Unwieldy Wet Beckham

Sometimes you come across a combination of words that stops you in your tracks. A phrase that sends a shiver through your spine like a skeleton made of ice. Butterflies in your tummy like you ate five caterpillars a few weeks ago. Of course, in this blog they're ten a penny (as evidenced by the previous two sentences), but out in the wider world they're quite rare.

Last week I read one which has stuck with me like a superglued dictionary, and I've been thinking about it almost constantly since.

It came in this article by a Millennial, in which the author is writing an open letter to a Gen Z'er who has just started their first job. The Gen Z'er, who naturally voiced their concerns on Tik Tok, had posted a teary video in which she was struggling to believe that the adult population just accepted 9-5s as the divine way of living, and couldn't understand how she would cope with another 50 years worth of hers.

The Millennial started off sympathetically, but then seemed to come down hard on the side of 'this is the way things are so therefore its the way they should be', rattling through her morning routine, as if this in itself was evidence of the moral purity of a 9-5 job.

This is where we find our spine-tingling butterflies fluttering.

Rather than dilute it by explanation, I'm just going to copy the entire paragraph down below, and then we can analyse it.

I wake at 6.30am, fight off five alarms – and the tiny legs booting me in the face like a small and unwieldy wet Beckham. My bed is shared (forcibly) by a seven-year-old boy, who clambers in whenever he wakes: could be 10pm, could be two in the morning, or he could sleep all the way through until that abominable first (snoozed) ringtone. He’s usually wet his mattress, which is why he’s sprawled across mine – so I attend to that first.

Did you spot it?

Have another go if you didn't.

Have another go if you did, just to confirm things.

And yes, you're right.

She has described her son as an 'unwieldy wet Beckham'

An unwieldy wet Beckham.

At this point we don't even know why said unwieldy Beckham is wet, but that becomes clear presently.

I don't know what it is about the phrase that is so horrifying, but it evokes such a visceral reaction in me regardless. Personally, I would have used Beckham's full name. I know that he is famous enough and has a singular enough association with the surname that people would know to whom you are referring, but the use of the surname alone adds to the sense of strange.

An unwieldy David Beckham doesn't sound anywhere near as haunting. Nor does a wet David Beckham. An unwieldy wet David Beckham is an unwieldy phrase in itself - there is one too many adjectives (in my opinion, in the phrase 'unwieldy wet David Beckham', David is an adjective rather than a noun. Grammarians may disagree with me on this, but based purely on vibes, you can't really argue).

More than anything, it goes to show that there is endless capacity for the English language to shock, and I can only hope that there is nothing in this episode which calls for a phrase as eerie as an unwieldy wet Beckham.

That's quite enough UWBs for one intro, so let's get on with things. If you want to watch the episode before reading the rest of the review you can do so here.

This was the second of the high-scoring loser playoffs, featuring Oxford Brookes, who lost 220-205 to Birkbeck, and The Open, who lost 230-155 against Hertford College, Oxford. Both impressive even in defeat, this promised to be a class contest.

Fraser took the first starter for Open with mise en scene. A hat-trick on adjacent US states puts them 25 clear, and Gavaghan added 10 more with Simone Biles on the second starter. She takes another with Fanny, and another perfect set sent them 70 ahead. No unwieldy wet Beckhams on this side of the studio, that's for sure.

Oxford Brookes scored more than 200 points in their opening loss, but they're really struggling in the opening exchanges here. After a fluffed guess from Broadbent, Holt won the picture bonuses for Open. They crossed the 100 point mark without breaking a sweat.

Finally, with hope not quite lost but not quite found either, Broadbent grabbed Brookes' first points. But when Davidson takes another for Open, Brookes' hope takes another step into the unknown. His namesake Emily described hope as the thing with feathers, but at the moment it's an unwieldy wet Beckham.

A starter on Cardi B goes the way of Gavaghan, and Open are in cruise control. Broadbent, with his industrial strength eyebrows and bingo hall voice, recognises Donna Summer in less than five seconds for the music starter, and takes his third on the next question to restore some pride for Brookes.

Davidson and Holt hit back for Open, before a neg from Manton signals the death of Brookes' challenge.

The second picture round goes to Davidson, who's on a bit of a tear in this episode. The entire Open quartet are to be fair, so you do feel a bit for Oxford, who have come up against an inspired team performance. Brookes do make it into three figures, refusing to roll over even though all hope is lost.

By the time the gong sounds they're only a hundred points behind, with an entirely respectable score.

Oxford Brookes 155 - 255 Open

Rajan ends with his now customary and too-chummy-by-half ascertation that the losing team were mere fractions of a second away on half the starter questions. This may be a true observation, but I don't believe it when he says it.

Still, Brookes can count themselves very unlucky to be going home after scores of 155 and 205. Brutal.

Join me next week for the first second round match, and subscribe here to never miss an episode.

I leave you with this tale fromy my commute home earlier today...

Cycling in the rain, bag of shopping draped over my handlebars limiting my maneuverability, I swerve to avoid a car which emerges from a parking space without looking. Wobbling, I turn and kick out, like an unwieldy wet Beckham.