Rugby season and a relentless build-up to another World Cup bring us superb athleticism, human drama and preternatural ball control... all the reasons I love watching porn.
I admit the comparison isn't perfect, American football, with its penile helmets, makes a better image. Our guys don't bother with the headgear; a 3-inch thick skull protecting an oval shaped amoeba obviates the need for them. And American cheerleaders have actually made real, classic blue movies, whereas ours just dance like they'd do anything for the free bus ride out of Bloemfontein.
But despite the endless opportunities for making cheap sex gags, I just know I'm going to hate the whole rugby season rigmarole. It's not the actual sport I have a problem with. It's fast paced, violent and dispenses fun in an unevolved, tribal way, like reading the Old Testament. What I am developing a deep loathing for are those fans who are so desperate for tribal affiliation that they all wear the same rugby t-shirts, jerseys, hats, socks, anoraks and whatever else can be branded in every shopping mall, cinema, club, bar, traffic intersection and post office queue. It's obviously too much to ask them to keep it confined to the privacy of their homes, sports clubs, radio stations and 9 TV channels.
In the supermarket aisle I'm constantly picking my way around 120kg of bovine indifference wearing genuine (bought from the vendor at the traffic lights) Springbok jerseys. They're easily the most impressive physical specimens in the place, if you like your men super-sized and strong and dead at 45 from a coronary and the rugby gear makes them look even tougher. But what's the point? This is South Africa. You're expected to support the Springboks! You'd look tougher wearing an Aussie jersey. I got into trouble just wearing a different shirt on a big match day even though we weren't actually in the stadium. Okay, the "Gay Vegetarian Atheists for Robert Mugabe" slogan might have had something to do with it, but still... Some schlub pulls up next to me at a petrol station and accuses me of not having green blood like everybody else. Green blood, the new rallying cry of rugby.
"Hoekom is jou bloed nie groen nie?" (Why don't you have green blood?)
I guess if I did, that would make me some sort of exotic insect instead of a garden-variety moron like you.
It's the kind of playful repartee you hear on the road now that most bars are installing Imax sized TV sets so that drunks with masculinity issues can be maximally hyped up before they get into their cars and face the traffic. Watching rugby, the sport where you all wear the same colour and beat the crap out of everybody who looks different is tailor made to bring out the worst instincts in liquored up, white South Africans. And yes, I know there have been huge efforts put in to popularise the game amongst other races. Massive amounts of money has gone into getting people in townships interested in kicking and passing and diving headfirst between another man's buttocks, but most of them seem allergic to stupidity.
Ah well, time to confess. Call me unpatriotic, but if the competition gets interesting, I'll watch the games with a boozed up tear in my eye like I did in '95. And I'll cheer for the Springboks or Proteas or whatever we call them that week. You know who I mean, the okes with the green insect blood. Maybe if each player had 6 legs and 2 pairs of wings, we might even win.
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