Greetings from the Gateway to the Zulu Kingdom, the Last Outpost of Colonialism and the home of the Bunny Chow, South Africa’s greatest rugby union and rugby’s sexiest blogger *blushes*. A week of post-exam release and Steers King Size Deals has come to an end. Cane sales sky-rocketed, pavements were painted, dance moves were invented, girls were harassed. If, sexy ladies of cyberspace, you were subjected to any of the above list please, I do apologise, and would like to propose to you because if you read a rugby blog you are more than deserving of my hand in marriage.

Now, to the weekend’s rugby. Holy snapping duck****, that was awful. The only side to pitch up was Scotland, and that was for one half and they had the ref pushing them along as well. The Kiwis, like old men with too much whisky in their guts, couldn’t finish what they started, the Irish were so Ronan O’Gara it was frightening, England played probably the softest 80 minutes of rugby since Dafydd Jones’ squad of Welsh pretty boys were walloped by the Village People, the Wallabies were intent on having a scoreline divisible by three and the Battle of the Flowing Locks was as tepid as the water Ray Mears dops.

And then there was the Springboks. Juan Smith, Jaque Fourie, Ruan Pienaar, John Smit, JP Pietersen, Jean de Villiers and Vickies Botfield may block your ears, you are excused from this berating. Pierre Spies, Beast Mtawawira, Ricky Januarie and Adi Jacobs may do so after 5 minutes. But the rest of you, what were you doing? Christ alive, I haven’t seen such a flat showing from a Bok side in ages. It wasn’t necessarily poor, it was just like they weren’t interested in playing a rugby international. People have been easy on them, because they won and because each player had the odd moment of brilliance. But the spirit, the thing that I’ve always believed in, seemed to have been sucked from the very core of our Boks. Whether it was the startling ineptitude of the ref (although his incredible swing of bias in the second half probably saved us) or whether the frosty climes of Edinburgh are a little far removed from the balmy warmth of home, I’m not sure. But if I was Piet, Dick and Gary I’d be kicking these okes so hard up the bum it’s frightening. Because we are so close. So close to the finished product. There were phases of play that left me weeping at their beauty (metaphorically ladies, I’m a hard as nails man’s man and anyway, cowboys don’t cry, you’ve seen my sexy calendar). Apart from Bryan Habana and his nice, pert mammaries at the end of his forearms hands the handling was slick and accurate. Kicking was decent, given the blusteriness of Edinburgh in winter. The scrum’s were a little iffy, but that’s not a big concern because Dr Jannie du Plessis (MBChB) is on the way. But it looked like they were going through the motions, and I hate that like I hate hell and all Montague. We need to pick it up before England because if the highland fling can almost beat us that soft collection of foreigners posing as England are going to beat us if things aren’t better. And by things I mean every oke on the field doing his job like there’s a big comet coming down and he won’t be able to kiss Liv Tyler in a spacesuit on a NASA runway if he doesn’t. 

Enough of that though. Like every other one-eyed Bok fan I believe that we will bounce back and hope and pray that the backlash will be sharp, efficient and aimed squarely at the nape of that wilting rose. And for once, I don’t mean Earl.

To the other internationals. Canada-Wales was Canada-Wales. I literally cannot think of anything else to say about that game but two penalty tries and yellow Welsh kit. Yellow? Are you guys serious? NEON yellow? Who are you Romania 2: The Returnsh? It looked like Canada were playing the Long St Carguards XV. Shocking, but true.

Whilst Rassie Erasmus’ colour cards were hailed as genius, Gatland’s use of road signs was probably a step too far.

England-Australia. How the Aussies didn’t score more tries is beyond comprehension. For a bunch of guys who only got their passports two weeks ago and are trying to get to grips with the English language/why the hell they left their tropical home for Rainandcloudland they actually did pretty well. Then Danny Cipriani’s body fell apart, the fact that they had no gameplan was exposed and the Aussies came alive. End result, Australia winning by a decent margin and Johnson left rubbing his substantial proboscis on the stands. On a side note, what are English flyhalves made out of? Candy Floss and My Little Pony Tale hairs? Jonny Wilkinson, Charlie Hodgson, Danny Cipriani. All have had major injuries and never seem to be able to recover properly. Or maybe the English looseforwards just don’t provide enough cover for their tens. Like women and fishing, this is one of life’s great mysteries. *ponderingly strokes his moustache*

Argentina-Italy. Long hair. Tanned skin. Crying. Waxed chests. Monobrows. Breaking through wide open gaps. Beautiful women. Looks like the script to an 80s porno but believe it or not this was in fact a rugby game. Argentina did well enough to win but to be fair Mallett’s Stallions looked like they were wearing last week’s game heavily. And so they should, they played like Titans against Australia but this was just one game too many for them.

New Zealand-Ireland. Some beautiful running by the All Blacks. They are so quick, so strong, so smart. Their finishing let them down but Ma’a Nonu’s try was absolutely magnificent and I want to marry the Carter break that almost led to another. Ronan O’Gara was so bad I felt sorry for him. He looks like a chorister but on Saturday he played like a bent outta shape trombone. Nonu played the game of his life and I hope he continues to do so because he’s one of the most chilled, lekker rugby players I’ve met. Good man. He gets the prestigious Burton’s Player of the Weekend Award. Boerie Rolls don’t keep too well but I’ll reserve him for one next time he’s in the Republic.

France-Islanders. If I looked at my fixture list and saw the words “Pacific Islanders” I’d feign suicide, go to the plastic surgeon, get my face did, and skip town. Those guys are headcases. That tackle on Elisalde was so illegal if he’d done that in the Middle Ages he’d have been burned at the stake. That little Jean-Baptiste is still alive is unbelievable. As great as it is to have the combined Islanders playing and all the good it does for the growth of the game, if these okes continue this kind of madness they are going to have a fixture list that resembles my prepubescent phonebook. Empty. Well done to France for surviving with their heads still on their shoulders, for that the scoreline should’ve read France: Infinity, Islanders: 12.

Well, that’s that folks. I’m off to the Transkei with a bunch of mates and dolls next week so will be out of contact. Try keep it real without me. It’ll be tough going cold turkey I know, but the advice I usually give girls is find an empty room with a bed, strap yourself to the posts and hold on. Time heals, and I’ll be back shortly. I’ll be a little porridge-brained but that’ll probably just add to the entertainment value.

Jokes aside, go buy green underpants, boerie, rolls, 18 of your favourite beers, salt and vinegar chips,droewors/biltong and invite your mates over for Saturday’s game. It’s our toughest on the tour and the Boks need all the support we can give them.

Everything’s going to be irie.

Peace