More fake footage
I HAPPENED to drop in late at the Street Shelter for the Over-
Forties the other evening. The place was nearly empty.
On the big TV screen they were showing some of that fake Nasa
footage – expanses of bleak, arid, flinty landscape, not a blade
of grass to be seen, nor vegetation of any kind. They tell us it's
the surface of Mars, when any fool can see it's the Griquas
rugby field at Kimberley. Is there no end to the deception of
these space agencies?
Then suddenly on ran a whole bunch of fellows in rugby kit.
This was not pretending to be Mars, it was a rerun of the
Griquas-Mpumalanga match at Kimberley, put on not by Nasa
but by Supersport or somebody like that. Silly me!
Then into the place came a whole bunch of jolly fellows you
could see at a glance were connected with rugby. But they
were not locals. They had pullovers emblazoned with badges of
lions rampant or leopards couchant, that kind of thing; they
were talking the taal – blacks, whites, all of them – and they
were ordering outlandish concoctions like gin and ginger beer
and dubbel brandewyn. These were definitely not locals.
It turns out they are here in Durban for Craven Week, the
interprovincial schoolboy rugby tournament being played up at
Kearsney College, at Botha's Hill.
Schoolboy rugby? Heavens! I know they're having trouble
getting through matric these days but these fellows were in
their thirties and forties. And they were knocking back the
jungle juice. Oh, then the penny dropped. These fellows were
Craven Week coaches, quartered over the road at DHS. It didn't
take them long to find the Street Shelter.
Much jollity and badinage, banter in Afrikaans and English. This
is rugby, a brotherhood that spans divides of race and ethnicity.
As I left I bade them farewell and said I'd see them on Saturday
at Kearsney.
"You're coming to the final?"
"Absoluut! Ek's die skeidsregter!" (Absolutely! I'm the referee!)
We rugger buggers like our little joke.
Changed times
READER Geoff Caruth says Monday's piece on the female take-
over of British politics - the Queen, the new prime minister and
possibly also the leader of the opposition – doesn't tell the
whole story.
"The first minister of Northern Ireland, Arlene Foster, is a lady.
The first minister of Scotland,-Nicola Sturgeon, is a lady. The
Leader of the Scottish Tories, Ruth Davidson, is a lady; and
finally what's left of the Scottish Labour Party is also led by a
young lass, Kezia Dugdale.
"We live in, er, changed times."
Too right, Geoff. The fainthearted might say they're circling like
wolves.
Front line
MEANWHILE, if you're an enemy of the Brits you now stand the
chance of being bayoneted by a gel from the home counties
instead of a wee hardman from Glasgow.
The Brits have lifted the ban they had on women serving on the
front line in close combat roles. This was announced in Poland
the other day by Prime Minister David Cameron (now ex-PM) at
a Nato summit in Poland.
He said it would enhance the army's capability, allowing it to
draw on all its talent.
But is this wise? Should the kind of girls who relish close
combat in the front line be indulged in this way? Could it not
get the Brits into trouble with the Geneva Convention?
As Kipling pointed out, the female of the species is more deadly
than the male.
Tailpiece
THIS fellow goes to the pet shop and buys a talking
centipede. He's absolutely delighted with it. He takes it
home in a white cardboard box.
Once home, he lifts a flap on the box and says: "Let's go
down to the pub so you can meet my mates and chat to
them. They'll be chuffed.
No answer.
He repeats in a slightly louder voice: "Let's go down to the
pub so you can meet my mates and chat to them."
Still no answer. He repeats it several times, getting louder
and louder.
Finally, yelling at the top of his voice: "Are you coming
down to the pub or not?"
A small voice comes from the box: "I heard you the first
time. I'm just putting on my shoes."
Last word
The scientists of today think deeply instead of clearly. One must
be sane to think clearly, but one can think deeply and be quite
insane.
Nikola Tesla
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