I'm a snob. There, it's out. I probably can't afford to be one, but, I am.
There are just some items on which one can't compromise. Tomato sauce is one. And mayonnaise. And meat. And cherry tomatoes. And perfume. And face wash and moisturiser. And Vanish. And tampons (I cannot get my head around using a cheaper alternative brand in such an intimate, um, space). And tea, coffee, body wash, deodorant, foundation, mascara, eye shadows and soap. Oh, and those built-in support vests from Woolies. Cannot live without them. Must buy two a month. Have even included them in my budget between Ridiculously Overpriced (But Says On The Pack That It's The Best You Can Give Your Cat) Cat Food and (Crikey Effing Moses! It's Not Like We House A Mechanised Production Line) Electricity. Oh, and butter. I'm a real butter girl.
And so as part of the Mother's Day celebration, The Daughter and I joined The Incubator and The Father on a rugby outing. In, no less, The Father's box. When I tweeted that I was currently sitting in my father's doos sipping wine, I received a barrage of replies along the lines "Too much information" and "if your dad has a doos does that make your mom a dyke?"
(It must just be mentioned that Mother's Day is my most favourite of all the days in the year. I suppose that's because it is the label 'mother' of which I'm most proud. I love the little chick that bestowed that name upon me. Flat out. And also, my mother (The Incubator, for those of you confused) is really the grooviest of all the mothers.)
So there I found myself, in a rugby stadium amongst a bevy of teenage girls wearing shorter shorts than some of the knickers I own, with very little clue about how the game actually works. That's not strictly true. I understand sport. I even learned to shout "Rock On" when someone mishandled the ball and it bounced forward. (Impressive, no?)
But being in a box (I feel awkward just saying that) is all kinds of rad. For starters, my tipples were served in glass. And I didn't have to buy a six-pack per half which I normally have to do when I accompany The Brother on such outings. Also, I didn't have to eat an oil-coated wors roll - the type which satisfies only when one has consumed vast numbers of tequilas. Which, of course, one wouldn't do when one is taking one's daughter on an outing.
But the best part about box-side rugby viewing is the little railing that separates the inner circle from the commoner. It's almost like I was Kate Middleton, separated from the adoring fans but close enough to wave. I say 'separate' but that too is not strictly true: A man who found the sheer expanse of his body could not fit the seat for which he'd parted with hard-earned cash thought it would be far wiser to sit on the stairs just next to me, with only a fine whisp of metal betwixt us.
Man On Stairs: I'm Alfie, pleased to meet you.
I leaned across, arm stretched forwards to have my hand completely swallowed by his giant mit.
The Pant: Pleased to meet you.
My initial response to Alfie was one of removed disdain. I avoided eye contact and tried to involve myself in as many conversations with people on my side of the railing as possible. But the thing with rugby is everyone actually watches rugby. And they are thus less than keen to discuss anything that is not-rugby related. Besides which, when The Pant has a glass of wine in the gullet, she becomes far friendlier.
After the official sinking of the second Castle Lite, I clicked my fingers and Manuel (I'm not sure that this was his name, but let's go with it) arrived with a glass (not plastic!!) of the finest red. At which point the liquor took over, and my efforts to appear snobbish by having good posture and not saying 'fuck' flew out the window.
The Pant: Ok, so Alfie, we're friends, right?
Alfie: Yes, Pat, we are.
The Pant: (over screams of "what the fuuuuck are you doing, Ref?") It's Pant.
Alfie: Yes. Pat. We're mates.
TP: Well, could you quietly, so that nobody can hear you at all. And promise you won't laugh, could you tell me who the (hushed whisper) Sharks are?
Not only did Alfie point out that the team I've been told to support was the guys in black, but he also gave me a little run down on how everything works.
The Pant: Okay, so when the guys in black have the ball I must woop-woop loudly and shout their number? Like, "Go 17 you beauuuuuuuuty"? And then I must air punch several times and shout "hooo hooo hooo" like Julia Roberts did when she was at the polo in Pretty Woman?
Alfie: Yes, that's right.
The Pant: And when the other guys have the ball I must shout things like, "Bliksem him!" and "Moer him, ekse"?
Alfie: You've got it.
The Pant: And then sometimes I should randomly shout, "Get your eyes tested you fucking wanker ref"?
Alfie: Yes, that will do.
TP: And also sometimes I should scream "Rock on!"?
Alfie: Knock on.
TP: That's what I said.
As the game coasted towards a close, Alfie and I moved from the hi-5 to those few (special) times when I kissed his large cheek with such vigour that all eight of his chins wobbled with ecstatic delight. We were so tight by the final whistle that I considered baring my "cleavage" and allowed him to motorboat me.
TP: One more thing, Alfie. Before you go...
He gazed at me with that soft-eyed look of deep love, while taking both my hands in his.
Alfie: Yes, Pat, what is it?
TP: That guy in the black. Number 10 jersey. What's his name?
Alfie: Oh him? That's Patrick Lambie. Only 20 years ol-
Before Alfie could finish his sentence, I'd picked up The Daughter and raced down to the field in lustful pursuit of the little hottie-hot pants. I was panting with the mouth of a tired dog. Classy.
And, so, I've realised that being a snob just doesn't fit in with rugby. And so next time around, I intention to drink draught out of a plastic cup and eat a wors roll. Probably on the steps, next to my Alfie. But in the meantime, I'm just going to sip ever so quietly on my Sri Lankan tea.