World Cup 2022 Qatar? You’ve Got to be Joking

As a professional editor who sees a lot of stories, one of the things I say all the time is avoid clichés – they are lazy prose! So, with that in mind, we set a challenge in our writing group in Bangor North Wales to write something all in clichés to show just how much we use them in everyday language and given the topical nature of this piece my Jessica I could not resist requesting it for the website to share with you all!

There is currently a controversy about the venue selected for the 2022 World cup. FIFA have selected Qatar, a small gulf state. There was widespread surprise at this choice and concerns have been expressed that Qatar is not a footballing nation, that the climate is unsuitable and that it does not have a suitable infrastructure. The tournament must be played in the hottest summer months to avoid disruption for northern European nations. The Qatari government response is that they are building enclosed venues, which will be air-conditioned. However this technology is unproven. Sponsors are greatly concerned and there is pressure on FIFA to look again at this decision. The Sunday Times has been uncovering allegations of bribery.

World Cup 2022 Qatar? You’ve Got to be Joking

Jessica Madge

Lager

To be honest with you I’m gutted about this Qatar world cup cock-up. Sick as a parrot to tell you the truth. And I’m not the only one to be fed up to the back teeth that FIFA voted for this half-baked idea.

For a kick off everyone knows you’ve gotta play a world cup at the height of summer. You don’t have to be particularly on the ball to know that. Cos stands to reason, it puts the cat amongst the pigeons in all the leagues in Europe if the top players are off gallivanting just when the proverbial is hitting the fan. So the clubs back home are going to be spitting tacks.

And you don’t need a brain the size of a planet to work out that it’s going to be so hot in Qatar in the summer that you could fry an egg on the pavement. It’s going to be hot enough to melt the balls of a brass monkey. The players will be dropping like flies. Rio will look like a walk in the park. Yes, I know the Qataris say they are building state of the art air-conditioned stadiums and that will put everything straight. But, well, sands of Arabia and all that – it’s a scorching hot desert and it’s never been done before and the players could find themselves busting their balls in a stadium that’s as hot as hades. I mean I know when the going gets tough the tough get going, but there are limits. It’s making my blood boil just thinking about it.

And then there’s us fans. Us lads are not used to queuing in the sweltering heat. I mean we all want our place in the sun but out there we’ll be wilting like dying swans and falling apart at the seams.

For fuck sake, didn’t those FIFA chaps talk about the elephant in the room. Surely they couldn’t kid themselves that Qatar in June was going to be as cool as a cucumber.

And there is another fly in the ointment. Correct me if I’m wrong – but Arabs don’t know their arse from their elbow when it comes to football. They don’t understand it and they’re not going to know how to organize a proper football piss up in fucking brewery, let alone a desert. Pubs are like hens’ teeth over there. And a decent pint is going to be as rare as rocking horse droppings. They don’t do having a few and getting rat-arsed – it’s against their religion. So I just can’t see that they are going to bend over backwards to keep us fed and watered or turn a blind eye when we’re having a bit of a laugh. There’s going to be hell to pay.

And they don’t do women either. So I don’t suppose there’ll be all those Russian working girls shipped in, like there was in Germany. God! Was that was in 2006? Doesn’t time fly, seems like yesterday?

So what are we going to do all day? All dressed up and nowhere to go. Kick our heels in our hotel rooms? Let me guess – they won’t even have porn channels to help us scratch the itch.

My stomach is all tied up in knots just thinking about it.

It’s as plain as the nose on your face that the FIFA vote for Qatar was a stitch up. And now, couple of years later, it’s all coming out and the dirty laundry is being well aired. I’m scratching my head wondering why it took quite so long for the skeletons to come out of the closet. Everyone’s acting like it was a big surprise. Didn’t take a genius to work out that all the committee members were lining their pockets like it was going out of fashion. Everyone knew they all had their hands in the cookie jar and their snouts in the trough. Even my gran knows FIFA’s bent as a two bob note. Take bribes? I mean do bears shit in the woods? Is the pope a catholic? I just hope that at the end of the day they get their just deserts, oops, I mean desserts. Don’t suppose they will though, but pigs might fly.

I suppose the only light at the end of the tunnel is that with all this shit going down, there could be a re-match on who gets to push the boat out and host the tournament.  And you never know your luck, there’s a glimmer of hope that England might be in with a shout. Now that would be a turn up for the books.

About the Author

Jessica Madge lives in North Wales and has published an ebook: Your Intelligent Immune System. She is currently working on a medically related self-help book but enjoys writing other genres for relaxation.

100 Worder The Four Year Dream

100 Worder

Janet Bunce

The Four Year Dream

Tin of lager

A whistle blows and the game starts.

                        He knows that this is the time to shine, the time to perform.

Muscles twitch and a rush of adrenalin enters his brain.

The crowd roars as the ball is kicked in the air towards the opponent’s goal.

He hears the chant, the name of his clan and knows that he must succeed and win for his people. Energy takes him forward as he kicks the ball powerfully towards the opposition’s net.

Gasp of breath as the ball heads under the bar. Then a jolt as he awakes from his World Cup Dream!

About the Author

About the author: Janet Bunce is enjoying writing short pieces. When not writing she works in financial services, runs in the forest and travels as much as possible with her husband.

100 Worder Dear God ...

100 Worder

Cheeky Writer

Ketchup ‘n’ Chips

Dear God …

Will you help me find me sister? She went missing last year. I was watching Corrie, Dad had gone for chips. He said he would’ve only got two portions if he’d known. It was meant to be funny. I didn’t laugh. Nor did the policeman.

            “Did she say where she was going?” Dad said.

            “Out,” I said.

            “Abducted,” they said.

I didn’t know there were aliens in Crosby. When I told Dad he laughed, then he cried.

            Don’t let Dad cry.

So when you find her will you tell her to come home? And I’m sorry I ate her chips.

About the Author

Someone you might know.

100 Worder Me and My Girl

100 Worder

Alan Cadman

Me and My Girl

A quick glass of Pinot Grigio

‘Do I look old fashioned?’ Robert said.

            ‘No,’ Jean, his partner, replied.

            ‘What about this tie?’

            ‘Stop worrying. You look great.’

‘What do you think she will she say when she sees me for the first time in years?’

            ‘How about, “Where have you been all my life, Dad?” Don’t forget, you ran away from her and her mother.’

            ‘What sort of music does a twenty-year old woman like?’  

            ‘Robert, it’s not about how you look or music, but if you think you can bond through it she might like Lady Gaga.’

            ‘Lady who?’ said Robert as the doorbell chimed.

About the Author

Alan has been writing short stories for seven years. Before that, he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for the same period. When he first started writing fiction, his published work was rewarded with complimentary copies from magazines. His first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve 2009.

In 2011 he made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. Alan also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The last three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. Alan’s work has been read out on Internet radio and his stories are now published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

100 Worder Poseidon's Fury

100 Worder

Angela Haffenden

Poseidon's Fury

Another Sea Breeze Cocktail, anyone?

The rain falls, thunder speaks of his burgeoning anger. Lightening illuminates the sky to reveal an ominous moon. Ferocious waves smash and ravish the coastlines. Rivers and streams swell, then burst spectacularly. His wrath knows no end, his trident is raised, he continues to destroy the countryside. Roads are now waterways, fit for boats not cars. Wildlife suffers for man's sins. It is our penance. He is remembering a time where he was idolised and revered, relishing his power, which has  been held dormant for so long. Temporarily he is sated; a smile on his face. Poseidon can now rest.

About the Author

Angela Haffenden is a mother of four children. She is also responsible for a husband, a dog and an ageing father. She writes mainly to stay sane. She lives by the sea and writes in a cabin in the garden.

100 Worder Poseidon's Wrath

100 Worder

David Hook

Poseidon's Wrath

Sea Breeze Cocktail

Warm sea mottled blue and green.

Holiday's end, a final swim, her strokes confident, athletic.

From the deep it glides, silent, effortless, flanks marbled by light's refraction. Ascending.

Sunset, a palette of hues. Spent, she turns heading for the distant shore.

Movement and scent detected. Hulking muscles power the behemoth, its lustreless eyes seeking. Ascending.

An upward surge of current, primal fear rent from ancestral memory.

Eyes wide she peers into the crepuscular darkened depths.

Gaping, razored maw. Ascending.

Lungs emptying with a scream cut short by crimson gouts.

Jaws, serrated, sawing, torso and limbs sundered.

Poseidon's leviathan – Ascended.

About the Author

David lives on the edge of Epping Forest having been raised on a council estate in South London. Recently resigned from a stressful job after twenty years he finds that his mind is decluttering and is now able to concentrate on hobbies and interests. He hopes, despite a crippling fear of grammar and punctuation, that writing will become one of them.

Seasons

Seasons

Dani Steen

Green Tea

Thoughts are branches of the mind.

            That was my mother’s theory.

            She liked to imagine that the mind started as a mere seed. Over time this seed is watered with understanding, which in turn, grows into knowledge. And so, the tree develops, each branch signifying some new discovery.

            The branches expand in the mind, much like a tree that refuses to be confined to one plot of land, breaching the forbidden domain of the neighbour’s garden.

            A bud would blossom at the end of a twig, green with information when the mind had reached its capacity.

            Over time the leaves would diminish and die. But the scarred remains of obscure memories would still be there. They act as a reminder, ironically, of the people and places you now cease to recognise.

            There is hope however: my mother would emphasise, when she remembered her story, that the bud would still be there, ready for the spring of reawakened memories.

            My mother’s mind was cluttered with the decaying leaves of autumn. The branches that were responsible for who I was seemed to recede over the years.

            The same disease is decaying my mind. This was my only memory of my mother.

            Tomorrow I may have forgotten her, along with my own children.

            Oh, how I long for spring. 

About the Author

Dani is a writing student, whose first novel, Not the Ideal Fairytale is due to be published later this year. She is an avid tea drinker, which makes her title for this piece extremely appropriate. Dani is open to writing in all types of genres, but favours fantasy/sci-fi.