All those Kiwi women who have complained about a “man drought” over the last couple of years will soon have their prayers answered. Ladies, I offer you the Rugby World Cup.
Yes, that’s right. New Zealand is about to be inundated by that most attractive of the male sub species – the Rugbyhead – as if the country isn’t already over-populated with them.
And maybe that’s the truth about this so-called drought – it never actually existed at all, just another convenient excuse for our fickle womenfolk to explain their failure to find the perfect male.
But word on the street is that many of these single women have deliberately taken themselves off the market in recent months to save themselves for RWC.
If nothing else, at least that’s eliminated those who aren’t really serious about romance, the ones just looking for an opportunistic fling they can tell their girlfriends about over coffee long after they’ve become Remuera trophy wives.
Presumably, they have their sights set on some swarthy Argentine first-five in tight shorts, but unfortunately for them, it’s more likely to be a drunken lieutenant in the Barmy Army, egged on by his equally pissed cohorts.
The road to perfection is potholed with compromise.
It does happen, I suppose. Once, during a cozy rendezvous at the Heritage, my date informed me that she had spent quite a few nights at this establishment when the Italian sailors used it as their America’s Cup headquarters.
That was a pretty difficult image to dismiss for the rest of the night. Sigh!
And athletes are obviously quick to exploit such situations. Players at the Wellington Sevens are usually issued small replica footballs to toss into the crowd during the annual street parade.
Many have phone numbers written on them and are aimed at potential hook-ups among the bystanders.
Any time you put fit, young adults together in one place, hormones will inevitably intervene. Sydney Olympic organizers were said to have distributed 70,000 condoms to visiting athletes, but were still 20,000 short.
I wonder how they calculated that statistic. Maybe they had team liaisons rushing down to the nearest after-hours pharmacy each night, desperately trying to cover the shortfall and keeping count.
So, alas, last week’s short-lived “abstain for the team” campaign by Telecom was doomed to fail. Even as a tongue-in-cheek prank, it defied any passing semblance to reality.
The call would have made far more sense coming from a religious group lobbying against pre-marital relations or pitched as a war against sexually transmitted diseases (and maybe Telecom can still flick off their discounted IP and collateral to recoup some costs).
They could even have gone in the opposite direction with a variation on the old “better phone your daddy and tell him you won’t be coming home tonight” line.
See, who needs Saatchi & Saatchi anyway? This is too easy!
But, no, they didn’t.
The campaign did spark a debate among some of us about whether players themselves would be abstaining during the tournament and if this was, in fact, likely to improve or detract from their performance on the field.
Legend has it that American long jumper Bob Beamon feared the worst when he engaged in sex the night before his 1968 Mexico City Olympic final, then went out and added more than a foot (30cm) to the world record. That mark would last nearly quarter of a century.
I think you should just go with whatever you’re used to. Some guys hit the sack early the night before a big game and nod straight off to sleep, while others need a couple of beers to settle the nerves.
For some reason, our conversation turned to whether Ma’a Nonu (and I have no idea why we picked him as an example) should be allowed to have sex with 10 women on the eve of the World Cup final. My view – if that’s how Nonu prepares best, the manager should be out scouring the Viaduct bars for potential matchwinners.
That way, some lucky lasses won’t have saved themselves for nothing AND they get to take one in service of their country.
In the meantime, if you’re a sweet, sensitive Kiwi fella just looking for love, you’d better enjoy the on-field action and hope the All Blacks win, because that could be the only consolation you get from the next couple of months. You’ll be far outnumbered by the invading hordes with their sexy accents and simply won’t get a look-in.
I suppose, if you’re really desperate, you could always start swilling Guinness and learn the words to “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”.
No, nothing’s worth that.
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