Well, what can one say about air travel? When I was under the age of sixteen, it was cooler than solid helium. Now, it's the same tedious procedural rubbish, lousier on-flight food and service, more queues, smaller aircraft, more cramped conditions, and the supporting staff are even more annoying, if that's possible. In fact, in the last two flights, I didn't even get any food, save for a fruit bar and two crackers. Oh, and the supporting staff are the same stereotypical posse that fill up the remaining seats on a half-empty aircraft so that you think that the airline is far more popular than it actually is. The shrieking baby; the smelly, obese grandmother with a purse full of photographs of her cretinous descendants; the fat, sweaty guy that snores and drools on anything within arm's length; the obnoxiously loquacious toddler who loves to start unwanted conversations; and the young couple who are so star-struck with one another that they can no longer tie their shoes, decide on a beverage, remember their seat numbers, squat before defecating, etc.
Be that as it may (and it probably will be) I find myself in Los Angeles. We were picked up at the airport by one of my uncle's drivers. This was an inkling of things to come. Of the fabulous island-kitchens with up-to-the minute stainless-steel professional appliances and tools, I haven't been able to cook a single egg, nor wash a single dish. The servants are wonderful people, and I love them to pieces, but I can't help but feel a bit useless and spoiled. Speaking of which - no pictures from any of my uncle's stuff, or any of my family here. The security staff are fantastically attentive to every little detail. They act as site guards, mobile patrols, lifeguards, chauffeurs, delivery men, secretaries, liaisons... you name it. I've never seen such men with such obvious military training perform their duties with such diligence and delight. They do what they do well, and they love it. Most ex-SEALs and marines would be silent or mildly grumbly sentinels. Not these lads. Nothing quite like being driven through heavily exposed areas on gridlocked streets, and feeling safe because Ares the god of war himself has got your back. And he can make joking references to Boyle's Law.
So - one more day in L.A., and then it's off on Saturday morning. What is the deal? I hate American customs officials. They're snide, unfriendly, xenophobic, ignorant, trumped-up little gits. I hate dealing with all of their bureaucratic little forms because I don't want to blow up their buildings, nor crash their aircraft. In fact, I don't even want to be in their ghastly country. The sooner they quit searching my backpack and asking me inane and non-germane questions, the sooner I can go about my business and leave them and their politico-economic minefield in my vapour trail. I have better places to be and better things to do than hang around the United States for any sort of purpose. So there are two American airports left to suffer through before I can relax in the relative civility and decorum of Dakar, Senegal, and Jo'berg, South Africa. Then I have to deal with three on the way back (LAX twice).
Meanwhile, here's to:
- German success. They're the third-youngest team in the World Cup. They're playing without their injured captain and their goalkeeper Robert Enke, who died tragically last November. They shall overcome.
- English achievement. As far as England are concerned, they've underachieved for the last 44 years. They've always flattered to deceive, reaching quarter- and semi-finals, but always stumbled at the final hurdles for very avoidable reasons. This year, Steven Gerrard is the captain, and he's always been a hero in clutch situations.
- French failure. The team hates one another, notably Gourcuff, who has been victimized in recent friendlies BY HIS OWN TEAMMATES. The team hates the manager, Raymond Domenech. Domenech is the Inspector Clouseau of international footy management, and is also loathed by the French people. Ireland (in addition to people who despise cheating) hate everything the French team stands for. Thierry Henry's former employers hate him. Domenech likes Sidney Govou, to the dismay of 9 of the other starters. Wash, rinse, and repeat. This team would overachieve if they managed a 100% success rate at a mass-suicide attempt. And the world would rejoice. Wankers.
- The low level-radar. Everyone is trying to pick the "sleeper" team of the tournament. Steve McManaman picked Chile. He's obviously never watched them play live. To my knowledge, no one has even detected Denmark yet, and they'll surprise the snot out of people. Did no-one notice that they qualified ahead of Portugal with attackers like Nicky Bendtner, midfield maestros like Christian Poulson, defenders like Daniel Agger, and a proven 'keeper in Thomas Sorensen?
- Spain returns to historical form. The European champions have such a ludicrously easy group that I reckon they do themselves a collective injury laughing about how easy it was to win all three group matches. They'll be wheezing so hard that they'll stumble in one of the following two rounds, and confound the predictions of the "experts."
In any event, I'll try and fire off another blog before I leave L.A., and after a raging, surging crowd in the middle of three million vuvuzela-blowing Sowetans and one quiet, little, grey old man lift Bafana Bafana to victory over Mexico.
Amandla!
—mARKUS
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