Yesterday I tweeted that ‘Cape Town looks like a bumper car track. Roads full of little cars with little flags. Beep Beep. Madness begins. I will survive.’ The darling (football-mad) Philosophe thought that wasn’t a very nice thing to say. Not in the gees.
Along with vuvuzela, gees is one of the words of the moment down here in the south, where players, fans, hooligans et al converge for the big football party (yawn). I haven’t been able to find a phonetic spelling for it, but just imagine the opening consonant like the gg in “dagga”: more of a soft, epiglottal hiss than a hard g. Gees means spirit, and the idea is that we should all be in its possession by now.
Well I’m sorry. All those vuvuzelas and all those people with all that gees scare the sh*t out of me. Not that I think any harm will come to me. I’m just not a crowd kinda gal. I like to kick things down a notch.
But wishing it away isn’t going to make it go away, so I will get with the program and invite the gees into my life. I will let myself be saved, and on Friday evening when I march to the stadium with all those thousands of people to watch France vs. Uruguay (so I can say “I was there“) no-one will suspect for a second that I am not having the time of my life.
I might have to work a bit to get the gees to notice me so that it may possess me. So from now on I think I will only eat foods that are very obviously connected to the scared game. Let’s see…
Ooh, or if I could get my hands on
Great. Lots of chocolate, cake and jelly beans (how apt for such a manly sport). And I guess beer is the only respectable beverage to wash it all down. Come Sunday 11th July, I’ll be looking like a football myself. But such is the gees. You have been warned.