Monday, 22 October 2007

Rugby for girls II

We didn’t make it to our local to watch the Cup final but as it turned out several people weren’t keen to hunker down with the masses so they came to my place instead.

It was a disparate gathering that consisted of: three single Woman Of A Certain Age (including me); one Schnapps-swilling teenager; my friends Raymondo (the only person there with even the vaguest knowledge of, or interest in, rugby tactics) and his girlfriend Marguerite, the prettiest 40-year-old on the planet; my friend Johann; and two neurotic dogs.

Raymondo’s was a lone voice in a sea of silliness – ‘Wow! Fantastic defence by the back line!’ (or whatever) he would say, and would immediately be shouted down by screams of, ‘Victor, Victor, let me have your babies!’ and ‘Quick, cameraman, zoom in on Number 9’s bum!’

Johann (who has recently shaved his head and, where before he looked like ‘a Chinese lesbian’ – his description – he now resembles a cross between a Mafia hitman and a swami) was on top form. Not impressed with our side’s baggy pants and garish socks, he asked, archly, ‘Who is dressing these boys?’ Substitutions sent him into raptures: ‘Ooo, ’n nuwe bokkie!’ he would scream, delighted, as a fresh player took the field. Percy Montgomery’s spectacular crash into a cameraman so impressed him that he stood up and demanded, ‘Ref, make that man Man of the Match immediately!’

Copious quantities of wine were, of course, drunk, and I could see things spiralling wonderfully out of control (or, as Johann puts it, ‘deteriorating nicely’) when Johann returned from the bathroom, where he’d found a shell, and pushed it up against Marguerite’s ear. ‘Listen to the sea,’ he instructed her. Marguerite, not to be outdone, immediately located a wine cork and pushed it into Johann’s ear. ‘Listen to the vineyards,’ she told him.

When the final whistle blew, Johann looked around wildly and asked, ‘Is it over? Is it over?’ Then, downing the last of the wine in his glass, he squinted at the screen and mused, ‘Well, now they all look attractive.’

Later, having located the neurotic dogs (whose tender temperaments hadn’t been helped by two hours of ear-splitting shrieking) and put the Schnapps-stunned teenager to bed with a bucket nearby, we did go up to our local. Even given that our village is known for its occasional wild parties, this was one to beat the band. Long-held resentments were put aside, aggrieved ex-lovers embraced each other, feuding neighbours temporarily mended fences. And when the barman, clearly despairing of ever getting to bed, put on some of the most execrable boeremusiek we’d ever heard in our lives, we danced to it with an enthusiasm that was, frankly, insane.

I think it’s fair to say that a good time was had by all.

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4 comments:

meggie said...

I laughed n laughed! I wish I wasn't so bloody old! I would've loved to be there, to share the mindless joy in the win. (Win? did we win? Oh good...I suppose)
Good for all of you, having a good time.

Muriel said...

I know what Johann would say to being 'bloody old', Meggie: you're only as old as the men you feel. So leave the GOM at home tonight and go out and pinch a young barman's bum.

angel said...

oh my word your party sounds like so much more fun than mine was!!!

Beeb said...

...& Who said rugby's not fun... The vision is priceless!! :)) thank you !!