Ponytails call the shots
RUGBY traditionalists derive a certain wry amusement from the controversy over Sharkie Mark II. That's what happens when you put yourself in the hands of the marketing gurus – the Ponytails. Every now and then they'll come up with a clunker.
Just as well the Ponytails didn't tell the NRU to put the players into satin tights, sequins and bow ties. Where would we be?
Contrast
MEANWHILE, what a contrast there is between the zip and fizz of the Currie Cup and the tiredness of the game at supposedly higher levels.
Last weekend showed it again. Brilliant rugby - our cliffhanger in Nelspruit plus the Blue Bulls-Free State Cheetahs encounter that could have gone either way. The lack-lustre Boks in Melbourne.
It's a repeat of last season. The Currie Cup is showing itself to be the one to watch. There's a sameness about the Super 15 competition and the Tri-Nations that follows – the same players, the same patterns. Definite signs of metal fatigue.
But let's not bring in the Ponytails.
Paralympics pioneer
LAST week we asked if anyone remembers Margaret Harriman, whose family the Alexandra Memorial Bowling Club (Pennington) are trying to contact so they can hand on medals and other memorabilia that are in their possession.
Reader Dave Rourke remembers her very well for her involvement in sports for the disabled. She was a protégé/patient in the 1940s of Sir Ludwig Guttman, whose Stoke Mandeville Hospital, a spinal injuries rehabilitation centre in England, pioneered sport as a rehabilitative tool.
Sir Ludwig introduced her to archery. She went on to represent her club, province and country in events for both disabled and able-bodied archers. As a disabled bowler, she was equally adept against the able- bodied and disabled.
"My suggestion to the bowling club is that they preserve, mount and display her memorabilia as a tribute."
McGonagall rides again
WILLIAM McGonagall, the 19th century Scottish poet, is generally recognised as the world's worst ever. The clunking quality of his verse puts him in a class of his own.
So bad was his poetry – and so eccentric his antics – that he was well known in Scotland. When he put on Hamlet – himself in the leading role – the place was a sell-out. McGonagall did not disappoint as he departed from the lines and stage instructions of Shakespeare to chase the other characters from the stage, brandishing a sword. He had them standing on their seats, cheering.
The inverted popularity has persisted. While Tennyson and other noted Victorians linger on in musty library shelves, McGonagall has his own website. This week's "poetic gem" concerns General Roberts in Afghanistan.
'Twas in the year of 1878, and. the winter had set in,
Lord Roberts and the British Army their march did begin,
On their way to Afghanistan to a place called Cabul;
And the weather was bitter cold and the rivers swollen and full.
Clunk, clunk, clunk! Awful, isn't it? I won't detain you with the stirring details of how the Highlanders, the 72nd Regiment, the Ghoorkas and the 8th Punjaub routed the enemy. But the second last stanza does have a certain currency.
And the battle that followed at Candahar was a complete victory,
And Lord Roberts' march to Candahar stands unrivalled in history;
And let's thank God that sent Lord Roberts to conquer Ayoob Khan,
For from that time there's been no more war in Afghanistan.
Oh yeah? Ask the Russians. Ask the Americans and the Brits and the rest of the Nato forces.
Tailpiece
A NUN IS rattling a tin mug outside an Irish bar. A fellow throws in a few coins as he goes in.
"Ah, de demon booze has you in its claws!"
"Sister, that's not fair. I work hard for my money. I look after my wife and kids. All I do is relax after a hard day with a couple of whiskeys."
"Dat's where it begins. Dat's where de demon gets ya!"
"Sister, that's ridiculous. Have you ever tasted whiskey?"
"Heaven forbid dat alcohol should touch dese lips!"
"How can you judge? Look, let me get you a whiskey. You'll find it's not so bad."
"Oh, all right den." She hands him her tin mug.
"Two double whiskeys please. Put one in this mug."
The barman sighs. "Don't tell me dat nun's out dere again!"
Last word
My reason, the physician to my love, angry that his prescriptions are not kept, hath left me.
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