professional-athletes

From Conrad:

liberals: haha I hate donald DRUMPF

me: same!

liberals: he’s FAT and SHORT

me: wait okay that’s not a real criticism

liberals: his driver’s license says he’s an inch shorter than he says he is!!!

me: okay but can we talk about how he’s a racist and a war criminal

liberals: the body composition of a 70-year old man who doesn’t exercise and eats fast food all the time is different from that of a professional athlete!!! dr45mpf = OWNED!

me: okay but like his administration is orchestrating a genocidal war in Korea can we talk about that

liberals: haha his butt big!!!!

New Sports Medicine Chief Catherine Robertson Personalizes Athlete Care at UC San Diego Health

Catherine M. Robertson, MD, has been named chief of Sports Medicine at UC San Diego Health. Robertson, a board-certified orthopedic surgeon who specializes in treating injuries of the shoulder, knee and hip, will further enhance UC San Diego Health’s reputation for customizing innovative, evidenced-based care for all athletes — from the weekend warrior to elite, professional and Olympic athletes.

Read more here

If you dislike Gal Godot for her past service in the IDF, that is entirely your prerogative. 

If you dislike Gal Godot for her support of IDF initiatives during Protective Edge, that is also your prerogative. 

I am not going to tell you how to feel about that; you are entitled to make your own judgments as informed by your personal values.

But if you use those judgments as a platform to spread falsehoods—especially ones that rooted in anti-Semitic tropes about how Jewish people are evil child murderers—then you and I are going to have a fucking problem. 

Gal Godot spent her time in the IDF as a fitness instructor, not as a sniper. She never saw combat, never shot any children, and certainly did not have kill notches on her rifle. She did not brag about killing Palestinians. She did not say “I want them all dead.”

She did make a post in 2014 that supported people in the IDF for “protecting my country against the horrific acts conducted by Hamas, who are hiding like cowards behind women and children” and tagged it with a few phrases including #loveidf and #coexistence. Now, again, maybe her support is antithetical to your beliefs, and I’m not here to lecture you on that. But no, she did not post anything about “praying for Palestinians to die quickly” or brag about killing people’s families. 

If her actual involvement with and statements about the IDF are things you find unsavoury, then fine; but if that’s the case, then you shouldn’t need to make up lies that evoke historical anti-Semitism to drive home your points. 

The things you oppose should hold up as they already are—otherwise, you’re effectively conceding that the things you don’t like aren’t bad enough to warrant your reaction on their own. 

For example, I don’t like the football player Luis Suarez because, despite being a talented goalscorer, he has a weird, creepy history of biting his opponents during matches. Now, this is a total valid reason not to like a professional athlete, so I have no cause to gild the lily. I don’t need to say “Well, actually I don’t like Luis Suarez because when he was at Liverpool he ate a Manchester United player’s liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti,” because his actual behaviour is aggressive, unprofessional, and straight up bizarre—meaning I don’t need to embellish the truth in order to be justified in how I feel about him. 

If you think serving in the IDF is bad, then just say “I don’t like Gal Godot because I think serving in the IDF is bad.” Don’t make shit up, don’t exaggerate the truth. Otherwise it looks an awful lot like you’re deliberately going out of your way to insinuate that Jewish people are evil child murderers, which says a lot more about you than it does about Gal Godot. 

On that note, please make sure that you are also holding Adam Driver accountable with equal gusto for serving in the Marine Corps and continually supporting the U.S. armed forces by boycotting the new Star Wars movies. Again, you are totally entitled to dislike the military, especially in relation to conflicts ongoing conflicts that have had horrible effects on the Middle East, but not when it’s only against the j00z and nobody else. 

Not So Berry Legacy Challenge

Do you like the rainbow? Do you like the idea of playing with berry Sims but hate berry Sims? Do you want to mess around with aspects of the game you’ve never used before? Boy, do I have the challenge for you!

Welcome to the Not So Berry Legacy Challenge, a ten generation legacy with a focus on bright colors and new experiences.

Basic Rules:

  1. Each heir must represent the color of the generation (i.e. hair, makeup, clothing), but brightly colored skin is not necessary (these aren’t actually berry Sims, that’s the joke). Of course, this is optional but a big portion of the fun.
  2. The colors of the spouses don’t matter as they aren’t part of the challenge. Unless otherwise stated you can do whatever you please with them.
  3. Money cheats can be used, but not excessively. Suggestion: use freerealestate for your first home, but no cheats afterward.
  4. You may live wherever you please unless something is specified in the rules of a generation.
  5. Every generation is supposed to complete both the career and aspiration of the heir unless explicitly stated otherwise.
  6. Keep the lifespan on normal.
  7. If you play this challenge and want to share it with us, go ahead and post with #notsoberry so we can see!

My good friend @alwaysimming​ and I kind of created this challenge on accident, but I think it turned out pretty great. We wanted to make something that forced us to play with parts of the game we’ve never explored before. Hopefully you’ll have fun too. You can follow our gameplay on @mintiphresh​ and @lea-fey​ (pronounced “minty fresh” and “leafy”)!

Keep reading

ineptshieldmaid  asked:

Sam I have an important Chicago question: just north of the DuSable bridge there is a statue of what looks like Abe Lincoln excitedly taking a man in a knitted sweater on a first date. I only saw it from a bus, so didn't get either a photo or an explanation. Can you explain this phenomenon? Are Abe and Sweater Man happy???

*head in hands* FUCKING SEWARD JOHNSON

You have triggered the rage within me, so now you will ALL be treated to an outside-the-readmore screed about SEWARD GODDAMN JOHNSON. 

I don’t normally attack artists because a) it scares my friends who are artists (I love you all, you are beautiful, don’t be afraid) and b) honestly most artists don’t deserve the level of vitriol I’m about to employ. I want you all to remember that the seething hatred I feel for Seward Johnson is driven in large part by class consciousness. 

But not entirely. So let’s begin. 

First what you have to know is that Seward Johnson is a “sculptor”. If you google “seward johnson sculpture” you’ll get an idea of his work, most of which is terrible. I feel okay calling his work terrible because he is also the scion of the family that founded SC Johnson Johnson & Johnson (my bad), so he has all the money he needs and could step back, do his art for funsies, and let people with actual talent or two original thoughts in their heads exhibit their art, but he doesn’t, he forces his terrible art on all of us. 

The reason I harbor such animosity towards Seward Johnson is that he has been exhibiting on Pioneer Plaza (that area north of the DuSable Bridge) for almost a decade now, and when I worked in the north loop I had to walk past his art every day. It was bad enough when the sculpture was American Gothic, rendered without talent or meaning into three dimensions and provided with luggage. 

How very fucking dare you, you talentless hack

These things are sculpted out of what amounts basically to styrofoam painted in rubberized/weatherized paint, so they are fragile, and tourists were constantly climbing on Farmer’s shoes and falling into them when they found out it wasn’t the cheap but supple fiberglass you would expect of a tacky monstrosity more suited to a roadside motel than the business district of a major metropolitan city. (I would imagine this is why Abraham Lincoln And The Mayonnaise Sandwich has a little fence around it.) 

But American Gothic Motel Attraction was mostly just annoying because it was meaningless, derivative, and CONSTANTLY covered in gawkers getting in everyone’s way. 

Additionally, Seward Johnson’s sculptures on the Plaza are very popular photo spots for tourists, who carry lots of cash and are constantly distracted, which means beginning with The Assault On American Gothic it became a very popular spot for pickpockets. Which means members of our staff, who had nothing to do with this mess, got pickpocketed as collateral damage about once a week during the exhibition of…. 

Forever Marilyn.

SEWARD JOHNSON GO FUCK YOURSELF

This is a very famous image of Marilyn Monroe which is horrifying for the following reasons that Seward Johnson appears not to have understood nor cared about:

a) The day this was shot, on an open set with people leering at her all day, her husband, professional athlete and dirtbag Joe DiMaggio, found out about the filming. Rather than comfort his wife, who had been through some shit already that day, he became angry she’d been showing her panties in public and beat her so badly the neighbors called the police on him. Joe DiMaggio also go fuck yourself. 

b) IT’S IN A MOVIE INFAMOUSLY SET IN NEW YORK. To quote a local newspaper, “Did Chicago lose a bet?”

c) Yes, you can look up and see her panties. While this is juvenile, it’s not nearly as juvenile as the literally thousand of photographs I angrily photobombed of some douchebro from Fuckville Middle America in a backwards baseball cap standing between her legs with his face tilted upwards and his tongue out. 

Oh and btw before it was unveiled it looked like this: 

For literal days, before it was installed, she had a bag over her head. (For more on this, though the pictures are now missing, you can read my reaction post here.)

In any just world, there would be a trap door between her legs and everyone who tried to do the upskirt shot would fall into a pit where they would be forced to give five dollars to women’s shelters before they were allowed to leave. THAT would have been interesting art. 

Sidebar, both as contrast and because I love it: Marilyn left a few years ago and was briefly replaced by a refreshing and beautiful piece called The Watch, by Hebru Brantley. The Watch was playful and interesting and didn’t have a single upskirt. Hebru Brantley is a wonderful artist in his own right, but he was also a welcome breath of fresh air after Johnson’s mediocre tribute to sexual assault. 

The Watch was a temporary installation, however, and eventually along came Abraham Lincoln Approves Of White Men

It is an unfortunate coincidence that Confused Closeted Republican there is wearing khakis and a white shirt, the new uniform of the alt right, and it’s also coincidence that this is facing Trump Tower, but it’s not exactly helping Seward Johnson’s cause that he chose the blandest outfit possible for Paean To Confused White Bread. The sculpture is meant to be Lincoln, the darling of Illinois, welcoming a visitor to our fair city, but it sure does look like fresh meat is about to get a free trip to Boys Town with the Sixteenth President of the United States. 

This is what I mean when I say Seward Johnson lacks not only skill but also understanding: he clearly didn’t know that Lincoln’s sexuality is under enough debate to have its own wikipedia page, and he either didn’t know or didn’t care that Marilyn Monroe was nearly killed by her husband for shooting that scene. All he cares about is image and he’s bad at reproducing image. That is not a well-executed rendering of how human beings are, and dynamically speaking it’s boring. If he were good at visuals or if he had something meaningful to say I would be less angry, but he is mediocre at best and the statements his sculptures make are banal pap if they make any at all. 

But he is rich, and I guess either he likes Chicago or he’s got blackmail on Sam Zell, owner of Pioneer Plaza, so he gets to spatter his hideous, meaningless masturbation in my city. And lest you think Seward Johnson got here on his own merits, Forever Marilyn, now on tour from coast to coast, is owned by The Sculpture Foundation, which is heavily subsidized by Seward Johnson. He basically founded a nonprofit to ensure his work gets toured around and publicized and to ensure that if no museum wants it, it has a place to go to die (Palm Springs, CA). 

In short, I hope Abe and Sweater Man are happy, because at least then something good has come out of Seward Johnson’s astounding mediocrity. That said, if you are passing his latest work, spit on it for me. As performance art.

Fandometrics In Depth: WWE Edition

Wikipedia describes professional wrestling as “an athletic form of storytelling that portrays a combat sport.” The finest form of this athletic storytelling is exhibited by the members of the @wwe, and the finest place to chronicle their fables is on Tumblr. Throughout 2016, there were over a million posts and reblogs about the #WWE and we analyzed every one of them.

The thing to know about wrestling on Tumblr is that it’s huge. Andre The Giant–huge.

Originally posted by totaldivasepisodes

Wrestling is the biggest sport on Tumblr

In 2016, the #wwe tag got…

  • 224% more engagement (searches, original posts, reblogs and likes) than #basketball, the most-engaged traditional sport
  • 489% more engagements than #soccer, and
  • 749% more engagements than #nfl

But wrestling isn’t just the biggest sport. It’s the biggest on TV.

Originally posted by totaldivasepisodes

Wrestling Smash

Those huge numbers are not just limited to sports. WWE’s most popular weekly show, Raw, airs on Mondays. We looked back at the past six months, and compared it to three other Monday night shows:

As you can see in the chart below, WWE peaked every Monday throughout the summer.  There are no hiatuses in the WWE. August’s SummerSlam and its corresponding Raw episode was one of the biggest moments in the sport in 2016.  In fact, there were 692% more original posts made about #WWE on August 21st and 22nd than there were for Supergirl, Shadowhunters and Gotham combined.

Top Wrestlers

The uninitiated might assume that John Cena is number 1, but actually the most popular wrestler is Dean Ambrose (aka alternate universe Ed Sheeran), who was posted about 408% more than the Leader of the Cenanation. Probably because Ambrose was the top WWE champion for most of the year, but maybe also because people were shipping Ambreigns. On the Diva side, @sashabankswwe was the most talked about, coinciding with her draft to Raw and her first Women’s Championship title win in July.

Want more wrestling in your dash? 💪
Follow these tags: 👊 

#wrestling (obviously), #professional wrestling (of course), #wwe, #wwe raw, #summerslam, #smackdown, or whatever the name of your favorite wrestler is, even if they’re from the distant past.

The benches in hockey dressing rooms are built so that your feet rest on the floor with your skates on which means that there are pictures of Large Professional Athletes with sock feet dangling off of the bench and I think that is a beautiful thing.

food truck au 1/??

(inspired by my earlier post)

Anyone who knew Jack Zimmermann would laugh at the idea of him even being able to remember the login for his Twitter account.

No one, not even his parents, would ever suspect that he checked his feed every single morning.

Jack didn’t care much for social media; he was too private a person to ever want the world to know where he was or what he was eating at any given moment. In fact, he only followed three accounts: his mother’s, the official Falconers’, and that of Li’l Dicky’s Southern Comforts. The latter was the only one he actually cared about.

See, Jack Zimmermann had a deep, dark secret – he was in love with the mini apple pies that were sold daily at Li’l Dicky’s. It was the only dessert he ever indulged in on a regular basis, and said indulgences were a secret he would take to his grave.

Every morning, Li’l Dicky’s posted their location for the day. Jack knew the general schedule by heart at this point, but some days the truck switched things up, due to weather or construction or event catering, and Twitter was the only way for Jack to know if he would be able to get his apple pie fix.

It didn’t hurt that Eric Bittle, the owner of Li’l Dicky’s, smiled at Jack like the sun shined out of his ass every time he came by. But really, it was the pies Jack couldn’t enough of. Mostly. Probably.

Keep reading

Mbti Types as Grandmas

DISCLAIMER: I’m not even sorry lol, hope it’s a fun read at least  ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

ISFJ: the ‘cookie baking, scrapbook making, sits on the porch with grandpa staring at the sunset then straight to bed’ grandma

INFJ: the ‘sweater knitting, money giving, ‘oh honey, it’ll all be okay’’ grandma

ISFP: the ‘pottery painting, salsa dancing, retired composer but music never retires so I’m just gonna continue composing anyway’ grandma

ESFJ: the ‘Thanksgiving dinner organizing, grandkids’ gossip subscribing, you just know she used to have a pilates butt’ grandma

INFP: the 'outdoors fearing, nagging grandkids to call everyday, I’m still learning how to use Twitter/Facebook/this smartphone which isnt very smart btw’ grandma

INTJ: the 'book reading, random stuff collecting/hoarding, strategic gambler that somehow wins every time’ grandma

ISTJ: the 'diligent chore doing, every Wednesday at 3pm bingo playing, been attending Sunday mass for 70 years now and a hip replacement ain’t gonna stop me sucka’ grandma

ISTP: the 'kitchen fire starting, 4 dogs owning just because the grandkids’ parents won’t let them have dogs, can teach level 2 water aquatics even better than the instructor’ grandma

INTP: the 'has random bruises everywhere from banging their knee on the desk accidentally repeatedly for 60 years, too awkward to converse with grandkids, sleep inducing tenured professor who refuses to retire because RESEARCHHH’ grandma

ENFJ: the 'book club organizing, soup kitchen volunteering because who else will train the new generation how to be compassionate, insightful advice dispenser 27/7 but also guilt trip queen’ grandma

ESFP: the 'colourful outfit wearing, sassy insult giving, all of your problems can be solved with a little bit of alcohol honey’ grandma

ENFP: the 'adventurous recipe trying, canes-slow-me-down claiming, will call you at 9pm before their bedtime once a week just to check up on you’ grandma

ESTJ: the 'Rolls Royce driving, strict budget money spending, 50+ rich AF but refuses to quit working until their limbs break off’ grandma

ENTJ: the 'boat driving, grandkids yelling, 50+ wealthy AF but still doesn’t wanna retire because everyone would be doing her job wrong’ grandma

ESTP: the 'quite young looking for her age maybe it’s maybelline, ex professional athlete now training all the young nubs, giving out weekly sex advice on a very very popular youtube channel’ grandma

ENTP: the 'savage/sassy/song lyric debating, fourth most likely to be still having active sex with sexy grandpas, somehow made a million dollars early in life’ grandma

i’m sure this has been done. but. eh.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Neil says.

Andrew looks away from the road to Neil, and then back again.

“They’re not,” Neil attempts.

The only reason Neil finally agreed to go to the dentist was because of the threat of being benched by the coaches. Not because the pain has been affecting his playing - of course it hasn’t - but because everyone on the team is sick of him holding and rotating his jaw all the time, obviously in pain but completely unwilling to admit it.

“You do as the doctors say now,” Andrew says, a reminder of an old agreement made back when Neil first went pro. Neil’s innate distrust in people wasn’t ever going to be a good enough reason for him to be stupid in regards to medical care when he was out of Abby’s hands. Andrew would like to think that now they’re on the same team he would have slightly more sway over Neil, but that’s never really been the case.

“He’s not a doctor.” The level of scorn in Neil’s voice is truly impressive. 

“Medical professional, then.” Andrew imagines the look on the dentist’s face as hearing Neil’s real opinion of him.

“Lots of people keep their wisdom teeth,” Neil says. “You still have yours.”

Andrew’s aren’t growing sideways out of his skull and threatening to crowd all his other teeth together. The term the dentist had used for Neil’s was ‘severely impacted’. He’d referred Neil to a maxillofacial surgeon and said that Neil would be lucky if they could be removed under sedation rather than a general anaesthetic. 

“I know,” Andrew says, rather than attempting a logical argument. There’s really no point.

“What?”

“I know, it’s hard to believe that my mouth really is bigger than yours,” Andrew says.


The threat of benching works well enough to get Neil to the surgeon, which is unsurprising to anyone who actually knows Neil. He’s calm and unafraid all day, except for the piercing look he gives Andrew in the moments before he’s ushered away.

“There’s a quiet waiting room just through here,” someone says, indicating a door. “You would be amazed how ill people have to be before they stop considering asking for an autograph.”

It’s been a while since anyone over the age of about sixteen asked Andrew for an autograph - the older ones got the idea eventually - but the offer of a quiet place to not be stared at isn’t anything to be sniffed at. Andrew goes through the door and takes a spot on a chair next to the window with a clear view of the door.

His fingers itch for a cigarette. He reaches for his phone instead.

Social media isn’t of much interest to him, so he spends a good half-hour reading news articles spiralling into scientific studies and then into the rabbit hole of wikipedia. He’s not sure quite how long it’s been when a knock at the door interrupts him from the page he’s reading on Indian mathematics.

Someone in scrubs puts her head through the door. “Mister Minyard? Neil is in recovery now. You can come sit with him.”

Andrew stands and follows her quick bustle of a walk, putting his phone in his pocket as he goes. The nurse is chatting as speedily as she walks. “Once he’s more awake and we know for sure he’s feeling himself he can be discharged. He’s a little quiet right now, but he asked for you before.”

She ushers him into a private room - another perk of being professional athletes - with a smile. 

Neil is lying on his back on the bed with his eyes closed, but he opens them when he hears Andrew sitting in the chair at his side. He looks a little like a chipmunk with the gauze stuffed in his cheeks, his jaw swollen enough that it’s grotesquely square rather than its usual fine-angled shape.

“Hey,” Andrew says.

He’s not necessarily expecting chattiness, but he is expecting an answer. Instead Neil just stares at him. His eyes are very large, as are his pupils.

“Hi,” he says eventually. He sounds exactly like he’s talking through a mouthful of cotton. The nurse comes in and fiddles with the blood pressure cuff on his arm, and Neil rolls his head around to watch her doing it.

“I’m just going to squash your arm again, okay?” she says, with the manner of someone talking to a child or an adult who is exceptionally out of their mind on drugs.

Neil doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then comes out with, “This is Andrew.”

The nurse flicks Andrew a look and a small smile. “We met, actually. He was waiting outside for you.”

“He’ll always wait for me,” Neil tells her, matter-of-fact. “He’s my partner.”

The nurse’s expression doesn’t change much, but it’s only through power of will, Andrew suspects. She looks like she would love to laugh. “That’s really nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Neil sighs warmly. He’s pathetic. 

“I would have recognised him anyway,” the nurse says, still looking amused. “I’m a Rebels fan.”

Neil, who is the biggest Rebels fan in the city, does something that might have been a half-smile if it weren’t for the current state of his face. Then it falls off. Mournfully, he says, “I can’t play this week.”

“No, but you’ll be back out there before you know it,” the nurse comforts. Her name tag says ‘Helen’ and has a yellow flower on it. “Are you playing, Andrew?”

“He’s the starting goalie,” Neil says before Andrew can say anything, almost making it to sounding affronted. Mostly he just sounds loopy. Andrew has never seen him have so many emotional shifts in thirty seconds before.

“I thought he might be stuck looking after you,” Helen replies. “I know what athletes are like.”

“I can look after myself.” That’s a very Neil answer, and also a complete lie. Andrew is banking on Neil being too miserable to want to come to the game in two days, because otherwise he’ll be on the bench in all his swollen-faced glory.

“I’m sure you can,” Helen says, and pats him on the shoulder condescendingly. Neil doesn’t notice at all. “I’ll come back in fifteen minutes and see how you’re doing.”

She bustles back out again, closing the door behind her gently. Neil sighs and rolls onto his side, muttering something indecipherable when the blood pressure cuff gets pulled tight under his body. It doesn’t sound pleased, and it’s definitely not in any language Andrew recognises.

Neil raises his unrestrained hand towards Andrew. It swerves a little in the air. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Andrew says. He’s expecting Neil to take his hand, but he doesn’t flinch when Neil reaches for his face instead. What he currently lacks in coordination he makes up for in gentleness, but Andrew closes his eyes anyway to lower the risk of losing one to a poorly-aimed finger.

“You look weird,” Neil mutters.

You look weird,” Andrew tells him, mostly because it’s true, partly to see Neil wrinkle his nose at him.

“Do not,” Neil replies. He pats Andrew’s cheek, and then gets distracted by Andrew’s hair. That’s not unusual, to be fair, though the level of concentration he’s giving it is. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

“Hey.” More insistently this time, like he doesn’t already have Andrew’s full attention. He tugs Andrew’s hair. 

Never let it be said Andrew can’t take a hint. He lowers himself onto his elbows on the edge of the bed and puts his forehead to Neil’s. Even though they’re at odd angles, Neil sighs in satisfaction. His eyelashes flutter against Andrew’s temple, fingers stroking idly over the arch of Andrew’s ear.

“Good,” he mutters, seemingly to himself.

They stay like that, Andrew’s chin pillowed on the starchy sheets and his forehead likely leaving an imprint on Neil’s fairer skin. Neil dozes, hand going lax, and Andrew closes his eyes and thinks in circles for a little while about the Bakhshali Manuscript.

Another knock at the door makes him raise his head. Neil’s eyes flash open, and then he blinks like he’s reeling a little. His fingers have fallen to Andrew’s wrist, and they tighten for a split-second before dropping away.

“Hi again,” Helen says gently. “Let’s get a look at you, Neil.”

Andrew moves aside and lets her at him, ignoring the disgruntled sound this earns from the bed. Neil is distracted quickly by Helen extracting the arm with the cuff from under his body and taking his blood pressure again, before removing it and making him sit up. Then she leaves, and returns with clothes and a clipboard. The clothes she leaves for Neil to attempt to put on. The clipboard she gives to Andrew.

“Rather than it turning out as a discharge form as signed by Alexander Pushkin,” she explains with a shrug. It’s fine, Andrew is all over Neil’s paperwork these days. He flips through the notes and signs in the right places then hands the board back, and gets a sheet of discharge instructions in its place.

“I’ll leave you guys for a sec and sort things,” she says, and does just that. It leaves Andrew to subtly ensure that Neil puts all his clothes on the right body parts. He’s looking less high but still dazed, his eyes hooded but his face pulling tighter. In the fall down, he’s always uncomfortably aware of the abnormality of being out of control of himself. Years later that hasn’t changed. Andrew isn’t surprised.

“You’re good to go,” Helen tells Neil when she returns, and then says to Andrew, “Good luck!”

He would like to think, as he manoeuvres Neil out, that she means for the game on Friday. It’s not likely, though.

Neil falls asleep against the window on the drive home. Andrew prods him awake so he can walk himself into the elevator, where he sags against the wall, and then into the apartment. He shuffles into the bedroom, still making gentle smooching noises at Sir and King as he winds himself into the duvet. He’s out ten seconds later.

Andrew watches for a moment while King curls up beside him and Sir gently begins to groom his hair, and then retreats to the balcony for a cigarette.


Andrew has relocated inside to the couch by the time he hears stirring from the bedroom a few hours later. The Neil who emerges is rumpled but sleepy in a normal sense rather than because of lingering sedation.

He lowers himself gently onto the cushion beside Andrew, and then even more slowly lowers his head down onto Andrew’s thighs.

“Painkillers?” Andrew offers. The discharge notes included strict instructions on dosage and timing, but Neil’s been asleep long enough to be due another couple of pills.

“In a minute,” Neil mumbles, like he’s trying to move his jaw as little as possible. He pats Andrew on the shin. “Stay.”

In an hour Neil’s going to be pissed off and probably a little anxious, wanting to move but knowing he can’t, irritated by the pain. But for now, it’s pretty easy to read a book and play pillow while Neil rests.

6 insane things to do that prove Indonesia is the most epic holiday hotspot to visit

From beautiful beaches to delicious street food, Indonesia has it all. You’re almost never short on places to go and activities to do. But if you’re looking for a something more unusual to experience, you’d be surprised at the trove of undiscovered sights and scenes this archipelago paradise has hidden.

1. Feel like a kid again at the Rainbow Village (Kampung Pelangi) in Semarang

A post shared by KITASEMARANG (@kitasemarang) on Jun 8, 2017 at 11:32pm PDT

Who would’ve thought a fresh splash of paint would turn this former slum district into an overnight sensation?! The vibrant new facelift was the community project to rejuvenate the dull hill-side village and re-instil a sense of belonging to the locals.

The result is a multi-coloured kaleidoscope of rainbow roofs, fruit-striped railings and polka-dot panels, perfect for posting on Instagram.

2. Find solace at the Broken Beach (Pasih Uug) in Bali

Just what exactly is ‘broken’ about it you ask? Well the iconic stone arch used to be a cave before it collapsed to form the geological phenomenon we see today. The damaged beach combines the green hills above with the blue seas below which creates a peaceful and tranquil landscape due to the remoteness of its location.

If you’re looking to step away from Bali’s bustling tourist scene, a visit to this exclusive coastal cliff might just be the perfect escape.

3. Get front row seats to the Ram Fights in Bandung

A post shared by @idengerous on Oct 17, 2015 at 9:48am PDT

Believe it or not, the age-old tradition of ram fighting is deeply rooted in Sudanese culture and has been around for hundreds of years. Fights usually take place once a week on the outskirts of town and come complete with live traditional music, loud drums and blaring announcements from the commentators.

Contrary to the brutality of this event, no bloodshed is involved. Ram owners take great pride in training and grooming their sheep for battle—much like professional athletes! If there was a chance that a ram might be hurt, the fight would be stopped immediately.

4. Descent into the dark depths of Jomblang Cave in Yogyakarta

Visitors can put their courage to the test as they make their dramatic descent down the vertical cliff.  

The height of the cave ranges from 40 to 80 metres from the roof to the cave floor. A thick ancient forest also resides within the cave itself, as well as the famous ‘heavenly light‘ which shines in from the cave’s entrance above. Those brave enough to dangle above the rocky cavern below is in for an experience of a lifetime.

5. Trek to the Abandoned Chicken Church of Central Java, Yogyakarta

Image: Matt Smith

Don’t be alarmed if you stumble upon this towering bird-like structure while trekking through the Magelang forest. The gigantic chicken chapel was built as a place of worship during the 1990s, but was later vacated when construction costs became too high. Although it was never finished, the building remains a hit with many unconventional explorers looking gain entry into the now eerie-looking church for a dramatic 360-degree selfie atop the fowl’s soaring head.

6. Visit the birthplace of Ayam Penyet in Indonesia

Anyone who’s ever had a plate of this delectable chicken dish in Singapore can only imagine how it would taste like right from the source! $2.50 SGD gets you a succulent fried chicken thigh, smashed with a mortar and covered in crunchy chicken flakes, served alongside a bowl of burning hot sambal belacan, fried tahu and tempeh. Killer.  

Semarang also has its very own special version of Popiah as well as one of the best Mee Gorengs in the world. #nojoke

I know where’s my next holiday destination, do you? Start saving and find affordable fares at Airasia so you’ll have more money for the amazing activities and many plates of Ayam Penyets!