Category Archives: Sport

No Need For That


I like a bit of sports on TV, and I have to confess, in spite of my cynicism, that the Olympics has provided some pretty good sports viewing over the last week or so. Who could have failed to jump out of their seat and punch the air when the Americans beat the French in that swimming relay? Now that’s what I call a race, with all the added bonus of seeing France lose. I did notice with swimmers that, no matter what the competition, they don’t appear to find it necessary to pat each other on the behind in order to provide encouragement or a small recognition of a job well done. I have to say that the most disturbing aspect of the transition to watching sports in the US is the prevalence of the “pat on the butt” between men on the sports field. We certainly didn’t do that when we were growing up, I can tell you. It would no more have occurred to one of us to pat a teammate on the arse after he scored a goal than to rip off his shorts and attempt to penetrate him forcibly on the goal line.

There are so many other places to pat someone if you want to make such a gesture of congratulation. How about a pat on the back? Or the shoulder? Both are substantial body parts, very conveniently situated for patting and, I would suggest, better suited for conveying an unambiguous sentiment of positive reinforcement than someone’s buttocks. The thing about touching another man’s arse, no matter whether sports are involved or not, is that it’s, well, sort of gay. It’s not like there’s a good reason for it; if someone patted me on the arse my immediate reaction would be “What the fuck are you doing?” It would be like playing co-ed soccer and patting your female teammate on the breasts – it would come across as weird simply because there was no reason to pat there other than because you wanted to touch her breasts. Consequently the friendly breast-pat has never really taken off in mixed sporting circles.

It’s ironic really, because there are few environments so determinedly heterosexual as US sports. As far as I know, no active US baseball player has come out and declared himself to be gay becuase of the huge stigma attached to it (and not because there aren’t any). It’s an arena in which blokes go out of their way to be “manly” in the traditional sense, so what’s with the arse touching then? Big butch football and baseball players in skin-tight leggings all patting each other’s buttocks could hardly be more like some stereotypical “Tom Of Finland” gay scenario.

But when it comes to women’s beach volleyball, a sport where I would be quite happy to see the competitors engage in a bit of mutual arse-patting, what do I get? Nothing. Misty May’s arse is a sporting icon; how anyone could be in the same sandbox and not want to pat it is beyond me. Sure, they hug each other daintily but it’s not the same. Still, women’s Jello-wrestling might provide a reasonable alternative. I know it’s not an Olympic event yet, but if they’ll take synchronized diving it’s only a matter of time before this swimsuit/lime jelly sporting phenomenon is represented at the Olympiad. Personally I can’t wait.

In the meantime, to all the misguided sportsmen who think touching another man’s arse is somehow OK when you’re dressed in a uniform and standing on grass, I can only say “Cut that shit out. Seriously.”

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Olympic Wood

The Olympics will soon be upon us and we can all look forward to perpetual, repetitive televised coverage of all sorts of sports, quasi-sports and “not sports at all”. I won’t digress on the stupidity of some of these (synchronised swimming anyone?) but in the case of most sports, where greater strength and endurance are a distinct advantage, there will of course be cases of doping. The whole Bulgarian weightlifting team has already been withdrawn after eleven of them tested positive for steroids. (Steroid-enhanced weightlifters? Who would have believed it?)

In the continuing battle to find a chemical edge, athletes now have a new weapon – Viagra. Yes, sildenafil may enhance althletic performance by expanding blood vessels and allowing more blood to reach the heart; this would be beneficial in sports where endurance and speed are key. One study has already shown significant performance improvements in cyclists, for instance.

Hang on a minute, did someone say cyclists? Those blokes in skin-tight lycra shorts? Oh that’s going to be a good look for the TV cameras isn’t it? A bunch men on bikes with erections poking up as they pedal furiously around in a circle. I want to see the commentators handle that. And what about the swimmers, for fucks sake? I can just see them stepping up onto the jumping-off thing in their tiny little Speedos with their dicks all popping out the top.

“Yes and Ian Thorpe, definitely the favorite at this distance, now stepping up. Oh my! Well he certainly looks ready to go doesn’t he?”

It’s certainly not going to help the high jumpers or pole-vaulters. “Oh and he so nearly cleared it. It would have been a new Olympic record but his, erm, well, some part of him just caught the bar as he went over.”

And never mind about the events themselves, what about the medal ceremony? I can just see three blokes on the podium as the anthem plays and the man with the medals approaches to present them. They could have his eye out if they’re not careful. Maybe he should just hang the medals on their johnsons.

At the moment sildenafil is not on the banned substance list. On the plus side, if they do decide to outlaw Viagra in athletics detection shouldn’t be a problem, at least with the men. Or with female weightlifters. They’ll just check for erections after the event. I can imagine the attempts to foil the testers. Coaches will have all their track athletes rub one out before running to try and avoid getting wood and getting caught. But I’ve seen the commercials – the effects of this stuff don’t wear off that quickly do they? “In case of an erection lasting more than four hours you should probably try entering the decathlon.”

I was also interested to see that Viagra has been used to prevent jet lag. With all my international travel, and needing to hit the ground ready to do business, I would be a prime candidate for this. But can you really imagine taking seriously a man giving a presentation with a boner sticking out? Can you imagine being that man? Just don’t stand in front of the projector and throw shadow puppets on the screen with your penis. Nothing good can come of it…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Soccer With No Balls

Some of the players on our over-30 indoor 6-a-side soccer team are taking a few weeks off, allegedly to let various injuries heal. (Our goalkeeper, for instance, had three fingers broken a while back and he still can’t close his right hand properly, which must be a bitch when it comes to masturbation.) …

To read the rest of the story you’ll have to buy my book Mr Bison’s Journal…go on it’s very funny

In The Hole


Confession time – I watched about fifteen minutes of the US Open golf championship on TV today. Yeah, I know – watching golf on TV is a sign of serious mental deterioration; once you start doing that, the next thing you know you’re in the store buying hats with “Titleist” on them and talking with colleagues at work about “that shot Tiger made on the 17th where he hit the cut over the water”. And after that your continued existence on the planet has no value.

Anyway, as I watched I noticed something about the crowd. Any time anyone hit a shot, no matter where they were hitting it from, as soon as they’d hit the ball people would shout “Get in the hole!” as loud as they could. Not everyone, obviously, but a small number of loud-mouthed, brainless cunts.

Maybe once upon a time someone did this when they saw a really long putt approaching the hole and they felt driven by excitement to exclaim something (although, having once attended the Ryder Cup while entertaining customers I cannot see how “excitement” could possibly enter into the proceedings). Now, though, these twats shout it any time there is even a vague chance of the ball going anywhere near the green. They shout it when golfers tee off on a par 3, when they’re hitting shots from the fairway and any time they’re putting. They seem to shout for the leaders and for the “also-rans” in equal measure. In fact the only important feature of the whole exclamation is that it must be made one millisecond after the ball has been hit, i.e. as soon as it’s permissible to make noise.

Note that at the point in time when some fat cunt in a Callaway shirt shouts “Get in the hole” no-one yet has any idea whether the shot is in fact going anywhere near the hole. Leaving aside the fact that it’s impossible for the average human being to see the ball at all most of the time, what’s the point of shouting “Get in the hole” when for all you know the ball may be headed straight for the water. Or a bunker. Or some unfortunate spectator’s groin. And yet they do it. Every hole. All then fucking time, which just confirms my impression that a disproportionately large percentage of the people who follow golf are, in fact, complete wankers.

I wonder if they do the same thing when they’re watching porn. They could be settled down with a couple of buddies, watching a skin flick (I know, real men never watch porn together, but these are golfers we’re talking about) when some actress with plastic tits is approached by a large muscular man with a moustache, dressed as a plumber (or whatever the plot requires). When he pulls out his dong, do they leap up in their pastel colored golf shirts and shout “Get in the hole”? If not, why not? It makes at least as much sense as shouting it on a golf course, with the added bonus that you can be pretty sure that the dong is, in fact, going into the hole (although the exact hole may be uncertain, requiring the exclamation to be modified to “Get in a hole”).

If you can’t find anything else to do tomorrow, watch the final round of the US Open with some beer, and drink every time you hear “Get in the hole”. I swear by the end you won’t be able to stand up.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Not Worth The Wait


I’ve lived in St.Louis long enough to realise that we have one of the shittest airports in the civilized world. It wasn’t that long ago that your only option for food inside security was a tiny Taco Bell counter with about six tables outside, and it’s not much better now. Fortunately, since I live here, I have the option to leave if things get ugly, but there’s one way in which the airport can screw me regardless. It’s the baggage claim. I try hard never to check a bag, for all sorts of reasons – it can be lost, ripped up (thank you, New Delhi airport) or covered in unidentified liquids – but the worst part about checking a bag is that on returning to St.Louis, instead of walking straight out of the airport and heading home, I have to wait around at the convenience of the useless bastards who run this piss-hole of a terminal.

Yesterday I got off the plane at 6pm. My luggage came through on the carousel at 7pm. I know there are way worse stories of luggage delays (step forward anyone who’s traveled through Heathrow Terminal 5) but the thing is that other airports are designed to get you your bag much faster. If you have to wait it means they fucked up. At St.Louis this is as good as it gets – an hour wait means that everything is working fine. Forget about attracting new employers to the city – their first experience of St.Louis will be standing in a morass of obese humanity, milling around one of two carousels, waiting for a bag that never comes. By contrast my outbound flight was to San Diego – I just had time to walk to the carousel and withing two minutes my bag was there. And it’s not just smaller airports either – Chicago O’Hare, one of the busiest airports in the world, can have my bag waiting when I get through immigration. If St.Louis ran O’Hare you’d be timing your bags with a fucking calendar.

The saddest part of this whole thing was that the bag I checked was golf clubs. I hardly ever play golf, am shit at golf, hate people who talk about golf and refuse to dress like a golf wanker. Nevertheless I recognize that given the occasional need to play it for business it would be better if I were capable of hitting the stupid ball more than twenty yards off the tee, and approximately forwards, so I decided to bring my own (cheap) clubs in order to remove one of the possible sources of varability in my game. Big mistake. I played two games and while the first one could be described as “poor but with occasional decent shots” the second was clearly in the category of “absolute gash – shite of the highest order” or “would have done better to kick the ball forwards – what a twat”. I may as well have left my clubs at home and got back an hour of my life at baggage claim.

What made the whole thing worse was that my designated cart partner during the “utter shite” game was one of those “serious” golfers with perfect attire. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of a golf fetishist’s catalogue – he even had his name monogrammed on his bag, for fuck’s sake. It was like pairing a thoroughbred racehorse with a blind, three-legged donkey. Every time I stepped up to the ball I tried to remember the sequence of movements that made it go forwards, but invariably I ended up hitting it a pathetic distance, or sideways, or in the water. In fact my first shot off the tee was a pathetic distance sideways shot into a lake; I should have taken the hint and just fucked off back to the hotel there and then. I couldn’t even bring myself to exchange light-hearted banter with the refreshment cart wench – I didn’t have the right. I felt like I had “Total Cunt” indelibly printed on my forehead.

And the more I played like the proverbial wet fanny the more I wanted to beat my playing partner to death with an iron. (It would have to be an iron – I had already effectively demonstrated that I couldn’t even hit the ground with a wood.) It wasn’t his fault, but he ponced around, hitting his expensive clubs huge distances in perfect straight lines. And then he made the almost-fatal mistake. He gave me some advice. Well thank you Mr La-Di-Da Golf Weenie, please critique my pathetic attempts at this most important of games. (I won’t say sports, because it isn’t one.) How about we try one of my games? Like weightlifting, or shooting, or soccer, or karate. Yes, how about hand-to-hand combat, right here by the – whatever it’s called – tee box or green or fairway thingy. Come on motherfucker, have a go. Let’s see how far your perfect back-swing gets you then.

Of course I maintained appropriate decorum and finished out the round as befits a professional. If I could just have got him to stand at right angles to my shot I’m pretty sure I could have got him with a golf ball in the nads though. An hour at baggage claim for that – I should have “Total Cunt” on my forehead. In fact I may have to get a hat made specially for my next golf game.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Golf is for Arseholes

I got an invite to play golf later this month. For many men this would be an occasion of joy, probably marked by the purchase of a new horrendously colored shirt or stupid shoes. For me it is one more opportunity for pointless public humiliation. The fact is, I wouldn’t play at all if it weren’t required occasionally for my job. As it is, I play infrequently because I’m crap at it, and of course I’m not going to get any better by playing infrequently.

I’ll be playing the Indianwood Country Club, North of Detroit, which is a proper golf course. It has a clubhouse full of wood panelling and furniture taken from castles in England. [Interestingly enough, as a child in England I was often dragged by my parents around cold, dull, stone castles with nothing in them. I assumed they were empty for some good reason, but I discovered last year that it was because all the interesting stuff inside them had been shipped to the States to fill some crappy golf club.]

Indianwood is a club for people who know what they’re doing. They obviously assume some measure of competence among their clientele because when you stand on the tee (the bit at the start of the hole where you begin hitting the ball) the fucking grass often doesn’t start for about two hundred yards. Instead you are confronted by the sort of dense thistly undergrowth in which you would be hard pressed to locate a small child, never mind a tiny white ball. Now for me, a man who can reliably count on at least seventeen crap shots from the tee in any round, this is just pointless. I might as well just throw the ball in the briar patch and save myself the trouble of trying to hit it. At least if I threw it I might stand a small chance of seeing where it went.

Bear in mind that this is on the old course. Indianwood also has a new course, which is similar, except that in place of the thistles there is water. Lots and lots of water.

In spite of all this I can understand why people would enjoy the occasional game. What I fail to understand is why people feel they have to dress like a wanker just because they’re on a golf course. Plaid pants are not a good look. Not ever. Especially not when complemented by shirts in pastel colors and shoes with frilly bits on.

As a wiser person than me once observed, golf is a game played by men with small balls.

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison