We were in second year and had just moved out of downtown Joburg and Eloff Street to the salubrious semi-suburban delightful area of Doornfontein which was once Joburg’s premier suburb where all the gold mining magnates and Randlords lived and built their mansions.
So some final year students asked us to help them in their research for their – whatever.
They needed volunteers to see if blood alcohol levels affected your esotropia. We gave it a moment’s thought and thought that sounded like a HELLUVA good idea as it involved free drink and would provide valuable data and it involved free drink. We volunteered. None of asked ‘what’s esotropia?’
It was very formal. We had to – No, you can’t have a drink yet; Hey! Step away from the drinks table, we need baseline levels before you . . you have? Well, how many? SO many? Well, quick, come, let’s measure you before – Hey! Not another one . .
Well, give them their due, they tried their best and we did our best and it was a WONDERFUL evening filled with laughter and witty repartee and I don’t know if they got any data but we did get the promised drinks and they didn’t need to return any unopened bottles to the grog shop.
Quite a lot was learned, too. Like if you give a person who has had one too many even a little bit of vertical prism he will push the phoropter away and make barfing noises and run out of the clinic. That might come in handy to future researchers, and I give it here free for anyone to use.
a late afternoon chat with Stanrey Kraarke this afternoon . .
that would be a phone call across the Tasman Sea )
good to hear the ancient old bullet is still alive!!
Kev!!? ( I have cc’d him here)
I can’t think of Doories without thinking of you, the green TAV Datsun from the metropolis of Grootfontein, the chocolate Alfa and old Krazalski, Wartski, What-ski – those are wrong – what ‘ski was he, your boss?
can still see the meticulous care with which you changed the crunchy,
notchety gears in the Alfa.
when driving I remember your sage advice: WATCH OUT for an old toppie
wearing a hat!
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 . . . .
for Forever Young! I think we still are! Well, I think we should keep
and we musn’t forget the outbreak of Dobie’s Itch
in the Doories Res!!
rushed back to work and got going amongst the pots and stills and
fires and wooden ladles and other witchcraft paraphenalia he and
Wartski used to keep in their secret factory and came back with a
double-strength potion stronger than anything Dumbledore could have
made, and CURED the dreaded ballache!! He was our hero!!
By gosh, we had a few laughs.
one: Sunday morning, Kevin having a sleep in – eyes closed …
you sleeping Kevin?
one eye slightly opens
No No … Just coasting
HA!! I’d forgotten these! Exactly right!!!
We were so lucky Stanley-Clarke decided to stay in Res that extra
year while he re-wrote ?pharmacology?
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.
turned in to a magic, unforgettable year, and he was no small part of
was lucky to have had US there.
boring time he would have had otherwise . . .
Too True My Bru!
now here’s the man himself:
Kia Ora both of you ,
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!
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.
and how can we forget the times we all went to the Jeppe post office
to use their services “pro bono” utilizing your
unbelievable skills ‘the long tickey” to gain access to their
phone lines – Hello World.
will never forget the test at Ellis Park “pro bono” an
absolute blast – thank you both for the wonderful memories that
always bring a smile to my face .
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.
care both of you and please keep in touch
Dee Student aka ‘Giscard . . . d’Estaing’
Ellis Park “pro bono” – Less than fully legal entry to the rugby stadium for a test match; ahem . .
Jeppe Street post office “pro bono” ‘long tickey” – Less than entirely legal as well, say no more; ahem . . There were consequences! I got a phone call from the GPO: Are Your Name Swanepoel? I meekly coughed up for sundry long-distance international ‘trunk calls’ to Oklahoma!
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 lot 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.
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 InjunKnees, 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 InjunKnees: 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
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!
——-ooo000ooo——- 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.
bumsniffers – forwards; the tight five; the slow; the engine room; 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’
I once got mugged in Louisa Street. By Louisa Street.
Lightly inebriated, I was walking back to res from a trip to Hillbrow to spend invest some of my Barclays Bank student loan.
The normally dark and deserted Louisa Street in Doornfontein was dark and crowded, with parked cars lining both sides of the road. The Arena Theatre across the road from res had a show on.
Quite unexpectedly – maybe seismic movement from all the tunneling underfoot to reach the Doornfontein gold in days gone by? – Louisa Street suddenly leapt up and smacked me right in the face, breaking my glasses.
For some unfathomable reason it was very important that I gather all the little shards of glass from my shattered lenses, so – as luck or Murphy would have it – I was on my hands and knees when the theatre ended and happy patrons streamed out into the street, their minds filled with the moral of the story (or more likely, flashes of boobs and skin – the few shows we went to had actresses acting daring) to find their cars and drive home to more salubrious areas of Johannesburg. The Arena was surrounded by vacant lots and abandoned houses, so they were probably in a bit of a hurry because of the shady reputation of the neighbourhood – and here, in front of their eyes, on its hands and knees, was proof!
I was not to be put off my search though, so people had to walk and drive around me, grovelling searching diligently in the middle of the tarmac. Next minute someone bent over me and said “What’s your name?”. The affrontery! It was Mnr “JJ” van Rensburg of the Doornfontein koshuis who was trying to help by getting one of his charges out of harm’s way. “Shwanepoel” I slurred. I spelt it out in case he didn’t know: “S – W – A – N – E – P – O – E – L” .
Explaining that I probably didn’t need to gather every tiny piece as the School of Optometry would likely replace my lenses for me, he coaxed me back to the safety of the res grounds. He was weird, but had a good heart, ole JJ. We gave him sleepless nights.
The red arrow marks the spot where the nose and the nosebridge met the tarmac.
The green arrow is where Agnes ignited. Another story . .