Must apologise for absence here - still in Uk on way to Vegas...
There is nothing quite like watching and English football match with the English. For years as a family of English parents and “soutie” children, we have been avid supporters of the Boks and England in whatever sports were playing – we were country proud and exceedingly lucky to be so of two nations…
As you may or may not know, I am currently making my way, literally, across the globe with the final stop on this trip been Las Vegas.
Having to stop briefly off in the UK to fix some passport glitches (read. He hasn’t replaced his UK passport after it was stolen and now its becoming a bit of a nightmare…) I found myself last night staying at my sisters house in Earlsfeild (that’s in London baby!) and spending the day with 5 Saffers who live here and 5 UK wideboys…(who also live here)…well actually they were toffs with plummy voices and nice cars and enough “boys toys” to make your eyes water; but put the soccer on here and the “wideboys” and “diamond geezers” miraculously morph from these London stock brokers and brand managers…and its fantastic to watch!
I was going to watch the game regardless – to be honest I love the World cup and it would have been great to see In-ga-lund go all the way and lift the cup – would be great to see Bafana do it as well one day by the way…
So an invitation to new stockbroker-belt and Lotus and Beemer filled streets was passed onto me – wide screen TV my host says, garden patio and a braai…you cant go wrong can you! Firstly its perfect weather here at the mo – its 30 degrees sunny and a typically English summer…when the weather plays ball here you cant go wrong…sadly its doesn’t happen enough!
Okay there was one glitch here – the “braai-er” was English and he was using a gas braai (barbeque)…not his fault; he can know no better! But to cut what could be a long culinary story short; suffice to say the food was great even if there was a certain element of the “Cajun” look about the chicken…and burgers on the braai?...what is it with the British that they (a) feel the need to Braai a hamburger??? And (b) feel that it should look like a crispy, burnt hockey puk before it is truly ready for human consumption!…I still had three…they were great.
Anyway food and faces truly smashed (not to mention several bottles of Rose – not my normal tipple but when in rome…) we headed to the “grand stadium” that is host’s and Hedgefund managers playground and lounge. Folks I have always believed in bachelor comforts…my pad was set up originally as an acquisition tool for my social life and once the acquisition had been made I turned it into a pad of creature comforts…everything a self respecting bachelor living the high life could require…I was Hugh Grant in “about a boy”…without the kid with the funny haircut obviously…
My host however had taken this to next level – he had not “acquired” on a permanent basis (girls I am talking about you now BTW) but seems to prefer to remain fluid in his choice of female companionship. With this in mind his lounge is like a boys dream – the wall mounted flat screen, surround sound and wireless ipod connection, the carefully stashed away PSII, the L shaped couch…a man after my own heart and the perfect venue to watch Ingalund play.
The point of this story is to make a simple observation about British fans and there sport. We as South Africans are to say the least fanatical about rugby and cricket and of course soccer but I have never in my life seen such pain and anguish suffered by a British world cup football fan.
It’s infectious – everywhere here, people are driving with St Gorges flags flying from their car windows; white and red crosses hang from the houses and very few of the muddy island residents are not wearing some sort of national pageantry in support of the game and team.
It was a mind numbingly and heart pounding game – every moment from Beckham going off, Rooney and his “ball” kicking through to extra time and penalties. The screaming, shouting and pleading with the ref left our mouths and throats in pain. The foot stomping on the lead up to the goal attempts was truly tribal. I have never in my life been so heart pounding-ly pulled into an event – watching it here with the national pride at its height was incredible! I and the rest of the saffers in that room at that moment proud to be British…
And then “we” lost…
Their highs, as with any ups and downs, were equal to their troughs of despair. Blame went everywhere. Portugal’s acting in fouls, Eriksson for been paid 20 mil and not delivering, Rooney for crotch stomping…Posh spice for taking Beckhams manhood away…its true it was discussed!
The quiet in the streets, post-match, was deafening – London was silent…England had returned to its mopey ways almost as fast as it had found its Mojo Saturday morning, in anticipation of battle.
In summation according to many here. Eriksson was shite, Rooney acted like a teenager (he is you know?!) and Ronaldo will never get as far as Manchester to play his next game for United…
In true Saffer style, I caught a cab back to my sisters house with the rest of the SA contingent and we braaid again…we drank beer, cooked the chicken to perfection and talked about the boks and surfing.
Life is good.
