.

This has been the size and shape of things for our species ever since we became self aware and our grandparents died.

Where on Earth did they go? Is being 99 and riddled with as much disease as can be squeezed in and out of a human body any excuse to go all stiff and allow the rats to nibble at you?

It would seem so.

But now we have a different reason to pass away promptly.

Nukes.

Nuclear war is the war of the most privileged people to ever exist. Only the premiers of nations and the wealthiest of individuals can survive the burnt out horror of the post nuke age.

One bomb can be lived with, as can a thousand more. It is the possession of these bombs by two opposing sides that causes the Earth’s mantel to tremble and turn a shade of green (from pre-nuke nerves, as we all have, to the post splash radiation and tremors).

‘People’ are what really spoil nuclear bombs.

Not merely owing to being the species with the necessary articulation of fingers to be able to raise the middle one in rudeness and then push down on that now infamous yet never seen big red button.

We also spoil them because of the reaction we have to them; all that ghastly melting business, and the smell we give off. Fireman supposedly dislike pork products owing to the similar stench humans waft from within as they burn. I can’t imagine the smell of the atomic bacon we’d whiff off in the fallout age.

Most of the world doesn’t have the means to protect their individual selves from the day to day turbulence of life on Earth; we can’t afford the sheet metal, concrete and luxury of height. Tsunamis and volcanoes wreak as much devastation for the modern Italian as it did for the Romans.

Nuclear war is a pastime of the privileged; those in command of prime real estate bunker at a fashionable depth of 2 miles below sea level with canned caviar to last them till their own stiffness sets in and they can find themselves conveniently pre-buried.

A war of the 0.0001% and New Zealand; wealth and geography, social position and distance from ground-zero.

I used to be a fan of Mutually Assured Destruction.

I believed that those who rose to positions of power had taken a route of hard effort over many years all whilst inspired by the ambition that drives those easily lured by the mix of power and comfort that wealth and politics brings.

These days (oh ‘these days’ aren’t what they used to be), I find myself not trusting the politicians.

A stupid comment perhaps, but my trust in politicians used to be in their ubiquitous self-preservation. This is harder to witness than ever.

North Korea is one thing, but paired stubbornly with Donald Trump…we only know what we don’t know and we don’t know what the fucks going to occur.

Two megalomaniacs, two walking (albeit one with severe gout and one with several solid gold sticks of his own choosing up his arse) definitions of megalomania, in contest. Both with the capability and, potentially, the will to ruin life for all others so long as we can all finally agree that HE is the BEST person.

We are in a popularity contest for ‘Best Person’.

Both knows he is the best person, both are in contrary opinion of the other.

What is unique here is that both would undoubtedly love to be the other.

Kim Jong-un would love to live in America, in palaces suffering from an architect with Midas’ Touch, and the thrill of eating nothing but Emmentile cheese and watching US films all day, smoking and widening; isn’t he just great…

Trump on the other hand would kill (obviously…) to lead a rogue nation in which national edict was to praise him as a god, have every wish granted to him on pain of death, and be able to watch parade after parade of high footed stamp-down marches all in honour of how smashing he is; isn’t he just great…

And these two are locking their squelchy and floppy horns together in a deadly contest of grotesque will and self importance.

The Royal ‘We’ (and all other ‘we’s come to that) are the battle field.

Nuclear fodder.

Here’s a transcript of a recent telephone chat between the two Dickheads of State…

Trump: “Do what we want or we’ll kill everyone on earth!”

Kim Jong-un: “Yeah? Just try it Mr; and WE’LL kill everyone on earth!”

Trump: “Aside from you and me of course…”

Kim Jong-Un: “Naturally.”

Because, of course, there’s no chance either of them will die in this nuclear exchange.

Bunkers are the Versailles of the future.

They could turn their keys and introduce a far more proletariatless existence.

Of course, it’ll be an existence of easily imaginable torment and toil.

Proletariat grow potatoes and beef, proletariat guard you whilst you sleep, proletariat lift the heavy goods and hurt their backs, and the wars of the world are fought and died by them, their parents and their children.

Inherent wretchedness made more tolerable via good wifi.

This being as this is being, it by no means infers that the proletariat are about to start being thought and cared for by their nuclear-proof Dickheads of State. Nor are these wretched about to demand their rightful lot.

I have no faith that they shall.

For this brave new world encourages you to stay the fuck in, sit the fuck down and eat, smoke, drink, breed, diminish and die after allotted working hours. You deserve to be distracted from the political process by the noble deeds of Saturday night television, and it about time you treated yourself to some diabetes-on-toast.

We’re just going to keep rolling forward, like a fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag (I could poeticise with such words as “slumber” and “dream touched dozing” but “fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag” works better) until the leaders are heroes.

Because ‘these days’ are what ‘these days’ used to be, but I have one hope.

I hope these men realise the horrendous enormity of what might be about to occur.

For if they push the button of infamous bigness and redness…they might never enjoy a drop of finest cognac again, for who would brew it?

An extremely well-done steak of prime male beef (I’m sure they’ll only eat males because even dinnertime’s a contest with what’s on the plate) won’t be available…for who’d raise, slaughter, cook and serve it?

After a hard day’s dictating…you want to come home to the finest things in life, and you can’t have that without the more unfortunate specimens in life…like you.

And me.

So, in theory, I suppose we’re saving the world, so long as Donald and Kim realise this.

And I sincerely hope they haven’t stockpiled canned caviar and crates of Hennessy; those Bunker Kings.

Here’s hoping to see you underground,

Sam