The game of life? The game of football?

“Let’s change tack. I’ve had enough of crying over spilt milt. I’d rather drink raw! Roaaarrrr!” Ayşe was feeling lioness-like or tigress-like or something like. She smilingly growled at some of the little T’s mocking her fearsome intent, though they were bigger than her. Arther joined her with his post-match orange.

“O orange! O bir portakal. It is an orange.”

“Yes Arther, that is correct, it is an orange. Very witty. You know the other day Milo Yiannopoulos said to Mike Cernovich, ‘If you think the media is bad, imagine how the history is’. Why is it history?”

“Ne?” Arther was picking up some Turkish, “What?”

“Not herstory?”

“You’re being pedantic.”

… and as if by magic, a bearded chap with a humongous great staff was there, eating pizza.

“Hello! I’m just finishing my lunch. I had a sense the T’s were calling me. I’m Fungus Bungus Chopps. This is my magic staff made of gollygopdopdoodah wood and sprigneezle shellharp. I know, it’s so rare you’ve probably never heard of it. History? Herstory? It’s all in whose victory.”

Then, out of the blue, quite unannounced, someone or something blurted, “There’s no group in Europe that has as bad press as the Vikings. Why do Vikings have horns on their helmets…?”

It seemed to have been the magic staff. Oh yes, Göbeklitepe just keeps giving. Talking sticks! I don’t know, why do Vikings have horns on their helmets? This is decent, isn’t it?

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