A letter to John Smit

Dear John

It is strange to start a letter like that. It has the connotations of a break-up. That we are splitting up, parting ways. Well, in some ways we are. I’m going deep undercover in Australia. For the next while, I will be living like a bogan. I will be wearing the stubbies and drinking from the stubby holder. I will be ferreting in the drainpipe of humanity looking for answers. Don’t ask me why, but accept that is better for the planet that I do this.

But I do have a favour to ask. Whatever happens on Saturday, you have to beat the Aussies. There can be no mistakes this time. We don’t want to be left holding the boot. Because I will be taking the boot if that happens. From every bloody smug Aussie under the Sun. I know rugby union isn’t their biggest sport, but they do like to win, and they do like to tell a man about it.

And I know all about that. I was there in 2003 for that World Cup. Yes, that one. When we were sent packing in the quarterfinals. Oh, lord, did I hear it then. From the Aussies and the English and every other monkey on Bondi Beach. I grinned and smiled and cursed inside. I bought them beers, even when I was the butt of their jeers. Hoping, praying that if I plied them with cheap schooners of lager, they would soften up on the banter. I call it banter but it was more like buggery. Verbal abuse that only got louder with every beer, until I felt like Steve Irwin must felt, when that big stingray stuck a barb through his heart. Those Aussies chucked me on the barbie and left me to braai like a cheap shrimp. I was so deranged from the experience I scuttled off to India to find my soul in the old zol bowl that is Manali and McLeod Ganj. I fell from grace until I hit the deck in Amsterdam. I was lower than sea-level, drowning in my own sorrow. A spent man, all because of the hounding of a pack of two-legged dingoes.

If you’re thinking that’s your problem, not mine, then you need to have a look at this. It’s a tweet from Quade Cooper. He’s been hanging out in Cape Town, eating pizza and going to the movies. Probably went to watch Bambi and laughed at the bit when the little bok’s mum got shot. He would’ve been elbowing his buddy, Kurtley Beale, saying, “Aah, look mate, that little bok needs to harden the fuck up!” Hahaha, popcorn spitting out his mouth everywhere.

And look at this. It’s a photo of him at Bishops school. He saying to the kids, you don’t want to play for the springboks, you want to be awesome like me, and wear this cool vest and little shorts I got.

John, these guys, this guy, needs to be taught a lesson. On Saturday I need you to focus on that little bok and how he felt when the hunters shot his bok-mum’s brains all over the snow. And I want you to get revenge. Do it for Bambi, do it for Victor, do it for the fans, the country, for those boys at Bishops, do it for poor old PdV, hell, do it for me. I know I am being selfish and you have enough problems to worry about. But your shoulders are big and I’m sure there’s enough space up there for my woes.

Bambi, John, Bambi!

Your friend

David

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