Never give free beer to a Springbok supporter

Today we have a guest column by Hollander OLLIE G’AAN SPYKERHAAR, who accompanied the IRC on our recent Durban July trip and then stayed on for a trip to Cape Town after Joao Da Mata arranged rugby test tickets for the Springboks vs Wales game. Ollie shares some of his experiences, including a disappointing outing to the DHL stadium. (headline photo by illustration only).

Ollie writes:

Yes, before you ask, my friends do occasionally call me ‘Ole Gunnar Spykerhaar’, for my name’s resemblance to football coach Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, but despite my Motherland’s love for football, I enjoy rugby and racing a lot more. Sadly, there is no land available for developing racecourses and rugby pitches. Our woke Dutch government, under advice from Canada’s douchebag leader Justin Trudeaux, is planning to throw farmers off their land to create living space for the same ghastly immigrants who are making Great Britain so ungovernable. I am thankful for cable network sports and the brilliant IRC trips.

The G’aan Spykerhaars have a rich tradition. Our family dates back to well before the familiar Dutch story of the little boy who stuck his finger in a dyke to prevent the flooding of our entire Kingdom. In 1811, the French under Napoleon occupied the Netherlands. They started having a census for the purpose of taxation, and forced everyone to have a family name, which was not a common practice for the Dutch. The Dutch thought this would be a temporary measure, and took on comical or offensive sounding names as a practical joke on their French occupiers.

My clownish ancestors believed Gaan Spykerhaar (Go Have Sex With Her) would sound as funny as Naaktgeboren (Born naked), Poepjes (Little shit), Rotmensen (People Who Look Like Rats), Suikerbuik (Sugarbelly), Spring in ‘t Veld (Jump in the Field), Scheefnek (Skew Neck) and Uittenbroek (out of his pants). It was only in the 20th century that my great-great grandmother added the apostrophe to G’aan to make our heritage (at least sounding) fancier and more respectable. So I hail from relative Dutch nobility, though despite my national pride I am unlikely ever to stick a finger in any Dyke.


X MARKS THE SPOT: Jolly Ollie got mugged, right there!

I enjoyed the city of Cape Town, I had a good ‘jol’ (the local word for ‘party’ or ‘good time’) because I could understand what they were saying – as you’d probably know Dutch and Afrikaans are very similar languages, hence the habit of South Africa’s English citizens of calling the Afrikaners ‘Dutchmen’. But, as I will explain later, I think this is a badly distorted comparison, as we, the proper Dutch, do have a modicum of manners, humility and people skills.

Just to touch on the city and surrounds: There is a wonderful array of excellent eateries and night spots and if you go out of town, not far, there are pretty beaches, luxurious winelands and mountain ranges with the same breath-taking beauty as the city’s Table Mountain itself. And I felt generally safe, except in the centre of town like, after 8pm, when some shady characters crawl from their holes in Long Street, the colourful night strip.

Notwithstanding my misgivings and advice from the concierge at my hotel, I cruised into Long Street one night and paid a visit to the notorious ‘Club Jo’burg’, a dance joint and pick-up spot diagonally across the road from the well-known Long Street Café. I think I have traces of pure German blood in me, because I enjoy treating my schwanz to ‘the exotics’ a bit more than the normal red-blooded man. Remembering a Trifecta I caught at Greyville with Joao I was soon pissed, in the groove and aiming at an exotic (and cheap) ménage à trois with a delightful piece of Yellowtail (local slang for beautiful coloured girl) and one of a darker shade who told me her origins lay in Ghana, West-Africa.

The bloody teven were probably in on what happened to me later. Just moments after exiting the club with one on each arm, I was briefly surrounded by three, maybe four street people whose hands were all over me in a joint act of relieving me of my phone without me even realising it had happened. I was lucky to have kept my wallet, zipped into the inside pocket of my jacket.

The girls suddenly gone, I started shouting at surrounding ‘security guards’ and weed dealers to get me my phone back for a reward. A few walked off, but after a while one of them sidled over and said he would take me to my phone for a fee of R200 (app 12 Euro). I gladly gave him an orange note featuring a leopard and Nelson Mandela’s world-famous face.

Believe me now if you will, I was taken a block or two down from the club into a side-street to meet, yes, a policeman, leaning with his back on his ‘van’ (truck), with my phone in his hand. To cut a long story short, it cost me a further R2,000 (about 120 Euro) and some haggling to get my Galaxy S22 returned. I was so shocked and annoyed I probably got too loud for liking and the dirty cop threatened to take me to Cape Town Central police station for a night in custody. I’d rather spend a night suspended from my nipples in an S&M Dungeon in Rotterdam than a night in a South African police cell.

GREAT BEER, BUT SHOULD BE PAID FOR: Rugby supporters should drink at home!

Anyway, that was the first and the last time I visited Long Street. I’ll call in take-aways next time, and I think I had good reason to feel humiliated and vocal. Unlike a good proportion of rugbygoers at DHL Stadium for the deciding test between South Africa and Wales last Saturday. They were loud and obnoxious due to intoxication and, looking at some of them, I suspected the possibly of inbreeding.

Let me go a step back. As I’d discover when I got to the big Green Point stadium at about 4pm, this international series was sponsored by Caste Lager, who produce an excellent beer, especially the light version of their flagship brew.

But I truly believe it was a huge mistake for Castle Lager to hand out free draught tickets to every attending individual. I got four free ones just by asking, and by the looks of it the many large groups of Afrikaner klootzakken and their wifjen received more than one ticket, too. Some, I was told, had been there since 1pm getting smashed on litres of free lager. By the time the game started at 5pm, I’d venture to say 25% of the crowd was staggeringly drunk and uncouth.

I’m all for a good time, don’t get me wrong. But as the match progressed, the hordes of drinkers had to empty their bladders and, as the beer experience goes, had a pressing need for more of the mix of water, hops and yeast. Before halftime there were interruptions every 2 minutes with drunkards shuffling by to get to the toilets or out to behind the seated areas to the many beer trucks. The amount of beer some of the blokes around me consumed was just not normal. The chicks, well, during the second half they had to pee every 5 minutes. This moving around in an out of seats and rows, coupled with a poor, stop-start spectacle on the pitch, was a forgettable experience.

Godverdomme! The worst to me was the swearing, irksome drunkard in the seat behind me who, during one of a hundred ‘Mexican Waves’ from the impatient crowd, kicked over his draught so the beer flowed down under my own seat and all over my new Nike sneakers. Actually, even worse was his swearing and death-wishing every Welsh player involved in a crash tackle on a Bok rival, or being trampled by a Bok on the rampage.

And I promise you, I sat up close with Joao’s good tickets – the guys from Wales threw their bodies at those gargantuan, gorilla-like, steroid-pumped Boks. I felt hurt and sorrowful every time I saw a brave player in red running head-first into a green rock. The fellow behind me consistently wished the players from Wales paralysis by collision with those massive, rock-solid bodies. In poor taste, and louder still as the beers kept coming and the game drew to an end.

I also understand now, why they play all those popular songs in rugby stadiums when there are interruptions on the field. This is done to keep the crowd occupied, lest they should stand up and get the hell out of there, bored stiff. This was such a stop-start match the announcer/DJ got through bits of an entire 1970s hit parade, from Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’ to Creedence Clear Water Revival’s ‘Have You Ever Seen The Rain’.

In all, this rugby test resembled a well-attended music festival with lots of singing and swinging drunks and a bit of rugby played, bit by bit, out there somewhere. I won’t be going to a live match again. Well, in Europe I may give it a try. When Ireland are in action, I think. They play the game of rugby properly, and even a nation consisting of 95% habitual drinkers generally behave better than the ones I saw on Saturday.

South Africans, you have a nice old city there called Cape Town. Keep it tidy, clean out corrupt cops and street muggers and you’ll be fine. And please, don’t refer to your Afrikaners as “Dutchmen”. That’s a slap in the face to us!  -IRC.

DISCLAIMER: The International Racing Club does not subscribe to, or necessarily agree with sentiments expressed by our columnists.