Jocks vs. Me

Classic Jock

I despise these eternally desperate idiots, these shameless meatheads. They see seduction as a war of attrition, choosing to grind down the resolve of their woman, asking the same question time and time again until the answer they desire is given, rather than seeing it as the art form that it is, attempting to sweep her off her feet with a single seductive coup de grâce. I hold complete and utter contempt for the jocks.

What is a jock? Is a jock an athlete? No. A jock is not an athlete. An athlete is committed to his sport. An athlete can be found eating a nutritious meal on a Wednesday evening, washing it down with a glass of water. A jock, on the other hand, can be found sinking fifteen pints in a pub before drunkenly heading off in search of a cheap thrill within the sweaty confines of Ziggy’s. Through dedication and hard work, an athlete will achieve something with his life. A jock will achieve nothing.

On an average Wednesday night, one can see the jocks descend from the dizzy heights of masculinity to the crushing ground zero of man-femininity. When the night is still young, the signature jock call of 'LAD' can be observed, ringing out from the upstairs bar, as one member of the pack downs a bottle of Gordon's Gin through a funnel, following up this 'miraculous' feat with a celebratory beating of the chest to Survivor’s 'Eye of the Tiger'. As the beers are downed, the jocks can be located on the bottom floor getting lower than the cheerleaders to the sounds of Flo Rida and reaching for the stars higher than the netball girls. Post two AM, the jocks move their circus to the top floor and in a final self mugging of their masculinity start to pair up, one jock playing the role of Elton John, the other, usually the larger and more hairy of the two, playing the role of Kiki Di as they promise one another, ‘I won’t go breaking you heart.’ How sweet, or sickening.

The jocks seem to have unwillingly read Macbeth, for they look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t. If one is ‘lucky’ enough to see the twatish side of the jocks, like a friend of mine once was, one might find one’s head being pushed into a vomit filled toilet, only to be rescued by a call from a fellow jock alerting his kin to the arrival of the netball girls. If you see these jocks, do stare with disdain, for a jock is not a productive member of the university society, but rather an individual choosing to place their sport above their degree, only to ultimately get nowhere.

Why do I despise the jocks? Is there something personal between us? Did a jock steal an ex love of mine? Was I the one with my head down the vomit filled toilet? No. I have always had a rivalry with them. At school, I was in the rugby first team. The scrum half, the small one, the one that could barely press thirty, but could quite easily talk his way out of Auschwitz. The team found one of my middle names to be Winston. In true English jock fashion, they gave me a nickname in the way only they can, dropping the name to one syllable then adding a 'y' to the end of it. I became Winny, which one genius in the second row aptly pointed out was rather akin to Winnie the Pooh, but three syllables, way too much work for the jocks to mumble. Instead, they called me Pooh. Shit soon followed. Shit was my name on the rugby field for two years. No matter how many jock girlfriends I docked my penis in, the name stuck. I am not bitter about this. I actually found it rather quaint, thus rendering this a fake reason why I despise the jocks. My true hatred stems partly from the way they ridicule the art of seduction and partly because we both prey upon the same thing. We both predate the slag.

In biology, the competitive exclusion principle states that two species competing for the exact same resources cannot stably coexist. One of the two competitors will always have a slight advantage over the other, an advantage which will lead to extinction of the second competitor over an indefinite amount of time if the second does not undergo an evolutionary shift towards a different ecological niche. Put simply, I want the slags. I have my reasons. The jocks want the slags, they have their reasons. As Yosemite Sam once said to Bugs Bunny, ‘This town ain't big enough fer the two of us!’

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