Spoon Sports Quotes

In primary school, sports day was the one day of the year when the less academically gifted students could triumph...As if a silver in the egg-and-spoon race was some sort of compensation for not understanding how to use an apostrophe

Hey diddle diddle, the cat and fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon! The little dog laughed to see such sport, and the dish ran away with the spoon! He ran from conviction and fed his addiction as the dish heated the spoon. The spoon begged to but the dish shouted "NO!" "The heroin will be ready soon".

Sport is a mystery to me. In primary school, sports day was the one day of the year when the less academically gifted students could triumph, winning prizes for jumping fastest in a sack, or running from Point A to Point B more quickly than their classmates. How they loved to wear those badges on their blazers the next day! As if a silver in the egg-and-spoon race was some sort of compensation for not understanding how to use an apostrophe.

You would -- you would take him into Your heaven, my lord?" asked Ingrey in astonishment and outrage. "He slew, not in defense of his own life, but in malice and madness. He tried to steal powers not rightly given to him. If I guess right, he plotted the death of his own brother. He would have raped Ijada, if he could, and killed again for his sport!" The Son held up his hands. Luminescent, they seemed, as if dappled by autumn sun reflecting off a stream into shade. "My grace flows from me as a river, wolf-lord. Would you have me dole it out in the exact measure that men earn, as from an apothecary's dropper? Would you stand in pure water to your waist, and administer it by the scant spoon to men dying of thirst on a parched shore?" Ingrey stood silent, abashed, but Ijada lifted her face, and said steadily, "No, my lord, for my part. Give him to the river. Tumble him down in the thunder of Your cataract. His loss is no gain of mine, nor his dark deserving any joy to me." The god smiled brilliantly at her. Tears slid down her face like silver threads: like benedictions. "It is unjust," whispered Ingrey. "Unfair to all who -- who would try to do rightly...." "Ah, but I am not the god for justice," murmured the Son. "Would you both stand before my Father instead?

And, well, for most of my life I’d been way too far up my own ass to be of any use to anyone—something that only got worse after Kitchen Confidential. I don’t know exactly when the possibility of that changing presented itself—but sometime, I guess, after having made every mistake, having already fucked up in every way a man can fuck up, having realized that I’d had enough cocaine, that no amount in the world was going to make me any happier. That a naked, oiled supermodel was not going to make everything better in my life—nor any sports car known to man. It was sometime after that. The precise moment of realization came in my tiny fourth-floor walk-up apartment on Ninth Avenue. Above Manganaro’s Heroboy restaurant—next building over from Esposito Pork Shop. I was lying in bed with my then-girlfriend—I guess you could diplomatically call it “spooning”—and I caught myself thinking, “I could make a baby with this woman.

Okay, so I was lying through my teeth. I wasn’t just desperate to be boned. I was even more desperate to have someone to call my own. For spooning while sleeping in on Saturday mornings. For mundane conversations over homemade chicken and dumplings. For arguing over what to watch on television—football or Lifetime. For shuttling our children between sports practice and dance lessons. For all the little things that made average lives extraordinary.

I poked my head through the bushes, and saw that the little bunch I was after had joined a great flock of teal, which was on a sand bar in the middle of the stream. They were all huddled together, some standing on the bar, and others in the water right by it, and I aimed for the thickest part of the flock. At the report they sprang into the air, and I leaped to my feet to give them the second barrel, when, from under the bank right beneath me, two shoveller or spoon-bill ducks rose, with great quacking, and, as they were right in line, I took them instead, knocking both over. When I had fished out the two shovellers, I waded over to the sand bar and picked up eleven teal, making thirteen ducks with the two barrels.

Let me guess—you were good at hockey and football when you were at school, but not at tennis.” He laughed at that, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tennis? At an Inverness grammar school? Soft Southron sport, we’d have called it; game for poofters. But I take your point—no, you’re right, I was fine at the football, but not much at rounders. Why?” “You don’t have any binocular vision,” I said. “Chances are that someone noticed it when you were a child, and made an effort to correct it with prismatic lenses—but it’s likely that it would have been too late by the time you were seven or eight,” I added hastily, seeing his face go blank. “If that’s going to work, it needs to be done very young—before the age of five.” “I don’t … binocular vision? But doesn’t everyone?… I mean, both my eyes do work, don’t they?” He looked mildly bewildered. He looked down into the palm of his hand, closing one eye, then the other, as though some answer might be found among the lines there. “Your eyes are fine,” I assured him. “It’s just that they don’t work together. It’s really a fairly common condition—and many people who have it don’t realize it. It’s just that in some people, for one reason or another, the brain never learns to merge the images coming in from both eyes in order to make a three-dimensional image.” “I don’t see in three dimensions?” He looked at me, now, squinting hard, as though expecting me suddenly to flatten out against the wall. “Well, I haven’t quite got a trained oculist’s kit”—I waved a hand at the burned-out candle, the wooden spoon, the drawn figures, and a couple of sticks I had been using—“nor yet an oculist’s training. But I’m reasonably sure, yes.

My son’s headmistress said I was a wild man in the sack. She also said the fathers’ egg ‘n’ spoon race was not a contact sport.

Sporking?” Rush asks this time. “You know, like spooning, but when you’re sporting wood and hoping it leads away from the spoon and over to the fork.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I offer a chuckle. “It’s a real wonder why you’re still single,” I say dryly.

He eyed my creamy-ice. “You’ll be dead because of that stuff.” “Your body is your temple. That’s why I’m giving it a treat.” I spooned out an extra-large bite and sucked on it slowly. My insides swooned.

Arguably, some of the biggest current fads are protein supplements and high-strength water-soluble vitamins, both of which when consumed above our nutritional requirements are excreted out of the body, meaning the extra doses generally end up in the toilet. Protein supplements are the heavyweight in the $16-billion sports nutrition world and they’re reportedly used by up to 40 per cent of Americans and 25 per cent of Brits in 2016. Far from being protein deficient, most healthy people in Western countries exceed the daily recommended protein requirements, yet marketing tells us otherwise. The food industry have jumped on the bandwagon, adding a few extra grams of protein to chocolate or granola bars in order to proclaim that their calorie-laden products that used to be high energy are now ‘high protein’ and the perfect snack to slip into your gym bag.