2010 is here!

Before you think I have lost my marbles, I am not just talking about the year, 2010 AD. I am talking of THE 2010. Let me school you if you are uninitiated. 2010 here in Saath Efrika refers to the Soccer World Cup, which kicks off a week from today.
That is how everyone here talks about the footie-fest. About a year ago, I watched coverage of a strike by workers in an industry I can not recall. Several of the strikers kept threatening that if they didn't get their dues then "2010 will not come! We will stop this 2010! The government must ekt (act), now, or this 2010 is not going to happen!" For a few days after that I wandered about in a daze, seriously fearing the supernatural power of these folks to actually stop a whole year from "coming".
So here we are. The Brazilian World Cup has come to our African shores. Yes I just called it the Brazilian World Cup, because that is what the kids in Recife told me it is called. I met three groups of children and youths on my visit there in April. As soon as they heard I lived in South Africa the kids were ecstastic. Their teachers asked them if they knew what was happening in Afrique de Sud. "Yes, the Brazilian World Cup!", they chimed more than three times. I am with them on that one. Ooops. I am supposed to be non-aligned right?

2010 is finally so close. I can see it coming. I can feel it. I can touch it. I can taste it. The entire country is in a frenzy. Everywhere you look, it's all about the cup. We are drowning in cup fever. I have been calm these last six months. I even pretended it wasn't such a big deal. Yet here I am with my temperature rising as if I am on one of the teams. I can not help myself. I love soccer. Ever since my late brothers got me to watch matches every Sunday on tv, or in stadiums, that many decades ago, I have been hooked. This is one sport I actually follow and even understand. Well, except for that one offside rule that was introduced way after Jabu (the soccer star of my two brothers), hung up his boots and joined the angels.
I keep calling it the "new" offside rule and everyone born after 1975 pulls a face when I say it. As if to suggest I am one slice short of a sandwich. S'tru, there is a new offside rule, which I still don't get.

Back to the cup fever. It was only this week that it suddenly hit me, I am actually not prepared for this world cup. On Sunday I arrived back from a three week safari in Kenya. Driving down the R24 from ORT (I know it is disrespectful but ORT means Oral Rehydratation Therapy where I come from)...I mean the airport, not the sugar and salt solution...I was finally gripped by this fever in my bones. Dozens of flags are flying beautifully all the way down the road. I started counting how many I could recognize. Sad to say I only managed the African ones and the Union Jack. Bad bad Anglophile Miss EJ.
The flags look so beautiful. The last time I saw any such flag line up was at CHOGM in Harare, 1997. Before that, at the Non-Aligned Summit. The flags were often accompanied by photos of one male dictator or other. Thank Godness nobody saw it fit to hang those for the footie. It's all about the nations and their flags.
Speaking of flags, I must go out and buy one. Or 13? I don't really know whose flag I should be flying. With all due respect to my current hosts, mmm, erm....ja, well....The less said of that the better. It has nothing to do with the fact that my own country could only manage to play "bhora remapepa" versus Brazil in a friendly match this week. Bhora remapepa means literally playing with a ball made of waste paper. The kind we used to play in the townships and rural schools in my childhood. I am not jealous of South Africa's fortune and place in the cup. I just don't handle supporting underdogs very well. Put it down to my Aquarian-winonly-second place won't do-mentality.

I am in this dillema. The organisation I work for has some 13 countries represented in this World Cup! Yes 13, if I haven't forgotten anyone. How the hell am I supposed to choose? Let's see, I could just go by race first? But where does that put France and Brazil? I do love Michael Ballack, but not necessarily Germany. Pity he is not playing. So that's that on Germany then.
I could just go with the Africans. But there is still Brazil and France....Then there is the small matter of England. Like my cucumber sandwich loving President, I have a little soft spot for my former colonial masters. More like a sympathy twinge. All that "Rule Britannia rah rah, sun never sets on the Empire", yet not a cup in sight since I was born? If that doesn't elicit dollops of sympathy I don't know what will.
I also love the Italians. Simply because they are the only country that always gives me a multiple entry Schengen visa. I love their food, the way they speak in that sing song way. The way they get all heated up and extremely animated in discussions. I love their country. I love Rome, I love Milan. I just want to move there. So I support Italy.
The Danes are just sweet and beautifully blue eyed. My two close friends are married to the most wonderful Danish cooks who fuss over me when I visit. They cook, clean the house, mind the babies, and bring you a drink when you call loudly from the veranda. How dare one not support such dream men? If they lose, it is only because they are such gentle-men.

You realise I could go on and on in this vain and pretty soon, I will be supporting every team. I am a global citizen. I love all the countries where I work. Which is the state I am in. So I will go buy everyone's flag (when the prices come down, I really think it is abominable to sell flags at R100 surely).
By late June, I will start the process of elimination depending on various factors, (see below).

I realise I am a bit late getting into the cup spirit. It is too late for me to think of what to sell or how to make some quick dosh out of this whole enterprise. I kept prevaricating over putting my apartment on the market. I had these nightmares of some yobs breaking my lovely bed, (it is a lovely bed, made only for one purpose as Graham Greene would have described it). I feared that some drinkers would dump their beer glasses on my cheap wooden coffee table and leaves marks forever. So there went the rental option.
I could not think of selling any food. I am not the cooking type. I just eat.
I do live two minutes walk from Oxford Street. In Illovo. Could that still be an option? Maybe it is already too late. Where does one start? Do I set up a website? Put up a billboard on Corlett Drive? Will I be able to compete with the rest of the continent which I believe has moved here for the duration? Eish, I will just give up on trying to make any money. I don't think Fifa will licence me at this late stage anyway. I also hear that they are out of Female condoms in this country. Someone sent me a notice today advising all women coming for a spot of "work" to bring their own.

This weekend I am going shopping for my cup regalia. After the flags, come the clothing. Now there is more dillema. I am yet to see sexy t-shirts. I have never understood why t-shirt manufacturers just don't have a sense of style. I mean honestly which women do they expect to don those shapeless made-for men- soccer jerseys and Ts? They are just too ugly beyond words. I made the mistake of not buying the sexy types in Rio, (Ok I don't only support Brazil in case you are now getting that impression). The Brazilians really know how to make women's t-shirts. Even in my dowdy old NGO, they make such sexy t-shirts they make anti-poverty campaigns look fashionable. Women's t-shirts, especially ones made for adult women with two tummies like me, should be fitted at the top....widen towards the waist...and voila you got sexy! Not these long-one-shape-looks grungy-on every single wearer-and your two tummies- shall look like five- in this sack!
I don't do ugly. Not at this age.
The best little Ts I have seen so far, at my favourite chain store are for....Brazil! I am not making this up. These t-shirts are delightful. Black. Tiny colourful sequins making up the Brazilian logo. Shapely. How can one compare with the yellows, the reds, and the other gaudy colours on the market?

I will give the famous vuvuzela a miss. This is a weapon of tranquility destruction that I still don't get. Sepp Blatter, Danny Jordan and everyone else's too loud protestations aside, I dislike the vuvuzela. I stand to be lynched for saying this in public. Extremely loud noise just doesn't add value to the beautiful game. Sorry. Give me the stereotypical singing-gyrating African any day of the week and I am game. That vuvu-thing, no thanks.
Ditto the face paint. What is the point of going out into the world with all that gunk on one's visage? The whole point of turning up at any stadium - unless one's brother/lover/friend is playing is to see and be seen. Yes well, and to cheer. You can't do it in style with your national flag painted on your face. Unless of course you have issues with your own visage, in which case you are forgiven for wanting to hide it in black, green and red.

Which is where my problem has been in the run up to this 2010. Very little media has been speaking to me as a female soccer fan. From the testesterone filled advertisements featuring yesterday's players, to the endless Fifa-rization of the entire country (with Sepp Blatter as the main act), very little has said to me as a woman, "we want you to enjoy this too". The same on radio or in newspapers. It is all about and for men. Occasionally there is the odd advert making fun of big women, (this in a country where the average dress size across the colour lines is 18-20), playing some grotesque imitation of soccer. Quite deplorable I must say.

Until suddenly, a sliver of light appeared from the North - this month's issue of Vanity Fair! Yeah Goddesses! Where have you been? Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Is all I can say. Just the cover alone makes me so glad to be here to witness this world Cup!
Down here in the girls' locker room the excitment and the fever over the world cup is all about the nice legs that will be on display for an entire month. Those legs. Those muscles. Those little shorts. Ah, such titillating delights. Finally we girls get to gawk at this veritable flesh market - for a change. Just for one month alone, it shall all be on display. And we love it.
The competition is not about who plays the best footie, that is the side show. I am running my own parallel competition, and for this I won't need a Fifa licence. I just need a following. So here we are dear friends. It is time to select;
1. The sexiest coach - without Jose Mourinho and all those fuddy duddies to choose from eish!
2. The sexiest player - (no cockiness allowed, that rules out Christiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney sorry).
3. The team with the sexiest uniform; tight fitting, titillating shorts, you know, not prison garb long white ones plus ugly socks ala Malawian team at AFCON.
4. Drama Queeen of the tournament, (Drogba is a contender already).
5. The best looking team; including grooming (no bad hair ala Drogba please), sexy smiles, seriously good looks, great pairs of legs, sexy uniform. The whole package.


I am taking leave from June 11th. I have front row seats - in my lounge, at the Wanderers Club where I am a member across the road, Melrose Arch mall giant screen in the piazza, Sandton Square giant screen. I will wander to the public parks on some days.
May the most gorgeous men win!