Referees And Other Massive C****
Posted 15/01/07 14:01
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The first vagina I ever saw in real life was huge - really, really huge - and this weekend it made me realise that we really should have more referees who are ex-professional players.
In the 70s we had a lot less access to gynaecological pornography, and although a few copies of Hustler had prepared me to some degree for my inaugural experience of the lady front bottom, it was still an intimidating sight when unveiled to me in all its glory in my bedroom one windy autumn night in 1977. There seemed to be so many complex features to this smorgasbord of pleasure.
My mate Stewy had access to his dad's hardcore German jazz mags and had been able to tell me in some detail about the range of holes, folds and flaps, what they all did and where I should put an appropriately-engorged organ for maximum pleasure for all concerned.
But I've never been any good at exams, and unless I've got notes or a textbook propped up in front of me - and I thought that might ruin the romance - then I'm hopeless at remembering anything, so I thought I'd just bluff it and improvise on the night.
The undressed orifice was more akin to a pothole. On reflection it seems unlikely that its cavernous nature was due to a long career of shagging horses in porn movies (she, like me, was only 16), rather, it must have been a 'blessing' from nature but it was so capacious, it could have played at first slip for England and had a successful career. Unfortunately, the only Big Muff I was familiar with was an early guitar effects pedal of the same name.
I admit, as much as I had desired this day to arrive, I was somewhat intimidated. Stewy had told me how to locate the mysterious, almost mythical clitoris. He had drawn me diagrams and everything, and I had assumed it would be an elusive, shy creature, that would take sensitive and delicate exploration to locate. This was not the case. This one was like a cobbler's thumb.
Bravely, I set about a fierce bout of lady-pleasuring, taking a scattergun policy to the task on the basis that if I covered enough bases I would at some point inflict some pleasure. So I'm rubbing, poking, licking, sucking, slobbering, twiddling and flicking like I'm trying to solve a Rubik's cube while sucking a gobstopper and simultaneously trying to open a bag of crisps (with my teeth), juggle three kittens, a chainsaw and do some elaborate origami. It was exhausting.
I had no idea how long I should continue with what I had been assured was called foreplay. Should it last a minute or an hour? I had no idea, they hadn't told us in Biology and it didn't seem something that the birds and bees did and it's not the kind of thing you can ask your dad is it...not unless he's Warren Beatty.
Fearlessly, and with the arrogance of youth, after a couple of minutes, I decided it was time to get down to the proper in, out, in, out business. However, after performing half-a-dozen strokes of the love piston, she let out an almighty bellow, the like of which I had never heard in my life. It was the sort of noise an elephant might make if you stuck a firework up its arse. The scream almost blew out my eardrums.
Scared that I had hurt her badly, I jumped off and enquired as to her health, apologising for hurting her with my love tool which had responded to the scenario like a frightened turtle in a sand storm.
However, there was no need to panic, apparantly this vocalisation was an expression of pleasure, and the scream was a consequence of my gauche libidinous activities.
I was acutely embarrassed and wanted to jump out of the window and run off into the night.
Had I had the slightest experience, and certainly if I'd had the amount of experience I had claimed beforehand, I wouldn't have panicked quite so much.
I wasn't to know at the time that this girl was anatomically exceptional. However, it was a very good illustration of how important experience is. Experience tells you how to react to a situation. You've got something to judge it against; you can weigh up if it's normal or exceptional and make the appropriate response. Leaping off your girlfriend when she's having a noisy orgasm is a bit of a giveaway that, frankly, you don't know what you're doing, and that you are just a boy trying to be a man of the world.
If only referees could learn from this teenage love tryst. Experience is everything and the fact that none of them have ever played the game at the highest or indeed any professional level means that while they can potentially apply the laws as well as the next man, they have no real idea about the intentions of players in specific situations. Not having been a player, he doesn't know how players think, what they might do and what they would never do. Knowledge of the laws of the game doesn't always help you understand where and when it needs to be applied.
The call for ex-pros to be referees is a familiar one and has been espoused by Jimmy Hill in particular. It should have happened by now. The problem is that top-flight players have no financial need to become refs when they quit the game. However, there must be many a third and fourth division player who could use the work and the money. The PFA have tried to encourage players into the job by offering to fund their training period after they quit playing, but to almost no success at all.
And yet it just makes sense to have someone who has spent 20 years playing professional football to be in charge of a game of professional football. We routinely see referees deceived by players into giving a wrong decision or worse still, we see refs giving wrong decisions based on their perception of a player's intention to cheat when in reality he had no such intention.
Recently we've even see players appealing to referees not to send off opposition players ecause they know the infringement was either accidental or not malicious, so not warranting a dismissal.
An ex-player would know all the bullsh*t, lying and deceit that is second nature to many players, and although clearly he'd still need to be able to apply the law and maintain authority, it's almost certain that players would respect him more than the usual array of weedy, spindly-legged, beady-eyed, power-hungry egotistic mincers who are all too usually referees.
An ex-player's inside knowledge would count big...if not as big as that girl's capacious downstairs bits
Posted 15/01/07 14:01
EmailPrintSave
The first vagina I ever saw in real life was huge - really, really huge - and this weekend it made me realise that we really should have more referees who are ex-professional players.
In the 70s we had a lot less access to gynaecological pornography, and although a few copies of Hustler had prepared me to some degree for my inaugural experience of the lady front bottom, it was still an intimidating sight when unveiled to me in all its glory in my bedroom one windy autumn night in 1977. There seemed to be so many complex features to this smorgasbord of pleasure.
My mate Stewy had access to his dad's hardcore German jazz mags and had been able to tell me in some detail about the range of holes, folds and flaps, what they all did and where I should put an appropriately-engorged organ for maximum pleasure for all concerned.
But I've never been any good at exams, and unless I've got notes or a textbook propped up in front of me - and I thought that might ruin the romance - then I'm hopeless at remembering anything, so I thought I'd just bluff it and improvise on the night.
The undressed orifice was more akin to a pothole. On reflection it seems unlikely that its cavernous nature was due to a long career of shagging horses in porn movies (she, like me, was only 16), rather, it must have been a 'blessing' from nature but it was so capacious, it could have played at first slip for England and had a successful career. Unfortunately, the only Big Muff I was familiar with was an early guitar effects pedal of the same name.
I admit, as much as I had desired this day to arrive, I was somewhat intimidated. Stewy had told me how to locate the mysterious, almost mythical clitoris. He had drawn me diagrams and everything, and I had assumed it would be an elusive, shy creature, that would take sensitive and delicate exploration to locate. This was not the case. This one was like a cobbler's thumb.
Bravely, I set about a fierce bout of lady-pleasuring, taking a scattergun policy to the task on the basis that if I covered enough bases I would at some point inflict some pleasure. So I'm rubbing, poking, licking, sucking, slobbering, twiddling and flicking like I'm trying to solve a Rubik's cube while sucking a gobstopper and simultaneously trying to open a bag of crisps (with my teeth), juggle three kittens, a chainsaw and do some elaborate origami. It was exhausting.
I had no idea how long I should continue with what I had been assured was called foreplay. Should it last a minute or an hour? I had no idea, they hadn't told us in Biology and it didn't seem something that the birds and bees did and it's not the kind of thing you can ask your dad is it...not unless he's Warren Beatty.
Fearlessly, and with the arrogance of youth, after a couple of minutes, I decided it was time to get down to the proper in, out, in, out business. However, after performing half-a-dozen strokes of the love piston, she let out an almighty bellow, the like of which I had never heard in my life. It was the sort of noise an elephant might make if you stuck a firework up its arse. The scream almost blew out my eardrums.
Scared that I had hurt her badly, I jumped off and enquired as to her health, apologising for hurting her with my love tool which had responded to the scenario like a frightened turtle in a sand storm.
However, there was no need to panic, apparantly this vocalisation was an expression of pleasure, and the scream was a consequence of my gauche libidinous activities.
I was acutely embarrassed and wanted to jump out of the window and run off into the night.
Had I had the slightest experience, and certainly if I'd had the amount of experience I had claimed beforehand, I wouldn't have panicked quite so much.
I wasn't to know at the time that this girl was anatomically exceptional. However, it was a very good illustration of how important experience is. Experience tells you how to react to a situation. You've got something to judge it against; you can weigh up if it's normal or exceptional and make the appropriate response. Leaping off your girlfriend when she's having a noisy orgasm is a bit of a giveaway that, frankly, you don't know what you're doing, and that you are just a boy trying to be a man of the world.
If only referees could learn from this teenage love tryst. Experience is everything and the fact that none of them have ever played the game at the highest or indeed any professional level means that while they can potentially apply the laws as well as the next man, they have no real idea about the intentions of players in specific situations. Not having been a player, he doesn't know how players think, what they might do and what they would never do. Knowledge of the laws of the game doesn't always help you understand where and when it needs to be applied.
The call for ex-pros to be referees is a familiar one and has been espoused by Jimmy Hill in particular. It should have happened by now. The problem is that top-flight players have no financial need to become refs when they quit the game. However, there must be many a third and fourth division player who could use the work and the money. The PFA have tried to encourage players into the job by offering to fund their training period after they quit playing, but to almost no success at all.
And yet it just makes sense to have someone who has spent 20 years playing professional football to be in charge of a game of professional football. We routinely see referees deceived by players into giving a wrong decision or worse still, we see refs giving wrong decisions based on their perception of a player's intention to cheat when in reality he had no such intention.
Recently we've even see players appealing to referees not to send off opposition players ecause they know the infringement was either accidental or not malicious, so not warranting a dismissal.
An ex-player would know all the bullsh*t, lying and deceit that is second nature to many players, and although clearly he'd still need to be able to apply the law and maintain authority, it's almost certain that players would respect him more than the usual array of weedy, spindly-legged, beady-eyed, power-hungry egotistic mincers who are all too usually referees.
An ex-player's inside knowledge would count big...if not as big as that girl's capacious downstairs bits
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