Vrystaat Confessions

Category: sport

  • Harrismith’s Gold Cup

    Harrismith’s Gold Cup

    Harrismith had a Gold Cup winner!

    First run in 1921 – or in 1926 ? – over 3200m for a stake of 2000 pounds sterling, the Gold Cup is Africa’s premier marathon for long-distance runners. It boasts a proud history and captures the public imagination. The race starts at the 400m mark in the short Greyville straight; there’s much jockeying for position as the runners pass the winning post for the first time before turning sharply right and heading towards the Drill Hall; normally many runners are under pressure before they turn into the home straight; the race is known to suffer no fools when it comes to fitness and stamina, and it takes a special type of horse and jockey to win the event.

    And away they go!

    Usually the final big race meeting of the South African racing season, the Gold Cup is often decisive in determining the Equus Award winners for the season. Initially a Grade 1 race, the Gold Cup was downgraded to Grade 2 in 2016 and to Grade 3 in 2017. Nevertheless, it is still the most important horse-racing marathon in the country.

    1985 - Occult
    – 1985 – Occult wins –

    The distance and unforgiving conditions that prevail as the field go past the Greyville winning post twice, are great levelers and a look at the list of champions beaten in the Gold Cup is a long one, with less-fancied runners carrying less weight often winning.

    Sun Lad won the first running in 1926. He raced in the silks of leading owner-breeder Sir Abe Bailey. The Gold Cup was one of just two wins for Sun Lad that season. He is frankly unlikely to be regarded as one of the race’s better winners.

    The first horse to win the Gold Cup on two occasions was Humidor, who was victorious in 1933 and 1935.

    And so to us:

    Harrismith’s winner was the horse Rinmaher (pronounced ‘Rinmahar’) owned by the George Shannons of Kindrochart. What year? Probably 1932 or 1934?

    Mom and Dad both tell the story of raucous parties on the Shannon farm where at a suitably ‘sensible’ stage the Gold Cup would be taken off the mantelpiece, filled with champagne or whatever hooch was going, and passed around to the ritual comments from the more sober of “Here we go! We’re drinking moths and mosquitoes again!” At least it had lovely handles to give an imbiber a good grip!

    – that golden ‘Grog n Mozzie’ drinking cup –

    Here’s a nephew of the winning owner on a slower horse:

    – Jack Shannon on his Shetland pony ‘Suzanne’ on Kindrochart – with Peter Bell –

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Later: Sheila rousted Colleen Walker, granddaughter of George Shannon, who straightened me out on some Gold Cup details. She even had an earlier pic of Jack and Suzanne the Shetland. More questions: Is that Kindrochart? Is that George?

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    May 2020 – Mom sent a message that I must phone her! She wants to tell me the full story of the brothers Shannon. Phone Me Soon does not mean that her cellphone will be on, or charged, or answered; so it was a full two days later I got hold of her;

    And away they go! She took a deep breath and set off:

    Jim and George Shannon left Ireland on a ship bound for South Africa. Somewhere on the journey they had a fight and fell out; They never spoke to each other again!

    They reached Harrismith where they both became ‘rough riders’ – breaking in horses for the British army – I guess also for anyone else who wanted horses broken in and/or trained? Somehow and sometime, they both ended up as farmers, George on Kindrochart and Jim on Glen Gariff.

    George married Mrs Belle Stephens who came complete with two daughters Betty and Bobby. Then they had a son Jack – some called him Jock – who also featured in our lives as a friendly, lean, handsome, side-burned, smiling, pipe-smoking, pickup-driving, genial figure in khaki. We loved Uncle Jack! He married Joan from Joburg – Mom Mary and her older sister Pat went to the wedding. Later Bobby married a mine manager and some people thought that was very important. Betty never married, stayed on Kindrochart, worked in town and became a beloved young-in-spirit ‘auntie’ of ours, always a smile and always a tease and some fun. We called her Betty Brooks.

    Meantime Jim on Glengariff married Amy, and they had three kids, one of whom they named George, despite the feud ongoing! Maybe there was a prior ancestor George? Other kids were Marshal (died young, not sure what of) and Sylvia. George married Betty McGore and they had sons Jim and Patrick who we knew in Harrismith in the sixties. Handsome lads, Patrick maybe too handsome for his own good!

    – Jack and Joan years later –

    When the second of the original Jim and George died (I think it was Jim), Jack contacted young George, son of Jim, and said ‘We’re having a party. You and Betty should be there.’ And so a reconciliation took place and they normalised family relations. Up until then, their mothers Belle and Amy had been forbidden to talk to each other! She remembers that after a good few drinks and a meal and another good few drinks, the Gold Cup was taken down off the Kindrochart mantelpiece, filled with wine and passed around! George offered his wife Betty first sip and after a gulp she exclaimed ‘George! It’s full of moths and mosquitoes!’

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    No doubt there’ll be other versions of this tale – and much more detail. But this is how 91yr-old Mother Mary fondly remembers the story of these good friends from days of yore.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Elizabeth de Kock spotted this post and wrote:

    This was so interesting for me to read. My grandfather, William Stocks, was a neighbouring farmer. We spent many holidays on their farm called Lust. We visited Aunty Betty often and enjoyed sitting on the big swing overlooking the dam. She gave us the use of a little grey pony (very naughty) to ride during our holidays.
    As children we got our blankets from her shop in Harrismith. The shop was an experience in itself.
    I’m 69 years old now and still have very fond memories of Aunty Betty.

    I replied: Hi Liz – Thanks so much for commenting! Lovely memories! Betty was a lovely lady.

    I’ll ask my mother Mary Bland Swanepoel (93) what she remembers about the Stocks family. I know I have heard her talk about the Stocks but can’t remember any detail.

    Kind regards – BTW, I’m 66, my sister Barbara will 69 in January – maybe you remember her?

    I phoned my Mom Mary Bland. She was tickled pink to reminisce about her friend! Here’s her tale:

    She nursed with Margaret Stocks at the Harrismith hospital and they were great friends. She says Margaret was five years older and much bolder and naughtier than she was!

    She once visited her on their farm at Lust. Margaret’s brother was there.
    Later, that brother was killed in a plane accident in the airforce. His plane wing clipped a sand dune.
    When she heard about it, Mary phoned Margaret to say, If you like, you can join me to mourn your brother.
    Margaret said, No thanks, we may as well stay here on the farm and be miserable together.

    Margaret married John Reed, a farmer.
    A few years later, Mary took her two year old daughter Barbara and visited Margaret on the Reed’s farm near Belfast in the Transvaal. (I wasn’t born yet, so this was probably early 1955).
    One day he was lying in the bath and Barbara wanted to go and see him. Margaret said ‘No my girl, you’ll have to wait another twenty years for that!’
    Once in Harrismith, Margaret called out the houseman on duty for her patient. When he didn’t arrive, she sent her junior nurse (who she called ‘Ginger Biscuit’) to call him.
    The nurse found the houseman in bed with the matron. He had to leave town.

    Those were Mary’s memories of Margaret Stocks!

    Liz Kibblewhite wrote again:

    I was brought up on a gold mine just outside Krugersdorp and went to Lust during school holidays. If I remember correctly, Jury Swart was a neighbouring farmer to my grandfather William Stocks.

    The last time I saw Aunty Betty was in 1975 with my future husband, spending the night with her reminiscing. We were on our way to Durban and I wanted to show him the beautiful Orange Free State Drakensberg and particularly Kerkenberg and the old farm before we returned to the UK.

    Margaret had a twin sister Edna. My mother Joan was their younger sister.

    I have been living in England for 46 years now and am proud to have passed a bit of my South African even to my grand children who live in France – they love bobotie and say muti for medicine.

    There was David, Margaret and Edna, Joan (my mother), and Neil. Margaret and John (Umpie) lived in Pretoria after he left farming. Margaret died about 8/9 years ago and John before that.

    Mary isn’t getting mixed up: Neil flew in Italy during WW2 and was decorated. DFC. The squadron was called 13th Hellenic Squadron. He also flew in Korea and after that a test pilot in SA.

    I always wondered how his crash happened.

    He was buried on the farm.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Ah, that’s lovely that you visited Betty before leaving South Africa!

    I said to Mary: Margaret had a twin.
    “Edna” she said immediately. And she had a younger sister. she thought a while . .
    “Joan”
    “Their brother was Neil” she said. “He was younger than the twins.”
    Mary says, “When I first started dating, Margaret – never slow with her opinions! – huffed: “These people that just say yes to the first person that comes along!”
    Well, this time Margaret was mistaken, as Mary married her date, and seventy years later they’re still married.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Comrade Skim from DinDear

    Comrade Skim from DinDear

    Six foot four inch Pete Stoute was running the Comrades Marathon, that foolish 89km exercise in torture held annually in KwaZuluNatal, when suddenly he heard a shout from around knee-level: “Yiss, Stoute, hoezit?”

    He looked around, nothing. He looked down: There was Skim, short and round as a beachball, choofing alongside. Skim du Preez, kranige scrumhalf of the great Optometry rugby team of 1975.

    Skim! What the hell are YOU doing here! he exclaimed. No, Stoute, I thought I must do this thing, seeing I’m a boykie from Dundee, said Skim. – Dundee pronounced “DinDear,” the Afrikaans way – it means ‘steenkool.’ Stoute pronounced ‘stotah,’ the Afrikaans way – it means naughty.

    They chatted a few minutes and then Skim said, Oh Well, Be Seeing You and ran off into the distance!! Left the long-legged Stoute in his dust!

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    As often, one of my dodgy history lessons: Dundee, pronounced DinDear, is the famous site where British army troops, tired of being shot through their red coats and their white helmets, finally wore khaki uniforms for the first time in battle. I wonder if their commander Major-General Sir William Penn Symons KCB still wore his red coat that day, though? He got shot in the stomach and died three days later as a prisoner of war in Dundee.

    These Boers would know: The caption says they were ‘watching the fight’ that day! Like a movie!

    The British claimed a ‘tactical victory’ in the battle. Here’s the actual scorecard – a lesson whenever you read battle reports. To the Poms, this (as they were informed by their jingo press) amounted to a tactical victory:

    British casualties and losses – 41 killed, 185 wounded, 220 captured or missing; Boer casualties and losses – 23 killed, 66 wounded, 20 missing. So – Total count 446 down vs 109 down, but “we won.”

    And so the dispatch goes back to Mrs Queen in Blighty (perhaps sent by jingo war correspondent Winston Churchill?): “We won a tactical victory, Ya Majesty.” Maybe he at least added “Um, send reinforcements” – ?

    Always remember that one thing all military outfits do without fail . . is lie.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    stoute – the Afrikaans pronunciation “stotah” as in kabouter; it means ‘naughty.’

    kabouter – Snow White and the seven kabouters

    choofing – running like a gazelle

    kranige – capable; brave; gallant; dashing

    scrumhalf – not only a scrumhalf – see the comments

    No – yes

    DinDear – Dundee; coal-mining village; not in Scotland

    steenkool – coal; or stone coal; you can’t say just ‘kool’ cos that would mean cabbage

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

  • Scotland the Brave

    Scotland the Brave

    Two delightful Scottish medical students arrived at Addington hospital. They were here to “do their elective” they said. We didn’t mind what they were doing, we were just happy they were in Darkest Africa and drank beer. Always a better chance if a lady will drink alcohol.

    One of them asked me if I surf, which is a terribly unfair question to ask a Free Stater by the sea. It puts great pressure on us and reveals our secret fear of that-big-dam-that-you-cannot-see-the-other-side-of. Ask us when there’s no sea within miles and we can tell a good story, but the sea is right on Addington’s doorstep. “Even better,” I said casually, leaning against the bar in The Cock and Bottle on the first floor of Addington doctors’ quarters and gazing down her decolletage, “I paddle-ski.”

    Ooh, will you show me? she asked, which put great pressure on me. “Come to my flat in Wakefield Court after work,” I ordered and she meekly nodded. Wakefield was part of doctors’ quarters, over the road from the hospital. Next day after work I hared off to Stephen Charles Reed’s flat in 10th Avenue and borrowed his Fat Boy paddle ski, threw it in my green 1974 Peugeot 404 station wagon OHS 5678 and hared back to Prince Street in time to casually say, “Hop in,” as she arrived. Addington beach was right there and I proceeded to give lessons in the surf. Little did she know it was like the drowning leading the drowned. I’d help her on, hold her steady, time the waves and say “Now! Paddle!” and she’d tumble over like a Scottish person in the warm Indian Ocean, time and again. One wave was better than the rest, nicely obliging and kindly masculine, and it did something like this:

    Marvelously, she didn’t notice for a while until I blurted out “God you’re gorgeous!” Following my grinning gaze, she giggled and hoicked her boob tube top up over her boobs from where it was sitting around her waist. *Sigh*

    I cherish wonderful mammaries of that day . .

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • The Subway

    The Subway

    Greg Seibert arrived in Harrismith from Ohio in 1972 as a Rotary exchange student.

    In 2014 he was sending sister Sheila some of his pictures from those wayback days. He wrote: Here is one I’m sure you will like. It is one of the very first pics that I took in Harrismith, probably the day after I got there. You or Koos took me down to the field hockey field. I remember people saying it was by the subway. Boy was I impressed! The only subways that I knew were the underground trains in London and New York! Imagine little Harrismith being so advanced as to having one of those!

    Well…I was a bit disappointed…lol!

    New York subway’s Grand Central Station

    The feature pic and this pic are not the Harrismth subway, but do give an idea of what it looks like. I’m looking for some actual pics of our illustrious subway.

  • On Not Playing Rugby

    On Not Playing Rugby

    It’s Matric. Rugby season has started and I’m on my way to the first practice when a thought crosses what passes for my brain: Why am I doing this? Do I want to play rugby? A moment’s reflection had me thinking, Nope, I’m doing it cos it’s expected, I ‘have to.’

    No I don’t, I’m not playing.

    There were some queries and a mild kerfuffle but nothing big. ‘I just don’t want to’ was accepted in a no big loss way. Only Ou Vis made an issue of it.

    Later, pipe-smoking, Andy Capp cap-wearing, grog-loving, moustachioed Ou Stollie Beukes came up to me at school and asked straight-forwardly and politely, no weaseling, no guilt-suggesting.
    “Ons kort a paar manne in die derdespan. Sal jy vir ons speel?”
    “Ja, sekerlik,” I said, “Sal ek oefenings moet bywoon?” That would have ended it. I have an aversion to training in sport. Makes you sweaty. If you enjoy a sport, do the sport. Training? Ha!

    “Nee, net op Saterdag,” he said.
    Cool. So I got a coupla games on the President Brand Park B field; the field with the wooden poles on part of the cricket pitch. You can see the posts behind Ou Stollie in his other role as stand-in goalkeeper for the fun hockey games in the top pic.

    Being the mighty third (also last) team, we played early – before the first team, so we could all go and support them in our smelly kit. If it was in the morning there could be frost in the shade of those trees. The game would attract only a handful of the most die-hard spectators. Who had lots of advice.
    Lekker.
    Then at the end of the season I played in the last game, the traditional matrics vs the rest of school. I don’t know who won? I dislocated my collar bone near the end and went off to see GP Mike van Niekerk, where he glanced at it, told me to wear a sling – “Your mother will know how to do it” – and then spent his time trying to change my future career. And he almost did.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    The next year I played a season of American football; Two years later I played rugger again. In Joburg for Wanderers Club.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    “Ons kort a paar manne in die derdespan. Sal jy vir ons speel?”– We need some superb and exciting talent in the Mighty Thirds. Will you sign up?

    “Ja, sekerlik,” “Sal ek oefenings moet bywoon?” – Sure. I’m naturally fit, (right!) so I’m ready to play!

    “Nee, net op Saterdag”– play the games only, no need to attend practice; a sign of desperation

  • Cuckoo Comeuppance

    Cuckoo Comeuppance

    People often rail against cuckoos and use all sorts of pejorative descriptions about them and their ways. Hey! Cuckoos gotta do what cuckoos gotta do. Nature. Survival. Survival of the fittest. Evolution. Life. Bird life.

    Consider three things: 1. Cuckoos have no alternative. This is the ONLY way they can breed; 2. Cuckoos eat a whole bunch of caterpillars, even the ones with poisonous hairs and barbs. We need cuckoos. 3. Anthropomorphising animals is never a good idea. Cuckoos aren’t little feathered humans deciding ‘What the hell, I’ll drop the kids off at a neighbour’s house and abandon them there.’ And don’t the lucky among us humans drop off our young at other places for at least part of at least some days?

    So I’m always disappointed when people use descriptions like ‘nasty cheat’, ‘treacherous’, ‘deceitful’, etc when describing cuckoos. Many birds like hawks and eagles who do bring up their own young catch and kill other birds – including baby birds taken from their nests – to feed to their young. It’s all just nature, people!

    In fact the ‘arms race’ between cuckoos trying to lay their eggs in their hosts’ nests and the hosts trying to thwart the cuckoos makes for fascinating natural history.

    And every now and then one might even get to see it happening! I did once and this story of an African Cuckoo coming to a sticky end after trying to enter an Indian Mynah nest reminded me of it.

    My encounter was on the last day of a Dusi Canoe Marathon back in the nineteen eighties. I was drifting along on the Umgeni River just upstream of the big N2 bridge across the river, wishing the current would do a bit more to get me to the finish at Blue Lagoon, when I heard a ruckus and saw a bunch of weavers chasing and mobbing a bird. As I got closer I saw it was a Diederik Cuckoo pulling its best aerial dogfighting maneuvres to try and escape the mob. Even flying upside down some of the time so its claws could fend off the pecking. To no avail. They beat her down into the reedbed and then down the reeds onto the water. Then I was past the scene of this neighbourhood vigilante action. So I didn’t see the end and don’t know if the Diederik was actually killed, as the Mynahs in North West Province killed the African Cuckoo. Fascinating!

    Diederik being Donnered

    Thanks, Africa Geographic (go and see more pics)

    Thanks to rockjumperbirding.com for the Diederik and hbw.com for the African cuckoo photos.

    Other birds also parasitise nests. And here’s a fascinating talk if you’re really keen. It’s The Royal Society’s premier annual talk. About an hour on youtube.

    pejorative – yeah, I also thought it was perjorative

  • A Day At The Races

    A Day At The Races

    We were talking of our younger days when we occasionally, perhaps, got up to some light mischief which pedants might have regarded as slightly illegal. Such as hopping fences without having fully getting round to purchasing tickets to see international sporting events at Ellis Park Joburg – rugby tests and tennis internationals. One of my fellow culprits who shall remain nameless as Stephen Charles Reed mentioned that we even ended up getting good seats. And that reminded me:

    I said to this criminal, Talking of good seats: Do you remember when you took me – new in Debbin (Durban) and you an old hand, having emigrated down there a year or two before – to my first Durban July! The Rothmans Durban July Handicap?

    Here’s the way I remember it:

    We dressed up in the best we had and stood in a long queue to place a bet on the first race. Took forever. Then we rushed to the fence to watch the race and our horse was running in reverse and eventually had to be picked up and carried off half an hour after the race finished or it would still have been running.

    Durban July horse race

    Everyone then went back to the betting windows to queue again to place bets for the next race, determined to throw away their money.

    This left the fence, crowded as hell a minute before, quite empty and we spotted a bench at the finish post. We scurried over and occupied it and made a very intelligent decision on the spur of the moment: We would not place any more bets, we would not move from that bench and we would spend all our money on champagne.

    Best decision in the world! We saw everything, we didn’t waste our money, we got a liquid return on every cent we spent; we got delightfully pickled and awfully clever and we started making confident predictions on which nags would win. We had a system, based, I think on the deep bubbly-inspired insight “Usually It’s A Brown Horse.”

    Soon people were coming up to us to inquire who they should bet on! They thought what with all the champagne and merriment that we were obviously winning and therefore knowledgeable. We freely advised them on how to invest their hard-earned cash by consulting the racing form guide – Give Beau Geste a bash! we’d say; or Sea Cottage looks good! What? Not running? Oh, try (check book): Lady Godiva! We took turns fetching more champagne.

    A wonderful day at the races. ca1980. Edu-me-cational it was.

    I seem to remember Steve had also convinced some lovely lass to tart herself up and accompany us in high heels? Wishful thinking? Our bench at the post looked like this:

    No, wait – It was like this:

    – Poms full of champagne –

    Of course, I come from racing stock and proudly carry the pedigree of having parents who had a friend who won The Gold Cup um, about half a century earlier. So I knew what I was doing . . .

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Doories Daze

    Doories Daze

    On 2018/12/18 Stephen Reed wrote: Had a late afternoon chat with Kevin ‘Stanrey Kraarke’ this afternoon . .

    ( that would be a phone call across the Tasman Sea )

    I replied: Ah, good to hear the ancient old bullet is still alive!!

    Hoezit Kev!!? ( I have cc’d him here – Kevin Stanley-Clarke, pharmacist and our older boet in res, back in the day).

    I can’t think of Doories without thinking of you, the green TAV 5556 Datsun from the metropolis of Grootfontein, the chocolate Alfa Romeo; and old Krazalski, Wartski, What-ski? – those are wrong – what ‘ski was he, your boss?

    – Doories student cars – and Ponte; Check out our salubrious quarters –

    I can still see the meticulous care with which you changed the crunchy, notchety gears in the Alfa, and remember how you taught me if you open the window you must also wind down the rear window three inches, then the breeze won’t muss your blow-dried hair.

    Often when driving I remember your sage advice: WATCH OUT for old toppies wearing hats! Mostly nowadays I see the old toppie wearing a hat in my own rear-view mirror! Gives me a bit of a start every time: Who’s that fuckin old fart? Oh, OK – only me . . . . As for Forever Young! I think we still are! Well, I think we should keep imagining that!

    Oh, and we musn’t forget the outbreak of Dobie’s Itch in the Doories Res! Kev rushed back to work and got going amongst the pots and stills and fires and wooden ladles, pestles and mortars and other witchcraft paraphenalia he and Wartski used to keep in their secret Doories factory; he came back with a double-strength potion stronger than anything Dumbledore could have made, and CURED the dreaded ballache! He was our hero!

    Stephen Reed wrote: By gosh, we had a few laughs.

    Another one: Sunday morning, Kevin having a sleep in – eyes closed …

    Are you sleeping Kevin?

    Kevin: one eye slightly opens, ‘No No … Just coasting . . ‘

    I wrote: Ha HA!! I’d forgotten these! Exactly right!!!

    PS: We were so lucky Stanley-Clarke decided to stay in Res that extra year while he re-wrote ?pharmacology? I mean, he could have stayed with any one of a dozen beautiful chicks. They all wanted his moustache! And we would never have met him. It turned into a magic, unforgettable year, and he was no small part of that!

    Stephen Reed wrote: Bullshit.

    HE was lucky to have had US there.

    Bloody boring time he would have had otherwise . . .

    I wrote: Ja!! Too True My Bru!

    And now here’s the man himself:

    Kevin Stanley-Clarke wrote: Kia Ora both of you; What a wonderful surprise hearing from the DOORIE BRO’s in particular the very Articulate Rhodes student Mr Koos Swanepoel himself, from Harrismith; and the attention-to-detail Mr Stevie Reed the boat builder raconteur himself from a little town in the free state that eludes me at this time!

    This really made my day – thank you both for all the very happy memories and to think I could have missed that wonderful year if I had passed Pharmacology first go – and to think it was 45 years ago which has basically passed in a flash.

    My boss in the very clandestine factory in Doories was Mr Pogeralski – so Pete, the grey matter is still intact;

    As for that ointment which I prepared it was Whitefields ointment aka “Ung acid benz co.” Had I given that to you today I would be in serious trouble with “Health and safety”, “Quality and risk”, “Public safety”, you name it! But it certainly works.

    Yes, and how can we forget the times we all went to the Jeppe Street post office to use their services “pro bono” utilizing your unbelievable skills with ‘the long tickey” to gain access to their phone lines – Hello World.

    Also will never forget the rugby test at Ellis Park “pro bono” an absolute blast – thank you both for the wonderful memories that always bring a smile to my face. Which was it? –

    British & Irish Lions27 July 1974Ellis Park, Johannesburg13–13Draw
    All Blacks18 September 1976 Ellis Park, Johannesburg15 – 14 South Africa

    And Stevie, can you remember the movie we went to on a Saturday morning at the Cinerama we saw “Papillon” ??

    I could go on forever – The Dev ? The Bend ? and many more. May leave that for another day.

    Take care both of you and please keep in touch

    Kakite Ano

    Dee Student aka ‘Giscard . . . d’Estaing’ – Kevin Stanley-Clarke

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Notes:

    Ellis Park “pro bono” – Less than fully legal entry to the rugby stadium for a test match; ahem . .

    The Jeppe Street post office and the Hillbrow “pro bono long tickey” – Less than entirely legal as well, say no more . . . ahem . . There were consequences! I got a phone call in the holidays in Harrismith from the GPO: Are Your Name Swanepoel? Did you phone a number in Oklahoma? I meekly coughed up for sundry long-distance international ‘trunk calls’!

    Aside: While shaking a tin collecting money for our eye clinic charities outside the big old Jeppe Street Post Office one year, a pigeon shat on my shoulder. I took that as an omen from above and went and handed in my tin.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

  • Rugby Heroes – or ‘Delusion’

    Rugby Heroes – or ‘Delusion’

    Ode to a Tighthead Prop – Author unknown (but probly some Kiwi – they tend to wax forth after a few). The poem could also be called ‘Delusions of Grandeur.’

    It was midway through the season
    we were just outside the four
    and although I know we won it
    I can’t recall the score.

    But there’s one thing I remember
    and to me it says a lots
    about the men who front the scrum –
    the men we call “the props”.

    We won a lineout near half way
    the backs went on a run
    the flankers quickly ripped the ball
    and second phase was won.

    Another back then crashed it up
    and drove towards the line
    another maul was duly set
    to attack it one more time.

    The forwards pushed and rolled that maul
    They set the ball up to a tee
    the last man in played tight head prop
    and wore the number “3”

    The ball was pushed into his hands
    he held it like a beer
    then simply dropped to score the try –
    his first in 15 years.

    Then later, once the game was done
    he sat amidst his team
    he led the song and called himself
    the try scoring machine.

    But it wasn’t till the night wore on
    that the truth was finally told
    just two beers in, he’d scored the try
    and also kicked the goal.

    At 6 o’clock the try was scored
    by barging through their pack
    he carried two men as he scored
    while stepping ’round a back.

    By seven he’d run twenty yards
    out-sprinting their quick men
    then beat the last line of defence
    with a “Jonah Lomu” fend.

    By eight he’d run from near half way
    and thrown a cut out pass
    then looped around and run again
    no-one was in his class.

    By nine he’d run from end to end
    his teammates stood in awe
    he chipped and caught it on the full
    then swan dived as he scored.

    By ten he’d drunk a dozen beers
    but still his eyes did glisten
    as he told the story of “that try”
    to anyone who’d listen.

    His chest filled up, as he spoke,
    his voice was filled with pride
    he felt for sure he would be named
    the captain of that side.

    By nights end he was by himself
    still talking on his own
    the club was shut, the lights were out
    his mates had all gone home.

    And that’s why I love my front row –
    they simply never stop
    and why I always lend an ear

    when a try’s scored by a prop.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    This try was much like our mighty prop Hubby Hulbert’s try in our epic match against the InjunKnees. Do you recall? ca. 1975

    Hubby found himself lying down for a brief rest on the ground under a mass of other bumsniffers when an oval object appeared next to him and he placed his hand on it. The ref went wild and indicated we had managed to beat the Injun-Knees, a team no-one thought would be beaten.

    We were dressed in our all-black jerseys, black shorts, black socks with OPTOMETRY in front and  ZEISS in white on the back. To show our appreciation to our jersey sponsors after a few beers – also kindly sponsored by them – we would shout “ZEISS ist Scheiss!”  – I’ll admit, sometimes we weren’t impeccably behaved.

    That game against those Injun-Knees: We had spent 79 mins desperately defending our tryline when some scrawny scrumhalf type happened to get the ball by mistake and hoofed it as hard as he could in the opposite direction of where we’d been back-pedaling all day. Those days his hair colour matched the colour of our jersey; Nowadays the bits that are left match the colour of our logo. You can see a recent pic of him here.

    We got a line-out near their line, Hubby fell down, the ball fell next to him and he inadvertently became a match-winning hero. He’ll call it a tactical move.

    I forget if he gave a speech afterwards in the Dev but we wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. We’d have sung ‘How The Hell Can We Buh-LEEEV You!?’

    The game was played on the Normaal Kollege grounds in Empire Road, Jo’burg. We shouted for our hosts as we waited for them to finish their game so we could trot onto their field and display our brilliance. Up Normaal!! we shouted. Ab-normaal!

    ~~~o0oo~~~
    On 2018/12/11 Peter Brauer (he of scrawny scrumhalf fame) wrote: Classic example of how bashful props become more truthful / eloquent when their throats aren’t parched.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    bumsniffers – forwards; the tight five; the slow; the engine room; workhorses; honest men; no fancy haircuts; dodgy ears; the brains trust; depends who you ask

    InjunKnees – engineers; they had a T-shirt slogan ‘six monfs ago I cooden even spel injineer and now I are one’

    Normaal Kollege – anything but

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    2020 – a 1977 letter cropped up. Maybe the only letter I wrote in 1977! To sister Sheila. In moving home and tidying up she found it:

    – 1977 letter – about our special all-black optom rugby jerseys –

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

  • Harrismith & District Gymkhanas

    Harrismith & District Gymkhanas

    Dad remembers the gymkhanas he took part in and so enjoyed in the late 1930’s and mid-to-late 1940’s.

    They were held in Harrismith, Eeram, Verkykerskop, Mont Pelaan and Aberfeldy; and on the farms Appin near Swinburne, Primrose near van Reenen, and Maraishoek.

    The entry fee was one pound per event – and he remembers prize money being less than the entry fee!

    Events included Tent pegging; Sword and ring; Sword; Lance & ring; Potato & bucket.

    Races were the bending race, we’ll need to ask him what that was; and the owners race, where the owner him or herself had to ride, no hiring a jockey!

    Regular participants he recalls are Manie Parkhurst Wessels; Bertie van Niekerk; Kerneels Retief; Richard Goble; John Goble; Kehlaan Odendaal; his son Adriaan and his daughter Laura; Laurie Campher; Hans Spies and his kids Hansie, Pieter and Anna (Anna later married Jannie Campher, who helped Frank Bland with his farming for a while before going on to become a very successful farmer on his own account).

    Dad says he was the only non-farmer riding! Kerneels was usually his partner.

    gymkhana-tent-peg

    Tent pegging **  these are all internet pics  ** If anyone has some real Harrismith district gymkhana pics I’d sure love to display them – with full acknowledgment of course.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Ah, trust Leon Strachan, Harrismith’s Helpful Historian to have something – and its a good ‘un:

    – SA Champions from Harrismith – photo from Leon Strachan –

    ~~oo0oo~~