Friday, July 13, 2012

By George: If I had 11 wives...

No more about penises this week. The feedback on the GC column has been too intense—I even got lol'd about it, which is good in this case, however, lol is usually deployed horribly out of context, eg “I need you to cast your eye over this lol!” “Hope you feel better soon lol!” #@*^ OFF!!!

I suspect someone in the upper echelons has relayed the message down the food chain that this type of tripe about pink sticky penises on the GC is not at all what anyone in their right mind would want to read, especially good earthy folk of the land!

In fact, I may even recall a suggestion somewhere along the line that the emphasis should be more on "more people should know that... (insert insightful agricultural/political/social/sporting comment here...)".

Well, in that case, more people should know what I would do if I were Sonny Bill Williams. Let's face it—it's the talking point of the week so clearly you all want to know.

I had a great sideline view of the Highlanders v Chiefs game at Forsyth Barr Stadium a couple of weeks ago and, make no mistake, that man Sonny Bill Williams is a colossus. He’s a prime physical specimen, as tall as most of the locks, as big as most of the loose forwards, as skilful as the halves and as quick as the outside backs - all mixed together with a healthy dose of aggression.

And let me tell you: if I was blessed with attributes like that, I'd be milking every single dollar I possibly could.

You can't be bestowed with Herculean qualities and not make it count. And in the world we live in, making it count means making as much money as possible, whether you like it or not.

I'd also convert to Islam for two key reasons: 1) I'd have to give up the booze and that, given my penchant for a tipple, would be a merciful release from the clutches of the grog.

2) I'd get me a harem. Yes sir, I'm thinking 11 wives sounds impressive - not sure why, but 11 wives...

The advantages of this, in all seriousness, are almost too many to contemplate. Firstly, there'd be no shortage of nannies for the legions of sprogs that spwan from my loins, so I could go about exploiting my god-given physique with a full night's sleep.

Secondly, with 11 wives, I could sire at least 20 kiddies—minimum—and with that many, the odds are pretty good at least one or two of them will inherit my genetic prowess and support me in my dotage with all the wealth they accumulate by earning large sums of cash in various sporting codes.

Hell, I could send one to the NRL, one to the NFL, one to the Heineken Cup, keep a few at home playing Super Rugby, and I'm sure there'd be enough talent in there somewhere to produce a fast bowler, a Grand Slam winner and a Major golf champion (that's in case I blow all my earnings by listening to self-serving advisers, or turning my back on it all and tithing large chunks of cash to Brian Tamaki... where was I going with all this?)

Maybe when I was watching the game from the sideline I should have just done my job and offered insights into the game unfolding before me instead of letting my imagination run wild. Cos' really, you don't need to know anything you've just read.

Photo: Photosport.