If you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well set the alarm and put the kettle on. This past week or so, like everyone in CharmingVille, I’ve been snacking on time-inappropriate fingerfood and yelling ‘GOAL!’ at the top of my lungs at 3 in the morning. First it was the Champion’s League, and now this thing in Brazil. I’ve become quite the aficionado. Just ask me anything. Like: ‘Ruby, I’m drawn to the matador machismo and palpable cocksmithery of Cristiano Ronaldo, but I’ve gone off him a bit over that shock drubbing by the Germans. Plus that red uniform doesn’t make his tan pop the way I like. I think Messi is the better player even though he looks like my cousin from 1978. I was planning to have sex with him and give him the best damn root he’s ever had in his life. What do you think?’
Firstly, my friend, I think you are a warm and generous person. Lionel should be very grateful for your offer. The gift of screaming climax is an awesome ‘Thanks’ any of us would be happy to get. But I hate to rain on your Carnaval. ‘Mas por que você precisa chover na minha festa de rua?’ I hear you say. Because, my dear, sex for our Leo is no more thrilling than going down the PandaMart or talking poolroom colourways with his good lady wife. That genius tinyman gets all the gasping ecstasy he needs from things like kicking his first goal at the World Cup in eight years. Not one of us, not even you, could make him feel how he looked at that moment. Switch on your YouTube and go to the bit at 64:29ish where he miraculously slots it in for Argentina if you don’t believe me. Look at that feisty little fellow run and roar with joy, every neck vein a-pop, in front of 100,000 people shrieking and writhing in mutual, euphoric abandon. Right afterwards a wing of his bellowing, hardbody BFFs descends to ruffle his mullet and give him a nice cuddle. Perhaps a surreptitious spoon, even. Or just a quick cup. Whatever. Anyway. The vídeo cuts off after this (no doubt for privacy’s sake) but with all that explosive emotion released I guarantee he probably had a little cry. There now. I rest my case.
I know the Cambodian national soccer team must be taking a few leaves out of Mr Magic Messidonna’s World Cup playbook. They should. As you know I have my finger on the throbbing pulse of worldwide footballery, and The Angkor Warriors aren’t exactly kicking goals. Apparently they haven’t really since booting Yemeni arse back in ‘66. They’re trying, though. I bumped into the lads in my quest to find a CharmingVille gym that a) doesn’t have mushrooms tumescing from carpet, b) isn’t sick with swaggering narcissists shooting up HGH in the towel cupboard, or c) won’t charge an arm and a leg to wait for the StairMaster while some bodyguarded minor royal trots through her spider solitaire session. Going to a new gym is like Day One at the office or the first day back at juvie. You don’t know where anything is and what the naked/not-naked protocol is in the change rooms. The latter was solved for me by the tiny towels. Whilst no doubt perfect for Lionel’s compact rig, I am a grown woman of luxurious proportions. I could cover front bottom or back bottom but not both at the same time. Boobs didn’t get a look in either way.
No matter which hurt locker I pick, I always start with a cheeky 30 on the treadmills. This particular morning everyone bar the middle machine was thumping and rolling with mid-session fit-ballers looking professionally intense, eyes fixed on the salutary replay of the debaculous stoush between Croatia and Cameroon playing on every dashboard.
I fit right in between two glistening, rhythmically grunting internationals, hardly believing my luck. I batted my good eye and let my shoulder strap slide in the hope one of them might shoot a wink my way or even let slip the strip. No dice. These guys were grimly pumping towards elusive, ecstatic transcendence and I was out of my league.
Lionel already knows the score. For sure most nights when he’s not practicing his star jumps in his private gym or coming up with some great new smoothie recipes, him and Antonella must just lie in bed holding hands.