A little something to help tired bafana score

The search for a pep pill paves the way to national glory

HAVING delegated the back-to-school headaches to our wives, and having agreed how boring it is to argue with our wives about budgets and related stuff, we recently sat down and discussed the grave matter of how to detox our bodies to reverse the effects of the debauchery sustained over the festive season.

It's an annual ritual, this debate about the best detox medicine. One of our friends - we call him Dr Ears - says the best detox medicine is pure water. Naturally, we agreed a long time ago that he is non compos mentis. How can something as boringly tasteless as water cure anything?

Another friend in our group - we call him 109 because that's a social club he frequents - believes a cure for the festive season babelas is a beer party. Now, there's a guy with his heart (and liver) in the right place. Except that kind of cure is not sustainable because you are bound to be perpetually babelased, like Ben Trovato.

We are responsible husbands and fathers, so we jettisoned the idea of an endless beer party. As we debated the matter further, someone suggested Tabasco sauce, someone suggested aloe juice, someone suggested peri-peri chicken.

We nodded gravely, but the verbose buddy we call The Shemen said: "Yes, all these things will take care of the hangover, but we need something that will clean the bowels and reinvigorate the body. Something forward-looking, something sustainable, chaps."

It was then that The Banker jumped up and shouted: "Stametta!"

Our brows furrowed in confusion, we waited for him to decode that piece of gibberish. Stametta? What language is that? Realising that we were confused, he patiently explained to us that Stametta was some kind of muti that not only cleans the bowel system, but is also an elixir of youth, a tonic that will shake to the foundations your past record in bedroom performance.

At the mention of "bedroom performance", the lads leaned forward with sudden interest, almost spilling their beverages.

I'm not saying I didn't lean forward. I will not say I almost had an accident rushing to the pharmacy to lay my hands on a bottle of this elixir of youthful vigour, but I did take the trip with necessary haste. When you reach my age, you don't frown upon tonics that might help your longevity - in all senses of the word.

And so, with the bottle of the elixir of youth in a plastic bag, I drove home. The problem with these tonics is that you don't want the wife to see them. When the moment comes to perform and you outdo your past record, the wife must not know your secret. Remember that Biblical fellow, Samson? He confessed the source of his virility to a woman. And look what happened to him.

I got home and sat in my car. Having ascertained that Mrs K was not home yet, I opened my package and read the back of the bottle about the dosage and benefits of the tonic.

This magic potion, the writing told me gushingly, not only detoxes your body and adds a spark to your bedroom gymnastics, it also takes care of headaches, ulcers, memory loss, infertility and many other ailments. And the writing on the bottle is in all the major languages spoken in this country. Ah, what a democratic friend we have in Stametta!

As I started composing an SMS to thank The Banker for suggesting the elixir of youth, Mrs K suddenly appeared out of nowhere. I immediately hid the bottle under the seat of my car, got out of the car and kissed her hello. We went into the house.

When you are my age, you forget easily. In some people's cases this forgetfulness is so bad that when one of our friends - we call him Media City - was found in a strange lady's bed by the lady's husband and the man of the house wanted to know what he was doing, he said: "What? I must have lost my way home!"

With friends like that, you will understand how forgetful I can also be.

But desperate times force you to remember things. So, this week I remembered my Stametta because I was desperate. No, my desperation did not stem from the bedroom situation. It was Bafana Bafana.

With them making this nation a laughing stock at the opening of the Africa Cup of Nations, I sat in my bathroom for a long time, cursing. Then, eureka! I jumped from the bathroom, ran for my phone and started dialing a number.

Gordon Igesund listened as I said: "Bra Gordon, it is Stametta!"

He said: "What? Who is this?"

I told him he might have forgotten me, but we met years ago when he played for African Wanderers in Durban and I was still a soccer reporter, but that's not why I'd called. I had called to give him an answer to Bafana Bafana's problems.

"Stametta," said I excitedly. I proceeded to explain the efficacy of Stametta and why he should buy a truckload of stuff and give it to the boys.

"You are crazy!" he said, and slammed down the phone. No, he didn't slam it down. You don't do that with a cellphone. But you get my drift.

Judging by Bafana's potent performance against Angola on Wednesday, I think Gordon did listen, although he won't admit it because he thinks I want a share of his bonus. Thanks for nothing, Gordon!

I hope the efficacy of Stametta will be in evidence when the boys meet Morocco this afternoon.

In case there are delivery problems, I've asked the authorities to get a squad of those friendly chaps called amaBerete, officially known as the tactical response team, to hang around the stadium with their rifles at the ready to remind Bafana Bafana of their national obligations.

Wanna go home alive? Score a bloody goal first.