The five Ws are the essential building blocks of journalism, the foundation upon which we construct our information cathedrals to explain the world.
Today, for instance, I'm going to use the five Ws as the building blocks to explain why I'll probably be an unemployed hobo by the end of the next four weeks.
Who: The world's soccer royalty, including Messi, Neymar, Cristiano Ronaldo, Cristiano Ronaldo's smirk, Xavi, Rooney and the contents of the stomach of Luis Suarez.
What: The World Cup! When: The next four weeks! Where: Brazil, the beautiful game's bikiniwaxed, meat-on-a-sword, sexy dance, sure-I'll-weara-thong-to-the-beach
heartland.
Why: Here's where things get a little painful, like a wax job that overshoots the landing strip by an inch or two. More than 10 million Brazilians live in favelas - loosely translated as slums - that feature high crime rates and include many shanty homes that do not have sewers or water.
Brazilians love their soccer but they also love the more mundane things in life, like bullets that miss major organs and sewage rivers that take the right path (not through the kitchen, I would guess).
The cost to Brazil of hosting the World Cup is being estimated at around US$11 billion - the biggest price tag in the history of the competition - and judging by the mass protests that began last year and are still taking place, many Brazilians believe that money could have been better spent elsewhere.
World Cup organizers dropped $300 million building the 46,000-seat Amazonia Arena in Manaus, a rainforest city of two million people that has no professional soccer team that could come close to
filling the stadium once the tournament is over. Four World Cup games will be played there, including the huge England vs. Italy matchup that was scheduled for yesterday after North Shore News press deadline (assuming, that is, the game was indeed played - reports earlier this week indicated that the soon-to-be-obsolete stadium wasn't finished yet and the grass was in poor shape).
Manaus is so remote that travellers are warned not to attempt to reach it
by car. The temperature in Manaus is often above 30 C at this time of year, landing somewhere between 40 and Mount Doom when you include the humidity. Anyway, I'm sure all those British people will be fine.
Making the waters even murkier is the presence of FIFA, the global governing body of soccer that many observers feel is starting to act a little bit too much like a cartoon villain. Recent reports allege that the 2022 World Cup was awarded to Qatar thanks in part to more
than $5 million in bribes paid to voting members. Since Qatar won the right to host, their bid has been besmirched by allegations such as the propensity of their migrant stadium workers to die on the job and the propensity of their summers to be so damned hot that the players will need to wear uniforms made out unyielding sheets of solid ice, a tactic that up until now had only been employed by the Canadian national team.
This week FIFA president Dr. Evil - er, Sepp Blatter - responded to the allegations by saying that we're all racist.
So how can we get
excited about something so shady? Well, to steal an NHL tagline: "Because it's the Cup." Except take that cute Canadian passion and add about seven billion people, give or take Alabama. It's like March Madness, the Super
Bowl, Justin Bieber's Twitter account and the Harry Potter books got together for a giant orgy that produced a baby. That baby is the World Cup. The sad thing is no one knows who the father is. My guess? Beckham.
Yes, it's all a bit messy. Yes, there are problems. Yes, Brazil has a player named Fred. Just Fred. But yes, we're still going to watch every minute of it. Let's just remember not to ignore the rest of Brazil while our eyes
are focused on the soccer pitches and the talented men who are writhing around in fake agony on them.
How: The five Ws have an illegitimate stepbrother named "how," but in this case it might be the most
important question for us footy fans who are intent on watching the World Cup but have other duties to tend to such as our jobs, families, and personal hygiene.
The obvious option for us office folks is to record the games and then watch them at night after work. The problem, however, is that all the Costa Ricans or Nigerians or Belgians in the neighbourhood go bananas after every goal, save, or decently clever throw-in. Making it home from work without finding out who won the day's matches is almost impossible.
That's how you end up taking 90-minute lunches, secretly watching games online at your desk at work, or just downright walking out of the office to get drunk at the pub down the street. That's how you lose your job and, maybe, everything that you own. The only saving grace: hobos have a lot of time on their hands. .. oh hey, there's a game on.
Email Andy at [email protected] to let him know where you'll be watching the games, either before or after you lose your job.
