Talking of mental dexterity, I was in the pub with a friend the other lunchtime and that Brief History of Time bloke came up in conversation. How things had gone bad with his first wife, and one day he was sat in the garden in blazing sun, getting hotter and hotter... and she took away the thing that controlled his wheelchair. A veritable genius, baked where he sits because his missis has gone on a strop and unplugged his special mouse. I know it's not funny, but. We were in fits. Angelika and Agniewska didn't know what to make of it.
While I'm getting the next round in, a geezer turns to me and says: that Portuguese player, don't he look like a pimp's errand boy? And now he mentions it, so he does.
My heartfelt thanks to the Spaniard for putting a stop to this before it got even more embarrassing:
"...one woman spectator emitted a chilling staccato shriek that sounded like a feral cat being fed slowly into the rotating blade of a combine harvester."
Words, from a mostly metrocentric perspective. See Metrocentricity for pictures.
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