Party time

Moi, to the right, at Silk Royale - an over hyped crowded lil place that passes for one of the best night spots in Kampala whose play list is nothing short of a monument to a unoriginality - doing my best impression of a happy clubber; not very hard to do after a blow job and a couple of Screaming Multiple Orgasms. But am getting a head of myself, allow me to start at the beginning.
On the first Friday of March I made a return to the club circuit, following month-long forced absence from. Because of the threat of violence that loomed in the period leading upto and following the Presidential elections, and the illness of my niece shortly afterward, I was confined to my home and fun activities were limited to watching football and watching football. For the record, it's not the possibility of violence that stopped me from going clubbing but the chickening out of my clubbing mates. But, you can't keep a good girl at home for long; the Presidential elections duly ended and my niece recovered nicely. But normal service was not to resume without a few hiccups - story of my life! Isaac, my cousin, M's on and off boyfriend - love's a bitch - who was to give us a lift to da club was taken ill with malaria only a few days we were to go out, and we couldn't find a replacement for him on short notice. But I was determined to end my exile so I told my M that we'd go by public means. Her initial apprehension - it's not safe for two women to go about town alone at night - gave way in the face of my resolve. And so it was that at 10 pm on a Friday night my cousin and I were on a Bajaj, with me wearing a sarong over my skirt - it's singularly unsafe for girls in mini skirts to move about town unaccompanied. We got to the main road, about 7 kilometers away from home, and took a matatu (psv) to town. Then we took another Bajaj to a swanky bar whence we were to meet my other cousin Arm. We hang out with him for a bit then took a taxi to Royale. I was pretty psyched, having known the place by reputation only. But I was really disappointed: the place was crowded, the music irritatingly bland, the crowd unrefined; there's no end to the club's short comings.
I had a good mind to leave early, but having expended so much energy getting there, decided to stay and make a go of it. I accepted offers for drinks and suffered some of the most punishing conversation ever. But my sufferance was not tested for long because after a blow job and several screaming multiple orgasms, which I especially enjoyed because they're made of my favorite poison, Amarula, I was so high that I hit the dance floor with a vengeance and was so dancing on the speakers - that was a lot of fun! I recall shaking booty to Sean Paul's Temperature, which I love, ordinarily, but which on the night was nothing short of orgasmic. Speaking of SP, i hope he never comes back to Africa, coz i'd follow his ass to wherever. We got a lift back home, and slept for most of Saturday. I'll be going to Club Rouge, which, am told, can be enjoyed sans intoxication.

Peace, out! One love

I am going to tell you a secret

Want to be chic, or to stay on the cutting edge of fashion this year? Forget fancy shoes, clothes, bags, phones or whatever it is that makes people trendy, air a confession. Confession is all the rage: There was Usher with his Confessions album, Lindsay Lohan’s Confessions of a spoiled brat, Josh Groban’s My Confession, Paris Hilton’s Confessions of an heiress, and now Maddona’s Confessions on the dance floor. And the sweet part is that you need not be constrained by such trifles as truth, and honesty; you have license to embellish, omit, invent truth; the more shocking the better. Think a million little pieces. Having become something of a fashionista myself it’s only fitting that I should air my own confession.

The object of my affection is neither my first, nor second, nor only one at the moment! He’s only the latest in a long line of incarnations of “the beloved”;
I’ll not, for fear of being labelled whorish or capricious, name previous incarnations. He is everything my ex wasn’t: the model of resolve, drive, and diligence, reliability, and best of all, loyalty. The FA cup quarter final match between Chelsea and Newcastle on wednesday was a wonderful affirmation of Chelsea’s appeal; loyalty. The game itself was rather disappointing; Chelsea put up a disjointed, and passionless performance that I’ll not describe because it has already been splendidly done. It’s just as well that we won: the team played awfully, and it failed to drive the advantage home when they could have done it many times; winning is all they could have been proud of after such a dismal performance. But, no need then to belabour what must have been painfully obvious even to them; we’re in the semi finals and for now that’s all that matters. But I digress.
The applause accorded to Celestine Babayaro and Scott Parker, both former Chelsea players, at the outset was so gratifying that even the dismal performance could not entirely counter point it. Such loyalty you might say can be found at any number of clubs. But that when viewed along with the fact that big daddy, Mr Abramovich to non chelskovites, and the special one made the trip to Abidjan to support Drogda and the Ivorians in the world cup qualifier against Cameroon late last year then my point begins to become a little clearer. Note to reader, Ivory Coast is in the thick of civil conflict.
Loyalty of the fans through 50 years during which Chelsea had with which to lure and entrance further proves my point. But it’s not all one-way traffic: Chelsea’s devotion to its fans is touching. The decision to grant free tickets to all its disabled fans is a case in point.
Even the recent dip in form is a product of devotion. Am not in any way trying to defend the indefensible, only trying to explain it. The start of the dip traces back to the lose to Barcelona at the Bridge. Since then, we’ve lost to Middlesbrough, Fulham, narrowly won against Tottenham, and gotten away with a few bad performances. The Newcastle caretaker manager reckons it’s because Mourinho was deeply affected by our exit from the competition, and I agree with him. The proponent of clinical play has become dis-centred and it’s rubbing off onto the team. While that’s not a good thing, it shows how much the manager cares about the club; after all, one must care to bother to get upset. Cynics will say it’s all selfish, that he’s ultra competitive and would react similarly no matter what team it was he coached but am convinced that he is deeply devoted to the club and that's all there's to it. Take the celebrations after the winning goal against Tottenham two weeks ago, and if you’re not convinced, then you’re blind!

Ps : I realise that am blogging a great deal about Football lately; perhaps because am always in a parallel soccer universe, either looking forward to a game, enjoying it, or revelling in its after glow. But i'll try an leave it every so often so that the footaball inspired stories don't surfeit

Dodgeball Politik

Imagine you’re EUDA, the most powerful of regional federations in the world’s most popular sport, Dodge ball, second only to the international federation of Dodge ball Associations in influence. But your power is under threat from Insolent, pompous rich clubs, which purport to start an exclusive Championship in direct competition with the existing motley official competition that is sanctioned by you. Oh the nerve!
And to make matters worse, a baron from the evil empire in the East comes along splashes a bit of money around and altogether upsets the order of things. Now, it’s bad enough contending with elite clubs but there’s some dignity to it. The prospect of dealing with upstarts, who misguidedly belief that money can buy standing, however, is perfectly insufferable, completely without redeeming qualities. Oh, the indignity! What to do, what to do?! Nouveau riche or established riche, they’re all dangerous; and they must be decidedly put in their place and reminded who’s boss! But how?
Soberly assessing the situation and redefining your position so as to remain relevant would be one way. But that’d be too hard, and it would mean that the riche win; no, this calls for the down and dirty, for humiliation - It’s about time a few wings were clipped and a bud nipped!
The strategy is quite simple: promote the smaller clubs at the expense of the more prestigious ones. How is this to be done without exposing yourself to accusations of partiality you ask. Why, that’s easy! A bit of calculated randomness here, and sports psychology there, and viola; mission accomplished! Suppose that in the grouping of teams some property - such as weight, size - of the little balls that contain team names are tampered with, thereby making it possible to discriminate between them, would the process remain impartial? Now suppose that a giant killer is drawn against a giant? Or better yet draw a floundering team, the perfect candidate for patronage, against a giant that is one in name only! Let’s pause and consider the factors that would be at play in such a match up: complacency, and inspiration. The purported giant would underestimate the struggling team. The strugglers on the other hand would be greatly inspired, remember desperation is sometimes as powerful an inspirer as genius.
That would cover most problems save for one: a clinical, dogged upstart team; easelhc dc! That would be a difficult one to get rid of. But squaring it against an established team with a score to settle might do. Grudge match would be a win win situation: a rich team would be eliminated and the one left standing would be too wounded to survive much longer. But upstarts are dreadfully irritating therefore it might be better if they are gotten rid off ASAP. So if you have a discreet referee to subtly make sure of the result you desire, what of it!
And if the years in which the elite clubs and nouveau riche are only punctuations of the years of dominance by a variety of small clubs, who’s to say that’s not the new order of things?

Goodbye to our beloved leader!

In the most dramatic move of his career as Real Madrid Presidente, one that eclipsed the acquisition of Figo from Barca, and Beckhams transfer from Man Utd, Florentino Pérez, on Tuesday quit his position at the helm. Citing the failure of his beloved galacticos to win a single trophy in three years (and their consistently dismal performances), as grounds for the move, Mr. Perez said, “I don’t regret bringing the best best players in the world to this club, but perhaps I wasn’t able to make them understand the importance of their responsibilities, maybe I’ve educated them badly.”
Apparently substituting an under-performing player, keeping him on the bench if he make a habit of it, and selling off such a player if he fails to recover his form, are not part of Mr. Perez’s teaching method. But selling off an effective player (hello Owen) to placate underachieving star names is.
As a fan of the Meringues, am truly sorry to see him go. Sure the team has been unconvincing for a long while but with him at the helm it was sure that a turn around was just around the corner. I have it on good authority that he had, in the works, just the tonic the team needed to recover. He was in negotiations with the representatives of Maradona and Pele, to bring the two greats to Madrid. Maradona and Pele were to support Zidane and Ronaldo respectively, and make Real’s attack the most lethal in Europe.
And to strengthen Real’s position atop the list of the world’s richest clubs, he intended on signing a sponsorship deal with Macdonald’s, which would see the Fast food company not only pay millions to the club but also supply all the players’ food.

But alas, none of those plans materialized in his time. Neither did the coupe of announcing the signing of Barcelona’s Frank Rijkaard and Juan laporte as the new Real Coach and President respectively while declaring his resignation. He however still hopes to use his influence to bring those two to Madrid. Laporte ought to be easy to convince; he did after all want to sign Beckham for Barca, now he doesn’t have to, he can just come over to Madrid and Voila, he can work with the world’s most lucrative footballer.
Don't cry for Perez Meringues, the truth is he'll never leave!