Carol’s Column

'Crazee' that a lack of a 'kick hair' lost us Test

The sun shone on Paris. There, for only a day, we strolled around smiling at statues, twiddly old buildings, super-soaring glass creations, chic women, moustached men sporting berets and dogs dressed in outfits matching their owners' garb.

On the way to the Louvre to grab a little culture, we almost tripped over a large board outside a pub, Le Frog et Bifstek, upon which was written “Springboks V Lions - don't miss it. Beer Beer Beer”.

Without debate, as one person, we entered and like forwards in a scrum elbowed our way to a table in front of the television. Then ordered a huge jug of ale and looked around.

The crowd seemed evenly divided between the French and the Lions with, as far as we could see, not another South African in sight.

The French were philosophically drowning their sorrows as they'd just lost their own Test match, played a few hours previously, to the Wallabies.

A large supporter, a less than fragrant mixture of beer and garlic, leaned over and banged me on my back, causing my left breast to plunge into the beer mug on the table. “We'll knock the shit out of them!” he yelled merrily.

He was, he said, “Paul Johnson, the lion of London. Ha, ha.”

I flexed my mammaries, told him what he resembled in Afrikaans, then reverted to English and said yes, I thought the Springboks would win. His eyes widened in shock.

Then the game began. Ah, the cheers when the Lions ran on to the field. Then came the Boks and we and the surrounding Gauls shouted ourselves hoarse.

“We weel ween,” said the guy in front of me who introduced himself as Jean-Pierre. This was indeed a true Afro-Gallic alliance.

Anyone could see we were playing the Lions off the field. We tackled, scored tries, moved the ball around. We were magnificent. But, as far as the British commentators were concerned, we weren't in the game.

When Percy Montgomery scored the first try, the commentator spoke of inspirational Guscott. When Joost van der Westhuizen and Andre Joubert flew over the line, he called Townsend talented. We heard about charismatic Martin Johnson, nothing of big-hearted Gary Teichman. And, ad nauseam, he prated aan over brilliant Neil Jenkins.

At halftime in Le Frog et Bifstek the TV had almost disappeared behind the smokescreen and the atmosphere was tense. Said Bernard, a Gitanes dripping from his lip: “We weel keel zem.” As he spoke, he made a guillotine-like movement with his hand. Quite apt, I thought. “But,” he added sagely, “we need zee kick hair.”

It took me a while to realise he meant the Stransky factor.

“Ah, you mean a kicker,” I said.

“Yes, yes, kick hair like le Naas Botha,” he replied. This man knew his South African rugby. Jugs of ale gurgled down receptive throats and by the time the second half started, the atmosphere was festive.

I have discovered something. I've always regarded myself a pacifist but on Saturday I wished I'd learnt boxing instead of hockey at school. Like when we missed a conversion and the British supporters cheered loudly.

Like when we scored a try and they booed even louder. But most of all I wished I packed a mean punch when, as the final whistle blew, they sang loudly “You can stick your ** Springboks up your **.”

Well, we all know how the game ended and, okay, we do need a “kick hair”. But, think about it, what kind of a game is it when a team wins by penalties alone? C'est crazee!

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