Long ago lighthouse keeper
CALLING all Murphys. Is anyone out there descended from John Joseph Murphy, former
lighthouse keeper on the Bluff, then at Cape St Lucia? Does anyone know the family (who
would by now have lost the surname Murphy because his only son returned to England and
the other children were girls)?
His great-grandson, Michael Murphy, arrives on Sunday and is eager to contact any family
connections. His message comes via Ursula Morrison, of Makakatana Lodge, on Lake St
Lucia, who has been contacted by the travel agent.
"My great-grandfather emigrated to South Africa in the 1800s. He was a lighthouse keeper at
the Bluff, Durban, for six years and Cape St Lucia for 30 years. His name was John Joseph
Murphy.
"We have obtained his death notice. He had two wives in South Africa and five children -
four girls and one boy.
"The boy, also called John Joseph Murphy, came back to live in England and was my
grandfather.
"As your family has a long history in the area, do you or any of your family have any
knowledge of my great-grandfather or can you think of any way we could find out more
about him?"
It's a long time ago but can anyone out there shine a light (To stick with the idiom)?
Ode to rugby
AS THE Currie Cup final approaches, reader Eric Hodgson sends in an Ode to Rugby Union – the game
as it was in yesteryear. Here it is (slightly bowdlerised):
The rugby balls in my day, lad, were made of bloody leather.
A bladder stitched, with laces in, to hold the bastard together.
The ones today have adverts on, in supersonic plastic;
They'll reach the sticks from miles away, toe-poked by any spastic.
The boots we wore were leather, too - with toecaps like a brick.
We dubbin'd them to last for years, the leather was that thick.
But now they buy them twice a year, at sixty quid a throw,
Like ballet-shoes, all soft and pink, with nothing on the toe.
And we invented tie-ups. Our socks were made of wool.
Hung around your ankles, they'd hold a gallon each, half-full.
So we tied 'em up. Or taped 'em up. Either way, no fuss.
Bryan Habana in woolly socks? He couldn't catch a bus.
We didn't have post-protectors, like cushions in a pram.
What rugby-post can do you harm? An advertising scam.
And kicking tees. Kicking tees! With some so high, at that,
You could HEAD the ball between the posts, and that's any stupid prat.
And if the ref should send you off, he didn't need a card.
We didn't remonstrate at all - we'd make him drink a yard.
But now you get a yellow card - Ooh! Naughty boy! Smacked wrist!
Ten minutes off? Within the game? I'd come back on half-squished.
And nowadays, if you should burst a pimple on your head,
You can have a blood-replacement - your mate comes on instead.
And half-a-Guinness later, or a few more, if you shout
Your mate comes off; you go on; what the heck's that all about?
Gum shields. Body armour. Like that American football farce.
And passive scrums. Passive scrums? You can shove 'em up your a***!
What we want is what we played - that's eighty minutes' worth
Of rugby, Rugby Union - the greatest game on Earth.
At that, my son, I'll take "time out" (another innovation)
And summon up my aches and pains to find some inspiration.
We weren't allowed a substitute: we turned out fifteen men.
A buggered shoulder; a broken nose; blood everywhere, we went back on again.
And every time the cold wind blows, and crippled with arthritis,
We curse the wounds of long ago that come back now to bite us.
We made a try; we saved a try: we played on, through the pain
And crippled, cursing, bleeding - we loved the bloody game.
Ingrown
OVERHEARD in the Street Shelter for the Over-Forties: "My dog has an ingrown tail. I have to X-ray
him to find out if he's happy."
Tailpiece
"ARE you a boob man or a butt man?"
"That's really sexist."
"Sorry, let me rephrase it. Are you a boob person or a butt person?"
Last word
A lie told often enough becomes the truth.
Lenin
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