That Blair/Bush Endless Love Swansong

Quelle génie! Say the French. Yeah, you weren’t the only one who thought the synced video showing Tony Blair and George “Dubya” Bush singing the all time classic Diana Ross/Lionel Richie Endless Love was genius.

I did too, only that it made both guys look like they were actually singing geniuses. Well, why should I be surprised knowing that the computer has come a long way away from the days when it was only used for Abacus and typesetting. Unfortunately, most of us are still in the stone age of IT where all we do with the computer is type documents, send mails and chat on messengers.

Like so many other people who watched KSM’s TGIF on Friday (yes that same Friday) except you saw a rerun on Sunday (which means I saw it before you, and you can see it on You Tube also, bet you already thought this guy KSM must be a genius) it was wow. I think it didn’t mince words in showing the close relationship between two of the world’s most famous leaders (could be infamous, depends on your side of the fence) expressed in that timeless classic aptly titled Endless Love. Their lips seemed to have been seamlessly synced by the creator(s) of that video that one could have embraced the thoughts of its being reality.

I had just turned on the TV to discover the video and I quickly screamed for my folks who were busy studying for an early Saturday morning Sociology paper at Legon to come have a look see. We had all burst out laughing, enjoying the sight of those two adults “miming” our favourite oldie.

One of the major reasons for the video eliciting much interest is due to, I’d like to think, Dubya’s antecedents as a man of goofs. Ask him how old the Queen is and you’ll really know how cool his sense of humour is.

No doubt Dubya has got a funny side, consider his skit with comic Steven Bridges last year. It is just hard to see how he gets it all wrong sometimes. “Saddam Hussein had biological weapons”, yeah right. Mother Theresa has a baby. The Pope’s the father!

The world will miss the partnership of the “coalition of the willing”. They’ve caused a lot of tragedy but have also given themselves up for a lot of laughs. I wish slapstick could actually hurt. I don’t know other world leaders that have been made a stock pour rire as much as these two in recent history. Except maybe OBJ and Old Bob. Every leader seems to have their own weaknesses only that it’s worse when you get your syllables confused combined with unconfirmed accusations.

Phoney Blair has run his race and kept the faith. Maybe Brown, or whoever follows him, will do better for the world. This year and the next will bring about a major change in the currency of world leaders. Monsieur Sarkozy is the new kid on the bloc. Let’s see where he leads the French horse. Yar Adua takes over in Abuja with Niger Delta militants fast on his heels. Hope his kidneys hold out long enough. Obama and Hillary pursue the Dem ticket in hot chase for the Oval Office. Ghana doesn’t yet have a clue to what the future holds. But we will get there.

We might yet witness a better world with the war mongers slowly expiring. Somebody please tell Old Bob that time’s up in Harare.

Mother’s Day
For all our mothers who patiently watched over us naughty chill’un, you deserve the best garlands in the world. My sweet MTA, I bless God for your life. Thanks always.

Endless Love starring Dubya and Bliar

In Essien's Shoes

Ever wondered what it feels like to earn £80,000 per week? Yeah, wouldn’t it feel good to be in Michael Essien’s shoes earning such a stupendous amount of money for kicking around a ball on grass in front of 50,000 people every week?

As I have found, the only fun part of being Michael Essien is in spending the money. And that could have its drawbacks as the “drunk driving” events of the last few days have shown. It then begs the question; what does one spend all that money on?

The most difficult part of being Michael Essien is that of stepping into his shoes and getting on the field of play. Watching a football match on TV or in the stands might give one the greatest pleasure on earth. But not so for the players involved. I wanted to experience what it felt like to play soccer again last weekend so I decided to go out and play with the lads. The last time I played competitive football was in 2004 and it was in paramilitary camp. Imagine how rusty and out of shape I would be.

By out of shape I don’t mean fat, because I’m slim and built in the right places (thanks to 60 push ups and 40 sit ups every morning). But that wouldn’t keep one running 20km on a football pitch.

So we head to a pitch in the back woods of Dzorwulu. That’s when I realized that there’s no recreational park for young people at Airport Residential where I reside. A twenty minute trek got me all panting. We arrive at the pitch and I change clothes and put on playing shoes. I hop onto the dust pitch flexing my long legs all over. My mate gets in between the posts and I play a couple of long balls to him. I score some.

Then the team’s coach (a lad in his early 20s dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans) gathers everyone around him. He tells us to jog round the pitch. We run around the dusty pitch about half the size of a regular pitch. I do one lap and my chests start to heave like my heart’s about to pop out of its cage. I stop and decide to walk the next lap. After a couple of stretch exercises, the coach divides us into two teams and gives us instructions.

“No high balls”, he says.

We start to play. I run around a little without getting the ball. When I finally do, I quickly pass it back to a team mate. Not long after we concede a goal. I had lost the ball to an opponent in midfield. I’m shamed.

Game resumes. After about thirty minutes, my feet start to hurt inside the shoes. I manage for another 20 minutes. The match finally ends. I run to take off my shoes. I am bruised. I ask for water from my mate who sat under a tree watching my experiment. No water. I struggle to get out of my playing clothes. We head home. I shower.

Sunday morning I feel like a log of wood lying on the bed. I struggle to get up, have my bath and go to church. A mate comes by later asking for me to come to the pitch. I decline. I say I’d rather watch the game showing on TV. He laughs seeing how serious I am.

I remember Essien. I think of £80,000 per week. Hmmm. You do your job man. I wouldn’t want to be you. I know how much it hurts walking in those shoes.