The Confed Cup, Lions Tour, Tri-Nations, Wimbledon, Roland Garros (nothing like a fine mist of clay on that buxom Serena Williams to make one appreciate His handiwork eh?) a competitive F1 sans the familiar faces and Peter de Villiers press interviews — the sporting gods have surely looked upon us with great favour this year.
That is except for one little problem — she who must be attended to. That death knell to many a putative afternoon of fun, beer and general bonhomie of the sort that has served mankind so well all these years. Well, no need to worry this year for I have come to your rescue. See below your jail pass to a world of sporting pleasure. A passport to lazy, happy afternoons in the company of those who matter to you the most, your mates. And all you have to do is print, sign, belch on it and you are good to go. Hell, you don’t even need to thank me for it. Or give it to her even, it’s mere — if such a diminutive term could be applied to that of such import — existence implies her happy, willing consent. Fun times, the gods are kind!
For those with severe handicaps on the home front, you know: actually in love with the wife, newly-wed, recently caught cheating, need to save up brownie points for something special — heaven forbid what that could be if not beer and sports. Or if you’ve had the bad fortune to be married to the daughter of a mafioso/taxi owner/Pravin Gordhan in his SARS guise/a judge and you have to adopt a kneeling position and subjugate your pride the below will work best for you (with great thanks my — hopefully — future brother-in-law).
Dear Wife (you of such beauty and grace)
I hereby apply to watch the Champions League final between Manchester United and Barcelona on Wednesday 27th May 2009 at a public venue generally referred to as a pub. The best possible place to watch the match would be at home with my lovely wife by my side but my strong desire to taunt the Manchester United fans when they lose the match has caused me to submit this application.
During the match and the evening in general I commit to thinking about you often and will drink a beer for every time I think of you. Having made such a commitment I know you will be extremely disappointed if I came home having drank only one beer. I will not let you down. After Manure lose the game, I will (against my will, of course) have to stay and celebrate with the guys with whom we would have been in solidarity the whole evening. It would be considered disrespectful for me to depart immediately after the final whistle. In the event of the result not going our way, I may have to stick around to ensure that nobody does anything stupid (like drink themselves silly). I would not be worthy of the title “friend” if I did not see this as my duty. I, however, commit to making it home before the next Champions League final.
Your dear and loving husband (who spends time with you in shopping malls in spite of preferring to be at home watching sport; who sits through soapies when there’s an action movie on the other channel; who has even sat through an episode of Oprah; who has never forgotten your birthday, who ………..)
Yours in humble gratitude
For the rest of us, however, we who take it upon themselves to carry the mantle left to us by those great pioneers who brought the world such advancements as the printing press, guns, sport, organised sport, television, the fermentation process, the mass fermentation and bottling process, televised sports, and of course those Giants amongst men who brought all these to converge in a mass triumph for all bipedal life-forms, the below is more appropriate.
Favoured Wench — names are not necessary. They suggest an element of familiarity which is harmful to the general harmony of a relationship
As you will have noticed in your “Schedule of Upcoming Boyfriend-Centred Events I Need to be Aware of”, this Wednesday evening, the Champions League Final 2009 will be taking place and be televised across the globe in pubs, whorehouses and all other such places where men have to attend to not only allow their women the isolated time and space to contemplate how to better service their men’s needs but also affords men who otherwise have brotherly bonds of healthy male comradeship an opportunity to partake in verbal jousting as they each support their favoured regiment of football warriors and that pansy C Ronaldo and his pet ogre Wayne Rooney.
As you well understand, being well-schooled in the ways of boyfriend need awareness — I make a fine teacher do I not? — it would be most amiss of me to not join my chosen band of liberally hydrated brothers in not only the viewing of such, but also the requisite imbibing of the golden nectar of Olympus, the ambrosia of Valhalla, the flowing life-giving waters of Kwa-Zulu to such an extent as to ensure SAB remain able to maintain their invaluable contribution to the national wealth in these economically turbulent times.
The duration of this imbibing and sporting jousting will be determined by the following objective factors:
1. How long I want to be out.
2. How long my brothers in malted barley beverage ingestion want me to be out.
3. How long the spot stays open
And most importantly,
4. How long I want to be out.
Now given the usual variability in the above factors it would be most irresponsible of me to even begin to guess at a likely Estimated Time of Sozzled Return. Further, as you should be well aware, the making of unsubstantiated promises is one of those “relationship cancers” that I (think) I saw being discussed on Oprah, Noeleen, Takalane Sesame or other such female interest viewing and I for one care too much for you to even dare contemplate bring such into our loving relationship.
Bear in mind as well that given the hallowed nature of such sporting events, it would be most unbecoming of me to be using my mobile for any but the most necessary communications — calling the police, an ambulance, a lawyer, back-up. Indeed it would be the very equivalent of Twittering during Mass, and I know you expect better of me than that and I do not intend to let you down.
Given that I know you will most likely have had a rough day (can’t be easy keeping up with those big, strong and smart men in the office hey?) and be in desperate need of that sleep and rest which maintains that lovely glow on your visage (well over and above the effects of being favoured by one such as I) feel free to not burden yourself with waiting up for me. I will be able to find my way home (home defined here as whichever abode, sheltered or not that Bacchus leads me to rest in) and into whatever sleeping position on whatever piece of furniture I deem comfortable at that point.
A note that a glass of cold water left in the fridge for me would not be unwelcome and would go a long way towards convincing me that spending the following Sunday looking at shiny silver appliances at Boardmans is not the absolute waste of time infallible male logic would suggest it is.
Yours in your eternal validation
The Man Of The House.
DISCLAIMER: Use at own risk. The author and his associates accept no liability for any loss, emotional, physical or otherwise, violent damage and such like that could befall the user of the above. You are on your own. Godspeed.