The hugging game

25 September 2011 - 05:10 By Ndumiso Ngcobo
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I have a confession to make. I'm not much of a rugby fan. When people ask me where I was on that June afternoon in 1995, I always look away sheepishly and mumble something inaudible, like Pitso, the Bafana coach.

That's because I spent that afternoon in some dingy pub in Camperdown downing cold ones in the company of the only other soul there; the chatty bartender with an impressive passion gap. And I specifically chose that pub because I knew it had no television set.

My regular watering hole on the Durban beachfront had been overridden by swarms of loud Pommies and other yellow-toothed riffraff complaining about the cold beer for weeks on end. That's just my long-winded way of letting you know just what little interest I have in rugby. Heck - I don't even understand the rules. To me it's all just a bunch of fat fellows running around trying to decapitate and strangle each other to death with vicious choke holds.

Now and then they seem to sign a peace treaty, hug for protracted periods of time and fondle each others' peckers. And millions of podgy guys in jerseys two sizes too small in living rooms across the world suffer orgasmic spasms at the sight.

It's worth mentioning that I've become somewhat accustomed to this sexual game since 1995. And this is how it came to pass that I sat down to watch the mighty Springboks' first game in defence of their World Cup crown against Wales at 10am two Sundays ago.

Everyone who's been subjected to any event they don't fully comprehend knows what one does to while away the time. Yes, you pass notes. Seeing as I didn't have a notepad and I didn't have anyone to pass notes to, I made my notes on Twitter. At this point I'm going to sommer list some of my notes in no particular order. Where necessary, I will offer some explanations.

"Kobus Wiese's barber. And that's all I have to say about that." Wiese appeared on my screen, immediately conjuring up images of Bart Simpson, if Bart lived on a boerewors diet.

"Ard, are you listening?" I tweeted this while the national anthem was being sung.

"If Matfield stepped on my shoe, I'd apologise for my clumsiness and wipe the bottom of his size 16 shoe." This is not hyperbole. Victor Matfield is 2.03m tall. That's a door frame plus an average man's wiener after a dip in the pool on a cold winter day. I've met him in real life and vowed to always stay on his good side.

"Watching the Boks with a can of Cream Soda is simply against the gees. Sorry, Hon Motsoaledi." I typed this after grabbing an amber-coloured liquid from the fridge. Rugby offers one of those rare opportunities to pour oneself a cold one at 10am without being judged harshly by one's missus. And seeing as Minister Motsoaledi envisions a future in which the Bible will be re-written to reflect the fact that Jesus didn't turn water into wine, but grape juice, I felt the need to apologise.

"I didn't know that Allan, the 'fat Jesus' from The Hangover played rugby for Wales." Here I was referring to the Welsh number 3 who bears a striking resemblance to Zach Galifianakis, who plays Allan in the movie.

Other people responded to my tweet by pointing out that he actually looked more like Hagrid from the Harry Potter series. But I prefer to think of him as Allan, because I can picture Allan's reaction after a bone-crushing tackle; "That Butch guy is so mean!"

"Dear fan taking pics from row 57 at the stadium - the flash. Take me through your reasoning." Oh ja. That. You see this in stadiums the world over. And the Springbok-Wales game was no different. Thousands of flashes were going off at the same time.

The pitch is flooded with light of such intensity it's probably visible from other galaxies, and yet people are "helping" the clarity of their pictures along with their flash. This is not too dissimilar to helping Hurricane Irene by blowing hard.

"Should Butch slip on a bar of soap and crack his skull, we will blame an Aussie." This was my response to someone's dad who was disgruntled with the refereeing; he couldn't help but observe that the ref must be an Aussie.

I love that about watching rugby. You can be as rabidly patriotic and as inappropriately jingoistic as you desire, without judgment. And I just love the basic tenet of patriotism; that your country is the best because that's where you popped out of your mother's womb.

By the end of the game I didn't have too much to say. Tweeting under the influence is dangerous. All I could observe, watching those hits, is that my steadfast resolve to always restrict my involvement with rugby to spectator level is unwavering.

Besides, I would make a crap Springbok, because if someone pulled my shorts all the way to my knees, like I witnessed on Sunday, I'd drop that ball to pull them back up.

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