Despite having a name designed to strike fear in their opponents' colon, the Proteas were dumped out of the cricket world cup under freakish circumstances. Again. First it was rain. Then, a tie. Then, a rained out tie. For a team so addicted to bothering God about the miniscule details of every match, such as whether they should bother trying to win or not, this must be disconcerting evidence that The Almighty is Australian. Kylie Minogue's bum alone is a religious experience and major proof of an Aussie divinity.
Ja, I don't like it either, but it's something South Africans are going to have to accept, kinda like your cousin's veggie sausages on the braai. Sinfully, I have spouted anti-antipodean rants myself, but I have seen the light. It spoke to me saying, "Gilchrist - not out!"
For evidence of my depravity, see the archives below for earlier misguided blogs like:
... because unless the world ends on Tuesday...
... because the world needs another conspiracy theory.
So whaddefuck went wrong? Kallis' batting? Donald's Bowling? The main problem was our spin. We employed spin wizards that would have made Shane Warne as confused as upchuck in a tumble dryer, but they weren't on the field. They were giving endless press conferences trying to bamboozle the world that Zimbabwe is filled with happy, if slightly anorexic cricket fans. They were laying down layers of crap about transformation and the African Renaissance until it seemed that the entire continent's fate rested on the shoulders of eleven dumb-ass cricketers who were going to show the world the glory of Africa. No pressure there.
They were front and centre when there was credit to be taken and now? Gone. They're making Bin Laden look conspicuous. I'm too chickenshit to name names, because these are fantastically vengeful people, steeped in the tradition of the inquisition, who would cheerfully hitch my balls to a bus and drive away at speed, but make up your own minds as to whose perpetually oily faces and dodgy personal agendas are slippery as Teflon coated goose shit. No effort was spared to relax our guys by taking their minds off cricket.
Plus we got beat, fair and square. We do have a case for believing our team is literally too dumb to know when to come in out of the rain. Grovelling to Jesus is clearly no substitute for being able to read a score sheet. I did a gig the other night at which a famous ex-cricketer plainly stated that, while the rest of the world was playing according to a system by Duckworth & Lewis, our strategy seems to be worked out by Fuckwit and Clueless.
But if you're South African... and, if you read this, you are. I proclaim it. Take that! ZAP! (Don't whinge about the side effects. The instant 50% drop in your IQ makes pro wrestling a hell of a lot more plausible.) As a South African, you know we never say "die"... Well, we do, it's just that in Afrikaans we pronounce it differently. The cricket boys will be back in 2007, if only to give meteorologists and maths teachers a laugh.
And in case you're wondering, I haven't switched my support to Kenya. I'm watching World Series Jukskei on DSTV.
Al
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