Oops, I did it again. I went to the rugby - an environment expressly designed for women of a contrary nature to mine. But The Daughter loves the rugby and I'm trying to get Ross Skeate to take me on a date so I had to swallow my pride and ascend the stadium spiral to The Father's box dressed in more layers than was comfortable.
I settled the children into their seats with their cans of fizzy drinks and quickly ducked out back for one of my final cigarettes. And that's when it happened. A fifty-year old man with an apparent penchant for lying in sunbeds approached me. This was like a pukka divorcee. His shirt was unbuttoned an extra three holes, his neck was adorned by such a thick gold chain that I was surprised he didn't have graze marks on his chin and his jeans were so tight that I could tell his religion from thirty paces.
Fifty-Year Old With Thick Gold Chain: (motioning to his cigarette). Also a smoker?
The Pant: (taking drag of cigarette). Apparently.
FYOWTGC: Do you come here often?
TP: (Really?). Not really.
FYOWTGC: I do. Just bought into this box with Gary Teichmann. After my business was listed sixth on the JSE.
TP: Lovely.
FYOWTGC: So, what do you do?
Blah blah blah...
FYOWTGC: Ja, I've been divorced two months now.
TP: (Very effing loud alarm bells. Larry, again, just a freak and nowhere near as scrummy) I'm sorry to hear that.
FYOWTGC: No. It's okay. I'm completely over my wife. The divorce was a long time coming.
TP: Yeah. Um... You're not.
FYOWTGC: No I am. Seriously. Just spent three weeks up in Mozam. Spent a lot of time thinking and I'm over her.
TP: Um... Look, FYOWTGC-
FYOWTGC: It's Ben.
TP: Listen, Ben. I've spent the past 18 months surrounded by divorcees, and you're not over it. In fact, judging by your kit and those delightful Buffaloes you're wearing, which, by the way, were only fashionable in Benoni during the late '90s rave scene, you are most certainly just getting into it.
Ben: Really?
TP: Truly. In fact, I can tell you exactly how it's going to go. You're going to meet a girl who is way more fun than your wife ever was-
Ben: No. I mean the shoes. They're really not fashionable?
TP: No, lovey. They're not.
Ben: So, are you coming to One Stop after the game?
TP: I'm wearing Ugg Boots, forty-seven layers of clothing, my hair is tied up and I've come to this match accompanied by my four-year old Daughter. I'm going directly home after this.
Ben: Your shoes are great. Although I would like to see you with your hair down.
TP: (eyeing his grey-with-blonde-streaks mullet) and I'd like to see you with your hair up.
Ben: Um. Well, I'll tell you what. You take my car - it's a Kompressor by the way-
(Successful restraint from violently moving right hand in manner of wanker)
Ben: ...go drop the kids off, dicky yourself up, and come back and meet me.
TP: Um. I'm going to take a cab home, thanks.
Ben: But how can I be certain you'll be back?
TP: You can't.
Ben: Well, give me your number at least.
TP: Sure. It's 555-653-6985.
Ben: Well, let me just missed call you so you can ring me when you get back here.
TP: Um... Did I say 555-653-6985? (Bugger.). That's my old number. (So caught!). My new one is ...
Phone: (Adele) I heard that you're settled down, that you found a girl and you're married no-ow-ow-ow.
TP: Well, I'll let you know if I'm coming back, Ben.
Ben: Great. You shouldn't be more than half an hour, hey?
TP: And you said you were married? To a woman? Ready in half an hour? Pffffft.
After a hot bath with my girl, I dressed into pyjama bottoms and settled into Ricky Gervais's Animals, and nodded off into the deepest sleep.
I awoke to two texts this morning:
1) You are missed. Sleep tight Pant. Good meeting you.
and 2) I recall having met a very sexy mom last night . I also recall that i may have been a strong contender to win the idiot of the night award. If there is a chance for me to see you again it would be great : ) Ben.
If I did reply, it would go something along the lines of:
Yes you did. Regards, Pant.
Showing posts with label Rugby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rugby. Show all posts
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Meet Pat, The (Ex) Snob.
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.
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.
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