Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Now I know – A Lesson in History - I had a crash in Africa

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As most of my three followers know, I’m currently in Nairobi, Kenya. This country was a British Colony for many years, while the Germans were carefully looking after Tanzania.
But Tanzania is a story for another time.

On the way back to my hotel this evening I had a very strange experience and things suddenly became clear.

I was in a motor vehicle accident. Nothing that made my life pass before my eyes or gave me whiplash and a stiff neck or anything like that.

We were making our way through peak hour traffic, going left around a bend, when some security company’s dilapidated mini bus decided to pass us on the right where there was no space and made contact with our front bumper.

There was an awkward scraping sound as he tried to push on, but he got stuck and had to stop.

In most countries this would have led to a lot of screaming and shouting and swearing and even shooting in some countries a bit more to the south…

However, what happened made me realize that the Kenyans probably had a major influence on the Brits, which is why they are, even up to today in most cases, very courteous and quite well mannered people.

We had to stop – obviously because the mini bus was stuck to our bumper and was going nowhere fast. There was contact between the two vehicles and some damage.

But here is what happened next.

My driver and the other driver got out of the cars with no real haste and walked towards each other.
Although they were speaking Swahili, this is basically how the conversation went.

My driver looked at the area where the two cars connected and said: “I say wot old fruit, quite a cheeky turn you made there and all that old chap?”

“Quite the most unfortunate set of circumstances I have to say mate” the other guys said, as he was obviously less polished than my driver.

The two men casually looked at the new scrape marks on the already “well tattooed” mini bus, which showed that that driver was a bit of a brute when it came to slicing through traffic.

“Jolly good dent you have there my good man” my driver remarked, while the other man nodded slowly, looking deep in thought.

“Jolly good indeed” the other man said.

We were holding up the already busy traffic behind us, but there was no hooting or shouting or hanging out the windows waving fists or anything like that from the other motorists.

“You think we should call The Bill over and do the necessary and all that old chap?” my driver asked.

“I’d rather not waste their precious time with this little misadventure don’t you think my good man?” the other guys asked.

“Yes. Let’s rather stop this unpleasant barney and avoid attracting more attention my old cabbage and get back on the road I say wot and all that thingamajig.” My driver suggested.

They got back in the cars and off we went.

Very unpleasant incident it was, but I survived….

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere

H of Arabia

Wednesday, September 04, 2013

My sad and heartbreaking divorce

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I need to share some really sad news. Heartbreaking actually.
  
For once I'm not sure how to start and while I sit here there is this lump in my throat and a burning in the pit of my stomach. It's all sadness and regret and everything that happens to you when you're about to lose something dear to you.



I catch myself remembering the good times. There were never any bad, except for maybe her hardness that sometimes surfaced when she was simmering slowly and wasn't left to soften up slowly by herself.

One or two times maybe there was a charred tint from too much exposure, but mostly the dry heat would make her golden brown. There were times when she was still Lilly white before the sessions in the exquisite heat and steamy liquid and I would be licking away the savory juices, exotic oils and spices, I covered her with, while softly, carefully biting into the soft white flesh.

It gives me goose bumps and at the same time makes me want to cry when reality returns and I realize once again… It is over…

She did nothing wrong and actually neither did I, was it not for the evil French sadist and wannabe doctor.               
All I did was expand. I expanded to such a state that we were forced to part our ways or run the risk of expanding even further to a point where we eventually would have been separated as death would have done us part.
My death.

We have said our farewells, I think and I hope to still be friends and maybe visit her once in a while, once I get back to a physical state where I can handle my giddy reaction to her presence. And maybe we'll be able to return to where we left off.
  
I really hope we can and I really hope she feels the same way. But for now we need to part and I'm crying my heart out.

I'll survive without her, but this divorce has broken me and I don't think I'll ever be the same.

All I want to say is thank you Pierre Dukan. You dog! I am bitter and I HATE you for what you did and for what you forced me into.
  
I will shrink back to my old self and I will once again love and caress and devour my beloved potato....

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere


Saturday, July 20, 2013

How we love them but only in small bites and slow chews... My family holiday for 2013!

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I’m not one to tell stories outside my own circle of… ahm… let’s call it “family”, but sometimes some information is way too interesting and could even be some sort of a warning to other sane members of the species homo sapiens - just in case someone runs into some of the specimens I’m going to describe in this short novel...

 The people I refer to are actually my family-in-law and for one I’m not too worried about them reading this, as most of them can’t really read and those who can are not that good in reading English…..

We all ended up on a week’s holiday together recently and I have to say that if we all travelled in a bus, innocent bystanders might have thought that some asylum had an outing and through some horrible administrative mistake let loose the craziest of the crazies on the unsuspecting resort in the bushes of the northern part of South Africa.
Fortunately we travelled in four cars and no one noticed the “instability” until shortly after we arrived and started sorting out the sleeping arrangements….

There is nothing really sinister about the way we were supposed to sleep even though no hillbilly family I’ve ever seen has anything on this group.

You have to understand the dynamics of this unfortunate lot before I go on. 

There are four sisters and each one by some stroke of unbelievable luck found a husband and has so far only been married once and most unbelievably still are - even though I think there may be regular thoughts of either suicide or murder when it comes to their husbands.
For some other unbelievable reason God apparently had a plan, which still has to be revealed, decided that these groups should be “blessed” by offspring and that perpetuated this unbalanced melting pot (read witches brew) of semi-disfunctionality…
Then there are the two unfortunate parents - now grand parents for their sins, which is also still to be revealed.
They have tried their best but became old before they turned 30.
They did, however, had the good fortune of convincing four - at the time, sane, normal young men, to marry their daughters. What a laugh and probably several sighs of relief they must have had after the last daughter left the house…

So there we were. The cars were parked except for one which, due to lack of a “convenient enough spot”, was just left behind some unsuspecting, normal vacationer’s truck, while the children ran around whooping, carrying several heavy cases of alcohol (not mine as you will soon find out – I mean the alcohol) above their heads. This led to terrified screams and some savory language coming from their parents.

Once the hooch was rescued the whips, hand cuffs and leather restraints were removed from the cars, which was basically all that was needed for an interesting few days.

Oh…. No. Don’t misunderstand. The parents have all been banned by most foreign governments and many Security Agencies globally from having any sexual relations ever again, just in case there are more children lurking in their loins…
The equipment is to subdue the children already in existence, as violence is the basic language that calms them down and prevents them from eating too much and stealing their parents’ booze. It also helps to contain them to their sleeping quarters in case they plan to escape to socialize with the rest of the unsuspecting vacationers without parental supervision (for what it may be worth) or to attack the wild life that went into hiding the moment the four cars burst through the gates anyway.

So, where was I?
Oh yes. The sleeping arrangements.
This little “incident” was, to say the least, a storm in a tea cup…. compared to the rest of the week. Two pairs of grownups split and burst through the doors of the two houses occupying the only double bed in each of the apartments. This left the rest of the crowd with two more rooms with two single beds in each and two more rooms with four bunker beds in each. This situation was swiftly sorted after four hours of negotiations, by allocating two bunker beds to the grandparents and having 6 of the kids sleeping in the other bunker room and another one on a matrass in one of the living rooms. The grandparents were so grateful that they immediately forgot their claustrophobia and aching joints…
No one knew where their back pain complaints came from by the end of the week so it was just flatly ignored and put down to attention-seeking behavior.

Talk about back pain. One of the brothers-in-law, made the tiny mistake of offering his twin cab truck to assist the rest of the clan to bring along every single piece of clothing, the dining room set and the kitchen zinc on this four night excursion.

While loading a lounge chair he did his back in and was crippled for the rest of the holiday. I’ve heard that he’s still not well, but that’s probably mainly due to his wife’s giraffe of a dog, that greeted him very happily on his return to the metropolis of Christiana, which is where they live.

One thing I can say about this place we went to, is that to take the hiking routes is like choosing a lucky packet. If you ever happen to stumble along a sign mentioning the Bush pig walk, be warned. Don’t try it unless you have a week’s provisions of food and water with you, some mountain climbing ropes, hooks and other mountain climbing thingies. You will also need three pairs of climbing boots and very thick socks as you will wear out the boots in a few kilometers and the blisters you will have after this trek will be as big as satellite dishes. But this is a story for another day.

After offloading the entire luggage consignment and dividing up the kids, I was in desperate need of alcohol. And lots of it. To my disgust and heartbreak I had to find that none of the booze I thought would accompany me on this ultimate test for survival was packed. Probably a little trick my wife had up her sleeve. I didn’t ask and I also refrained from violence to keep the peace for a while.

Blind with thirst I high jacked a car and drove the 200 kilometers to the nearest town where I saw a booze store when we came past on the way to the bush camp. I emptied the store of all its stock and I was back at ground zero before the rest of the clan even missed me.

My alcoholic son immediately asked whether I provided for him as well and with the affirmation in place, he proceeded to hurt three cans in succession in the space of about twenty seconds and once I had him on a plug, it was time for me to apply the necessary “medicinal” attention to myself…..

The rest of the week actually went by as a bit of a blur and although I tried to remember how it actually went, I fail to recall any lucid moments.
I do remember that I played beach volleyball with a team of Swedish Swimsuit Models at some stage, but even that hallucination might have been brought on by some of the liquid refreshments I forced on myself, so take at least this part of my story with a pinch of salt.

Everything said, I think the week went extremely well and I really look forward to do it again next year….

Groete uit die woestyn en aan al die Arabiere

H of Arabia

Saturday, May 04, 2013

TAINTING A REPUTATION WITH CHEAP HOOKER PERFUME - so to speak....

I have to tell you something, but you need to make sure that this never gets out.

I'm so ashamed and I really don't need any more fingers pointed at me, while they whisper behind their hands.

It's all my own fault, I know, but at the time I was not thinking and I didn't realize the consequences then.

My children are such a disappointment to me and because of them I will have a tainted reputation forever. They will be tarred with the same brush as well, but since they are still young, I as the father figure will be blamed many years from now, not them.

If my daughter had come to me and said that she is pregnant with an English footballers love child or that she wanted to marry the son of an African dictator, I might have been able to absorb the shock and maybe see a shrink to recover. I would have been able to support her and looked the world in the eye and told those gossipers that it's human to err.

I could have done the same if my son came to me and told me that he's about to marry a Kardashian or Lindsey Lohan. It's human and the flesh is a horrible temptation - even though I would have seriously worried about his eye sight and standards if he came to me with something like this.

But all this happened because of my own weakness. My lack of foresight and keeping my brains together.

Blame me!! Yes it's me! I was weak and stupid and not a good father....
Regret comes too late. Let me tell you this. Learn from me. It's hard to take the responsibility and see the blame in the eyes of your wife, friends and other family. You can grit your teeth and laugh through it.

You can keep up appearances and hope the stigma that sticks to your person and those of your innocent (albeit stupid and disappointing) children, like cheap, revolting, sweet, hooker perfume will eventually wash off and people will forget or maybe move to another country or die and all will be good again, but the damage that might be done to the psyche of two young kids is still unknown and that may haunt me forever.

I am guilty. I take responsibility. I am sorry!!!!!

I bought them the Justin Bieber tickets....

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere

H of Arabia

Wednesday, April 03, 2013

If at first I don’t succeed…

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It came out of nowhere.
Completely out of the blue.
I was absolutely stunned and speechless for a few weeks now.
It was so unexpected that my words nearly dried up for good, but I’m back and ready to look the world in the eye again.

I do, however, have something to say, but this will be the last of it.

Those back-stabbing, motherless, dress wearing, deceiving, altar boy pinching, sniffling, lying, two-faced, forked tongued snakes!!!
Picking that Argentinian above me…. What a bunch of sad oinks!!!!

I’m not bitter at all. I’m just voicing an opinion…

Anyway. So the Pope position was eventually filled by some unknown from Argentina. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is some Nazi fugitive’s son formerly know as Helga. But enough about my former potential employment. I will not act like a potential disgruntled employee that was fired before he was potentially appointed.  I’m moving on.

See. The thing is. I realized that there are better and more important things in life than being Pope.  I read somewhere that there will be an election in South Africa next year and I’m starting a new campaign on this 3rd day of April in the year of our Lord 2013. The position of President of the Republic of South Africa is up for grabs!!

I know my mate Jacob (with a “J”, not a “K” otherwise it would have been Kacob), who likes me to call him Zumfie, is looking at sneaking in one more time, but he actually put me on to applying for this esteemed position.

Not in so many words as you can imagine, as I’ve been told that he is currently already looking at some real estate below Table Mountain. No. Literally below Table Mountain in that area where the nuclear warheads, PW and his cronies manufactured, were hidden from the Russians and Americans. Remember those days hey? PW was too ashamed to admit that we had those capabilities as South Africa was only able to destroy planet earth three times over, which paled in comparison to the 9 times and 12 times of the Russians and Americans respectively.

Apparently Zumfie is looking at some more spending money from his private piggy bank aptly named SARS, in order to build another fortress for him and his extended family in the hollowed-out Table Mountain, so he and his family can be safe when the Iranians and Israelites start World War III.

I’m not telling Zumfie of my plans yet, as he might need more than cold a shower to recover from the shock. I’ll keep it as a surprise for him as long as I can.

Initially I thought of an early onslaught on his position by maybe arranging a hostile take-over now that every single military weapon and person has been shipped off to some dark alley in the Central African Republic, but because I don’t wear a red frock and a funny hat and live in Rome potentially anymore, I’ll play fair.

I do plan however to make a few changes. “President” has been past its sell-by-date now for quite a while and “King” has been on the books for thousands of years. So I plan to, like Thabo Mbeki so unwisely thought he was, become the Emperor of not only South Africa, but the whole of Africa. The convenient fact that my military will be deployed all over the continent and will crush any resistance from any of those corrupt and thankless Governors of, what I will call “The Provinces”, is such a bonus that I nearly became emotional for a second.

I am therefore calling on my voters to unite. I’m actually calling a few dodgy politicians – not that I know of any politician who isn’t – tonight to see if they could be so kind as to make way for the ruler, which is me off course; or face the possibility of being made Minister of Tolls, Sport, Health, Education, Potholes or any other department which will take millennia to sort out.

In the meantime I will lie awake at night to think up more changes and a few threats to bring any dissidents back on the straight and narrow. I’ll keep you informed of any new innovative ideas I come up with.

Once the word gets out that Zumfie and his cronies are under threat to lose their cushy positions in the front benches and may be relegated to “Ministers Without Portfolios” – no this time they will really have nothing to do, which is good as they’ve had a lot of practice – or even Deputy Ministers of Agriculture or Correctional Services, the fox will be in the grapevine and some worms might flee the can.

I still need a name for my new party though, as I apparently need a party to belong to in order to appear on the ballot paper. I personally prefer a rave instead of a party, so it may be another change I’d like to make, but in the meantime I need some suggestions. So if you don’t mind, sharpen those voting pencils and creative minds for a name for my new rave….

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere.

H of Arabia

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

My HUGE election is not a Japanese building either.

So the campaign is going well. I have three votes so far and I've only had to fork out about $60 mil via email so far. I did receive another windfall of $25.5 million via email from another generous business woman again today as well, so the money is rolling in as we speak...

I also called Benny 16 and asked him about the JD for this job I'm applying for. He said that it's all about controlling the wind - "mostly hot air" - to quote him and not losing your reputation as a person with integrity and loads of patience....

He also mentioned that the dress they made him wear during his tenure may have been not the most practical. He sent me the pictures below and mentioned that it was a bit of a contributor to his decision to lay down that little gold thingie he carries with him all the time.

According to him it's actually quite heavy (the thingie) and he would rather have a glass of German "Brew" instead of "that metal torture implement" as he called it.

I will make sure that it's done by the time I take office. German Brew in one and a Marlboro in the other hand is the perfect way to be the coolest Pope in history....

Please keep those votes coming as I've heard that there might be two other contenders somewhere in West Africa who may try their luck against my charisma and general good looks, incredible intelligence and wonderful physique...





Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere.

H of Arabia

Monday, February 11, 2013

My HUGE election is not a Freudian slip.





Not being an opportunist or anything like that, I sat back in my seat for half a second before I jumped up and started gathering my followers in the office.

I don't really know how this works, but I decided to apply for the job. His job. That is Benny 16. I need the votes and since the new Pope job will not be decided on X-factor or Vatican Idols, I thought that maybe I could start a Facebook page and a Twitter campaign to get me elected....

There are a few little minor hurdles I need to cross, but no issues there. 

For one there is the tiny glitch of me being a Protestant, but why not have a Protestant Pope for a change? Change is as good a holiday, which, so by the way, is something I'd like to plan in Brazil the moment I take office. I just need to see when the annual Rio Carnival takes place. Imagine me in my little glass covered Pope-Float waving to all those excited people who came to kiss my ring.... and maybe even those skimpily clad altar girls and choir I will take along to keep things respectable.

I'm also married. However, 39 Popes were married and a horny truckload of them had illegitimate children including the very aptly called Innocent VIII (1484-1492). He was also a revolutionary and practiced open nepotism already in the fourteen hundreds, a practice greedily adopted by modern day politicians.... Apart from that I will apparently also "inherit" 110,000 married Priests from all over the world. Apparently most of them are married to women.

As I, very subtly slipped into this conversation earlier, I will have no more altar boys. This is to repair the slightly tainted reputation of the citizens of the Vatican. I have had a long think about this issue and found that to fix the black dot they have rightly earned with so much under-the-pulpit-shenanigans and denial by those firmly grounded on the moral high ground, I need to move the sinners away from the weakness of the flesh. 
I had this very bright vision and insight into the diminishing numbers at midnight mass and had the revelation that the most chaste of all are female Eastern European or Scandinavian  swimsuit models or female Brazilian Beach Volleyball players between the age of 19 and 26. My first  edict therefore will be to ensure that altar girls and the heavenly choirs will have to be made up of candidates from that category. I've had a few further revelations with regards to the new uniforms, but I'll keep that a secret until such time as I deem fit. This time will probably come IF any other strong contenders for the position may appear on the scene.

Another reason to vote for me is that after recent emails from various generous business men and women as well as some journalists in Iraq and Afghanistan and even the Directors of the CIA and FBI and several of their agents - mostly doing investigations in Nigeria - I have now accumulated a modest $238, 500 000-00 for this election. So if you need a bit of an "incentive" to vote for me, please let me know and I will email you a few million just to get you in the "right state of mind" - if you know what I mean (wink-wink, nudge-nudge).....

I look forward to blowing the white smoke from my first Marlboro as the Commander in Chief of the Vatican through that little chimney before the Easter holidays are upon all of us!!

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere.

H of Arabia

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Why am I so embarrassed Mr. Meyer? An open letter to the Bok Coach

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Dear Mr. Meyer

Today I feel the need to write to you about my feelings and although you don’t know me and in most cases should not care about how I feel, I think you may find – surprisingly -  that many others share the same feelings as me after quite a few months of hope, disappointment, new glimmers of hope, just to be smacked down to earth by another disappointment.
This has not stopped and I really feel like a boxer with both hands tied behind my back, while Mike Tyson is beating the crap out of me.

This will be a long letter as I have a lot to say so please bear with me to the end, as, in my eyes at least, it is very important that you do.

I am a fairly simple man. I love the Blue Bulls and I therefore every so often indulge in the national drink of Pretoria – Brannas and Coke. I have, however, disappointed many of my friends and family and even had nasty fingers pointed at me by my “enemies” (any enemy of the Blue Bulls is an enemy of mine) that I also have a taste for well aged red wine and in case I have a vegetarian meal of chicken or fish, even a nice crispy white – which, as you know, is mostly produced in the southern parts of our country, where they have recently caught sight of the Curry Cup for the first time in many, many, many years.

I love cricket but I hate chess although I know the moves. I think I have a fair idea of the rules of American Football, Football (Soccer), Hockey (Field Hockey) and I once learnt the rules of baseball over 13 beers (Guinness to be precise)  in five hours in a bar in a beautiful forest area in West Chester New York.

As I have mentioned previously, one of my great love affairs, which even my wife understands is the Blue Bulls. I also have more than just a soft spot for our national rugby team the Springboks and I will also sacrifice my life for the Springbok 7’s team.

To digress a little, I also need to tell you that I have read many books in my life. I have not written one, but I have been trying to for the past 14 years.
Among those books are the Bible, all the major works of Shakespeare, Herman Charles Bosman, most of the books written my Wilbur Smith and a few thrillers and spy novels by the likes of Stephen King, John Smit, Jake White, Victor Mattfield and most recently Peter de Villiers.

I’m sure that you must be gathering notes as we speak for your book, which will probably be published by January 2016, in which you will tell us how hard the initial stages were when you took over as coach from Peter de Villiers. How difficult it was to replace the retired players and how you had to contend with constant politics. I can just imagine how you would tell us about the pressure you had from Jean de Villiers’ father to make him captain and keep him in the team or have those “photoshopped” dirty pictures of you and Pine Pienaar in the Jacuzzi, published on the back page of the Rapport and front page of the Son/Sun.

I can only assume that there probably is an abundance of things you might have done wrong which may have been captured on film or video, but I will get to that in a few minutes.

I hope you’re still reading.

I thought at this stage to tell you even more about myself and my Rugby career.

It all started when I was born. My parents were not rich people and they didn’t believe in bringing up sisies, so my mother never saw a gynecologist after she fell pregnant. Instead, she was helped through her pregnancy by the General Practitioner, who she and my father would visit every so often, but only for a light bout of maybe Rabies, Ebola or Congo fever. Nothing major.

This GP was also then the person who helped me take my first breath after slapping my backside, while holding me upside down by my feet. His name was Ernst Dinkelmann. DOCTOR Ernst Dinkelmann for you. He played lock for the Springboks in the late sixties and maybe even early seventies.

He also brought my brother into this world at the same time the Springboks were playing the All Blacks, 11 month later. I can tell you that according to undocumented history, he was a bit miffed that he had to listen to the game on the radio, due to my brother’s untimely arrival and gave him an extra hard slap to make him realize his mistake, the moment he breached.

Anyway this is where it started. In standard 2 (grade four, I think we call it these days) my teacher, who was not only beautiful, but also the cousin of a legendary Blue Bulls Fullback and “unorthodox” lawyer, took me and a bunch of my friends to my first game at Loftus. We called her Juffrou de Meyer. That is where the bug really bit me. This was in 1976 – the year when Pierre Spies Snr took the Curry Cup away from the Free State at the Free State stadium. Remember that day, or were you not too much into Rugby at that stage?

I also signed up for the under 11 team of my primary school when I was 8 and had my hands full to convince the teacher to allow me to play. He eventually did and although I was OK’ish, I never played Rugby with my heart as all good players do. I played it with my head and that made me a mediocre player for the rest of my life.

It did not make me a mediocre supporter though and this is actually what this long letter is about. Mediocrity.

You see, when I started watching Rugby, the rules were still simple. No nancy-pancy stuff and if someone was in need of some “orientation” it was provided for free. That included ending up on the wrong side of a ruck and remaining there in order to slow down play, taking the ball in the lineout out of turn and so on.

In those days other teams had immense respect for the Springbok, not only because they were such a good team, but also because they were an AWESOME team that gave no mercy and asked for none. Granted the All Blacks, Wallabies and Lions (British) had similar reputations, but as John Smit and Peter de Villers said those teams needed the Springboks to keep their reputations in tact.

Rules have changed over the years and TV cameras, health and safety managers and lawyers dived onto the scene to place a damper on the “robustness” of the game. Every team capitulated and started trying to be “nice” except the All Blacks. They took the rules and through thorough analysis found ways in which they could bend them up to breaking point. They never lost their killer instinct.

KILLER INSTINCT: Throw for instance Uruguay at the All Blacks and see them wipe the floor with them. 120 – 0 is the least they will settle for. “Yew wanah plaay wieth tha bick booiys maaite, yew whiel plaay thie bick booiys gaaime maaite” is what they probably say at the first scrum and then all hell breaks loose and some mediocre team gets their backsides kicked BIG TIME!!

In South Africa we had embargoes and isolation because of politics. During those times we built nuclear bombs, conventional weapons of war and attempted to kill any team that came to our back yard for a game of Rugby, just to show them and anyone else interested, that we’re actually THE number 1 team in the Rugby world.

Apartheid was a terrible thing for many of our people and denied many good players the opportunity to wear the Green and Gold officially or because of the color of their skin. It also denied those who were given the jersey, the opportunity to officially show the world what we were about, but boy when the politics changed, did we eat those Uruguayans, Samoans and other Minos for breakfast. And boy did we show the world and especially the Kiwis in 1995.

Money then came into the game and suddenly our Rugby boys had to scoop while the porridge was falling from the sky. Injuries became an issue and administrators understood why contracted players would not put their bodies on the line anymore. Every team suffered from the same illness….  Mediocrity. Except the All Blacks.
For Europe and the UK it became even worse as some tree hugger decided to mess with their sports completely and came up with an even more mediocre plan by banning winning. Everyone would be a winner from now on even if you came stone last or lost 120 – 0 to the All Blacks.

For a little island with shitty unpleasant weather and a population the size of Pretoria, New Zealand has incredible depth when it comes to sports like Rugby. They don’t even know Pap and Braaivleis and probably have no Brannas and Coke either, but they still eat people (not literally anymore, I think, although up to recently I still had my doubts about Tana Umaga….). They have no mercy and ask nothing in return. There seems to be a national pride radiating from them, which we perceive as arrogance. Dude, if you’re good you just can’t help it can you? Very much like the Blue Bulls…

We were like that at some stage. The Springboks had depth and pride and were awesome and scary up to the day Bakkies Botha left. Or so I thought. Then I saw Eben Etzebeth and my Blue Bull heart wanted to get out the checque book and get him to Pretoria. You picked him for the squad and it was good.

There are still some monsters out there. Actually there are many, but not all of them are in Pretoria. I know, I’ve just told you that I was a mediocre Rugby player, which means that I probably know nothing about the insides of what goes on in a Rugby engine room. But I told you I have read a lot and although a lot of the books written by Rugby legends can be a bit one-sided, it did give me a little insight into the inner workings of the team and coaching dynamics.
I am also a mediocre golf player, but I can teach the basics well as I understand the dynamics of a golf club hitting a ball on a grassy knoll…


In the beginning of this letter I also mentioned that I am a Blue Bulls fan. I was lying. I am a fanatical Blue Bull supporter that will commit terrorist acts for my team if need be, but funny enough I am also objective and can recognize faults in the makeup of my team or any other when it is necessary. I learnt this art form, when I moved to a small Arab country in 1999. In those days the Bulls were the milking cows of SA Rugby. That’s not why I moved though. Just in case you were wondering.

Everyone wanted to play them so they could score bonus points. I was the odd Blue Bulls supporter that watched the game week-in and week-out just in case there was a glimmer of hope. We actually beat a few big teams that year and I told everyone around me that we had a 50-year plan and were about 25 years into it.
Those days taught me to watch Rugby objectively to see a good game, recognize the flaws of my team and acknowledge the superstars of the enemy. Since then I have never stopped doing it.

Mr. Meyer you have made me very proud in the past with the Blue Bulls winning the Super Series and the Curry Cup. The Bulls are my pride and joy even if they struggle like this year. I love them more than I love my Harley Davidson or golf clubs.
I love the Springboks just as much. They have made me very proud in the past.

Two World Cups is an accomplishment the All Blacks could not equal until last year and they started playing in World Cups in 1987.
We have been awesome and we’ve had teams that disappointed, but in the old days we were beaten by awesome teams. Unlike the recent spate of games where we made mediocre teams look good by losing to them or beating them by a margin as thin as the skin on the tongue of a cold virus. Read this sentence again please. We lost to mediocre teams we were not beaten by them.

I’m not sure if you are a Steve Hoffmeyer fan or not. I like his voice, his stage personality and most of his songs. Especially the Blou Bul song. Some years I would agree with him that all the Bulls should be Springboks, but I’m afraid you have taken that song a bit too literally, so far in your career as the Springbok coach.

There are nearly 60 million people in South Africa. Out of the 60 million we have a few million who play Rugby and from what I see it is growing. Politics still infects most sports and I’m sure Rugby too. Having read Peter de Villiers’ book, however, I cannot think for one moment that you have as many politicians on your back as he had. I cannot, for one moment, think that Minister Stofile or Oregan Hoskins or God forbid Cheeky Watson insisted that you stuff the locker rooms with Blue Bulls players. I personally think it was your own idea, which may or may not have come up during a Brannas and Coke session at the Loftus restaurant or during a braai with Pine Pienaar – So by the way, where the hell did he come from? Is he family of Frans Ludecke….?
The fact that you loaded the team top-heavy with Bulls players is one thing, but actually leaving out valuable Bulls staff is inexcusable. Please explain to me the absence of the best kicking coach in the world – Vlok Cilliers – while a real example of inconsistent kicking – Louis Koen – rubbed off on Morné Steyn so much, that you eventually HAD to drop him?

Anyway, I digress again. Let’s look at depth in South African Rugby. For the following reasons I will exclude the Eastern Cape from this as the province is a boiling cauldron of mediocrity, politics, big egos and little talent when it comes to Rugby administration and in typical African fashion, they are under the impression that life and SA Rugby owes them.

I will start with the so-called previously disadvantaged players and with this I’m not referring to the Lions, Cheetahs, Western Province, Griquas or Sharks, although some of them might have their roots there.
The transformation efforts have done a lot to develop Rugby amongst players of color in South Africa. It has been done to such an extent that I can put nearly a full team in the field with players of color on merit. I also disagree with the SA Rugby Board or Union or whatever they call themselves these days that development is not on par. Development is well on par, but money for facilities in previously disadvantaged areas is either not used or pilfered in dodgy dealings by the very same administrators who keep on sticking out their hands for more money and blaming the traditionally white unions for not supporting development.

The reason why no player of color or let’s rather say, very small numbers of good players of color come from poor areas and schools is because the large rich schools scout them and take them in to develop them further in more appropriate conditions.

So the theory of politics and interference by politicians is flawed, should you want to side-step in that direction. I cannot see that politicians will encourage you to choose mainly players from the historical bastion of Apartheid, Pretoria.

I can assume that contracts probably come in to play. Then I would also assume that, like you, players may just have a performance clause built into the contract? Or have we lost the good lawyers to the “sport” of chasing ambulances and corrupt politicians to satisfy their greedy appetites?
I actually don’t really know what to say about contracts as I don’t know enough about the set-up you have going there. What I do know is that as an employee, I need to perform to certain standards and if I don’t I lose my bonus and eventually my job if it continues for too long.
I also know that recruiters look for talent when employing people and so do CEO’s.

Mr. Meyer, I see you as the CEO of the Springbok team as well as the talent scout. I am also well aware of the fact that a single performance does not make star player – what is does tell me, however, is that there is talent that can be tapped and developed.
What I am even more aware of is that continuous under-performance may point to lack of commitment, lack of skills or in some cases lack of talent.

During the summer months (your winter in the Southern Hemisphere) I watch Rugby every weekend. Every Friday and every Saturday. I watch New Zealand Rugby, Australian Rugby, South African Rugby and sometimes the odd game during that time in Europe and the United Kingdom. This made me realize that there is loads of talent in New Zealand, basically nothing in Australia and many, many times more in South Africa, when compared to New Zealand.

What I cannot understand and please forgive my ignorance; why I see the exceptional players, my countrymen see them, the Kiwi’s and Aussies see them, but our selectors ignore them. Could it be that we are all complete idiots and you and your selection team are the only people who know what is going on or are you really in a corner due to contracts, dirty pictures of you and Pine or is the Illuminati these days controlling South African Rugby too?

Why can we not choose players with talent irrespective of their color and background and most importantly province? I assume that once the touring squad is picked there can be no changes unless injuries force a player home?
So we need proper planning as far as players are concerned, especially when taking into account conditions and opponents.
I’m not sure if you only find out who you’re playing and where, the week before the match, but I get a schedule months in advance in the Newspapers and especially on the Internet. I know that winter has arrived in the Northern Hemisphere this time of year and that it will most probably rain, that the fields are heavy and that running Rugby might be a bit of a gamble. I also know that the other team knows this. So scrums will be important…. But so will surprising them by not kicking the ball away and all over the place!!

To end my letter I will only discuss the “issues” of last night and leave the star players, who never saw the ball, alone…

Why pick the worst scrummers in the Universe for the Scotland game last night!!!? The two Valies were great against Ireland last week, but you insisted on bringing CJ and “Waar’s my boetie?” Jannie in on prop. Dude. There are actually really good props back in SA. Guthro seemed a bit tired and out of form as well, so I have no idea what the plan was and I and many others need clarity on this unwise choice.

Juandre Kruger had an OK game, but nothing to write home about. Probably the only Blue Bull that I will keep in my team… oh and maybe Hougaard, but not on the wing.

Ruan was player of the season in Ireland, whooopi-freaking-dooo!! And his dad was a Springbok fullback. I think we have many scrumhalves to pick from and while you’re building up for the World Cup, try them all in different combinations – you have a few years to go – and THEN if we lose, no one can say that you did not test all the options.

Lambie should be lucky that he’s not dead yet. Pienaar makes him look like a palooka and it’s going to cost him his place. We will lose another excellent fly-half to Japan or Europe. Give Jantjies a playing chance PLEASE!!! He has talent and is not the “quota player” you think he is!!!

Ah, and then there’s our intercepting captain.

Mr. Meyer, a captain is supposed to be a leader. Some of the best leaders we’ve had were Francois Pienaar and John Smit. Not the best players in their positions at the time, but their leadership helped us win the World Cup. Twice. Our current captain is not the best player in his position and even less of a leader. A passenger, taking up space where real talent is discarded and frustrated out of their sculls.
We have plenty of Centers of all colors and provinces with real talent. If you need the names, please email me.

Kirchner is a brave choice indeed. Brave because you never know how he will play and because of the high stakes we play for, you cannot afford keeping him in the backline. Why don’t we see Gio Aplon, Louis Ludick or Riaan Viljoen on the list?

The thing is. You have been proved wrong time and again. Flippie van der Merwe, I could have told you, is a walking yellow card. May I introduce to you Anton Bressler. No, no wailing about you can only play locks on their preferred side and all that rubbish. Tell Bressler you have a Bok jersey for him, but it’s on the “wrong side” and see what he does. Then see if he disappoints.

To come back to last night’s game against Scotland, let me give you my five sents worth.

The props were diabolically pathetic. I am incredibly thankful that the Scots didn’t have a tank full of petrol.

To play a game plan like you tried last night, I would have done the following:
1.     Fire the props and got good ones from SA or put the two Valies in. I don’t think Guthro was too bad, but didn’t have the best night. In comparison to CJ and Jannie, however, he was a superstar.
2.     Get Anton Bressler on the bench and fire Flippie
3.     Get Keagan Daniels on scrum-half (and captain) and Ryan Kankovsky on fly-half
4.     Should Kanko manage to hold on to the ball, swing it to Jacques Potgieter and then to Dewaldt Potgieter on the outside
5.     Potgieter will pass to Pierre Spies, who will run until he is grabbed by the legs and collapses like a sack of sand, while Daniels tries to recover the ball.
6.     Daniels gets the ball fakes a pass and runs straight into the biggest prop he can find, but escapes unhurt, while flinging the ball to Siya Xolisi on fullback, who hands off several guys twice his size and scores under the post.
7.     Kanko misses the kick, but is confident the Boks can win on tries alone.
8.     We beat Scotland 21 – 10 and at least you have a whole brick outhouse full of Bulls players in the team and of the type that can play the “running-into-a-wall-time-and-again-while-getting-nowhere” game without getting hurt.

Mr. Meyer, I know you’re not really as slow as your team selections make you out to be and I really wish you a lot of success with the Springboks, but just to clarify the purpose of this letter, I need to tell you why I wrote it.

I wrote this because I am seriously concerned about the state of our beloved Springbok team. I am also seriously concerned about my wellbeing as a South African, surrounded by Brits, Kiwis, Aussies and all sorts of other nasties, which you probably have never even come across before. The constant heckling and unwanted taking of the… ahm…. mickey is really getting to me and I am afraid I will soon be forced to commit violent and bloody acts to defend my dignity.

I also want the rest of the Rugby playing world to fear the Boks again and not laugh at them in their faces.

I want our national Rugby team to get back the killer instinct and become as arrogant or even worse than the All Blacks. Not because we’re an arrogant nation, but because we can afford to think (and KNOW) we are really the best.
Most of all, however, I want to protect the Springbok on the jersey. It has been attacked by politics and politicians in the past and has survived because in the past, albeit a bit distant, we were a force to be reckoned with and that needs to come back. If it doesn’t and mediocrity continues to be OK, we can change the picture to a Rose (oh that’s been taken) or a Tulip (taken too) or maybe a chicken (taken too and I will rather stay away from the word cock) or a kangaroo (hmm taken too) or anything else mediocre and benign…. Maybe a Labrador leading a blind man…

Groete uit die woestyn en aan al die Arabiere

H of Arabia





Monday, August 27, 2012

Dinner at Nana's

There was a bit of a foreboding lack of conversation while only the sound of old silver on fine bone china seemed to pierce the thick atmosphere.

Heads were bowed down over the plates, while the butler stepped forward at regular intervals to fill the crystal glasses, which did seem to empty spectacularly fast that evening. No one seemed to want to make eye contact with anyone…

The older man, just released from hospital, cleared his throat, while sucking away at some orange juice, using a straw. Every so often his shoulders would start to shake and at one stage he started to cough as if choking on his mushy peas. He seemed to be crying. Or maybe he wasn't, but he did have to wipe tears from his eyes. He was clearly struggling to hold it together.

The younger of the two elderly gentlemen looked up with some concern, but when the old man seemed to be OK he returned his attention to the Beef Wellington and quickly took a gulp, of his French red wine to hide the sudden smile on his lips.

A slight glance and eye contact between father and son led to more shaking shoulders and some coughing and more clearing of throats and more red wine and orange juice, while the younger one with the large ears' wife elbowed him urgently albeit with a slight grimace and lip biting, which could also have been a smile.

The two much younger men seemed not to want look up and they seemed terrified of what the possible consequences might be, should they relent to the urge.

The oldest man's wife looked up with clear irritation and tapped her fork on her plate to show discontent. There was a strict thin line where her mouth should have been and an angry scowl above her eyes.
The diamond studded tiara on her grey hair seemed to move slightly backwards when she looked up, which made the old man grab his glass of orange juice more vigorously than before and he took several long dramatic gulps, while trying not to look at his wife.

The one much younger man had his wife of little more than a year next to him and below the table she was pinching his thigh, while whispering a warning through her clenched teeth to her husband not to dare look up or cause a scene. This made the man grab his wine glass as well and swallowing much too fast he started to cough as well. Shoulders shaking, while the rest of him looked like it wanted to explode. Tears were now pouring down his cheeks too.

The old woman put down her cutlery with all the grace she could muster and excused herself in a surprisingly calm voice, but those who were gathered in that dining room could hear the thunder and lightning behind it.

As the butler closed the door behind her and her daughter-in-law, who quickly followed her while lightning bolts. shot from her eyes, hit her husband and father-in-law. The two elderly men had to be assisted and supported by the staff to not fall from their chairs, while the waves of laughter burst from them like a wall of water from a broken dam.

The older one of the two younger men couldn't keep it in either even though his beautiful new wife looked at him with murder in her stare, while she got up and walked to the door.

The last thing she noticed before leaving the room was the increasing hysteria in the voices of the three men and the two elderly ones slapping their knees and the table, while screaming over and over: "He was only protecting her…!!!" before exploding in a new fit of hysterical laughter.

The youngest man with the flaming head of hair blushed scarlet flames into his neck and all over his face. Not daring to look up....

Friday, July 27, 2012

Olympic Flame - Baby you can light my fire....!!

What an exiting weekend we have in front of us. Bells were going off all over the place and grass and mud was everywhere and that was only in Hamilton.

Oh and the Sharks travel to Cape Town to weather the Storm(ers).

But the talk of the town except for the robberies BY the banks, mostly unpleasant weather, a double dip in a plummeting economy and understaffed security companies the vibe in the UK is electric with the Olympic Games kicking off officially tonight at some ungodly hour.

The main question, however, was who will light up the flame tonight and how will it be done?

I wanted to put some money on a few bets with a good mix of English tradition and see if I could make some extra pounds off this hype, but none of my suggestions were even remotely on the bookies’ lists of options, so I thought maybe someone out there would want to give me some odds.

Initially I thought something traditional might be just the thing to hype up the... ahm... hype…

Kumar Ravikrishnan of the Curry Box in Little Snoring (Norfolk) could brew up some fiery samples of England’s national dish, force-feed a group of hungry football hooligans with a few spade-fulls and just make them walk past the torch just as the rumbling sounds of their innards become audible. A quick flick of a Bick and Top Johnny Banana, we have combustion. Apparently this would not get past the Health and Safety checks and could cause environmental damage, so it was shot down “in flames” so to speak.

The next attempt was to have Graham Gooch run naked into the arena, with only a cricket bat covering his “wickets” with a helium balloon tied to his… ahm… wickets. This balloon would rub against his moustache constantly and as he runs past the torch, waving excitedly to the crowd, a spark of static electricity would light up the night.

I also thought that putting Hugh Grant in a car with a horny, albeit ugly prostitute, could warm up the atmosphere, but apparently he would struggle to drive and might lose a few inches at the time of ignition.

The Queen of England also came to mind. The suggestion was a lavish carriage covered in faux fur and a white piano, but I was told Candle in the wind brings back too many sad memories. Sorry Elton.

I then wanted Wills to fly his chopper over the stadium, with Harry and his fiery head of hair swinging upside-down on a rope below the aircraft. If that doesn’t get the flame going, nothing will.

One of the most dangerous possibilities, however, would have been to set up a kitchen close to the torch. Get a few burger flippers from McDonald’s, Steers or Wimpy and tell Gordon Ramsay they are competing in master chef and he needs to coach them. I was then told that whatever would flow from Chef Ramsay’s mouth would burn down most of London, so the answer was an emphatic NO!!

But let’s be realistic. The only way to get the flame going, which would not only be effective, but also classy and inspiring, is a pair of skin tight pants. A red rose in the buttonhole of a sports jacket, fill it with Pippa Middleton and ask her to curtsy at the right moment…

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere
H of Arabia

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Barring them from falling is an offence and it's all about being negligent

So it's been all over the news for the past few months. There's been a wave of kids falling from high storey buildings. Killed on impact. Especially in Sharjah.

Doing something about it like trying to prevent these tragedies has now become illegal according to the authorities. What?!!

Yep. Putting up barriers to prevent children from falling off balconies has led to the authorities clamping down on the highly dangerous criminal conduct of several concerned parents and even land-lords.

According to building regulations, all balconies have to be covered by walls at least 1.20 metres tall. That's fantastic as the average four year old is probably about 80 cm tall, if not more. That leaves another 40 cm for the monkey like antics to get onto the ledge and with the average four year old's ability to keep his or her balance on a five cm ledge firmly in mind, chances are that gravity might eventually take its toll and the newspapers will have another tragedy to write about. Oh. And the authorities might have another set of parents to hold in custody for negligence.

Yes. People should not leave their kids home alone in high storey buildings. Yes parents should not put boxes or crates on their balconies, but tables and chairs...? If I had a balcony... oh, I actually have one, I would put some furniture out to have a seat to enjoy the sun and maybe even a high altitude barbecue every so often.

Yes. People should make sure that their children understand the deadly consequences of climbing up the balcony wall and the possibility of falling to the ground floor, but what's this rule about building regulations on putting up barriers to prevent tragedies like children dying after a fall of seven floors?

Yes. Landlords need to be informed of every new attachment or erection attached to their property, but maybe landlords need to see the light and erect the precautions themselves - even at a cost to the lessee if necessary. However, I'm sure no one wants to have the blood of an innocent child on his/her hands if it could have been avoided by putting in place the necessary preventative measures - including proper discipline, but that's another subject for another time....

H of Arabia