Geoff lay awake in his bunk bed. The Manchester United doona cover soiled with the love he had just given himself. Content, he lay some 2 meters off the ground inches from the ceiling and the poster of his beloved Ryan Giggs. Giggs looked back at Geoff with the defeated eyes of a 65 year old paraplegic, which was a coincidence as he was a 55 year old who plays like a paraplegic. Perhaps it was the disappointing display the poster Giggs had just witnessed or maybe the fact that Mr Sheffield from televisions The Nanny was often mistaken for his younger brother that gave Ryan such a vacant look.
It was cigarette time. Geoff reached for the packet of Winfield Sky Blues resting on top of his life-size Sir Alex Fergie's-son doll. The rear end curiously squashed with a convenient hole around his loins filled with a balloon that seemed to filled with a dough-like substance as if an artificial vagina had been flung from the depths of space and cast into 'Allie's bottie'. Geoff rolled the cigarette between his lips and felt satisified. The victory of today's game had been awaiting him for almost a month AA/11 football and the atmosphere prior to kickoff was palpable.
The ground was nestled at the back of an all boys school somehow adding to the homo-eroticsim of witnessing 22 virile young men colliding on the pitch. Carved deep in this den of homosexual undertones was the battleground for what would become a great victory.
The teams lined up for kickoff exchanging glances of hatred mixed with the earnest undercurrent of attraction from the coach on the sideline. Geoff paced the sideline anxiously shouting encouragement to his players and banking the thought of Frank's firm calves in his mind for later on. The goals came in what were flashes, somehow in the past, present and future at the exact same time. The final ten minutes endured for what seemed like days or a weekend of tantric sex with Sting. Was the culmination a sign of joy, the intended destination or were the team to live each moment as shudder of ecstacy and wish that it be neverending.
Whistle blown and Geoff licks the sweat from his top lip savouring the taste of victory and mental exertion all at once. The flavour sits on his pallet and he holds it for but a minute. Congratulations are to be made and back rubs offered. "About time" he lectures to himself.
The doona slips revealing his obtuse frame, grown large on portions of his brother's leftovers and home made beer. He questions whether or not his changing physical shape had anything to do with Hayden getting engaged. His plump breasts confirmed his initial thought. As he exhales he thinks out loud "I don't give a fuck". Blushing from his own cuss, he thinks about Sunday nights Logies.
"If I were there I would punch Rove in the face. Why would Tasma lower herself to him"
He chuckles to himself at the unintentional pun. As the last second of cackle parts his lips he meditates on Harold from Neighbours. His chin jiggling from the last shake of head after being aroused by an inciting comment from Lou. With all that clam around you would of thought the old tuba players lips could have searched out some better minge than fighting over Madge. I guess it's a case of aim low and score versus aim high and miss by miles. Left at night to comfort one's self in a dark corner of Ramsay Street with but a picture of Toady's dead wives, footage of Kate Ritchie's infamous video and a well worn hand towel, slippery with the moisture of Dove hand cream.
"Good night world, we are all winners".... And with that last thought, Geoff drifted off to the land of slumber and he would be content again as a victor, lover and man.
