ZOMBIES feature heavily in the Ord household.
While our 10-year-old, Bradley, battles them on his PlayStation games, our seven-year-old, Isaac, holds nightly running battles with them up and down the stairs armed with a plastic sword.
To Bradley, zombies appear only on screen. To our Isaac they are disturbingly very real, courtesy of his over-active imagination (I blame his zombie fixation on the fact he is first up most days and spots me shuffling towards the bathroom at 6am every working day).
That difference between the two brothers changed briefly this Tuesday.
After arriving late for our Bradley’s football training, my wife informed me he was getting changed into his footy gear in the men’s toilets.
I went to check on him. On entering the toilet room, I noticed he’d locked himself in one of the cubicles. By chance, as I opened the door, there was a power cut. The lights went out and within seconds an emergency generator had kicked in.
The toilet was now dimly lit with the only noise coming from the cubicle where our Bradley was getting changed. The only noise, that is, until I broke the silence with la ow growl from deep within my chest.
The cubicle fell silent. I let out another louder growl, complete with a Darth Vader-style exhalation of breath.
I heard a shoe drop in the cubicle. Like any good zombie, I reacted with a grunt and sniffed the air.
With an exaggerated shuffle across the toilet floor I headed towards the cubicle door, growling and wheezing all the way. Only when I began shaking the door did he eventually speak.
“Hello?” came the whimper from within.
“Hi Bradz,” I cheerfully announced, “you okay?”
He opened the door, clutching his football shirt to his chest. “Oh,” he panted. “I thought it was a zombie.”
Question: Will I go to hell for this?
IF Arsenal’s teen sensation Jack Wilshere was so “delighted” with his England debut, was it too much to ask him to smile?
Still in his England kit minutes after the final whistle, the 19-year-old was put up in front of the cameras to express his feelings on playing for his national footy team for the first time.
He said all the right things but looking at his face you’d think he’d been told his PlayStation3 had just been stolen ... and used to beat his pet dog to death.
Not a flicker of a smile or, for that matter, emotion (I’d hate to play him at poker).
Instead he delivered a stream of flat platitudes while doing a passable impression of deadpan comic Jack Dee.
If it was me, I’d be grabbing the camera and shouting “Hey, I’ve just played for England. Stick that in your pipe mister. England, I said, bleedin’ ENGLAND!” Assuming they could drag me down from the ceiling long enough to perform the interview.
Even at 19, our Jack is still too cool for school.
I’m no big fan of the text message smiley faces you get on modern phones, but the sooner they can develop the technology to apply them to real faces the better for Wilshere. At the moment, the face doesn’t fit the words.