My head says, violence bad! My heart says, violence perhaps understandable if what’s alleged to be said was said! And then another, rather primal part of me aligns with this unique perspective from Heather of This Fish, in which she admits to finding Zidane’s headbutt just a wee bit of a turn on:
“I turned back to the TV just in time to catch the immediate aftermath. A man’s eyes were on fire and everything in his face screamed, ‘Merde! I am one angry Frenchman!’
And that’s when I fell in love.
The announcers started jabbering, as I waited for a recap. And then they showed it again. I sat in stunned silence. And by the third time… well, holy moly, I think I became pregnant by an instant replay.”
Now before you leave outraged comments, just pretend for a moment that you had no knowledge of football or the context of the incident whatsoever, and you looked at the move purely as a display of manly biffo. Heather may just have something there. The sheer, decisive forcefulness of that butt is exhilarating and holds a certain animalistic appeal.
I don’t wish to speculate as to who said what or who’s right or wrong in this situation; I’ll let the journalists scrap over that one like Scottish seagulls on a packet of hot chips. Instead let us pause and reflect on one thing of which we can be certain: Zizou is a handsome bloke. It’s in the smile, the frown, the skillz, the eyes with shades of light and dark; the perpetually sweaty shaven head.
Actually it’s really got a lot to do with the shaven head. He did nothing for me when he still had locks!
This reminds me that I am lucky enough to actually be married to a lad with a shaved head.
One time we were flipping through an old photo album and Gareth was sighing wistfully at his locks of yesteryear. But he just looked all wrong to me! I much prefer his current do, even though he says I can hardly call it a do if he has no choice in the matter.
We have a photo from Wedding Part III displayed on a bookcase. My mate Peita gave us a beautiful frame and it’s just the one picture, high up on the shelf. Recently our friend Maggie was sitting on the opposite side of the room, squinting up at it.
“Shauna,” she said in puzzled tones, “Why do you have a photo of the Pope?”
“Aye! Over there on the shelf. The Pope. You’re standing right beside him!”
“Yes. The Old Pope, not the new Evil one.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Are you… are you feeding him cake?”
“Nooo!” I cackled, “That’s Gareth! At our wedding!”
“No way.” She ran over the bookcase. “It is too! You know, he really looks like the Pope from over there. It looks like he’s got one of those wee white Pope hats on.”
“That’s not a hat,” said Gareth, “It’s just the AUSTRALIAN SUN shining on my baldy heid!”