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Ben Trovato

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Archive for the ‘Sport’ Category

Cricketers who sleep with models are one step away from necrophilia

I can tell you right now that we are not going to win the cricket World Cup this year. Not because we’re chokers or because Mark Boucher has been put out to stud or even because none of our players are able to mentally calculate a required run rate unless everything is in single digits, and even then it’s touch and go.

We are going to lose because Cricket SA has decided to allow the players’ wives and girlfriends to visit the team in the middle of the tournament. It has been described by officials as a “two-week window period”. What is this – the rhythm method according to Gerald Majola? It’s an unseemly shagathon and shouldn’t be allowed.

Admittedly, rogering their Wags must be a lot more fun than playing cricket – assuming they manage to stay at the crease for longer than they usually do on the pitch, although I wouldn’t put money on it.

So the deal is that for the first two weeks of the tournament, the team is expected to remain celibate. Then comes the two-week unbridled sexual feeding frenzy interspersed with a little light batting and fielding, followed by two weeks on a glucose drip.

My friend Ted says the Proteas should be allowed to have access to their Wags every night of the World Cup. He reckons that once the endorphins start flowing, the runs will follow. I told him this wouldn’t work because cricketers have a specific kind of sex that normal people don’t have. Theirs is nerve-jangling, stomach-churning stuff that makes the invasion of Normandy look like a walk on the beach. Imagine the state of older players like Jacques Kallis were they to be given carte blanche to engage in six straight weeks of coitus uninterruptus. He would have to be given a runner and placed under constant medical supervision. Graeme Smith, on the other hand, would be banned from receiving conjugal visits. His fingers are weak enough as it is.

I suspect, however, that the mating habits of cricketers are rather tame by international standards. For a start, most of the Wags seem to be models. And, from my experience, models are nowhere nearly as enthusiastic in the sack as, say, drop-dead fugly girls. The risk of causing disharmony to their meticulously orchestrated cosmetic symphony is way too high for anything more adventurous than activities of a strictly missionary nature. Sleeping with a model is one step away from necrophilia.

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The meek will not inherit the earth – not even an All Blacks coach

“FORMER All Blacks coach thankful over stabbing.” This is what the pestilential counter-revolutionary press sprang on me while I was minding my own business drinking breakfast earlier in the week.

I knew there was something wrong with the headline, but it took until the fourth Bloody Mary to work it out. New Zealanders are never grateful for anything other than a win over the Springboks. And maybe two consecutive days of sunshine. And not being mistaken for Australians.

South Africans emigrate to New Zealand. It’s what they do now that Australia is full. New Zealanders, on the other hand, do not emigrate to South Africa. It would be like moving from Singapore to Kampala to get away from the filth and chaos.

John Mitchell, however, is a rare breed. The ex-All Black flanker did the unthinkable and took up a contract to coach the Lions rugby team in Joburg.

I freshened up my Bloody Mary and read the story. It turned out that Mitchell wasn’t particularly thankful for being stabbed by housebreakers. He was, however, thankful that the knife had missed the artery in his leg. Which is not the same thing at all.

Depraved sensationalist media swine. Forget the tribunal. On the first Saturday of every month, wheel a huge chrome guillotine into Sandton Square and start chopping off their lurid little heads. If it’s melodrama they’re after, we’ll give them melodrama.

Mitchell is not a small man. With a shaven head, he is even more terrifying. I’d have second thoughts about going at him with a chainsaw while he was unconscious, let alone lunge at him with a rusty Okapi while he’s still awake.

He said afterwards: “It’s not nice waking up and having to defend your life.” I imagine it’s not. I find the mere act of waking up traumatic enough. There was one time I woke up and had to defend myself against Brenda, which wasn’t easy, considering that I was in the flower bed and inexplicably lame from the hips down.

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Take my 2010 World Cup Quiz

What is your reaction when you hear the word Fifa?

a. No thanks, I’ve just eaten.
b. Governing body.
c. Dirty, rotten, thieving sons of bitches.

What do you think of when you hear the phrase “2010 Soccer World Cup”?

a. Cancer.
b. Football.
c. Lawyers.

What is the offside rule?

a. No passing in the breakdown lane.
b. Something that prevents Brazil from scoring 20 goals in each game.
c. I don’t have time for stupid questions. Next.

What do you think should happen to the ref who disallowed Frank Lampard’s goal against Germany?

a. Frank who?
b. He should have his eyes tested.
c. He should have his eyes gouged out.

  • More quizmaster’s questions in the Sunday Times

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WADA, wada, wada: My guide to southern Africa’s most popular, erm, herbal remedies

Fifa is worried that soccer players at the World Cup could use stimulants derived from traditional African medicines that aren’t on the list of banned substances.

Fifa medical committee chairman Michel D’Hooghe said he wanted the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) to analyse African plants that could give athletes an unfair advantage.

“If we don’t have control over these specific traditional medicines, then we can’t say we have control over all the medication in football.”

Well, let me give you a hand, Mr D’Hooghe, if that’s your real name. After all, you can’t be expected to know the names and properties of everything that grows in the country.

  • Dagga: SA’s most popular herbal remedy helps alleviate a number of physical and mental problems such as manual labour, premenstrual wives and Sunday afternoons. Not commonly regarded as a great performance enhancer outside of laughter therapy groups. Heightens perceptions, usually of being arrested.
  • Juliusoria Malemaris: a stubby, resilient vegetable with a thick, fleshy epidermis. Does not do well in poor conditions and must be watered regularly with Mo√ęt & Chandon. More of a depressant than a stimulant. Repeated exposure leads to delusions of grandeur. Vomiting may result if taken in large doses.
  • Jacobulata Zumarensis: has powerful roots but can be easily displaced every five years. Recognisable by its unusual style, swollen stamen and constantly growing stigma. Has a machine-gun instead of a pistil. A fast reproducer, it is part of a broader organic system that contains nuts. Has been known to provide users with an unfair advantage. Side-effects of prolonged use include immense wealth or imprisonment.
  • Helenii Zillespora: a sub-genus of the Venus Fly Trap family, this small but perfectly formed flowering tree is capable of changing its appearance on a weekly basis. It thrives on attention and yet has no visible means of support. Has been known to cause indigestion among its natural enemies. Mildly hallucinatory, its bark is worse than its bite.
  • Pieteranthus Mulderata: a non-indigenous hybrid that thrives on farmland. It leaves a bitter taste in the mouth and needs to be crushed, then diluted with one part tolerance and two parts acceptance. Its powerful properties have all but disappeared over the past 15 years. Moves are under way to permanently eliminate this alien growth. Limited in its performance-enhancing abilities, it is likely to find itself on the list of banned substances by 2020.
  • Dannyosa Jordaanifera: an interesting genetic mix, this rather miserable-looking specimen should not be taken lightly. Eaten raw with a side dish of lightly grilled Bafanaspicata, it has been known to provoke feelings of misplaced patriotism. Approach with cautious optimism.
  • Bennimonium McCarthyllum: a distant relative of Bafanaspicata, it should be taken with a pinch of salt. This rare, indigenous alien needs to be handled gently. Pay it a lot of attention or a lot of money and there is a good chance it will shoot.
  • Mr D’Hooghe, you should also be aware that sangomas are preparing a special batch of muti that will make our national side invisible. After the first round you won’t see them again.

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My repulsive loin fruit, Clive, showed no interest in golf until Tiger got bust

The image of golf has suffered terribly as a result of Tiger Woods’ breach of marital etiquette. Yes, I can see how that might happen. I was thinking of taking it up, but then Tiger ruined it for me by making a billion dollars a year and sleeping with dozens of beautiful women.

I, for one, will have no truck with such filth. Instead, I shall take up a sport in which I stand to make no money at all and get to sweat so heavily that I attract stray dogs rather than hot girls.

You have to hand it to the Americans. You can get caught pimping underage immigrants to support your heroin habit, but if you squeeze a drop of glycerine into each eye and go on TV and apologise and say you’re taking gender sensitivity classes and checking yourself into rehab, the nation will rise up and applaud you.

This applies to celebrities more than it does to garbage collectors and other members of the proletariat, whose mea culpa is generally described as a confession rather than a courageous admission of their human frailty. It only works for Americans, though. When British actor Hugh Grant’s willy accidentally fell into a prostitute’s mouth while the two of them were discussing the Middle East crisis in a side street off Sunset Boulevard on June 27 1995, he never tried to “rehab” his way out of it.

His laddish grin on the Los Angeles police department’s mug shot said it all. What happened in the car that night – that was the treatment. Let us be clear on that. Suffering from a prolonged dearth of fellatio, Mr Grant had his ailment treated by the nearest qualified person, nurse Divine Brown. Tiger, on the other hand, speaks for 13 minutes and convinces the world he is a very sick man deserving of our sympathy.

Halfway into his statement, something very strange happened. I began feeling as if I had done something wrong. As he spoke, the burden of guilt lifted from his shoulders and settled on mine. He was pulling some kind of weird voodoo stunt and getting away with it.

He blamed the media for daring to suggest his perfect Swedish wife, Elin, had clubbed him like a baby seal on that terrible Thanksgiving evening.

“It angers me that people would fabricate a story like that.”

I hung my head in shame.

“Elin never hit me that night or any other night.”

Brenda snorted: “Some Viking she is.”

Tiger went on: “There has never been an episode of domestic violence in our marriage.”

Well, maybe there should have been. You would be surprised at how effectively sexual tension can be relieved by smacking one another around for an hour or so. It works for Brenda and me.

“I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. Thanks to money and fame, I didn’t have to go far to find them.”

And the problem is what, exactly? This is precisely why fame and fortune are a tad more in demand than, say, obscurity and penury. What is the point of being rich and powerful if you’re going to be like the rest of us and go home to a cold, hostile wife who puts your dinner plate on the floor and expects you to get down on all fours and eat it like a dog?

We are the way we are only because we are too goddamn lazy to work relentlessly at something until we are so ridiculously good at it that people line up to throw money at us just to watch us do whatever it is that we do.

Tiger apologised to parents who pointed to him as a role model for kids. What rubbish. Show me a teenage boy who spent weeks sobbing in his room after hearing his hero’s idea of relaxation was to check into a R40000-a-night hotel, drop a little A-grade ecstasy, and lick Beluga caviar off the quivering thighs of naked porn stars while cocktail waitresses queued in the corridor. Show me that boy and I will show you a pervert in the making.

My repulsive loin fruit, Clive, showed no interest in golf until Tiger got bust. Now all he wants to do is get his hands on a bagful of clubs, Ambien and one of those Thai masseuses who work in the house across the road. That’s my boy.

Instead of being lauded for making golf an aspirational sport, Tiger was forced to grovel. Shocking, really, and a scathing indictment on what kind of world we are bringing our children into. Hooking and slicing his way through the rough, he played a freaky shot that put him on the green and into the bunker at the same time.

“It’s hard to admit that I need help, but I do. For 45 days from the end of December to early February, I was in in-patient therapy receiving guidance for the issues I’m facing. I have a long way to go.”

Right there, the attitude of millions of people watching Tiger beat himself up went from self-righteous disapproval to a weird mix of empathy and pride. You did bad, Tiger, but you’re dealing with your problem and we’re proud.

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Your Guide to the Nations of the 2010 FIFA World Cup (i.e., “Waiting for the Barbarians”)

Our government keeps telling us to be nice to the visiting soccer fans, but are their governments telling their citizens to be nice to us? I doubt it. Here, then, is a brief guide to some of the 32 nationalities that are poised to descend on us in a gabbling, yawling, brawling morass.


A country with 192 million highly excitable people crammed onto 7500km of topless beaches. Main exports are coffee and cocaine. Dancing naked in the streets is a popular activity. Less popular are jokes about the pope. Although most Brazilians describe themselves as white, this is not always obvious to the naked eye. Think twice before complaining about the bloody coloureds taking up the whole bar. It could be Ronaldo and his cousins from the favelas.

Spain & Mexico

Although not strictly one country, they are similar to Brazil, only Spanish-speaking. They have something of the Zulu about them and are fiery people, especially when doused with tequila and set alight.


Afrikaners Lite. Without the Dutch influence, South Africa would be a very different country today. Draw your own conclusions. Netherlands has the potential to win the World Cup depending on access to home-grown product. Holland and Cape Town have much in common, like tulips and dykes, except Cape Town has no tulips.


Known for robbing us of the World Cup four years ago. Also known for invading Poland and, later, Camps Bay. Serious about their football. Serious about their beer. Serious about their sex. Nine months after the 2006 World Cup, Germany reported a 30% increase in births. Expect a new generation of ruthless property barons with blue eyes and guttural Cape Flats accents come March 2011.


Replacing the English as Ireland’s number one enemy, France is tipped to win the World Cup because their strikers have been trained to use their hands when the ref isn’t looking.


A country that has produced some excellent footballers and some truly appalling human beings. And I’m not just talking about the Beckhams or the Thatchers, or even the royal family. This nation of shoplifters will be here to steal the World Cup by any means necessary. Unable to hold their drink, let alone a halfway decent conversation, the British will be looking for trouble. Good. Let them try it. Isandlwana will seem like a picnic in comparison.

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