Teko Modise: Your Friendly Neighbourhood Dandy

That I know Teko Modise is a soccer player, given my feelings about that particular sport, is amazing, to put it mildly. Of course, the reason that I know who he is really has nothing to do with soccer, and more with the fact that when drunk during the World Cup, BFF3’s boyfriend would repeat his name ad nauseum. That I found this amusing says a lot about my state of inebriation during the World Cup too, but I’m pretty certain the whole country was like that.

But to be honest, if you’d placed a bunch of South African soccer player in front of me and told me to pick out Teko Modise, I’d have probably picked out him.



Okay I know that’s Kaizer Motaung Jr, but look at him, how could I not know who he is & why would I not pick him? My eyes are in working order are they not?

Either way, in more of the unprecedented, when I picked up my copy of The Times this morning, I immediately flipped it over to the Sports section. How could I not after the little picture of Teko they showed on the front page in THIS!



That outfit – and be not mistaken, it’s an outfit – defies belief. He looks like a Sandile Ndlovu osuka kwiilali zaseQoboqobo (from the villages of Qoboqobo) on his way to his matric dance, having picked out the best of the clothes Malume Thandekile got when he worked the mines of eGoli.
Having said that though, I this outfit is resplendent! Not that I’d wear it though. It breaks a basic rule of style – never wear more than one print – but by the name of her gloriousness Madonna it breaks it well.

Suffice to say, I’ll never forget who Teko Modise is or what he looks like.



Though maybe Kenny would say, “BEYOTCH JACKED MY STEEZE!”

Football, It’s Been Fun, But We Need To Talk…

To say I’ve never been a football fan, wouldn’t be sufficient. In fact, it would require a whole new word as ‘understatement’ just wouldn’t suffice. However, like every other South African, since June 11th I have fallen for football big time, and boy have I had it bad. Flush with the excitement of the World Cup, a part of me began to think, ‘You know what Mvelase, maybe you’ve been wrong about football all these years. This just may be the start of a beautiful sporting relationship,” and like the start of any relationship, it was beautiful.

Football flirted with me in that opening match, with the brilliance of Siphiwe Tshabalala’s opening goal, the brilliance of Itumeleng Khune and finally the heartbreaking Mexican equaliser all presaged by the pride-inducing beauty of the opening ceremony. As an act of seduction, football couldn’t have done better than that… I was a bit liquored up, it showed me the best of what it could be; how could I not fall for it?

I was so enamoured by my new discovery that I allowed friends to attempt to convince why I should support their teams in the European leagues. As my family is split down the middle on this one, I allowed both parents equal opportunity to convince me of why I should support Pirates or Chiefs. I’ll admit it, I even thought perhaps I’d give Wimbledon a miss this year and stick with the football. Those days were the best, I basked in love’s first blush, but, oh how quickly things have soured…

As is oft done in relationships, I chose to ignore those initial signs. Those markers that maybe all is not as wonderful as you want to believe it to be. I chose to ignore the numerous inexplicable decisions which were made by the refs, decisions that even a novice me could see were wrong. I thought, perhaps this was what football was meant to be like, I may not have liked it, but I could live with it. But it was too late, that small seed of doubt had been planted in my mind, and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t.

Then England v. Germany & Mexico v. Argentina happened… Video replay. Need I say more?

Those matches only reinforced what I already knew. Wimbledon had started a week before and the speed with which I ran back to tennis could rival the speed at which a football player previously writhing in life threatening pain gets up when seeing the referee isn’t buying his ‘injury.’ As I tweeted after Ghana was cheated out of a semi-final spot by Luis Suarez, “The more I watch football, the more I realise this sport’s just not for me… I can’t handle this kinda stress.” Angrily-tweeting and ranting to anyone close enough to hear my threats of blue murder against Suarez, I suddenly realised what my issue with football is.


It’s not an issue of being on the losing side. Loss I can handle, I’m a Roger Federer and a Ferrari fan. In both sports, I have had to take a humbling master-class in how to handle loss after having always been on the winning side. The issue I have with football, is that quite often, too often, one feels a justified sense of rage and anger at a loss, because, to quote myself again, ‘we was robbed.’ Football’s very own Dark Overlord, Imperator Sepp Blatter, finds these egregious errors add a ‘charming human element to the game.’ I know the Imperator is somewhat preoccupied counting the billions the Empire of FIFA’s gotten from their South African adventure and refining his confidence tricks to get even more out of Brazil in 2014, but I and millions others, find these moments less ‘charming’ & more ‘infuriating.’ With an attitude like that from the administrators of football, I suddenly began to get something of a modicum of understanding for football hooligans, for what is a ‘football hooligan,’ if nothing more than an enraged fan, and was I not that?

And that’s where I realised I had to stop.

When one is suddenly seeing the world from the paradigm of boorish thugs, one must stop and evaluate how it is they ended up in that position. I had tried my utmost to ignore the less attractive parts of this beautiful game, and the beautiful game, I will now admit, it is, but there is only so much one can take. This was not to be a lifelong love. This was a month long mistake, Football was that boyfriend you look back on and think, “But what was I thinking?”

However, I am someone who likes to finish what they have started, and I will watch the World Cup to its conclusion. Till the 11th of July I will watch the games and cheer for some or other team to take the cup (let it be Argentina). But even before the euphoria has died down, before Imperator Blatter flies off while we’re still too happy to notice we’ve been fleeced, I will kick football and everything it brought into my life out on the kerb. As beautiful as this game is, my nerves cannot handle the stress of this game.

Even with the most disastrous of flings, one wants a memento. So, though ‘I will kick football and everything it brought into my life out on the kerb’ the vuvuzela, I’ll keep…

Colour Me Unpatriotic

We as a people generally agree, Friday’s rock. Complain about Friday, never! Well that is until you read this. Friday in South Africa has now come to be known as “Football Friday.” Anyone who knows me will tell you that it’s quite obvious why this wouldn’t work for me, my aversion to football is well known. The world’s obsession with that sport, I will never get; I mean really, why should football… Wait, I’m getting sidetracked, back to “Football Friday.” On “Football Friday” (yes I will be placing it in inverted commas for this entire blog, that’s how much I dislike it) South Africans are extolled by politicians, celebrities and your average man on the street, to show their patriotism and wear the Bafana Bafana football jersey. Prior to Bafana Bafana’s win against Jamaica I would’ve put in a lovely little joke on supporting a losing team, but can’t do that anymore. Spoilsports.

The first issue I had when this whole “Football Friday” craziness started was how ugly football jerseys are. When I say ‘ugly,’ I’m not necessarily referring to their actual design, I mean, yes they do tend to fall to the, how can one put this kindly, garish side but if pushed I could forgive that. However, to quote the legendary Tim Gunn, “silhouette, proportion & fit are our friends and they will serve us well.” Citizens of South Africa, lovers of football, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but the football jersey does not fulfil any of these criteria. Don’t believe me, let’s take Tim’s sage words and break it down.

Silhouette: Now, I can’t presume to speak for anyone besides myself but I generally have an aversion to having the top half of my body look like a brick and that, my wayward countrymen is what you look like in your oh so yellow garb (yes yellow, don’t tell me it’s gold, because it’s not and that’s a fact). I may not have the world’s greatest physique but I’ve found that with the right clothes, I can look like I do, for just long enough to get them into bed, and after all that is what we all want at the end of the day isn’t it? And ladies, you all have such lovely lady lumps, in the right clothes, your shape, even I, gay as I am, am distracted by them. So on behalf of my breeder brothers; stop hiding them!

Proportion: With proportion, this again ties in with the silhouette element. With your top half looking like an ugly squat brick because you’ve decided to dress in what generally amounts to a square of fabric, what have you got left, the rest of your appendages awkwardly sticking out your now square torso. You end up looking like, and here I’ve laboured for a while trying to find the perfect simile but I can’t. You see the resulting image of your legs, head and arms sticking out of your square is so objectionable that not even I, with my near infinite well of sarcastic put-downs can come up with an appropriate one.

Fit: Now unless you have the physique of either of these two gentleman, I would imagine that your football shirt doesn’t look like that when you’re wearing it (yes technically only one has a jersey which is barely shown, but let's forget that for a while, just look and enjoy, then read on). This I’d have to say though is mainly not your fault. I’ve never looked at the sizing of these shirts (no way my hands are going to touch that) but it seems to me that these shirts start at a large (or a medium if you’re lucky enough to find the few that exist) and go upwards. The rest of the week you’re more than capable of wearing clothing that fits correctly, why, please explain to me why, in the name of this ridiculous craze, do you throw away all common-sense?

“Could it get any worse,” those are words I wish I had never uttered. When “Football Friday” came out, it was just the jerseys but like a fool I uttered those words and Murphy’s Law was fulfilled, because what happened? It got worse.

Enter stage left, The Diski Dance.

Now I like to think that I am pretty efficient with words, but trying to describe the loathsomeness that is the Diski Dance in words is the literary equivalent of a Herculean effort. In what can only be seen as a moment of prolonged insanity, Travel24 writer, Simon Williamson, a generally pretty cool guy extolled us to do the Diski in the name of patriotic pride.

There is one primary reason why you will never see me do the Diski and stems from a long held belief. In my youth, I lived through a particular period of time when the world was gripped by a lovely little ditty known as “The Macarena.” Now, not only was it a lovely song for 9yr old me to mumble along to (it was Spanish, a language I’m not too proficient in); no, as many of us will remember but pretend to forget, there was that a dance that went along, and boy could I Macarena. I Macarena-ed everywhere, school, at home, in shops, in the shower, wherever that song was played (even the Xhosa version, yes you read right, a Xhosa version) I Macarena-ed my little ass off. In fact my grandfather used to expect me to Macarena for him before any visit to him was done, and I Macarena-ed with pride to my Granddad’s mirth.

What has that got to do with the Diski Dance? Well the Diski & the Macarena are one in the same. They are offshoots of the family of dances that at the time seem like a great idea and fun to do, but you will rue the day someone pulls out those videos. A recent example that I wisely steered clear of was “Asereje” more commonly referred to as the Ketchup song. Whilst, these examples were songs, and the Diski is a dance, with no particular song to my knowledge, the underlying idea, self-embarrassment, accompanying the dances is one in the same.

Whilst tweeting about my aversion to the Diski Dance, a fellow tweeter, who’s in high school, Bernd Fischer, told me a story that has to rate right up there in high school nightmares. Apparently at his school, where I’m certain a cabal of sadists make up the administration, at the 100 days till the World Cup point, his entire school was called into the hall and instructed in the intricacies of the Diski Dance and then ordered to Diski. Now as per my recollection, high school was a time of tortured awkwardness and nervousness at embarrassing oneself as is. Add to that the thought of doing the Diski Dance, in broad-daylight, amongst your fellow students, I immediately started hyperventilating and required the restorative powers of a stiff gin & tonic.

So people in your oh so yellow squares of fabric you think of as shirts jigging away like you’re all experiencing a mass seizure I implore you, if not for me and those of us you visually molest every Friday, then for yourselves, remember, this is the World Cup. The world’s media will have its eyes trained on South Africa, those visuals of you in that ‘shirt,’ jerking away, will last forever. Some time in the future, those pictures and video of you in that wannabe-gold monstrosity will surface and you will rue the day you disregarded this warning. If that still then doesn’t dissuade you from this madness, then think of Bernd & his helpless schoolmates, forced to partake, against their will in this insanity.

Stop I plead!
Stop, if not for me, if not for you!
Stop for the children!