Kabadi was shown on Channel 4 on Sunday afternoons. If you were clever, which I was, you could turn on the idiot lantern and watch the Waltons, Little House on the Prairie, luncheon on some form of beeves, and then straight onto Kabadi before a spot of Highway to Heaven, Songs of Praise, Antiques Roadshow and Lovejoy.
I for one struggle to think of a culture or ethnicity not encompassed by such visual delights. Sadly television has lost its way since Harry Secombe, Ian McShane and Michael Landon died.
I for one struggle to think of a culture or ethnicity not encompassed by such visual delights. Sadly television has lost its way since Harry Secombe, Ian McShane and Michael Landon died.
As you have not had the benefit of Channel 4 ethnic sports in your youth I will explain the rules:
In essence one team member goes out and has a lamb faal the night before the match. He/she must then wander around a patch of dirt whilst shouting Kabadi to proving he/she isn't breathing in. The opposition team make a chain of hands and try and touch the ethnic before he/she shits themselves. Anyone tarnished by an ethnic splatter has to swap teams. The winner is the team member that dies last of dysentery.
This game was less popular under colonial rule, but since they the middle temple fakir made some salt they are play it all the time. Currently the HSBC call centre team tops the Kabadi league. However non-league games are more exciting as there is less corruption (A number of funnels and centrifuges were found in the AVIVA call centre second fifteen which were used to enhance the projection and range of the ethnic splatter) hence my comment comparing a non-league game of Kabadi with this magnificent poem.
In essence one team member goes out and has a lamb faal the night before the match. He/she must then wander around a patch of dirt whilst shouting Kabadi to proving he/she isn't breathing in. The opposition team make a chain of hands and try and touch the ethnic before he/she shits themselves. Anyone tarnished by an ethnic splatter has to swap teams. The winner is the team member that dies last of dysentery.
This game was less popular under colonial rule, but since they the middle temple fakir made some salt they are play it all the time. Currently the HSBC call centre team tops the Kabadi league. However non-league games are more exciting as there is less corruption (A number of funnels and centrifuges were found in the AVIVA call centre second fifteen which were used to enhance the projection and range of the ethnic splatter) hence my comment comparing a non-league game of Kabadi with this magnificent poem.
replying on Shuushin the multi-personality total cunt by mr cunt
10 Apr 2007, 5:17 AM
Neither am I since they changed the password. :.(..
on A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON . . . by stevopoet
10 Apr 2007, 4:04 AM
This is a terrible poem, if indeed it could be called a poem. Showing off that you know Gibraltar has a rock and that Thebes lies next door to the Garden of Eden is not sufficient to make up for the appallingly squelchy line: "That which cannot become grime in the wind."
replying on A twisted Trail in Edenâs Garden by Dovina
27 Mar 2007, 2:21 AM
No Ranger it is not.
replying on Here are the wipes by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
23 Mar 2007, 2:15 AM
Many Thanks!
replying on A Single Strand of Golden Yellow by Aetius
23 Mar 2007, 2:13 AM
Your Father and Grandfather evoke the imagery of two men utterly disgusted that their genes could produce such a monstruously lesbian child/grandchild.
replying on Writer's Block by cheese.doodles
23 Mar 2007, 2:11 AM
Fairies, fill and head are all bulging with pornographic symbolism. I suggest you remove them unless you wish the passing 'ranker to presume you a lewd.
You were so extraoridinarily close to saying something unpleasant to someone in that comment, but then you rescued yourself by chintzing it up with some " ". However, a pleasnat comment with a barb from Ranger is still the most withering attack anyone can experience on poemranker. So Dovina, get yourself a title, and then get yourself back to the open water before the Icelanders catch you and make you into heating oil.
on The Small Ones by Dovina
22 Mar 2007, 9:58 AM
This poem makes light of the deeply fecund stirrings of the author whilst, almost unbelievably, illustrating the juvenile chauvinism that most men exhibit to their womenfolk. Truly, a Duchy Original hobnob perched on the side of a eunuch's head could not create more worrying signs of modern day degradation than the impassioned twittering of this middle aged proto-crone.
on Campfire by MacFrantic
22 Mar 2007, 9:53 AM
Macfrantic, firstly you have a rubbish username, secondly this poem is moribund.
on Writer's Block by cheese.doodles
22 Mar 2007, 9:52 AM
Is this about porn?
replying on A Single Strand of Golden Yellow by Aetius
22 Mar 2007, 8:48 AM
"She had no loom, and never wove more than tales" is the most ball tighteningly erotic imagery.
on Waffleman by Stephen Robins
15 Mar 2007, 3:43 AM
WAFFLE!
replying on Here are the wipes by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
15 Mar 2007, 3:43 AM
How utterly confounding,
Whilst your meat you were pounding,
To find a hairpiece; astounding!
And very fishy 'tis sounding,
As I've heard tale this wig was surrounding,
The face of a foundling,
That you were seen hounding.
So can you please explain,
When you claim to abstain,
Why you're snorting cocaine,
And smell of champagne,
You've created a stain,
On this poor foundling's brain,
Making it plain,
'Tis okay to obtain,
A hairpiece of fame,
And embark on a campaign;
Of pedaristic shame,
And then later proclaim,
'Twas the hairpiece to blame.
Well I fear for your soul,
As you pummel his hole,
With the wig that you stole.
Whilst your meat you were pounding,
To find a hairpiece; astounding!
And very fishy 'tis sounding,
As I've heard tale this wig was surrounding,
The face of a foundling,
That you were seen hounding.
So can you please explain,
When you claim to abstain,
Why you're snorting cocaine,
And smell of champagne,
You've created a stain,
On this poor foundling's brain,
Making it plain,
'Tis okay to obtain,
A hairpiece of fame,
And embark on a campaign;
Of pedaristic shame,
And then later proclaim,
'Twas the hairpiece to blame.
Well I fear for your soul,
As you pummel his hole,
With the wig that you stole.
on Pedaling West by Dovina
15 Mar 2007, 1:50 AM
There once was a blob named Dovina,
Christ, you'd have wept had you seen her,
All of that weight,
Squeeze into four feet and eight,
She had the combined mass of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Christ, you'd have wept had you seen her,
All of that weight,
Squeeze into four feet and eight,
She had the combined mass of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
replying on Settling In by jessicazee
15 Mar 2007, 1:49 AM
A lamentably brief vicar nipple flash.
replying on A Lament For Alice by hungry_shepherd
15 Mar 2007, 1:47 AM
An ill-conceived invitation to a buttock reading resulting in a comically small splat.
Lovejoy went downhill when they got that ethnic involved and you didn't see Lovejoy's daughter who went to a "posh" boarding school.