The standard of editorial efficiency at Zimbabwe’s publishing and broadcasting houses is, for lack of a better word, shit.
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.
It’s been a while, my first world computer seems unwilling to host third world websites.
…and this is no reference to what’s been happening in the sack either. Or not been happening in all honesty.
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, driving to work along Enterprise Rd this morning, I was witness to something which always, without failure, manages to get on my tits.
In my not so numerous dealings with black men, a phenomenon manifests itself inevitably, when within a few short minutes of meeting them, they utter the words ‘I love you’. Now if you want me to break out in hives, and run screaming into the hills, this is probably the best way to do it.
An acquaintance of mine had a party this weekend. So a sister decided to invest in some glad rags and bring the dancing shoes out of their forced retirement.
The satisfaction I derive from my job can only be compared to committing suicide by gouging myself repeatedly with a rusty and blunt nail.
You’re a striker. You haven’t scored in 15 hours of football for your new club. Your mate wins a penalty, and up you step, gamely placing the ball on the spot. The Portsmouth keeper has no chance, we reckon.
What the hell is wrong with people? Hamudi kuona vamwe vachifara, nhai? Why can’t you jes’ let others be happy in their relationships without trying to get a piece of the action.
Having to watch that crap last night, Liverpool losing to Crystal Palace (bloody heck) was like stopping at the scene of a horrific car accident – you don’t really want to, but a certain morbid fascination keeps you glued.