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15 Jun 2010 16:26
I’m going shopping for my World Cup regalia. After the flags comes the clothing.
But I have yet to see sexy T-shirts.
I made the mistake of not buying the sexy types in Rio. No, I don’t support only Brazil, but those Brazilians really know how to make women’s T-shirts—so sexy they make even the anti-poverty campaigns that my dowdy old NGO arranges look fashionable. Women’s T-shirts, especially ones made for adult women with two tummies like me, should be fitted at the top, widen towards the waist and—voila!—you’ve got sexy! Not these long sacks called T-shirts for sale here—they’re one shape, look grungy on every single wearer and make your two tummies look like five. I don’t do ugly. Not at this age.
The best little T-shirts I’ve seen so far are for — Brazil! I’m not making this up. They’re delightful. Black. Tiny colourful sequins making up the Brazilian logo. Shapely. How can you compare this with the yellows, reds and other gaudy colours on the market?
I will give the famous vuvuzela a miss. This is a weapon of tranquillity destruction that I still don’t get. Sepp Blatter, Danny Jordaan and everyone else’s too loud protestations aside, I dislike the vuvuzela. I stand to be lynched for saying this in public, I know, but extremely loud noise just doesn’t add value to the beautiful game. Sorry. Give me the stereotypical singing, gyrating African any day of the week and I am game.
Ditto the face paint. Why go out into the world with all that gunk on one’s visage? The whole point of turning up at any stadium—unless one’s brother/lover/friend is playing—is to see and be seen. Yes, well, and to cheer. But you can’t do it in style with your national flag painted on your face. Unless of course you have issues with your own visage, in which case you are forgiven for wanting to hide it in black, green and red.
Which is where my problem has been in the run-up to this 2010. Very little media coverage has been speaking to me as a female soccer fan. From the testosterone-filled advertisements featuring yesterday’s players to the endless Fifarisation of the entire country (with Blatter as the main act), very little has said to me as a woman, ‘we want you to enjoy this too”. It’s all about and for men.
Occasionally there’s an ad making fun of big women playing some grotesque imitation of soccer—and this in a country where the average dress size is 18 to 20!
But suddenly this month a sliver of light appeared in the form of the latest Vanity Fair. Yeah, goddesses! Where have you been? The cover alone makes me so glad to be here to witness this World Cup.
Down here in the girls’ locker room the excitement and fever are all about the legs that will be on display for an entire month. Those muscles. Those little shorts. Finally we girls get to gawk at this veritable flesh market—for a change. And we love it.
The competition is not about who plays the best footie—that is the sideshow. I am running my own parallel competition and for this I won’t need a Fifa licence. I just need a following. So here we are, dear friends. It is time to select:
I am taking leave from June 11. I have front-row seats—in my lounge, at the club across the road where I’m a member, and at the giant screens in the piazzas of the Melrose Arch mall and Sandton Square. I will wander to the public parks on some days.
May the most gorgeous men win!
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