The World Cup of Kak

There are no such things as allies in competitive sport, I bravely argue. Bugger team work, everyone who is paid to play a sport couldn't actually give a toss about their team mates. It's about the me and the "I" in team is really there - you just have to read between the letters. T-E-A-M, scramble the letters and you get ME. In true sports metaphors, you can explain away the T and the A by saying they were put on the bench, while M and E are played extensively, come rain, snow or injury.
That one vein in my head (I shall name it Greg) pounds like a death metal drummer when a sports star appears on TV, trying to foist on me shampoo, insurance or burgers. That's fine, it's all about the cash and the egos. But what point is there in a sporting schleb "endorsing" a charity? My heart almost beats custard at the sight of the hottest rugby star signing a ball for a child with some crinically depressing and deadly disease, then whizzing off to a photo shoot where his vanity is stroked and air-brushed. Ag shame se moer. lLt's just drop the act and move on. It reminds me of politicians swanning about a newly built children's ward in Bospisskraal in the middle of Vokken-ver-genoer, a fake smile plastered on their face. We all now in those cases, it's probably the free finger snacks and business class ticket which was the main attraction for the politican's attendance. Kissing babies and patting backs it's all in a days work for a politician.
With the Rugby World Cup gripping the nation I'm reminded of how fickle we are. We soon forget how pointless sports stars are as we cheer and roar at a TV screen. Our minds are sidetracked by strange looking balls, booze, hormones and a sudden onset of window-dressing patriotism. Suddenly, we couldn't care if a Springbok player is promoting pimple cream. As long as they are scoring tries and saving rain forests. It's now about national pride, patriotism and biltong. Back to the paralells with politicains and again we easily forget their futility. Some of them get a few minutes every so often to grandstand in Parliament, that not-so verdant sports field. The only balls needed for their game are brass ones, not necessarily exclusively attached to men. The only colours they see are party colours. Green, black, gold, blue, white, take your pick. And you don't need a contract to hold them accountable. Just the ability to lie with a smile on your face and so signs of an itching conscience will secure you a spot in the opening line-up.
At least with sports people, there every move is monitored, on the playing field. Try to cheat and you do so at your own peril. Politicians games are held behind closed doors or in the "locker room", usualy their office or expensive eating spots, where the only stretching ahead of the game is that of their imaginations and wallets.
In a few short weeks the RWC will be over. Wives and girfriends will rejoice at the return of their partners attention. Sporting jingoism will retreat and our miserable existences will drag on... as will those of politicians. Therr lying, cheating and other assorted skullduggery is never restricted to sporting events.