The Night the Vuvuzela Died

As I dragged my beer-burdened body to bed after having witnessed an historical and grossly ignominious defeat of Bafana Bafana, I somehow still managed to ponder the deeper things of life - How will I ever be able to work off my slowly-developing beer boep? Hahahahaha, no seriously, apart from being forlorn over excess and over-indulgence it dawned on me that this is it, it's now over. Well, it's over for those of us pure bred South Africans,recently inducted into soccer fervour and an alien, perfunctory sense of patriotism. If you fit into this category, like I do,your World Cup is over.

I slouched off to bed after the Uruguay/Bafana game (which shall be referred to from here on in as 'that game') and even amid my fatigue (brought on by booze and despondency) I noticed distinct silence which pervaded the streets of Cape Town (or at least my street). The vuvuzela had died. It had been slaughtered, chopped up into pieces and was now stewing in a crucible of national despair along with our country's pride and freedom. In the dying minutes of that game, it was agonising and embarrassing to see the stands at Loftus Versfeld slowly empty as disgusted former-Bafana supporters evacuated the stadium, fleeing to hide and lick the wounds on their misguided, desperate national pride.

Questions like: Was it a fair game? Who the fuck does that referee think he is? Will grow into stentorian groans and replace the bleating vuvuzela from here on in. Sure there'll be the odd bleat, but will it be from a South African-owned vuvuzela? Yes and no. As a country we know how to get up off the ground, dust ourselves off and to move on. We've been doing it for much of the country's history. The fact we had our arses and pride handed to us by a soccer team from a country barely the size of the Free State will make the wounds sting a little more. But we have little choice but to get over it and to drink more, eat more, have more sex, do more drugs, anything to numb the pain and the hatred for this small little South American nation and an even smaller Swiss referee. The vuvuzela will still sound off liberally throughout the World Cup, but it will have a desperate tone added to it. A tone which will only be able to slightly raise our spirits. It will become an instrument of drunken whimsy, employed by fans who've had one too many and think blowing a vuvu off is still fun. It can also now be used as an instrument of torture. Imagine a vuvuzela enema being performed on that red-card happy Swiss referee. Zealous Bafana fans can use it as a knobknierrie, wielding it with rage. I'm opting for the latter alternate use of our national musical instrument. At least with violence we see definitive results