Rugby vuvuzelas
JUDGING from the Test in East London on Saturday, the vuvuzela has invaded rugby as well. Much the same was true of the Super 14 final and the Test against France, but this could be explained by the novelty of the setting – Soweto. But Buffalo Park in East London is a traditional rugby setting and the vuvuzelas there could have been at Moses Mabhida. The din was enormous and sustained. Rugby fans have clearly latched onto the vuvuzela as well.
Is this something to be deplored? The vuvuzela is no more gormless than the bursts of rock music the rugby people put over the PA system these days when there is a hold-up in play.
And it's probably unstoppable. Just take along an umbrella against the rainstorm of spittle the stands will produce.
Collective noun
LAST week we discussed the collective noun for vuvuzelas, settling on the word "swarm" because the buzzing, droning hum of a stadium full of them is very like a swarm of bees.
Michael Green, retired editor of our sister newspaper, the Daily News, now suggests a "plague" of vuvuzelas, citing Shakespeare:
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.
King Lear
Posting horn
YET I MUST confess I was once an enthusiastic blower of the vuvuzela. Well, not quite the vuvuzela; I blew the posting horn, which is much the same shape as the vuvuzela except much longer and bigger and made of copper. It also produces a few notes (which the vuvuzela does not) and is occasionally used in an orchestral arrangement. It was blown from stagecoaches in the 18th century as they approached a village.
Many years ago, I lived in a flat in London. Across the landing were a couple whose names were magnificently inscribed in gilt lettering in the hallway: "Major-General Sir Dashwood and Lady Strettle."
The flat I shared had, hanging on the living room wall, three magnificent posting horns, there for decorative purposes. Late one fine summer evening, two Aussies and myself decided it was time these posting horns should give tongue.
We took up position at the windows and played into the square, all kinds of stirring stuff. It was well past midnight.
Then there was a long and stern ring at our front doorbell. Sir Dashwood was in his dressing gown: "If you don't stop blowing those confounded trumpets, I'll call the police!"
This prejudice against vuvuzelas has been around for a while.
Rapper serenade
Great booty, better thighs,
I ain't wanna tell her bye
First I tell her hi,
Then I give her one and let her fly
Never tell a lie,
Tonight you couldn't find a better guy …
THE POLICE in Manchester, England, are plagued by a man – they say he sounds like a Jamaican – who has been phoning the 999 emergency number for months now, bombarding the call operators with rap songs, preaching and loud music.
He's made 700 calls in the past three months alone and it's costing the force £1 000 a month to handle them. More than 60 SIM cards have been blocked by the police but the rapper continues to acquire unregistered phones to continue his serenades.
The police are concerned that he is blocking the line for callers reporting genuine crimes and emergencies. They have appealed for information as to who this pest might be.
Have they thought about Christopher Coke, the Jamaican druglord who has just been extradited to America? There was a terrible shoot-out on the island before they picked him up, it went on for months, and he possibly needed something to take his mind off things. With satellite technology, phoning Manchester from the West Indies would be a piece of cake.
On the other hand, it could simply be a public-spirited individual expressing support and encouragement for the forces of law and order. I myself often phone the Metro police when at a loose end and yodel to them for five or 10 minutes at a time. It's a way of expressing appreciation for the grand job they are doing.
Tailpiece
WHAT goes: Clip-clop clip-clop Bang! Clip clop clip clop …? An Amish drive-by shooting.
Last word
As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality.
GRAHAM LINSCOTT
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