My word, what is this, my good fellows? Could this be a game of footsieball? Well, well. Why I could watch footsieball for a fortnight. Ee Gads!
Tonight we have an especially raucous convergence of masculinity and heroism as the Green Helmeted Gentlemen host the Red Helmeted Gentlemen, two teams so disparate as to have been carried here by the four winds. Now a representative from each squadron is approaching to determine which phalanx of stout warriors shall have at the desired ball first. Each of the representatives will be asked to recite the Magna Carta backwards whilst traversing the field, pants drawn down, and clenching a ladle between their legs from which an egg will be balanced, just like we did back in my preparatory school days. What’s that? They’re just going to flip a coin? Well I guess some brutes have no patience for aristocratic tradition.
And there’s the kickoff. But what is this at the bottom of my field of vision? Women in a dearth clothing dancing upon the field?! Don’t they know this is a game of men for men? This is no place for these hussies. Shoo, little girls. Shoo and leave the business of jumping and grunting to the lords.
Ooh, did you witness how that Green Helmeted Gentleman just sacked that Red Helmeted Gentleman? That must be good for me, for I have followed the doings of the Green Helmeted Gentlemen ever since my days at finishing academy. It is my sincerest wish they succeed in overcoming those Reds or I shall have to cry into my kerchief. My how a match of footsieball works me into a lather!
Oh, but I shouldn’t reveal my allegiances. Not terribly professional and all that rot, unless my revelation is but a ruse of coyness and playful deception. If you should think it so–that I engage you now in a gambit of subterfuge to hide mine own sensibilities–than let the gamesmanship begin!
Although it is a frightfully decent pleasure to be experiencing this sporting match in the flesh, I must admit I prefer to take my sporting matches in the comfort of my own home. There is no finer way to appreciate the game than sitting by a roaring fire, dressed in perfectly starched linen with girdle and a tightly knotted cravat, head well powdered, fingering a volume of Wordsworth and smoking opium while my wiry manservant Niles brings me game updates written onto wax-sealed scrolls upon every quarter hour. You know, just chillin’.
And now the Red Helmets have scored. Boo! Hiss! I wave my kerchief at you derisively. You are uncultured swine, red helmets, and your birth is far from noble. Perhaps you would play better footsieball if instead of a ball you were handling an actual pig, because as we all know, you Red Helmets desire swine sexually. Look at you and your sad drought of points. Now you must try a two-point conversion. Don’t hope too hard, Reds. If my pure-hearted Green Helmets are unable to foil your two-point conversion, than I’m the Scarlet Pimpernel (though I just might be, tee hee).
Zounds! We have reached the halfway point of our sport endeavor. Time to stretch ones legs, air out one’s lace and engage in some mingling with the rabble. I wonder aloud if I should dine on a saffron soufflé with leek pudding or perhaps I should go native and partake in a hot dogged sandwich. Oh please, dear viewers, do not fear for me or think me uncouth. I assure you, even as I leave you now to rub elbows with the unwashed, trust that I shall return your faithful Lord Fluttersby. No mere hot dogged sandwich or brush with the typhoid-bloated masses can change that.
And play recommences. Oh look at these combatants take their licks in their tightly woven pantaloons. How do they run about in nylon leggings, fighting and struggling? That material doesn’t breathe at all. I’m getting chaffed just watching. Contemplating their effort is visiting perspiration upon my brow and cheeks. Might there be an assistant to reapply my rouge?
Now there seems to be a collective of young men making some sort of human circle, in a huddling fashion. What in heavens could they be conversing about? No doubt the latest work of fiction by Henry James, that prancing old Yankee queen.
This play being executed here I believe is called a bootleg. Speaking of bootlegs, these new leather boots of mine have my feet screaming the chants of Hades. My, what a modern gentleman must endure for fashion.
Ah Niles, my young manservant, has arrived to remove my wig and keep guard over me as I suckle on the teat of that sweet lady named ether. Perhaps tonight will be the night I convince Niles to remove his shirt and wrestle that Caribbean chap who prepares my soft-boiled eggs in the morning. Maybe I shall ply Niles’ impressionable mind with the green fairy. Boys do love their absinthe. And the Caribbean should need no extra prodding, dirty sort they are.
All this talk of wrestling for balls reminds me, there’s a footsieball game a foot. My heavens, I nearly swooned. Can there really be another quarter and one half left? Niles, fetch me my walking cane. I’m afraid all this spectating of rough boys has made me short of breath. Snuff anyone? Snuff break? Can we call a time out to insert some tobacco into our nostrils? No? Well fine, let that miserable cur Robert Costas finish the broadcast. Surely his shortness of stature is a sign of improper breeding. Let us be off, Niles. I hear a tub of tepid rosewater and a snifter of absinthe calling, as I find an invigorating match of SportsBall riles me up. To all you viewers at home, tootles!