Publications
Partners
Allow me to cut to the chase here. I’ve got the cup, the t-shirt and the Bafana Bafana secret weapon.
No, not the ancestral bag of bones. I’m talking about the horn of horror, the trombone of triumph, the bugle of boom. Yep, the mighty vuvuzela.
This past weekend I stood in elation after the Bulls’ victory, attempting to blow my horn, attempting to join the masses in celebration of another triumphant moment.
I breathed in deeply, lifted my head, and proudly raised my “Vuv” but what bellowed forth was not the sound of a raging torrent.
No, the sound that I imparted to the assembled crowd was closer to that of a three-year-old’s flatulent eruption of Mount Bum.
No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot master this crazy cantankerous trumpet. My wafer-thin “whiteboy” lips are too hopeless, my ex-smoker’s chest is too tight, and the light-headed buzz I experience from the after effects of my “Vuv” blowing are unsettling to say the least.
Also, the inventors of this blasted stadium stunner could have worked some kind of pressure release valve into their retched design to accommodate my inevitable foghorn failures, aka - the vuvuzela backfire.
I can only thank the good Lord that my tonsils have been surgically removed or they might have found their way out of the back of my throat via my ear canals.
As game day approaches, I look forward to the monumental moment with both, great excitement and quiet concern.
I won’t need anyone to give me directions to the park ‘n ride. I won’t need anyone to help me find my way around Soccer City.
I won’t even require the assistance of any passersby as I hold all my football paraphernalia while juggling hotdogs and condiments as I generously sauce my sausage. No, all I will need is for someone to blow my “Vuv”.
No, not the ancestral bag of bones. I’m talking about the horn of horror, the trombone of triumph, the bugle of boom. Yep, the mighty vuvuzela.
This past weekend I stood in elation after the Bulls’ victory, attempting to blow my horn, attempting to join the masses in celebration of another triumphant moment.
I breathed in deeply, lifted my head, and proudly raised my “Vuv” but what bellowed forth was not the sound of a raging torrent.
No, the sound that I imparted to the assembled crowd was closer to that of a three-year-old’s flatulent eruption of Mount Bum.
No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot master this crazy cantankerous trumpet. My wafer-thin “whiteboy” lips are too hopeless, my ex-smoker’s chest is too tight, and the light-headed buzz I experience from the after effects of my “Vuv” blowing are unsettling to say the least.
Also, the inventors of this blasted stadium stunner could have worked some kind of pressure release valve into their retched design to accommodate my inevitable foghorn failures, aka - the vuvuzela backfire.
I can only thank the good Lord that my tonsils have been surgically removed or they might have found their way out of the back of my throat via my ear canals.
As game day approaches, I look forward to the monumental moment with both, great excitement and quiet concern.
I won’t need anyone to give me directions to the park ‘n ride. I won’t need anyone to help me find my way around Soccer City.
I won’t even require the assistance of any passersby as I hold all my football paraphernalia while juggling hotdogs and condiments as I generously sauce my sausage. No, all I will need is for someone to blow my “Vuv”.
Get published on MyNews24 by sending your letter, story or column to us.
Send us your news photos | Follow us on Twitter | Become a fan on Facebook
Disclaimer: All articles and letters published on MyNews24 have been independently written by members of News24's community. The views of users published on News24 are therefore their own and do not necessarily represent the views of News24. News24 editors also reserve the right to edit or delete any and all comments received.
