Is local really lekker?

It’s true, the Armchaired One is throwing his not-so-insignificant weight around. Why, just the other day he left his usual spot in front of the telly and went to watch the real thing.

In the heart of Chatsworth. Yebo.

This was all in the name of curiosity, you see. Somehow, the Armchaired One even snaffled himself a VIP seat, complete with a home-team shirt emblazoned with the superstitious number 17 on it.

And the name “SHAD” printed on it, but that is another story altogether — and one which may require several pages of careful explanation!

Back to the game, which was a tasty PSL treat between some not-so-Golden Arrows and some errant Chiefs.

Perhaps it is wise to explain the Armchaired One’s woeful knowledge of the local game. At his place of work, it is the white dude who focuses on local soccer, and the darkie who deals with the foreign fare.

Yep, it is rather bizarre, but nevertheless a fine example of Tata Madiba’s rainbow nation.
The quizzical looks that fly across the room as I entered the seriously limited VIP box were rather off-putting.

Maybe my ears deceived me, but I could swear I caught whiffs of “Is he lost?” and “Does that mean Archie is really fired?”

I don’t even know Archie!

I was just a brother trying to get some diski education. Anyway, once the biltong and pleasantly elaborate cheeseboard had been dealt with, it was all eyes on the game. That is if they weren’t shifting nervously at the baying mob who were only a disconcertingly thin window away.

The barriers between pampered and pestered should really be redesigned. That was simply too close for comfort. Now, really, back to the game. It may have taken nearly a quarter of a century of a rather eventful life to figure this one out, but me thinks I know why I prefer SuperSport 3 to Diski 4 when seated upon my perch.

Maybe it is down to early exposures to muggings, taxi drivers and politicians’ promises, but the strikers in this country’s game are about as composed as an illegal immigrant halfway through the Kruger, in the middle of the night!

Time after time, someone would be one-on-one with the keeper. Again and again, yours tearfully would rise, ready to embrace diski and scream “Local is Lekker!”

And every time it was the same sigh, groan, scream and shocking expletive that would follow as a shot sailed into the Chatsworth night sky.

I am sorry, credit crunch or not, one would rather cut out the Chicken Licken wings and delve into some male mugodu, which was on offer in our box, in order to afford DStv rather than bear witness to that truly woeful finishing.

Hawu, you may say. It is true. It seems most of our chappies need to go back to Finishing School. And no Miss Cronje, that is not a low blow fired at our fine education system. I mean finishing, you know. How to bury a half-chance when in the 18-yard area.

I don’t know how, but this education needs to happen quickly. The world is coming to see us just now.

Perhaps a day with the aforementioned taxi drivers would help, for surely there are no deadlier gap-takers in the game!

As for my experience in the box, well let’s just say some harsh lessons were learnt. Firstly, don’t go to such games with Champions League expectations. You will leave deflated.

Also, don’t annoy the unlucky thousands on the other side of the window by chewing seductively slowly on your complimentary chocolate. They are usually parked next to you.

And finally, and really most importantly, do not ever make the mistake of eating a cheese whose name you cannot readily pronounce!

Trust me.