Right Honorable

So, to be perfectly honest, until about a week ago, I'd never heard of the Indianapolis Colts. I was shocked therefore, not so much by their entry into the Super Bowl, but rather by the fact that they even existed in the first place.

Granted, I'm not what you would call a "Sports Fan." I mostly hold no interest in watching grown men in tight pants playing with balls. However, I'm not sure how it is that an entire NFL franchise could exist (seemingly for years) without my ever having heard of it.

It's perfectly fine if you want to watch. I just have other things to geek out over...

Unfortunately, as I have blocky shoulders and facial hair, and generally appear to be the proud owner of a wiener, I am frequently met with the question, "So, gonna watch the big game?"

Generally, I can pick up on the collective cultural cues that lead up to the Super Bowl or the World Series, and I can either make a vague verbal ascent, while shifting topics, or I can simply say "No." Which, throws folks right off course. Especially men. Especially men who wear suits to work, who enjoy going to the gym, and who think Heineken is good beer.

Fuckers.

And god save me if it's basketball season. I loath basketball. I hide from it. I purposefully avoid making eye contact with any printed information about it.

Basketball season, it appears, lasts for about 14 months with a 10-month post-season play-off season. It never ends. Ever. It just keeps going and going and going, endlessly, like a basketball game itself. Running back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Etc...

I understand that people pay money to watch this. I am confused by this.

So, did I watch the "Big Game?" Well, yes, for a bit. Then, I got bored and started flipping channels.

Having made my second voyage 'round the horn, as it were, I finally stopped on CSPAN or the BBC, or somesuch. Much to my great delight, they were showing the most resent session of Question for the Prime Minister in the British House of Commons. PM Blair was standing rakish-like against his dais, smirky grin on his face, rolling out one-liners, deflecting tough questions, thinking on his feet.

The dowdy MPs from places like Berkinghamshire and Wolverhamptonsham, stood one by one, recognized by the Right Honorable Speaker. They would fire off well-written finely-pointed questions, such as, "Might we expect to receive a reasonable assurance from Government that the good working people of Burryhumpleburrough will see their pensions in place come the dawning of the next decade?"

And one by one, Smirking Tony would spin out of the way with a quick quip about the MP's poor choice of wool coat, or deflect to the seemingly urgent matter of Scottish independence.

Tony is a master. Tony is an artist.

I never made it back to the game. I guess the Colts won, whoever the hell they are...