Carol’s Column

Who says it’s just a game?

It was a brilliant game.

We sat in the lounge, the fire crackling, my mother-in-law cackling, with fresh-fried pop-corn, sliced biltong, roasted peanuts and the curtains drawn, warm and cosy while the chill wind howled outside.

My spouse was away, so I’d asked the neighbours, two crotchety octogenarian bachelors, Belgian Wim Dinkelman and Englishman Horace Thwatts-Tucker, to join us for the England versus Belgium World Cup game.

Our eyes were glued to the TV screen as England and Belgium kicked their way through an inspired game.

With the Belgians attacking, Jan Ceulemans kicked for goal and Dinkelman punched me in the ribs. Ceulemans missed. Dinkelman thwacked me again.

“We’re on a winning streak,” he screamed passionately, swallowing his pipe.

Then came another try by Enzo Scifo. Another miss. Two more punches from Dinkelman.

I adjusted my binoculars, moved to the other side of the room, waved my South African flag and yelled for England.

“But you were shouting for Belgium just now,” said Nicky.

“I always support the underdog,” I muttered.

Then came a strike by England’s John Barnes.

“Oh, what a glorious attempt,” wheezed Thwatts-Tucker, searching in his voluminous jersey for his lower false teeth that had slipped out when he’d jumped up.

“Hold him down,” whispered Jamie, “if he gets too excited, he’ll have a heart attack and then we’ll miss the second half.”

Like a Stonehenge sentinel, British goalie Peter Shilton held the aggressive Belgians at bay as they surged goalwards.

The game was nearly over and Dinkelman choked noisily on a peanut as Paul Gascoigne fell en route to the Belgian goalpost. “Kill him, kill him,” shouted Thwatts-Tucker. I’m not altogether sure at whom.

Then disaster struck. The television died.

“Don’t kick it,” I screeched as Dinkelman raised his right leg in classic strike position.

We banged, shook, and twiddled, to no avail. It was dead.

Gloomily, we switched on the radio, to hear we’d missed David Platt scoring a brilliant goal in the last minute.

“This is a tragedy,” I wailed.

“I agree,” shouted Dinkelman, a crazed look in his eye.

“I mean the TV, not the result,” I said but it was too late. Dinkelman and Thwatts-Tucker were fisticuffing in the corner.

It really wasn’t dignified for two 83-year-olds.

Later, after a pacifying brandy for medicinal purposes, they wobbled homewards. “We’ll see you on Saturday for the quarter finals,” was their parting shot.

This was a double crisis.

I phoned the TV service centre. “Lady, you’ve got to be joking,” said the voice at the other end. “We have 324 TVs to fix. The earliest we can make it is July 22.”

“But I have to have a TV,” I wailed. “It’s the World Cup finals and Wimbledon. Anyway, I’ve got a contract with you. I’ve had a contract with you for 12 years.”

“Lady, I’ve had a contract with my wife for 30 years, it doesn’t mean to say I come when she expects me to. Ho, ho, ho.” Some verbiage is not worthy of reply.

In the whole of Johannesburg there was not one television set for hire.

By Friday I was desperate. I phoned my good friend Betty. “I need to borrow your TV,” I begged.

Like a knight in shining Ferragamos, she obliged. “We’re out for dinner anyway.”

At 6am on Saturday, the doorbell shrieked and there stood Dinkelman and Thwatts-Tucker.

“We came early to get good seats,” said Dinkelman as they shuffled into the lounge.

“Thank heavens their teams aren’t playing,” I muttered to the kids.

“Ma, Mr Dinkelman’s mother was Italian and Mr Thwatts-Tucker’s father was Irish,” said Nicky. “His grandfather was Brendan O’Thwatts-Tucker from Derry.”

“Ma, you’re over-reacting,” said my daughter when she heard me asking the Parkview police to send a member of the riot squad as a preventative measure. “Soccer’s just a game.”

That’s what they said about Waterloo and look what happened there.

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