The lady who lives across the road from me has a rooster. This is bizarre enough in suburban Johannesburg, but even more strange is the bird’s internal clock; not for him the usual call for the world to wake at sunrise. No, your lad crows and yodels at all hours; the poor thing must be exhausted. His owner says she thinks he is lonely and needs a hen, I disagree; I think he is terrified of the Vuvuzela.
The Vuvuzela must have been created by Satan; it sounds exactly what I’d imagine the background noise in Hades to be. The strident honk of a monster goose having its leg cut of with a pair of nailclippers. That poor chicken across the road must think the apocalypse is nigh every time he hears this dreadful instrument being blown. And blow it does, with alarming regularity, especially on our State-proclaimed Soccer Fridays.
Yes, every Friday you will see the entire nation dressed in soccer-branded t-shirts, wielding their vuvuzelas. Captains of industry, ordinarily dour of mien, will suddenly draw the thing to their lips and blow with gusto, to the wild merriment of their peers. Schoolchildren will attempt to outdo the noise made by their classmates, their teachers happily joining in.
It’s Friday; there’s a school just four houses away from where I sit.
That rooster is cockle-doodle-doing himself into a frenzy.
This is just the start of the FIFA 2010 World Cup madness; soon the foreigners will flock to our shores and buy vuvuzelas too.
I’m going somewhere quiet, where there is Merlot.
Lots of Merlot.