I have on more than one occasion heard some disgruntled grumbling about this being called the ‘African World Cup’. The moan is that the South African taxpayer footed the bill for all this Fifa madness and if the entire continent wants to take credit then they should cough up some of the moolah.
Is it because we were all a bit sketchy about Bafana’s chances of getting anywhere? Before the magnificent victory of the ‘Boys Boys’ over the grumpy French our president, Jacob Zuma, released a statement along the lines of “We should be proud, anyway”, implying that they didn’t have a hope of getting through to the Death Round play-offs to the quarter-finals. If this is the case then an African World Cup might mean less shame.
I, for one, believed they could do it and, by gosh, they almost did. If it wasn’t for the red card for our goalie and accompanying penalty for the offside Uruguay striker along with the obviously disheartening mass exodus of Bafana ‘supporters’ in that second group match, I think that second and third goal might not have gone through and our guys could have done it. Who knows?
Or is it because the rest of the world, along with thinking we have lions as pets and ride elephants to work, like to lump all the natives together? The continent has 61 territories and over 2000 languages are spoken – a melting pot if ever there was one. Most of us don’t even realise how unique and diverse our everyday experience is.
The fact is that South Africa isn’t only a home to South Africans. We have many legal and illegal residents from all over the continent not only stealing our women and jobs but also contributing greatly to our economy. We have come a long way since 1994 but it is still in many respects a divided nation. We all pretty much vote along colour lines, there is a depressing gap between the haves and the have-nots, and the tragic xenophobic violence of 2008 revealed that the animosity is not just a black/white thing. We need events like this to bring us together no matter how short-lived and fickle that unity may be.
Surely we can agree that this moment is one to be shared and not clutched selfishly to our South African chests. Let’s stop the whinging, magnanimously call this the African World Cup, and kick-off the process of uniting not only South Africa, but the entire African continent as well!
You've Got That World Cup Feeling 2
Saturday – Long Street – England/Yankee half-time! My meek vuvuzela skills are met by a respectable lady’s lamenting, “Oh no, you’re not going to blow that thing are you?” Less a question than an instruction by someone used to ordering around us lesser social classes.
I smiled, “You’re not a World Cup Grinch, are you?” Her friends found it amusing; her, not so much.
It seems the humble vuvu is making almost as many headlines as the beautiful game itself. No matter what the Hate All Vuvuzela Enthusiasts (HAVE’s) might say, those of us on the other side (let’s call us the HAVE-not’s) have found it to be an international unification tool. Passing it around like a peace pipe, laughing as my British girlfriend taught a true African how to blow it properly, gleefully unconcerned about the scary germs we were exposing ourselves to, we befriended and bonded with folks from New York, London and even as far as the Northern Suburbs! Our posse included Italians and Brazilians and as the drinks flowed the talk went from football to politics to whose national anthem would best suit a House beat. We all sang and vuvu’d down the street and left feeling the world was a smaller place and we could learn and teach so much over this month. When people and cultures are thrown together in a football calabash or restaurant or nightclub the only thing to do is take the opportunity to broaden your social horizon.
So please, all the pessimists, you can’t beat us, so you might as well join us. Then you will know the true meaning of Ayoba!
I smiled, “You’re not a World Cup Grinch, are you?” Her friends found it amusing; her, not so much.
It seems the humble vuvu is making almost as many headlines as the beautiful game itself. No matter what the Hate All Vuvuzela Enthusiasts (HAVE’s) might say, those of us on the other side (let’s call us the HAVE-not’s) have found it to be an international unification tool. Passing it around like a peace pipe, laughing as my British girlfriend taught a true African how to blow it properly, gleefully unconcerned about the scary germs we were exposing ourselves to, we befriended and bonded with folks from New York, London and even as far as the Northern Suburbs! Our posse included Italians and Brazilians and as the drinks flowed the talk went from football to politics to whose national anthem would best suit a House beat. We all sang and vuvu’d down the street and left feeling the world was a smaller place and we could learn and teach so much over this month. When people and cultures are thrown together in a football calabash or restaurant or nightclub the only thing to do is take the opportunity to broaden your social horizon.
So please, all the pessimists, you can’t beat us, so you might as well join us. Then you will know the true meaning of Ayoba!
You've Got That World Cup Feeling
With so much to prove to local and international fans, Bafana Bafana scored the first goal of the 2010 Fifa World Cup. I’m not even a soccer fan, but when Siphiwe Tshabalala booted that new ball through the net I leapt to my feet screaming, “Laduuuuumaaaaa!!!” Then the air erupted in a vuvuzela volcano spewing not ash, but unmitigated joy that seeped through every pore, charging and swelling an entire nation with pride. All the dissenters were washed away in the tidal wave and sent cowering back into their caves of negativity.
After a return goal by Mexico, if you were strong enough, you might have been able to strain the tension through a sieve. A nation was hovering over their seats. So this is what a united nation felt like.
The question is will this feeling of brotherhood and unity last after the last game is played, the Cup won, and the world left our shores? Will we still feel the urge to hug a stranger in the streets? Or after the dust has settled will we go back to complaining about characteristics that are nothing more than cultural traits and not personal attacks on our way of life?
We need to take this time when it’s easy to make friends outside of our usual cliques to not only have a beer and a laugh but to learn more about those we consider the Other. We naturally fear the unknown, but if we now have such opportunity to socialise with people we know little about and spend time in areas we would on any other day never consider frequenting, then we can transform the Other into the Another – another South African; him just like me, me just like him.
The Super 14 final in Soweto opened many eyes and hearts to the idea that we’re not so different after all. The World Cup can only enhance this. Let’s hold on to these ideas after it’s all over.
After a return goal by Mexico, if you were strong enough, you might have been able to strain the tension through a sieve. A nation was hovering over their seats. So this is what a united nation felt like.
The question is will this feeling of brotherhood and unity last after the last game is played, the Cup won, and the world left our shores? Will we still feel the urge to hug a stranger in the streets? Or after the dust has settled will we go back to complaining about characteristics that are nothing more than cultural traits and not personal attacks on our way of life?
We need to take this time when it’s easy to make friends outside of our usual cliques to not only have a beer and a laugh but to learn more about those we consider the Other. We naturally fear the unknown, but if we now have such opportunity to socialise with people we know little about and spend time in areas we would on any other day never consider frequenting, then we can transform the Other into the Another – another South African; him just like me, me just like him.
The Super 14 final in Soweto opened many eyes and hearts to the idea that we’re not so different after all. The World Cup can only enhance this. Let’s hold on to these ideas after it’s all over.
My Vuvuzela Blues
The vuvuzela has been a contentious issue for boring and negative whites since they heard the disastrous news the Soccerball World Cup was coming to town. The best attempt was, “Africans have such beautiful singing voices, why do they need a tuneless trumpet?” Nice try, love.
Now I’m as excited about Blatter’s Bonanza as the next bloke, but is it necessary for me to show my exuberance by parping a vuvuzela at six in the morning until my throat bleeds? At least wait'll the first game's been played. I’m not sure if it was just the one guy or they were working in shifts, but for two hours that distinctive, unmistakeable sound of a cow giving birth to a World Cup stadium assaulted my ears.
So much for national unity, I wanted to kill the guy.
The anti-vuvuzela minority front will tell you they’re noisy and tuneless and should be banned at football matches. As South Africa’s new weapon of mass destruction they want you to believe that the humble vuvu will so distract players they’ll be unable to kick in a straight line and might possibly fall to the ground and foam at the mouth. Our country will be embarrassed and the world will go home shaking their heads and lamenting the terrible time they had at Africa’s first staging of the beautiful game.
In all honesty, I quite like the vuvuzela. It’s fun, spirited, and just about anyone who can blow bubblegum can play one. It’s as South African as Madiba or moaning about Malema and will soon be the next big thing at sports events globally. This is something to be proud of, no matter how many early mornings and headaches it costs.
Once we all realise that this is going to be the most unique, most exciting, most colourful World Cup in history and accept that the oddly-pitched parping sound is the aural equivalent of our national pride and unquenchable enthusiasm it’ll sound more like birds singing sweetly than a sad ogre blowing its nose... even at six in the morning.
Now I’m as excited about Blatter’s Bonanza as the next bloke, but is it necessary for me to show my exuberance by parping a vuvuzela at six in the morning until my throat bleeds? At least wait'll the first game's been played. I’m not sure if it was just the one guy or they were working in shifts, but for two hours that distinctive, unmistakeable sound of a cow giving birth to a World Cup stadium assaulted my ears.
So much for national unity, I wanted to kill the guy.
The anti-vuvuzela minority front will tell you they’re noisy and tuneless and should be banned at football matches. As South Africa’s new weapon of mass destruction they want you to believe that the humble vuvu will so distract players they’ll be unable to kick in a straight line and might possibly fall to the ground and foam at the mouth. Our country will be embarrassed and the world will go home shaking their heads and lamenting the terrible time they had at Africa’s first staging of the beautiful game.
In all honesty, I quite like the vuvuzela. It’s fun, spirited, and just about anyone who can blow bubblegum can play one. It’s as South African as Madiba or moaning about Malema and will soon be the next big thing at sports events globally. This is something to be proud of, no matter how many early mornings and headaches it costs.
Once we all realise that this is going to be the most unique, most exciting, most colourful World Cup in history and accept that the oddly-pitched parping sound is the aural equivalent of our national pride and unquenchable enthusiasm it’ll sound more like birds singing sweetly than a sad ogre blowing its nose... even at six in the morning.
The Simba Lekker Flavour Competition
In an obvious effort to re-crisp soggy sales, instead of enhancing quality Simba Chips unzipped its Lekker Flavour Competition encouraging South Africans to send in suggestions for new chip flavours and for some reason an accompanying picture (?) of your inspiration. My own entry, Bacon & Egg flavour and diagrammatic instructions on how to roll a joint, was clearly discarded with contempt for such simple brilliance. So now, inspired by the bitterness of rejection, I submit my opinions on all four “lekker flavours”.
BRENDAN JOHNSTON’S SNOEK & ATCHAR
Remember Creoles? Sure, they stank like a dirty fisherman, but the MSG flavour with a slight hint of seafoodiness was amazing… then they were gone. So I envisioned being whisked back to those heady days of “fish Niknaks”. Not so.
If Dr Moreau genetically spliced a Sea Harvest lorry driver with one of those Indians on Durban beach selling fake Ray-Ban’s and got him to run the Two Oceans Marathon this is what the sweat on the soles of his feet would taste like. A better name would be Week-Old Fishpaste & Donkey Dick.
AYANDA THABEDE’S VETKOEK & POLONY
If you’ve ever been in a holding cell in a Cape Town police station you’ll know that for breakfast they serve hard-boiled eggs on bread and a plastic cup of tepid tea. For lunch they serve sandwiches made from the leftover breakfast bread filled with a thick slice of pink Shoprite polony and a plastic cup of tepid tea.
The good news is now they can serve these chips to the inmates and soon have them begging for the old mouldy bread and processed pig-butt. Some scientists work on a cure for cancer, some find it more important to focus on coming up with the chemical equivalent of polony-flavour – who am I to judge?
ALETTA CROFTON’S WALKIE TALKIE CHICKEN
The fact that a white woman who wasn’t Evita Bezuidenhout sent this in shows how far some people will go to try and convince us they’re socially and culturally integrated. And the fact that most rich housewives who wouldn’t have chicken feet and beaks touch their kitchen counter in Constantia will giggle with their book club mates and think that eating this vile product will bring them closer to their domestic worker proves what phonies we all are.
Shame on us whites without the courage to, in the spirit of nation building, eat a chicken’s feet and beak and be proud.
MONRAY SACKANARY’S MASALA STEAK GATSBY
I once ate a real Gatsby at the Grand Parade and suffered from stomach cramps and projectile pukage for the rest of the school holidays – thanks for the memories, Monray, maybe Bobotie & Barf Bucket would be better.
In all honesty, this is by far the most edible and hopefully digestible of the lot (I’ll tell you in a few hours) so I guess it gets my vote. A winner by default.
BRENDAN JOHNSTON’S SNOEK & ATCHAR
Remember Creoles? Sure, they stank like a dirty fisherman, but the MSG flavour with a slight hint of seafoodiness was amazing… then they were gone. So I envisioned being whisked back to those heady days of “fish Niknaks”. Not so.
If Dr Moreau genetically spliced a Sea Harvest lorry driver with one of those Indians on Durban beach selling fake Ray-Ban’s and got him to run the Two Oceans Marathon this is what the sweat on the soles of his feet would taste like. A better name would be Week-Old Fishpaste & Donkey Dick.
AYANDA THABEDE’S VETKOEK & POLONY
If you’ve ever been in a holding cell in a Cape Town police station you’ll know that for breakfast they serve hard-boiled eggs on bread and a plastic cup of tepid tea. For lunch they serve sandwiches made from the leftover breakfast bread filled with a thick slice of pink Shoprite polony and a plastic cup of tepid tea.
The good news is now they can serve these chips to the inmates and soon have them begging for the old mouldy bread and processed pig-butt. Some scientists work on a cure for cancer, some find it more important to focus on coming up with the chemical equivalent of polony-flavour – who am I to judge?
ALETTA CROFTON’S WALKIE TALKIE CHICKEN
The fact that a white woman who wasn’t Evita Bezuidenhout sent this in shows how far some people will go to try and convince us they’re socially and culturally integrated. And the fact that most rich housewives who wouldn’t have chicken feet and beaks touch their kitchen counter in Constantia will giggle with their book club mates and think that eating this vile product will bring them closer to their domestic worker proves what phonies we all are.
Shame on us whites without the courage to, in the spirit of nation building, eat a chicken’s feet and beak and be proud.
MONRAY SACKANARY’S MASALA STEAK GATSBY
I once ate a real Gatsby at the Grand Parade and suffered from stomach cramps and projectile pukage for the rest of the school holidays – thanks for the memories, Monray, maybe Bobotie & Barf Bucket would be better.
In all honesty, this is by far the most edible and hopefully digestible of the lot (I’ll tell you in a few hours) so I guess it gets my vote. A winner by default.
Love Music, Hate Band Photos
These days the music is not enough. Those plying their trade, struggling to make a living, need more than their sound to make an impression on the paying public. Image seems to have overtaken imagination, but this is a necessary evil if one wants to make it in the industry.
So it’s understandable that musicians spend a good deal of time styling their hair, tearing their jeans, standing in front of a mirror asking themselves, “Do I look Emo enough?” or metal enough, African enough, or just generally cool enough.
And justifiably so; no one wants their favourite band looking like the guys from BZN, but more and more I see a textbook “band photo” on posters, album covers and in magazines and it’s making me not want to listen to music anymore.
Take the recent poster for the Toploader concert in Cape Town. Five guys trying really hard not to look like they’re named after a popular design of washing machine. The gruffest faces in the world couldn’t take that away and their music certainly isn’t doing the job. Put them there with an ironing board and some laundry; at least then we’ll think they’re in on the joke and quirky.
Really there are only four “band photo looks” in some kind of combination.
First, there’s the serious, I-just-found-out-I’ve-got-testicular-cancer face. He so badly wants to be the leader so maybe his mum will be proud of him. He honestly thinks what he’s doing is art and that music will one-day save the panda.
Then there’s Guy-laughing-at-some-unknown-hilarity, obviously going for the carefree and zany image but in reality the most insecure and attention-seeking of the lot. I always wonder if he’s really laughing or just posing with his head thrown back and mouth open.
Third on the list is the freshly-lobotomised look. This guy laces his coffee with Botox and has either been asked the square root of 587 or just come back from an electro-shock session.
And last nor least, the obligatory Guy-not-looking-at-the-camera. Pretending he’s too cool to even give a shit they’ve got a record out, he misguidedly believes girls would throw their panties at him anyway.
So what should I do? Only download? Randomly rock up at gigs? Stop listening to bands whose pictures irritate me? Help!
So it’s understandable that musicians spend a good deal of time styling their hair, tearing their jeans, standing in front of a mirror asking themselves, “Do I look Emo enough?” or metal enough, African enough, or just generally cool enough.
And justifiably so; no one wants their favourite band looking like the guys from BZN, but more and more I see a textbook “band photo” on posters, album covers and in magazines and it’s making me not want to listen to music anymore.
Take the recent poster for the Toploader concert in Cape Town. Five guys trying really hard not to look like they’re named after a popular design of washing machine. The gruffest faces in the world couldn’t take that away and their music certainly isn’t doing the job. Put them there with an ironing board and some laundry; at least then we’ll think they’re in on the joke and quirky.
Really there are only four “band photo looks” in some kind of combination.
First, there’s the serious, I-just-found-out-I’ve-got-testicular-cancer face. He so badly wants to be the leader so maybe his mum will be proud of him. He honestly thinks what he’s doing is art and that music will one-day save the panda.
Then there’s Guy-laughing-at-some-unknown-hilarity, obviously going for the carefree and zany image but in reality the most insecure and attention-seeking of the lot. I always wonder if he’s really laughing or just posing with his head thrown back and mouth open.
Third on the list is the freshly-lobotomised look. This guy laces his coffee with Botox and has either been asked the square root of 587 or just come back from an electro-shock session.
And last nor least, the obligatory Guy-not-looking-at-the-camera. Pretending he’s too cool to even give a shit they’ve got a record out, he misguidedly believes girls would throw their panties at him anyway.
So what should I do? Only download? Randomly rock up at gigs? Stop listening to bands whose pictures irritate me? Help!
Positive Reporting or Propaganda?
A march organised by more than 30 national and international organisations focusing on a campaign to bring education to 72 million African children has been banned by the Gauteng police. Opportunistically planned for June 10, a day before the World Cup opener, it is obviously meant to be staged while the world’s eyes are fixated on our country. Andre van Loggerenburg, Gauteng Metro deputy director, in Orwellian “double-think” fashion says, “The march is not banned, it’s just not approved.”
I'm unsure which definition negates tear gas and rubber bullets.
From the authorities’ perspective, marches so often turn sour, no matter how peaceful the organisers’ intentions are. Whether this is due to the heightened disgruntledness of the legitimate protesters or criminal elements tagging along for some looting and destruction is a moot point, and they certainly and quite rightly don’t want a messy embarrassment. The president has appealed to baddies to "be good", while the ANCYL seems hellbent on making Cape Town ungovernable with no response from the ruling party. We can only surmise that the ANC wants "their" cities alone to run efficiently?
The banning or “non-approval” of marches over the WC period has been justified by the Gauteng SAPS because “all our manpower and resources are concentrated on the World Cup.” If all the women and men tasked to protect us citizens are spread thin, overseeing the delegates and players and visitors, who is left to look after us?
Government has given many journalists flack about negative reporting over this time, but when do our newspapers cross the thin, blurry line between positive reporting and propaganda?
No one wants the millions of visitors to go home thinking SA is on the brink of civil war or political meltdown, but how much of the governments pleas and restrictions are for the greater good and how much is a cover-up? Shouldn’t South Africans go about business as usual and let the chips fall where they may?
If we were honestly proud and positive we would show the world our true face.
I'm unsure which definition negates tear gas and rubber bullets.
From the authorities’ perspective, marches so often turn sour, no matter how peaceful the organisers’ intentions are. Whether this is due to the heightened disgruntledness of the legitimate protesters or criminal elements tagging along for some looting and destruction is a moot point, and they certainly and quite rightly don’t want a messy embarrassment. The president has appealed to baddies to "be good", while the ANCYL seems hellbent on making Cape Town ungovernable with no response from the ruling party. We can only surmise that the ANC wants "their" cities alone to run efficiently?
The banning or “non-approval” of marches over the WC period has been justified by the Gauteng SAPS because “all our manpower and resources are concentrated on the World Cup.” If all the women and men tasked to protect us citizens are spread thin, overseeing the delegates and players and visitors, who is left to look after us?
Government has given many journalists flack about negative reporting over this time, but when do our newspapers cross the thin, blurry line between positive reporting and propaganda?
No one wants the millions of visitors to go home thinking SA is on the brink of civil war or political meltdown, but how much of the governments pleas and restrictions are for the greater good and how much is a cover-up? Shouldn’t South Africans go about business as usual and let the chips fall where they may?
If we were honestly proud and positive we would show the world our true face.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)