“The oracle says Spain over Germany. Discuss.”
“I’m sorry but I have to say German over Spain. Spaniards eat a lot of octopus…the animal is afraid of saying they will lose, as it might end up on a barbecue.”
“True. I had not sufficiently taken into account culinary pressures.”
– C. and Francois, Facebook conversation
The Romans used to slash creatures open and observe their livers and kidneys to tell the future. By comparison, Paul the Oracle Octopus is less gruesome. I’m sort of hoping Spain trounces Germany just so his status as a prophetic cephalopod is confirmed.
Unfortunately for the tentacled sucker in question, I have an everlasting hatred of the name Paul. On a train ride from Holyhead, Wales to London, AbFab, Elizabeth, Kiri, Marie and I were seated with an odd couple. They smoked like chimneys, drank like fish, and swore like sailors. They both had saggy skin covered in tattoos while she had mad, frizzled hair and he was horrifically bald. Apparently she was married to another person but the man with her, named Paul, was her lover. There’s no accounting some people’s taste.
When we changed trains at Crewe the girls and I were happily esconced in our new car when Paul passed us coming down the corridor. Suddenly something landed in my lap. I looked down and saw a twisted up piece of paper and thought he’d dropped it, but he moved on before I could hand it back. Unfortunately when I unfurled it, it was his name and number.
Commenced five women gagging enthusiastically and shuddering all the way to London. They teased me to no end.
Paul the octopus looks cuddly by comparison.