Across South Africa there is a feeling of dissent growing. As men gather around the television, grumbling wives are eyeing uncut grass with concern. They know there are still weeks to go before their men even think of looking at a lawnmower, let alone use one.
And pools are beginning to turn that slightly mouldy green colour. It’s not looking good on the home front.
It’s the Rugby World Cup and most men, especially Afrikaans men, have built — or are in the process of building — a semi-temporary home in front of the television.
Yet the picture is somewhat clichéd as I found out this weekend. It’s wrong to assume these days that all males in South Africa, especially white males, are rugby-mad.
My husband, I thought, was one of the few men who actually believed that (Richie) McCaw was a parrot and not an All Black flank. He happily switched the channel to a good movie — in the middle of an Argentina try against France.
But there are more men like that to be found. At a braai this weekend we discovered an Afrikaner male who could name only Schalk Burger and Bryan Habana in the squad. And he thought Joost van der Westhuizen had a good chance of being man of the tournament this year.
There were more than a few sniggers going round the braai from the rugby-crazy males. Another story told reluctantly by one of the deeply religious rugby followers — he bought a blue Toyota Hilux just so that he could tie horns to the car whenever his beloved Blue Bulls play — was how his father mowed the lawn during the 1995 World Cup. He whispered it as if it was a terrible family secret.
And a certain known Afrikaner trade unionist once told the story that he was offered tickets to the same final in one of the poshest suites at Ellis Park, only to forget about it. In the middle of the game, while he was snoring away, his upset host called him to inquire why he never pitched for the game. He says that to this day he has not been forgiven for his sin.
During last weekend’s game against Samoa, we once again attended a braai. (These events seem to accumulate exponentially during World Cups.) By the time the game started, wine and food had been well enjoyed and both my hubby and I were more than a bit sleepy. Still, when the Bokke are playing, a shot of adrenaline is more than enough to keep me on the edge of the seat.
Not so for hubby. While referee Paul Honiss and the Samoans’ aggressive display were working up our hosts and other guests, he was nodding and snoring away in the corner. He woke up only when one of our more boisterous friends informed him — with some colourful language — that the Samoans had just scored.
But it is etiquette in our circles that you at least make an effort. That is why my father-in-law sits through game after game, even though he would rather be reading a good book, and why another of our friends religiously reads the sports pages on a Sunday afternoon so that he can talk to co-workers on a Monday morning.
At the moment we are rotating the World Cup braais, but sadly (or is it fortunately) there will be no braais hosted at our home during this time. We are braai pariahs. First we braai on gas and then — the biggest sin of all — we do not subscribe to DStv or even M-Net. This means that this month will not only be a month of rugby, but also of no dishes. Hail the Rugby World Cup!