The Final, Officially Correct Point of View-vuzela
Well, having
shouted my mouth off on other people's spaces (with apologies to
AlanP - Christ I shat myself!!), here I am on my own space
officially open for criticism, and first, I would like to say what
a wonderful, entertaining site Word Cloud is, it has been a
revelation. Thanks everyone!
Right now, I intend to prove conclusively why the vuvuzela should not have been banned at the World Cup, and no, I DO NOT LIKE VUVUZELAS! They are too loud, and I avoid them at all costs because they give me a headache. But then a lot of things give me a headache. For the World Cup I bought a discreet, silent, flashing Bafana Bafana Cap; the lights reflect off the telly and give me a headache. I have a dark green, heavy felt hat with a Springbok embroidered on it, which is for use during rugby matches; it gets extremely hot, and gives me a headache. I do not own the Ghanaian propeller hat depicted on my profile, that picture is a cunning forgery! But I'm sure that, if I did, it would give me a headache - all that whirring about and vibrating, migraine material for sure. Also, our house has ceiling fans with those strings that hang down to switch them on and off, getting caught up in one of those would probably be lethal.
NOW FOR THE POLITICS
After a lot of thought I decided that a short play would be the easiest way to illustrate my (the correct) point of view. I have never written a play, and apologise for incorrect formatting and stuff. If this play is too harrowing and depressing for some readers, I am very sorry.
IT'S NOT FAIR - NOBODY LIKES ME!
A short play by Caf
THE SCENE - TRAFALGAR SQUARE, 1990
The Cast
Theunis van Schalkenboom - A typical white South African
George - An heroic Englishman. Leader of a powerful Anti-Apartheid movement.
ACT 1
Theunis, clad in a pale green, crimplene safari suit, long khaki socks, black leather sandals, and a heavy, dark green felt hat has gate-crashed an Anti-Apartheid Rally. He carries an orange, white and blue flag and a strange, bright yellow, plastic trumpet. He is appealing to George, waving his little flag to better illustrate his point
THEUNIS: Ach, nee, Gerhard, you don't understand! What I'm trying to say is, what happens when they're all free and blowing their vuvuzelas when I'm trying to watch the rugby? I won't be able to hear the ref. let alone our brilliant new chant! Go Bokke! - Go Bokke! - Go Bokke!
Also Mzuzuxwakimetlani, my foreman, has already told me that, as soon as he is free, he is going straight to Cultural Affairs to ban the public braaing of boerewors! Apparently the odour makes his wife nauseous, and the last time she smelt it she vomited all over his new shoes. Worse, he says, is that when she projectile vomits she also farts, a bodily function highly frowned upon in his culture.
Throughout this tirade, George has been fiddling with his protest banner. It is starting to rain, and he is worried the letters may run, which will not look good on the telly. He is very uncomfortable standing so close to THE ENEMY
GEORGE: Now look, er...
THEUNIS: Theunis.
GEORGE: Of course. Now look, Tewnis, we are dealing with very serious moral issues and civil rights here, wors and vuvu... uvuzu...that other thing, are really not my problem. Now why don't you just move quietly along, hmm?
Theunis is crying now, his tears mingle with the soft English rain already darkening his crimplene-clad shoulders. The South African flag, forgotten, trails upside down in a puddle. He wipes his snotty nose with a trembling hand and shows George the plastic trumpet, on it, printed in black, George sees the word "Vuvuzela"
THEUNIS: Please Gerhard, please. I bought this with me, to show you, so that you can hear how loud.. maybe understand... I'm not very good, of course, I can only make about half the noise it's capable of. We never had to bother you see, we just used to ban things, and people, that we didn't like. Once a chap came into my factory blowing a vuvuzela, and I wrapped it round his neck until it looked like a French Horn. It was my God given right! It's in my Bible! But now (he sobs), now, I can feel all our rights, our power slipping away. Gerhard, I am so scared of the future! The terrible, terrible unkown. Aarghh!!!
Theunis falls to his knees, pleading. George is pushing the stake of his banner into the palm of his hand, he is disgusted. Bullies, all the same, weak, scared little people! But he has always admired his own sense of fairness and justice. What if he could make a difference to even one white South African, what a triumph. Move over Nelson Mandela!
GEORGE: Tewnis, you may rise up and play your trumpet!
He is magnificent!
GEORGE: Just be quick about it, it's starting to rain. Maybe later I will find some time to show you around London. Show you how cultures can mix together in a true democracy. We, the English, have achieved this, therefore, it is not impossible. Difficult for some, less enlightened peoples perhaps, but not impossible! Tewnis, arise and blow your horn!!
Theunis, hampered by his large, typically South African, beer belly battles to get up. Eventually he does and raises the trumpet to his quivering lips. He blows a few gentle parps, and then a long, much louder one. Fifty pigeons drop from the sky. Nelson's Column develops ominous cracks. Edwin, the oldest surving member of the protest group, has a heart attack, and survives no more.
George, trying to staunch the blood flowing from his palm where he stabbed himself from fright, suddenly understands. He puts his hand on the South African's shoulder. His blood mingles with Theunis' tears, a powerful symbol of something or other.
GEORGE: Tewnis, as Oprah would say, I have had a lightbulb moment, and I never mind admitting when I am wrong. Worry not, I shall fix all. From this moment forward, we shall protest for equal rights for all South Africans, excluding the right to blow that bloody horrible trumpet. Moreover, for I am a generous man, once you lot have got yourselves all nicely settled in together, I'll pop over and teach the boorish little chaps a few nice, rousing, English songs. Show them exactly how things should be done, they probably don't understand, been isolated from superior cultures for too long. Hey, and how about melting down all those vuvuzelas and making a giant plastic model of The Queen, then we'll all be happy!
Theunis, humbly gripping his felt hat in his hands, exits left.
George has moved himself to tears, he can feel them glistening on his cheeks. God he must look heroic! He turns to address the crowd, unfortunatelY, a third of them are now deaf, a third have headaches and a third are deaf and have headaches. He glances around for Tiffany, his blonde, busty girlfriend, she is not there. He learns from subordinates that she was shat on by a terrified pigeon and went home in a huff. His heroic mood is instantly shattered and he is pissed off because he knows he won't be getting any tonight. Still, professional until the end he addresses anyone in the crowd still in a position to hear him.
GEORGE: Now, all protesters, listen up! Please change your boards to read "Freedom for all South Africans as long as the vuvuzela is banned!" All got that. Jesus Eric, how ignorant are you? V...U...V...U...Z...E...L...A!
What's the problem Doris? Well I can't help it if you do think I'm not being very democratic or tolerant, you know I'm always right. Go and start your own bloody protest group if you don't like it! Yeah, that's right bugger off, bloody liberal! Oh, and Doris, in 2010, when someone's blowing a vuvuzela in your back garden don't come crying to me. Hah, stupid old bat!
Jesus wept Eric, I said V for victory, U for umbrella, V for victory, oh never mind! Christ, sometimes I hate my stuffing life!
Theunis enters left. He is carrying a heavy, battered black and white lever arch file. The corners are all rounded and puffy, and the levers don't match up. He has several blood blisters on his fingers from trying to align the metal prong thingies.
GEORGE: What is it now, Tewnis, can't you see I'm a bit busy at the moment?
THEUNIS: (Trembling) Well, Gerhard, as you've been so enlightened and understanding about the vuvuzela, I thought you wouldn't mind looking through my file. There are lots of other things, we white South Africans are concerned about, like slaughtering ......
George completely loses it.
GEORGE: Tewnis, here's an idea, why don't you just fuck off back to the bloody jungle?
George drops to the floor and assumes the foetal position. Theunis slowly turns to walk away.
The curtain falls.
THE END
Caf : - ))
Right now, I intend to prove conclusively why the vuvuzela should not have been banned at the World Cup, and no, I DO NOT LIKE VUVUZELAS! They are too loud, and I avoid them at all costs because they give me a headache. But then a lot of things give me a headache. For the World Cup I bought a discreet, silent, flashing Bafana Bafana Cap; the lights reflect off the telly and give me a headache. I have a dark green, heavy felt hat with a Springbok embroidered on it, which is for use during rugby matches; it gets extremely hot, and gives me a headache. I do not own the Ghanaian propeller hat depicted on my profile, that picture is a cunning forgery! But I'm sure that, if I did, it would give me a headache - all that whirring about and vibrating, migraine material for sure. Also, our house has ceiling fans with those strings that hang down to switch them on and off, getting caught up in one of those would probably be lethal.
NOW FOR THE POLITICS
After a lot of thought I decided that a short play would be the easiest way to illustrate my (the correct) point of view. I have never written a play, and apologise for incorrect formatting and stuff. If this play is too harrowing and depressing for some readers, I am very sorry.
IT'S NOT FAIR - NOBODY LIKES ME!
A short play by Caf
THE SCENE - TRAFALGAR SQUARE, 1990
The Cast
Theunis van Schalkenboom - A typical white South African
George - An heroic Englishman. Leader of a powerful Anti-Apartheid movement.
ACT 1
Theunis, clad in a pale green, crimplene safari suit, long khaki socks, black leather sandals, and a heavy, dark green felt hat has gate-crashed an Anti-Apartheid Rally. He carries an orange, white and blue flag and a strange, bright yellow, plastic trumpet. He is appealing to George, waving his little flag to better illustrate his point
THEUNIS: Ach, nee, Gerhard, you don't understand! What I'm trying to say is, what happens when they're all free and blowing their vuvuzelas when I'm trying to watch the rugby? I won't be able to hear the ref. let alone our brilliant new chant! Go Bokke! - Go Bokke! - Go Bokke!
Also Mzuzuxwakimetlani, my foreman, has already told me that, as soon as he is free, he is going straight to Cultural Affairs to ban the public braaing of boerewors! Apparently the odour makes his wife nauseous, and the last time she smelt it she vomited all over his new shoes. Worse, he says, is that when she projectile vomits she also farts, a bodily function highly frowned upon in his culture.
Throughout this tirade, George has been fiddling with his protest banner. It is starting to rain, and he is worried the letters may run, which will not look good on the telly. He is very uncomfortable standing so close to THE ENEMY
GEORGE: Now look, er...
THEUNIS: Theunis.
GEORGE: Of course. Now look, Tewnis, we are dealing with very serious moral issues and civil rights here, wors and vuvu... uvuzu...that other thing, are really not my problem. Now why don't you just move quietly along, hmm?
Theunis is crying now, his tears mingle with the soft English rain already darkening his crimplene-clad shoulders. The South African flag, forgotten, trails upside down in a puddle. He wipes his snotty nose with a trembling hand and shows George the plastic trumpet, on it, printed in black, George sees the word "Vuvuzela"
THEUNIS: Please Gerhard, please. I bought this with me, to show you, so that you can hear how loud.. maybe understand... I'm not very good, of course, I can only make about half the noise it's capable of. We never had to bother you see, we just used to ban things, and people, that we didn't like. Once a chap came into my factory blowing a vuvuzela, and I wrapped it round his neck until it looked like a French Horn. It was my God given right! It's in my Bible! But now (he sobs), now, I can feel all our rights, our power slipping away. Gerhard, I am so scared of the future! The terrible, terrible unkown. Aarghh!!!
Theunis falls to his knees, pleading. George is pushing the stake of his banner into the palm of his hand, he is disgusted. Bullies, all the same, weak, scared little people! But he has always admired his own sense of fairness and justice. What if he could make a difference to even one white South African, what a triumph. Move over Nelson Mandela!
GEORGE: Tewnis, you may rise up and play your trumpet!
He is magnificent!
GEORGE: Just be quick about it, it's starting to rain. Maybe later I will find some time to show you around London. Show you how cultures can mix together in a true democracy. We, the English, have achieved this, therefore, it is not impossible. Difficult for some, less enlightened peoples perhaps, but not impossible! Tewnis, arise and blow your horn!!
Theunis, hampered by his large, typically South African, beer belly battles to get up. Eventually he does and raises the trumpet to his quivering lips. He blows a few gentle parps, and then a long, much louder one. Fifty pigeons drop from the sky. Nelson's Column develops ominous cracks. Edwin, the oldest surving member of the protest group, has a heart attack, and survives no more.
George, trying to staunch the blood flowing from his palm where he stabbed himself from fright, suddenly understands. He puts his hand on the South African's shoulder. His blood mingles with Theunis' tears, a powerful symbol of something or other.
GEORGE: Tewnis, as Oprah would say, I have had a lightbulb moment, and I never mind admitting when I am wrong. Worry not, I shall fix all. From this moment forward, we shall protest for equal rights for all South Africans, excluding the right to blow that bloody horrible trumpet. Moreover, for I am a generous man, once you lot have got yourselves all nicely settled in together, I'll pop over and teach the boorish little chaps a few nice, rousing, English songs. Show them exactly how things should be done, they probably don't understand, been isolated from superior cultures for too long. Hey, and how about melting down all those vuvuzelas and making a giant plastic model of The Queen, then we'll all be happy!
Theunis, humbly gripping his felt hat in his hands, exits left.
George has moved himself to tears, he can feel them glistening on his cheeks. God he must look heroic! He turns to address the crowd, unfortunatelY, a third of them are now deaf, a third have headaches and a third are deaf and have headaches. He glances around for Tiffany, his blonde, busty girlfriend, she is not there. He learns from subordinates that she was shat on by a terrified pigeon and went home in a huff. His heroic mood is instantly shattered and he is pissed off because he knows he won't be getting any tonight. Still, professional until the end he addresses anyone in the crowd still in a position to hear him.
GEORGE: Now, all protesters, listen up! Please change your boards to read "Freedom for all South Africans as long as the vuvuzela is banned!" All got that. Jesus Eric, how ignorant are you? V...U...V...U...Z...E...L...A!
What's the problem Doris? Well I can't help it if you do think I'm not being very democratic or tolerant, you know I'm always right. Go and start your own bloody protest group if you don't like it! Yeah, that's right bugger off, bloody liberal! Oh, and Doris, in 2010, when someone's blowing a vuvuzela in your back garden don't come crying to me. Hah, stupid old bat!
Jesus wept Eric, I said V for victory, U for umbrella, V for victory, oh never mind! Christ, sometimes I hate my stuffing life!
Theunis enters left. He is carrying a heavy, battered black and white lever arch file. The corners are all rounded and puffy, and the levers don't match up. He has several blood blisters on his fingers from trying to align the metal prong thingies.
GEORGE: What is it now, Tewnis, can't you see I'm a bit busy at the moment?
THEUNIS: (Trembling) Well, Gerhard, as you've been so enlightened and understanding about the vuvuzela, I thought you wouldn't mind looking through my file. There are lots of other things, we white South Africans are concerned about, like slaughtering ......
George completely loses it.
GEORGE: Tewnis, here's an idea, why don't you just fuck off back to the bloody jungle?
George drops to the floor and assumes the foetal position. Theunis slowly turns to walk away.
The curtain falls.
THE END
Caf : - ))
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Pedro, Diego, Fernando, Eduardo, Manfredo and Stan have brought their instruments to the Mexico v Argentina match and are assembling themselves to support their team in the same way that they, and their antecedents, have for years. Pedro, Diego and Stan have trumpets, Eduardo and Fernando play guitar and Manfredo plays a big drum. They all wear outrageously large sombreros to make it clear that they support Mexico. Together they are known as Los Muchachos and they are famous throughout the world for their entertaining musical accompaniment to the Mexico games. At great personal cost, the minimum wage in Mexico being indeed minimal, they have travelled across the world to support their team at the FIFA world cup, having paid their money to FIFA, who have, using the money earned from all over the world, including that of Los Muchachos, paid South Africa to host the tournament and have also built many sports stadia for them, which unlike their balls, they will not be taking home.
“Ai Ai, Caballeros” said Fernando.” How will we be heard above the Vuvuzela noise of twenty thousand plastic horns?
“But it’s our right to play our music in public”, argued Stan. “Surely they will respect that right, at least at our own matches”
“Indeed,” said Diego. “After all we were repressed for many years by the Conquistadors until we threw off the Spanish yoke and gained our freedom. Our country is weak because we were economically held back for so many years. But at least we have the right to play our music at the Mexico games, eh Caballeros? Hah, those Argentinean supporters. They aren’t nearly so talented. We support our team and it lifts them to victory”.
Si si, echoed Eduardo. It’s lucky we aren’t playing an African team today, or they would be justified in bringing out their Vuvuzelas and we’d stand no chance”
Manfredo paused. “But I hear tell that they bring their Vuvuzelas to any game and will drown out all thought processes until our brains boil”.
“But surely it’s how they support their own teams,” Stan mused. “Why would they bring them to a South American match?”
Manfredo shook his head. “I think that they don’t regard this as an international tournament. They seem to think it’s theirs alone”
“Well,” said Diego, the leader. “We will just do our best and hope for tolerance for all”
And so it came to pass that as Los Muchachos were leaning on their instruments, blown to ineffective exhaustion, Carlos Tevez, skilful and fast Argentine striker that he is, headed in the first goal from a position clearly two yards or more offside. The linesman, bleeding from the ears, head pounding from the blast of a thousand Vuvuzela’s was not up with play and did not raise his flag.
“Arrghh,” bellowed Manfedo barely making himself heard to Diego just next to him. “That was way offside and I can’t even make my protest heard over these blasted horns.”
The linesman was at that moment popping another aspirin and coming to terms with the fact that he should be being booed from the ground. Normally he would be roundly abused, but fortunately the tone and volume of the horns continued and saved his finer sensibilities. Exquisitely grateful for being permanently deafened he continued to do his ineffective best for the rest of the ninety minutes, at the end of which Mexico lost.
After the match, still shouting to each other as their ears would be ringing for at least a day or two yet, Los Muchachos were discussing the game over a beer:
“That Tevez goal changed everything. It shouldn’t have been allowed. And we couldn’t even try to lift our lads with some stirring traditional Mexican music because of those Vuvuzelas. Why why why?” bemoaned Diego.
It was Fernando who summed it up. “Yes, but Carlos Tevez plays for Manchester City. They are an English club. Everything is the fault of the English and that is why they blow the Vuvuzelas”
“Oh, that’s alright then” said Diego. Let’s go home shall we.
Also, I don't know if you noticed, but the English, when their team were playing well, managed to be heard above the vuvuzelas. And, some more stroking, the English fans were terrific, they seemed to have an absolute blast! (Get it??)
Thanks for taking the time to comment, really enjoyed your story!!
Caf
Loved both these stories. Though I didn't really understand much in either of them since my brains were scrambled by the noise of those bleddy vuvu's.
Caf X
As it happens I can tolerate other people being wrong. It happens a lot, you know. So, that's all settled, I hope.
You and your vuzuleva . . . vuzluvela . . . vulzevula . . . thing, versus me and my Mk II Combat Telecaster + 100W Marshall. We'll see whose brain bleeds the mostest!
Caf
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