Galatasaray 1 Fenerbahçe 0

Take a mega city and divide it into a European side and an Asian side by a narrow strait.  Cast an historical hotch pot of religions in there and you wind up with Istanbul.  Give the European side one football team (Galatasaray) and the Asian side another (Fenerbahçe, and let's leave Besiktas out of the picture) and let them go at it on the football pitch.  The local derby that results can only evoke some rather strong reactions.

I was watching the match in a pub in Ismir.  Hang on, I hear you say.  An Australian watching football - or 'soccer' as we use the new world diminution  What is wrong with that picture. . . ?!?

Well, nothing.  When I landed in London they told me to never trust a man who didn't like football, so I quickly joined the Arsenal fanclub.

Anyway, and more to the point, who does an Australian cheer for in such an alien match - the underdog of course.

Go Fenerbahçe!

Cate the creator, we love you

This speech leaves me absolutely speechless.  She is the bees knees (read reems of the usual Blanchette psychofantic/hormonal babble).  She is also an amazing orator, and all this after giving birth two days previously. . . see here.

(it's worth watching just for the Bill Clinton anecdote)

El nino busca su voz (or some quote to that effect)

I was in Valhalla, Hell's Kitchen last weekend and was trying to explain to a girlfriend of Uncle's the nature of the mutually exclusive yet symbiotic relationship that I had with Pat Rafter all through the 90's (whenever he won his game, something always went right in my life).  She was a tennis fan and never missed the US open, so she understood.  I was pouring out my heart but was forced to retire early as my voice gave out.

Then one of the girls Baz was with started asking questions about the incident of the untrouserly Francophone in the toilets in Camden.  On a regular night 
this is my party trick and my third drink vignette rolled together with my Magnum Opus. Once again, I found myself looking on from the sidelines as Baz stole my thunder. . .  

I am by nature a scribe but it is also hard when I lose my voice.  My plight in Valhalla and later on at Down the hatch, reminded me of Lorca's Mute Boy:

The little boy was looking for his voice.

(The king of the crickets had it.)

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.