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A page of blogged contributions from the people Isambard know and love...  
22 April 2008
Sunny Munn
april 27, 1989 - beijing students take over Tiananmen Square in china.
april 27, 1972 - apollo sixteen (16) returns to earth.
april 27, 1953 - wrestler Freddie Blassie coins the term "pencil neck geek".
april 27, 2008 - Isambard season two thousand and great finally kicks off!
remember sunshine & fresh air?
the sound of leather on willow?
remember cheap booze and the buxom locals who serve it?
remember collo hitting Ric in the nuts last week....?
well, guess what; they're all back! (Ric's nuts pending confirmation)
yes,
that's right,
after months of practising your forward defensive, mid-stride down the hallway and longing for the scent of freshly mown grass,
the time has arrived for the real deal.
time to get out of the mail room and into the maelstrom.
viewed through the bottom of a pint glass, this year is set to see more of the same for the Isambard faithful,
plus a few new tweaks thrown in for good measure.
the Golden Rule still applies:
** IF YOU SAY YOU'LL PLAY - YOU MUST TURN UP.
it doesn't matter whether you've spent the weekend
gallivanting about the High street in a concerted effort to drag the lower lip above the eyebrows,
coming off a double-marathon in order to collect on a drunken bet,
or simply eyeing off your next victim...
...just turn up.
the worse You are - the better the rest of us look.
with a three (3) - two (2) - one (1) Best & Fairest system (ala the brownlow) to be introduced,
a weekly (booze-related) award for the most sixes (6's),
and the inaugural Isambard Ladies Day in august,
this season promises to be the finest yet.
the only new rule to be implemented this season is the following:
**IF IT IS YOUR FIRST (1ST) GAME FOR THE CLUB - YOU HAVE TO BAT & BOWL.
there will be no "making up the numbers", my good friends.
as the records undoubtedly tumble and the team routinely dominates, it's important to highlight the battles which make up the war.
we need cast our eyes no further than the opening week of two thousand and great (2008) to spy such a battle on the horizon....
Messrs Malin - Disco & Adam - have been loyal Isambard stalwarts from ball one (1) and as each career flourishes under warm english rays,
the heat intensifies in the middle, and the 'Race For One Thousand' (1000 runs) reaches boiling point.
now,
these men will claim that individual accolades pale in significance to that of the team ethos.
they're english - they have to.
we all know this to be bullsh1t.
ask windscreens how many wickets he scalped last year,
or richie to recite his average to six (6) decimal points.
ask dermot how many times, as captain, he opted Not to open the batting.
the answers will be gleefully ejaculated before the ink has time to dry on the question mark.
it's all about stats.
Ads - nine ninety-two (992)
disco - nine ninety-eight (998)
to honour this momentous occasion (and heap unwarranted pressure on the above batsmen),
both Malins will be opening the batting this sunday - and a book will be open for all bets.
i, for one (1), will be there; pint in hand to witness and contribute where possible to the first (1st) of many victories
and to allow everyone the opportunity to buy me the first (1st) of many beers.
the queue to play grows longer with each passing week.
so, as the sand sifts through the hourglass faster than you can say "english batting collapse", let the Race commence.
i will be there....
will you....?
So I got hit by a car Sunday....
9 April 2008
Sunny Munn
After months of seat-of-the-pants navigation and near-death encounters; bus journeys spent envisioning my own demise on any given Bolivian "road", I finally make it back to the safety of civilisation - and promptly get mown down (slight hyperbole) by a taxi out the front of The Swan, in Stockwell.
God, you larrikin. You joker, you.
In typical dickhead fashion, I'm striding home early from work like the goose that I am, in the wee hours of the morning - iPod in, air drums out - when, mid Back In Black solo, an argent flash pierced the periphery.
Yep, that'd be a car.
I managed to jump at the last second, which probably saved me, as I was then merely clipped by the White Whale. The resulting acrobatics would've had Nadia Comaneci herself raising the brows in a show of recognition.
Rotation - clinical.
Landing - superb.
ten (10)
ten (10)
nine (9)
ten (10)
four (4) from the Russian judge (to be fair, I did blow out my thong....)
But you can reserve judgement for your own tiny little minds once the CCTV footage has been posted on YouTube (seriously).
Testicles, spectacles, wallet and watch - a quick survey found all the vitals miraculously intact. I was then eagerly greeted by an exuberant young Canadian charging at me full-tilt:
- "Doooood... you just got hit by a car, bruh...!"
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
- "You gotta get to da hot-spittle, maaaaan...!"
No dice.
Once the car had reversed the fifty-odd (57?) yards between us, I was keen to calm down my assailant, certain he would be in some degree of shock - if not at the sight of my flailing limbs careering over his windscreen, then surely at my near-perfect landing (curse that pesky Russian....!)
"Sorry mate - my fault - I'm ok - it's alright"
My attempts to allay any fears he may have harboured for my well-being were swiftly shelved. These sage-like pleas for forgiveness were falling on deaf (cauliflowered) ears, for young Ayrton was too busy
perusing his bonnet for any sign of damage.
"Shit, mate, is your two (2) tonne vehicle gonna be ok? Should I give you my details in case you need to bill me for sullying your headlight with my blood? Check your wheel alignment too, pal - I think my
ankle's given you some under-steer...."
Prick.
Thankfully, all this went down just around the corner from where I'm staying. I let this be known to old
mate, who I then asked for a lift home "if it's not too much hassle...."
It was.
"No. I am taxi. I go now."
Flawless logic. Fluent grammar. Limitless potential. This bloke has it all ahead of him.
Malevolent Arsehole.
Hobbling home stone-cold sober, looking like any other drunkard at that unholy hour, it was oddly soothing to be greeted by the sight of one (1) housemate (or, at least, his alter-ego...) hurling a computer (you heard me) at another (slightly taller, slightly less-clothed....) housemate's back. Evidently, the boys have made some real progress in the months since my departure. If this wasn't a suitable environment for some well earned rest and relaxation, then I'd eat my hat.
So, after a self-prescription of booze & ganja, to be administered at regular intervals over an eight (8)
hour period, it was eventually off to "the hot-spittle" for a few token scans.
Somehow I'd managed to come away fairly unscathed - no broken bones. Incredibly lucky.
This was probably the luckiest moment of my young life (so far) - and I've flipped a ute ...AND once won
twenty bucks ($20) on a scratchy...!
While at "the hot-spittle", I also took the opportunity to have my bi-monthly brain scan which, as usual,
revealed nothing.
As a consequence of this hooplah, I now not only spend my days skittling about the house on crutches,
a la Tucker in There's Something About Mary, but I have also had to withdraw "crossing the road" from
the (limited) section of my CV entitled "Specialist Skills".
Sober as a judge, and cleaned up by a cab; who'd a thunk it?
Until next time, remember to look both ways, and don't leave work early...Karma's a bitch!
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