Drew Magary’s Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday at Defector during the NFL season. Got something you wanna contribute? Email the Roo. You can also read Drew over at SFGATE, and buy Drew’s books while you’re at it.
The world. Ugh. Awful place. Can’t recommend enough that you avoid it. I know I do. I am a man who craves distraction, seeing as how it’s my best chance of isolating myself from all of the bullshit out there. This is why I don’t watch the news. What kind of fucking lunatic wants to watch the news right now? They can’t even do the news right anymore! They fucked it up, just like they fucked up everything else!
No no no, what I crave is ESCAPE. Since the pandemic, I have taken the idea of escapism to heart. I don’t wanna be here. I wanna be somewhere else: another time, another country, even another planet. You’re talking to a guy who only occasionally watched The Office, because why the fuck would I spend my downtime at a fucking office? Strap me into the time machine and send me to the Spaghetti West as fast as you can, thank you very much. It’s the only way I know how to relax anymore.
So why the fuck can’t I stop watching Slow Horses? Here’s a TV show that takes place here. In this world. Right now. It’s set in England, but British politics are just American politics with even worse hair. There’s violence, corruption, helplessness, internet static, and all of the other accoutrements that make Earth 2025 one of the most aggravating settings in history. And yet, whenever a new season of Slow Horses pops up, I’m on that shit like it’s a fresh round of soup dumplings that just landed on the table.
This is because Slow Horses, now in its fifth season on Apple TV+, is a perfect television show. If you don’t know this, that’s probably because you never redeemed those three free months of Apple TV+ that came free with your purchase of a humidifier from Best Buy. Keeping track of streaming services alone is a chore, let alone keeping track of what those services have to offer. But if you ask anyone who’s ever watched Slow Horses, or read the Mick Herron novels upon which the show is based, they’ll be as effusive as I’m being right now. Not only is Slow Horses exceedingly well made, not only does it star Gary Oldman at his absolute peak (Oldman has already said he’d like to play main character Jackson Lamb forever), and not only does it deliver the goods in six tidy episodes per season, but, counterintuitively, it makes living here just a little bit more bearable.
I’ve gone too long without giving you a proper nut graf, so here’s a lowdown for the uninitiated. Slow Horses is about reject British spies, including an insufferable tech whiz (Christopher Chung), a morose cocaine enjoyer (Aimee Ffion-Edwards), the alcoholic former assistant to a turncoat (Saskia Reeves), an asocial freak (Tom Brooke), and an agency nepobaby (Jack Lowden, who’s got next Bond vibes all over him) who fucked up a training exercise. These people are MI5 agents in title only. In practice, they never get to work at the agency’s main headquarters off Regent’s Park (referred to only as “the Park” in the story). Instead, they have to operate out of a dilapidated satellite office in London named Slough House. Inside this frat house no one ever wants to pledge, a rumpled former Cold War operative Lamb treats his MI5 discards with utter disdain before grudgingly sending them out into the field to do all of the dirty work that The Park either isn’t aware of, or has no interest in doing.
For Season 5, that dirty work involves figuring out the connection between a mass shooting, the assassination of the gunman, an ugly mayoral election, and Chung’s Roddy Ho lucking his way into a hot girlfriend who may or may not be a Libyan operative. That last part of the mystery allows Oldman to tee up one roast after another, like so:
“You nearly getting run over, broken CCTV, potential spotter, vehicle making a quick exit. It’s dodgy, but none of it raises my spidey senses as much as hearing a real-life woman is happy to spend time with you.”
Jackson Lamb is one of those Dr. House–style TV archetypes who treats everyone like shit, gets every killer line, and knows exactly how everything in the story will play out. He’s also the only character in the story who’s happy to work at Slough House. Every other slow horse (get it?) wants to be promoted back to the Park, where Lamb’s old underling Diana Taverner (Kristin Hot Thomas) essentially runs things. But Lamb has no interest in helping them get there. Lamb has been a spook for decades and seen and done some horrible shit on behalf of the crown, only a fraction of which we, the audience, know about. So he’s more than happy to rule over his shabby little kingdom without interference from the Park. And he loves having this stable of rejects at his disposal because A) He’ll always have one over on them, and B) They’ve already proven willing to break the rules that Lamb wants them to break. He also likes these people, but that affection only shows up for roughly half a second per season.
Because this isn’t a Bill Lawrence show. This isn’t a TV show where people are all adorkable around each another before every episode ends with a touching heart-to-heart. Slow Horses takes place in this world (again, ugh), and takes that world at face value. Everything is fucked up, and everyone is fucked up because of it. Every character on Slow Horses is cynical, but that cynicism is earned. They accept the world being fucked as a given. Every corrupt government official, every senseless murder, every pointless war, every dipshit racist who gets decent press … all givens. A person's morality is exclusively a relative concept. These characters don’t expect the world to magically un-fuck itself. They only want to do their jobs, protect their own, and to make sure their asses are covered. The fact that those two goals are in constant conflict is what gives Slow Horses its narrative momentum. Even if you aren’t a professional spy, and I am not, you can relate.
And that’s the power of storytelling. I don’t like this world anymore than you do. I certainly don’t go out of my way to spend my precious chair time taking in more stories ABOUT this godforsaken shithole. But we have a glaring dearth of art that tells proper stories about this moment in history (one of the reasons that Paul Thomas Anderson’s excellent One Battle After Another is about to load up on all of the hardware come award season), and great art doesn’t come from ignoring pain and suffering. It comes out of it. It connects with your own pain, your own experience, your own wants and needs. That connection IS the escape. It helps you understand the world around you, which in turn helps you exist in that world, even if it sucks. That makes Slow Horses—as perfectly written and executed a show as you’ll ever watch, and one with a normal TV comfort to it—an ironic respite. Turns out it feels better to embrace the world, in all of its misery, than to shun it.
The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.
Five Throwgasms
Lions at Chiefs: For the season, Harrison Butker is just 10-for-13 on field goal attempts, placing him 25th among all current kickers leaguewide. He’s also missed two extra point attempts, and he biffed a kickoff late against Jacksonville last week, which helped the Jags score the game-winning touchdown. This has been your ButkerWatch for Week 6. I will update this man’s failures as needed.
Seahawks at Jaguars
Four Throwgasms
49ers at Bucs: At the dinner table the other night, my wife told me that I’m no longer allowed to call things “tight” if they’re good. “It doesn’t suit you,” she told me. I argued that, as a child of the '90s, I was TOTALLY within my rights to use it. She stood firm. So I can’t say “these noodles are tight” at home anymore. That’s bad news for the rest of you, because I still say it online. Watching Baker Mayfield do his thing? I have to say: It’s kinda tight.
Three Throwgasms
Bills at Falcons: I have no idea if the Falcons are actually good or not, and neither do they. This game should answer that definitively.
Two Throwgasms
Browns at Steelers: Quinshon Judkins will have a 200-yard game before this season is over. It’ll come in a 30-point loss, but it’ll still be tight.
Rams at Ravens: Allow me to set the scene for you: It’s Sunday in Baltimore and the Ravens are down 34-10. Texans rookie WR Jaylin Noel scores to make it 40-10, and then celebrates by doing the Ray Lewis dance to mock the crowd. Corner Jaire Alexander, who just got here, takes offense and starts a chippyfest over Noel’s act of flagrant disrespect. Then Ravens fans are like, “Bro if Ray were still playing he’d lay you out for that bro.” So I’d just like to use this incident to ask all other NFL teams: please do the Ray-Ray dance anytime you beat the shit out of the Ravens in their own house. Do it after every TD. Do it after you pick up a first down, even. These fucking babies can’t handle it when you dare to poke fun at dancing murderer, so keep on trolling them for it. Jaylin Noel, you are a pioneer and I admire you for your moxie.
Cowboys at Panthers
Bears at Commanders
Chargers at Dolphins
Eagles at Giants
Patriots at Saints
Cardinals at Colts
One Throwgasm
Titans at Raiders: I never paid much attention to Titans kicker Joey Slye before last week, because why would I pay attention to anyone on the Titans? But Slye ended up booting the winning field goal in that Week 5 fuckfest against Arizona and that’s when I realized that this man might be the coolest-looking kicker in history. Looks like he just got off of his Harley to front a Mastodon concert. His politics are probably horrible, but I’m just glad we have at least one kicker who doesn’t look like either a dork or a gay conversion therapist.
Broncos at Jets (London)
Bengals at Packers
Pregame Song That Makes Me Wanna Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall
“Cuntcrusher,” by Infant Annihilator! Yes that’s the name of the song. Yes, that’s the name of the band. But don’t shoot the messenger (reader Timothy)!
I know it will never get into the column, but just listen to Infant Annihilator playing C**tcrusher. Impossible. Brick walls implode.
It really does have some insane riffs. Why, this is a song that will crush ALL genitalia, male and female! And that I must respect.
Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we’ll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year’s end or sooner. And now, your current 2025 chopping block:
Jonathan Gannon***********
Brian Callahan*
Zac Taylor*
Mike McDaniel*
Brian Daboll
Aaron Glenn
John Harbaugh
Kevin Stefanski
Pete Carroll
(* - potential midseason firing)
There was a point last season where I thought to myself, “Well, Jonathan Gannon was a lousy defensive coordinator, but he seems to have the whole head coaching thing down.” Again, I curse my naiveté. He’s still Jonathan Gannon, and those are still the Arizona Cardinals. So of course they blew an easy win against a Titans team that was on the verge of suicide. Of course one of their running backs pulled a DeSean at the goal line, and of course Gannon got docked $100k after going all Bob Knight on Emari Demercado for it. This is what Arizona does to people. It’s nothing new.
Jim Harbaugh’s Lifehack of the Week!
“It’s true, I do own a sword. And every morning, before I get dressed, I stand naked in front of my bedroom mirror with my hands atop that sword. The blade is so wide that there’s a groove running down the center of it. So, when I’m holding the morning sword, I can feel my sex fit neatly into that wide groove. The metal is cold, but GOODNESS ME, does it ever wake me up! Better than a strong cup of coffee! Then, with a gaze that could set other men on fire, I stare into the mirror and I say, ‘By the power of this sword, the day will be MINE.’ And then I go to work.”
Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Jay sends in this story I call BOWELWEEN:
My father’s health had been declining for some time, and he asked me to help him pick out his burial location. I was happy to help, of course, so he, his wife and I all ventured out to the cemetery together. Since my father could barely walk, and his wife was not exactly spry either, the kindly cemetery representative had all of us climb into a golf cart to tour the grounds.
Everything was going fine, I hadn’t felt any intestinal distress at all. I have always had a strong digestive system, so what followed was a real shock to me. We arrived at a nice location, under a mature oak tree, and my dad and his wife stepped out to get a little closer look. My stepmom is a chatty one, and so she had struck up one of those conversations that never seem to end. As we were standing there, I suddenly felt a stabbing pain rip through me, and I felt my rectum fill with offal. I clenched hard, hoping it would pass, but luck had abandoned me that day. I immediately began to sweat: my forehead beaded up, my shirt clinging to my back as a deluge of perspiration ran from my neck to my waist.
I had a decision to make. With the bathroom back at the office, I could try to make it there by walking, or I could try to wait for us to drive back. But with my dumb stepmom jabbering away, there was no telling when we would wrap it up. I made the call. I would walk.
I excused myself and turned to go. There, between me and salvation was 300 yards of grass…and graves. Now I’m not a religious or superstitious guy, but I can’t think of any situation where defecating on some one’s grave would be considered acceptable. So I clenched my sphincter as tight as I could and started walking. I had to take short strides, because a normal step would compromise my rectal integrity. There I was waddling across grave after grave, willing myself to keep it in, muttering under my breath “Do NOT shit on these graves!”
I was feeling optimistic at the half-way point, when my muscles began to falter. I felt some liquidized feces escape and creep down my leg. I had chosen the wrong day to wear boxers. I could feel it dripping down my inner thigh, aided by the slick sheen of profuse sweat that was dripping all over my body. Thankfully I was able to prevent any additional leakage before I arrived at the restroom. It was a unisex restroom, the only one in the building, and I quickly locked the door and rushed to the toilet. As I gingerly dropped trou (to avoid spreading my accident), I lost control and blasted the bowl and the waistband of my jeans.
As I was unloading, I quickly stripped off my soiled underwear and used the clean side to try to wipe up the mess on my pants, both inside and out. Once my bowels were evacuated, I bundled my skivvies in paper towels and shoved them deep into the trash can, knowing full well they emitted a malodorous stench. I used more paper towels to try to clean my jeans more, pulled them back on and hustled out of there, hoping no one saw me go in. I got back to my dad, and stepmom was still prattling away, the three of them completely oblivious to my gut-wrenching trial.
I have never told anyone this story. Do with it what you will.
I will publish it.
Brick Johnson’s Executive Proposal Of The Week
“Dad, my buddy Eric G has the sickest knife collection. He even got a couple of real-deal katana swords from old Japan. So what you and I have to do, right, is we borrow G’s knives and bring them to my office. Then we bring Coach Glenn into my office and show him the collection. Then I show off a few moves and he understands the deal right away. 0-5 ain’t acceptable around here, or else you’ll taste the blade. Coach’ll get that message loud and clear.”
Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week
Duff Beer! You had to know someone would make a real Duff beer. Would you believe that someone was the Czechs? Would you believe, despite the Czechs’ storied history of making great beer, that they fucked it up? Reader Adam provides some unwelcome answers:
A few years ago the family was in Prague, home of some of the finest beers in the world. After dinner (with amazing beers), on the way back to the rental apartment, we stopped at a convenience store. I checked out the beer section for a night cap and, as a Simpsons fan, couldn’t resist the can of Duff. I quickly learned that the Czechs can in fact make a terrible, metallic tasting skunky beer. I finished it since it was the only beer I had, and still regret not bringing the can back to the states.
Yeah the can was always the draw. They could’ve put formaldehyde in there (and likely did) and tourists would still buy it. I’m just glad you found it in Prague and not at, like, Epcot Center.
Gameday Movie Of The Week For Jets Fans
Nobody, which uses the Taken formula of casting an acclaimed actor (Bob Odenkirk, in this case) for a hyperviolent action B-movie. I came at this one all wrong, because I assumed that Odenkirk’s character really would be a nobody: just a regular joe who ends up having to do bad-ass shit. But no, turns out Odenkirk’s character has always been a highly trained assassin. I don’t know why I was let down by that; probably because I’ve seen 500 other movies with pretty much the exact same plot. The bus fight is cool though, and I was happy to see Christopher Lloyd in a movie again. I remember basically nothing else about this film. Two and a half stars.
Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
“The torch has been pahssed to a new generation of, uh... snowplow people.”
Enjoy the games, everyone.
