Across the pond over in our motherland, England.. there are quite a few "futbol" players that are involved in a little... well let's say rape case of a 17 year old girl. Now this apparently is getting all the hype comparable to that of the Kobe case, and the press and media are not allowed to post the names of the accuser and suspects. That is why I bring to you the following.
The Daily Telegraph wrote:
Football rape case police warn the fans
By Chris Boffey and John Steele
(Filed: 02/10/2003)
Police investigating the alleged rape of a teenager by several Premier League footballers fear the case may be undermined this weekend by the chants of soccer fans from rival clubs.
The identities of the suspects have been closely guarded by police but the names of the players and the two clubs are widely available on soccer internet sites. Attempts have been made to shut down websites but the names continue to be circulated.
The case is being seen by Scotland Yard as one of its most delicate investigations for some time. A senior officer said: "The last thing we need is the identities of the players being chanted at football grounds the length and breadth of the country."
Lawyers for some of the players said they will start libel proceedings if their clients are named but recognise that it would be impossible to stop a crowd chanting.
ITV and Sky may also have to look at how they transmit this weekend's matches. They could be accused of repeating a slander if the chants are heard by viewers.
The Attorney General urged the media not to "engage in conduct nor to publish material, including comment, that may create a substantial risk of serious prejudice to the course of justice".
The alleged victim said the attack happened in a central London hotel in the early hours after the players had been on a night out.
And now for the players. Team:
Newcastle United Players:
Kieron Dyer
Craig Bellamy
Jermaine Jenas
Aaron Hughes
Shola Ameobi
Titus Bramble
Team: Charlton Athletic Player:
Carlton Cole (this is the player the girl consented with)
I took the following photograph when I was over in the UK for a soccer match in high school, and I thought it looked somewhat odd. I've decided to dig it out of the old archives and scan it up for you. Now tell me that soccer players don't do it for 90 minutes in 11 different positions juggling balls in front of little girls.
And it just so happens, James from CannedJam.com also took a high school trip overseas and attended the EXACT SAME GAME! He snagged this one of a kind Kodak moment.
Good morning children. As you all probably know since you marked the day in
your assignment pad and palm pilots, this past Saturday, September 27, I turned
21. And now it is Tuesday the 30th, my first day of sobriety in my entire life.
Haha, not... I am drinking the six pack of Bass Ale that Michael Patrick Keown
bought for me. And the pizza I split with him but he refused to take my
quarters until he was short fifty cent at the cash register. karma fucka!
Anyways, I am still alive and have been for over twenty-one years now. Remember
children, each passing day you are getting closer and closer to your death.
Live in fear.
On Friday, I spent the evening over in the hills of Fox where I indulged in a
little Tri-Delta Big-Lil revalations AKA free liquor and shots and beer and
scantily clad teens chanting their oaths to their new family of inbred sisters.
More than a pocketful of my friends and other randoms remembered that my
birthday was coming as the clocks on the microwaves turn to 12:00, and good
wishes and songs and girls egging me on to chug beer after beer were all slammed
down my throat. For the first time in all of my entire existance, I decided to
whip the handy dandy cellular tellular to drunk dial my parents. I wanted to
thank them for all the years of successfully raising me and I wanted them to
know how proud they should be because now I no longer have to hide the fact that
I am a drunken bastard. I wanted to apologize for all the times in high school
when I got caught drinking with friends. And each time I would be sat down at
the kitchen table and lectured at, not yelled at, but just stern enough so the
guilt ate away at me instead of a belt lashing at my bony behind. And each time
I swore it would be the last time I ever drank because I simply "hated the
taste" of beer. All the while my best friends snuck around the backyard peering
through the windows and snickering at my disclipining. And to apologize for all
the times my parents would go up to UVa to visit my sister and give me "one last
chance" to show that I am mature enough to have the house to myself and not
throw parties, only for them to come home to.. no, not a totally wrecked house,
but a house sparkling clean.. much cleaner than when they left and automatically
upon entering the house, the pine-sol and orange wonderclean scents found their
nostrils and they found me upstairs in my loft pretending to be asleep after
frantically making sure the place was clean, but not too clean like last time,
since 6 in the morning and jumping in bed once the truck pulled around the
corner shining the headlights through the windows reflecting off the television
and casting shadows across the bookshelves opposite the room.
All I wanted to do was leave a message for the morning so my parents would at
least know I was alive for the first early morning hours of my 21st year, and
they shouldn't leave any sleep over it. Seemed like a good a idea at the time.
Well turns out that the ringer in their bedroom was purposely turned on so that
my father could receive a very important phone call about his store regaining
power after over a week since Hurricane Isabel tore through the area, and my
pops answered the phone half-asleep half-scared-to-death. I being startled and
pretty inebriated didn't know what to say because I had the message all played
out in my head so I just unleashed the Plan B message, which didn't exist, and
stumblingly made it's way out of my mouth in slurs and half syllables
alternating with my father's "whats?" I honestly felt bad because I had just
woken up my (nondrinking) parents when they shit to do the next day, but you
know what, everybody turns 21 at least one time in their life and this was my
one chance to grab the bull by the horns, the horse by the reins, and that dog
by the balls to drink and dial. Mission accomplished.
A few minutes or hours, well time is all blended in together and doesn't exist,
it's manmade, later my good ol' pal Sam from his Army base in Arizona called me
up to wish me a happy birthday. I answered the phone and talked to him for a
good while, and I saw Amanda over in the yard of 1589 doing a crazy monkey dance
and falling over the waterpump, so I pretended to listen on the phone while
trying to be funny and mock Amanda and actually falling on the ground, with my
back on the grass and my head looking at the stars. I turned my attention back
to the conversation while once again Amanda decided to re-enact, well enact
since it never happend and hopefully never will ever ever happen, a golden
shower on me while I am laying down. Shaun and somebody else pulled a fork from
the direction of my head and everyone was laughing, but of course I'm talking to
one of my bestest friends on the phone so I gave it no second thought. More
people came over and apparently my head was laying in a plate of waffles and
syrup. Why the fuck it was out in the yard and why the fuck my head was in it
is one of life's mysteries that will never be solved.
After waking up and combing my hands through my matted hair thanks to the syrup,
I went out to lunch with my 22 year-old-sister who oh so kindly came to visit me
from UVa, and two of my best friends from home, Dan and Pete. We went out to
the Biltmore Grille where I insisted on getting a beer simply because I could,
so I ordered a tall glass Bass which wasn't on tap so I settled for Yeungling.
WITHOUT BEING FUCKING CARDED. Sure the waitress was hot but dumb as a brick and
should have fucking carded me. I ate my thumbs and toes and drank my 22 ounces
and bounced out of there straight to the liquor store. The vodka aisle was
calling my name, and there is where Aristocrat grabbed me by the collar. 12
bucks for a gallon and 2 forms of identification later, I have now officially
entered adulthood and never looking back. Oh, and in case you are wondering..
the Commonwealth of Virginia considers you 21 on the DAY BEFORE YOUR
BIRTHDAY. I don't know how that make sense, and don't feed me that hogwash
that you are born as 1 day old or whatever because that isn't why. I heard it
was something to do with lawsuits and liability... yeah I don't believe that
either.
That night, I went out and bought three kegs of Natty for our first party of the
year. The theme was supposed to be a random theme party, where all the visitors dress up as some kind of party theme. Kinda like a costume party, but specifically aimed at college party themes. Well I guess that didn't go really as planned since my twin was a Peeing Mexican, Danwho was Grauco Marx, Abby wore a bathing suit, Steve was dressed as his dad, Pete was decked out in hunter gear, Dan was a gay Miami Vice beach tourist guy, and I was Ben Franklin. I gotta give props to Mike and Shaun as golf pros, Piyum in a toga, Sarah and Diane trying to pass off wearing bandanas for being cowgirls, and Megan and Brian wearing white shirts with marker scrawled on them "White Trash". If I forgot to mention you and your outfit, it's probably because it sucked AND (not and/or) the Mexicans and their shots of tequila really screwed my memory.
The turnout was pretty much what was expected, having heard that the weekend was busy and other activities conflicted with our get together. I didn't get so wasted that I was puking everywhere like my twin who emerged out of a 2 hour disappearance, pale and panting that he had already puked twice and needed to get home. But drunk enough for not caring that my friend Pete passed out on my bed. And drunk enough for thinking that the nice gesture of my friend Dan yelling at Pete "Dude, it's Smitty's 21st birthday, get the fuck out of his bed and let him sleep there," and then not caring that Dan layed down and passed out next to him on my bed. And drunk enough to pick the balcony as a place to sleep instead of the entire living room which had been cleared out for the dance floor, and but not drunk enough to not care that my back and neck were aching the next morning after resting on the porch for six hours.
I checked my voicemail in the A.M. and got a message from the one, the only Ryan Perry. I'll record it sometime in the next 21 days before it expires and maybe make it an mp3 for your downloading pleasure. I really wish I had written the day after so I could remember stuff, but I think I am in better shape right now. Apparently I can write easier with a six pack of Bass by my side, being inspired by the poetics of Conor Oberst, not hungover from shots of tequila, jello, cheap beer, and not working out the kinks of cuddling with the beer pong table outside.
