…of Southern Africa. Friday was quiet – sort of like the calm before the storm.
What more do you have to do? You’re Steven Gerrard, you cut through the middle, suck in two defenders and slide it through to your striker running into the six-yard box. Unfortunately, that striker’s name is Peter Crouch.
Not just lyrics to a Carole King song anymore, because I have just felt my first earthquake. Earthquakes are not nice.
Unbelievable week we’ve had, sports fans! Can you handle Liverpool winning two games in a row?
Great weekend all round, but shock! horror! no booze involved, not even a single green! I must say being broke is the best thing that ever happened to me.
How long before Rafa Benitez tells the world it was all a big joke, laughs heartily and consigns that lumbering idiot to the reserves where he belongs?
So there’s another week gone by, zooming past with the speed of three dogs (spidhi yembwa nhatu). What did I accomplish? F-all, really.
Liverpool lost to Chelsea in the Premiership. Big deal. France lost to Scotland. Bloody hell. So I thought my weekend was crap, until I went down to 2nd Street Extension to grab a pizza.
So there I was strolling down King George Road on this beautiful, bright and sunny morning in Hahaharare. Your idyllic summer’s morning really, flowers in bloom, birds singing softly, you know, all that water-color painting stuff, very fecking Mills & Boon.
He fights his way up from the murky depths of fitful slumber, and sits up in what appears a vast ocean of twisted sheets and cold, rippled waves of bed-linen. Some nights, it’s all he can do to stay sane, even human: the craving has taken him.
So, the Zimbabwe Warriors kick off their second AFCON campaign tonight, taking on Senegal in their opening encounter. Hold your balls (if you have any).
So, driving to work along Enterprise Rd this morning, I was witness to something which always, without failure, manages to get on my tits.