If the mountain will not come to one, one must go to the mountain, is a sentiment pegamequemegusta has never shared. So it was that from May on we were sat squat on the casino steps gazing out toward far New Zealand awaiting the arrival of the stone-faced crag. Several moon cycles later, neither party showed signs of giving way, however. The triumph of the cowardly intellect, the substitution of brawn for character, has left the world less upwardly mobile than before; its genius spent, its bones mere husks, hooks for guileless style.
So the local fishmonger told us as he left us the evening scraps that have been our daily fare these last four months: slivers of football fish. A fascinating creature, both ancient and classically, effortlessly modern, it is a masterpiece of near perilous ambition and outré design. It’s genius at full tilt, undercutting its own quest for perfection with a delightful dollop of irony. Fearsome teeth, glow in the dark nosh-attracting feature for the rangy depths of the sea, a fishing rod on its head. Jesus, this is going well, mused the Creator, until, a fernet too far, saw him pump the sleek beast full of air and leave him floundering globularly near the sea bed. A wry sense of justice, a lo Trap, hath our Lord.
Nevertheless, el Señor realised a while back he was little more than a Truman figure in a show produced by faulty algorithms that repeat themselves with a regularity shockingly similar to the use of the phrase Smash It at Keys and Gray’s after-dinner speeches. One of nature’s hackers’ favourite gags is that apart from in the extraterrestrial human race, the female tends to be considerably larger than the male. Lol. Such is the disparity in size between the male and female Atlantic Football Fishes (the missus is some seven times larger), that science men suspect that the male may have to bite into the female, fusing with her and becoming Spice Girlishly one ‘for eternity’, as happens in other species of angler fish. In this scenario, the parasitic male feasts on her blood, providing mere sperm in return, in much the same way TDs see the unemployed, oho. No such lovefused pairs washed up during our coastal sojourn, however, nor anywhere else, we are told. Therefore, it could be that the tiny little males just copulate and go back to waving their fluorescent fishing rods in the lonely technofest that is life in the deep sea.
Perhaps it was rough touch of the cold, wind-bashed steps on our undercarriage as we looked oceanwards all those months, or perhaps ’twas but the old sexual napalm that is the legacy of same-sex schooling, but around the time we heard the cries drifting ‘pon the air as Argentina thumped Ecuador 4-0 and Messi scored a hat-trick against the brazucas, we began to consider the seduction techniques of creatures other than the Atlantic Football Fish. Football players are men, after all, and we suspect that heretofore not enough attention – or at least the wrong kind of attention – has been paid to the lovemaking techniques of the men we pay to watch thump, and e’en caress, balls. When the honourable Niki Ghazian reveals that during their “their passionate romp” C-Ron paused several times to put ice on his sore ankle and remained on the bed “while I moved around”, how can one be surprised when said dashing winger has become famed for his physical preparation and yet refuses to help out in defence? Likewise, the notorious tale of Joe Cole leaping out a bedroom window in just his socks when his paramour’s rightful owner returned surely highlights the fleet footwork, emotional cowardice and mysterious injuries that have dogged his puffing and panting career. That Jermaine Pennant had to raise himself from the sack to vomit was what convinced Rafa to dispatch him to Inglan’s sarf coast. And no-one was really surprised when it emerged Master Wayne was a cuckold.
As regards Argentina’s national squad, we can only speculate, but it appears there does exist a correlation between fore-(aft, ay)-and-field-play. Mascherano is clearly one who waits behind the front door, sticks out a leg to trip his love, then pounces, perhaps putting on the mask of another to finish the job. Higuaín races toward the finish despite being irreversibly gallina. Di María slithers and slathers like a cold fussili bake; there’s no real passion and he’s not known for his generosity. Lavezzi is all hustle and bustle, a burly, groping mess that only occasionally achieves jouissance. Gago is the dark horse, a master of the pressure, the pleasure points. Despite being unable to hold down a long-term relationship, he is a wonderful conversationalist. José Sosa won many a heart in La Plata and has been known to go all night. Clemente bathes his bald hed in oil and posts the videos online under a pseudonym (he was recently invited to address an industry conference in Tokyo). Romero is entirely passive, happy no matter who calls the number he leaves on Genoan lampposts. Braña’s preferences are too explicit for a family website.
All very well but remarkable considering Dr Batistenstein’s reign of terror was characterised by a complete lack of sex drive. The Maradona-fille-impregnating Agüero was one of the only ones to pump his fist with any real passion. The rest were merely playing parts, doing what Loaded had said was expected of them as they sheepishly squirmed through fully-clothed lap dances (Argentina 0-0 Colombia) in a high street strip joint. Even in the early part of this campaign late last year, the home draw with Bolivia smacked of the same impotence that had come to scar the team’s libido since Román had blown his load in a flurry of goals in magical 2007. One-nil down against Colombia in Barranquilla last November, it was only the introduction of the young lothario Agüero that flipped the script and left Falcao’s boys munching pillow. 1-2.
That victory breathed fire into the Selección’s loins, to be sure, but the night where the Yohimbe, Tribulus and Maca really kicked in was in the 4-0 spanking of Ecuador. When Messi stuffed the ball up his shirt after the third goal, following his hat-trick in the 4-3 friendly win over Brazil, the statisticians were quick to point out how he was close to breaking a record for scoring in consecutive games; quicker than a schoolboy with a bottle of tippex and a filthy mind did they draw up all the onion bags our Lionel had made bulge these months past. Yet they failed to point out the real reason for Argentina’s recent resurgence: Messi has become a man. Pegamequemegusta had feared all those hormones had bereft lil Leo of as much as they had blessed him with in other areas. Long gone, however, is the pasty Playstation freak besotted with tomb-raiding computer sprites. Messi is to be a father
This video, for example, should come with a warning for excessive testosterone (grab a cushion at 3:08):
Nevertheless, between puffs on his pipe today, Messi played up to the press pretending he was nervous:
“Now that i’m here, I feel a little bit anxious as the baby could come at any minute. Anxious just like everyone else, my family, my girlfriend, but at the same time i’m glad as so far everything is going well, thanks be to god. It’s going to be a a big responsibility, but a nice one to have. I’m looking forward to it.”
So what if they were shit against Peru; so what if the defence could collapse at any minute and there are a bunch of loonies on the bench. Uruguay have been playing lately as if their only desire in the world were to be locked back up in their box in the basement with an apple in their mouth. Moreover, since Bielsa left, half the Chile team only show up for the promise of a cut-price outing to a brothel. No, Messi is more Maradonian than ever; he’s el Diego without the tears. This Friday night in Mendoza, Messi’s Men will be ripe for another romp that should leave the charrúas with more than sore heads. The spirit of the Atlantic Football Fish is alive and well in this team: give sperm, take blood, y que sigan mamando.