Sunday, July 30, 2006

Japanese Game show dubbed by Americans. You have to love the Japs

The Purple Cobras

contribution by Anton Taylor

There are many aspects of university which one misses while on holiday. For example, the glorious views of Cape Town from upper campus, the enjoyment of seeing all your mates on a daily basis, and of course, the sweet smell of ripe first year cunt wafting down Jammie steps on a warm afternoon.
However, all these things seem meaningless when compared to one thing: Internal League Rugby, and in particular, The Purple Cobras.
While other events of the varsity calendar may seem tempting, there are few activities on earth which can compare to the simple joy of being part of a Purple Cobras outfit which, come every Wednesday night, viciously demolishes and then humiliates any team which dares stand in its way, and then celebrates by drinking to the point of paralysis. And then watches happily as its members drive home.

In the space of only a few months, the two words ‘Purple Cobras’ have become synonymous with pain, degradation and unbridled grunt hunting.
Through a harrowing crusade in which week after week they have crushed all opposition, the Cobras have struck fear into rugger teams across the world. Many a Wednesday night, after the lights above the rugby fields have been turned off for a while, and all the players and spectators have left the grounds, I have heard the eerie ‘hissss’ of the PC’s echoing through the grounds; a haunting reminder of the team’s power. Then again, the reason I hear hissing is most probably because I’ve just hit a bulb of Tik with the other loose forwards.
Either way, we’re fucking hardcore.

Our unbeaten record stands for itself, as does our position on the log. Beating teams such as Soco Thoco, the Barbarians and Kapono, the PC’s have quickly established themselves as okes that you don’t fuck with.
Not only do we hold the 2nd spot on the log, but we also hold one of the most coveted prizes in world rugby: ‘The Sohbar Shield’. The shield, which allows the team unlimited beer on a Wednesday night at Sohbar on ladies night, has been a joyous part of all our lives.
The fact that in reality we each get one beer and the chicks are in general fucking dogs has not stopped us from having an intensely savage time. However, there are those who wish to take away our beloved shield…

At the time of writing this article, there is an uncomfortable tension hanging in the smoggy air above Cape Town. In only a few days time, the fields below the usually tranquil UCT campus will lay host to one of the most anticipated battles of the year: The Purple Cobras vs. the ‘Nadoes.
Billed as the rugby equivalent of Jenna Jameson meets Chasey Lane, the fixture already has rugby fans gearing up for what should be a cracker of a match.
Admittedly, the ‘Nadoes are perhaps the favourites, due to their reign of superiority in recent times.
Over the past few years, playing a game against the ‘Nadoes has been like spending a night in Polsmoor Prison – you’re guaranteed a hard ass-raping.
However, despite their fame on the rugby field, I have a strong feeling that come Wednesday night, it will be they who find themselves bent over like the little bitches they are, begging for some KY as blood runs down the sides of their legs.

For the Cobras have youth on their side. While the average age of the ‘Nadoes is roughly 43, the majority of the PC’s have been out of school for only a year or two, and if we do things right, I’m sure we’ll have the old bastards gasping and collapsing due to respiratory failure or baldness or whatever the fuck else old people die from.

But no matter what the result is, I’m sure that the Cobras will display their typical brand of champagne rugby, while simultaneously continuing with the never say die mentality that we have seen them carrying throughout the year so far.

Please keep an eye open for more posts, involving not only match reports but also report backs on the social aspect of the Purple Cobras, as well as player profiles, and hopefully some good porn.

‘Cause We’re Better Than You, And We Know It!’

Friday, July 28, 2006

Cobras humble Marquad (26-21) The FULL Match Report

It seems as if the actual report of the Purple Cobras’ game against Marquard, or the Leo Marquard Lions if we are to call a spade a spade, pales in insignificance to the abomination that followed until the late (and not-so-late for some) hours of the fateful (and not so…etc) of Wednesday 16 August 2006. Hey Ho, lets go..

Just to give those who didn’t catch a glimpse of the evening’s spectacle game an idea of what we were dealing with, (no Anton, I’m not referring to the move you tried to pull on that gravel from your English lecture), here are the parameters of the multinomial equation that equalled what was to be an absolute belter of a game, including seven tries, one less conversions, a couple of big hits, a massive prop and unfortunately, no streaker. (Phil’s bar run later in the evening sadly, does not count. Sorry phil.) Anyways, where were we.. With a north-westerly wind pumping across the green mile harder than something Halle Berry could whip up to deter a bunch of mutants, Capitano Tom ‘Whyte’ Brukman (now hereto referred as El Capi) made the brave (and possibly regretful) decision to receive kickoff into the stiff breeze. Cobras 0, Cape Town North-Wester 5.
Up went the kick, and from then it was cracker-jacker stuff for the first five – the sort you find only in a really racy Anthony Keidis autobiography (or some porno blog on - with lineouts being won against the throw by resident offside parking executive member, Alex ‘captain crash’ Franzen and Dugald ‘who’s your father’ MacDonald. But more on that a little later. Anyways, real fire and brimstone, balls to the wall, end to end, helter skelter, take-things-overboard-why-don’t-you stuff. You get the picture. Somewhere in those first five, Cobra’s managed to win four opposition lineouts, run it up the field, set up good ball and somehow squander easy try-scoring opportunities quicker than Fenton-Wells manages on blonde UCT girls. First up, Byron ‘Kelleher’ Golddust (or whatever pseudo-jewish surname begets him) decided that a five man blindside over lap was just playing silly buggers and felt that a chip kick into the box (not that box, Anton) was on. Little did he take into account the Marquard ‘my second name’s Dan Carter’ fullback and his fuckoff boot that set up play a couple of meters outside the Cobras 22. North-Wester 10, Cobra’s 0.

After a couple of minutes of some B-grade horror flick defending and some barging runs from the opposition hooker who deserves a mention purely because he apologised to me after running me over full stick, (Pete ‘tyrell’ Weekly, you’re a Cobra at heart and don’t you know it) the Marquadians (right word?) had somehow scored right next to the poles through their tower of strength in the tight-loose. The try reminded me of some dude called ‘Rae, Rae for Scotland, SURELY! Oh they’ll be cheering down in Glasgow for that one until next year’ (Mclaren, Bill; 19foetsek, 101 Greatest Tries; available at the Brukman household, speak to Tony.) So there you have it, seven love to “MA-KWAD” as they say in the classics. Rolls off the tongue like a cane and coke first thing. Wind, fuckoff. Cobras 0, Makwad 7.

This is getting long but I’m enjoying myself so scroll down if you want the final straw, I mean score. Otherwise, two minutes later, after a couple more piss-poor efforts at tying up defensive holes bigger than Taylor’s after his stint in Marquad, the Cobras were reeling at fourteen squat. This time, illegitimate child of the UCT A1’s (tribunal to follow) and one-time leg-press Champion of the World, Andresz ‘not-shevchenko-although-I-look-a-bit-like-him’ surname untraceable had forced over another and swear words were flying out of Dittmer’s mouth faster than he can light a kop after a construction exam. Fast. You know the score, the wind was still a factor.

Nevertheless, Warren ‘wozby’ Butler sent his second kickoff into the Green Mile floodlights with a couple of ice molecules for good measure and this time it was ‘BF’ G van der Rhede who was taking no prisoners and layed into an IRB rule-bending tackle on some misfortunate MK cousin. ‘Walk it off’ as the say it the classics. A bit of to-and-froing and some decent forward play allowed for a scrummage centre-field on the MK 22 meter line. Just enough space for the MK right winger to nail sleazy greasy Deano Smorgasbord into touch on the nearside. Or so he thought. First it was Whyte Brukman’s sound rugby brain that started the manoeuvre with a tactically odd pick’n’go blindside against the wheel of a perfectly dealt-with left shoulder delivered by ours truly, he’s on OUR side, Nick ‘Pick ‘n Pay’ Corn. Somehow Commando Bones got the ball through the hands and Ricky ‘Meek’ Ditty managed to resist the urge to chip kick into the corner as he had previously done, and offloaded to Smorenburg in what some might call a precarious position. From then on it was like watching coursing. What’s coursing? Hare coursing. They set two lurches, their dogs before you ask, on a hare. And the hare has to outrun the dogs. So what if it doesn’t? Well the big rabbit gets fucked, doesn’t it! Proper fucked? Yeah Tommy, before ‘Ze Germans’ get there. (Snatch) Deano ‘Hare’ Smorenburg and the Purple Cobras 5, Leo ‘Ze Germans’ Marquard, 0. overall score, 14-5 to Marquard.

My journalistic license is expiring faster than Kenrick Brown’s parking disc for upper campus so I’m gonna try get a move on, but before that, the next sequence of events will surely have you itching to hear more (very self-gratuitous I know but so are most amateur bloggers). Macdonald and Andrew ‘undercover’ Flanagel embarked on some enterprising loose forward play but not before Chris ‘insert your own nickname he has so many’ Gibson could drop in his usual two cents worth of left and right kung-fu sidestepping to keep the Marquadians in a constant state of emergency. Actually huge mix, he wasn’t on the field yet, but rocks. It was like being at Heathrow a couple of weeks back, save for the possible explosions. Knife-edge stuff. Anyways, Hooter goes. Penalty on the Cobra’s ten meter line, Brukman at the helm as per. Tap n’ go is the call, again blindside just to be childish. Through the hands it goes in true Cobras style to stand in flanker-cum-fullback Nick ‘da-na-na naa na-na naa naa’ Stan-DER who bolts down the far touchline faster than his brother could ever imagine to do and offloads a neat inside pass to ever-present newborn-wing of the right side faith, Bradley Milne (no relation to the nuggety golfer who enjoys a bat and a poke), who then literally glides over as the elongated man tends to do for a try that made Ernie Els’s swing look like mine. Which is not that bad, but highly mediocre I might add. Butler calls for the tee and its Cobras 12 Marquard 14 going into the break. Now I must go for a quick shmack break before I get too long-winded. By the way, the wind is STILL a factor. Score.

The half time team talk was more colourful than a grade three classroom wall as Costa ‘yellow streak’ Ghioules-lash provided entertainment both aesthetically and verbally. As a matter of custom, the decision was made to keep off the subs until five minutes into the second half, although Craig Stack was straining at the leash harder than he was at last year’s vort just to get a run on and he was still busy ashing what ever he had in his hand so it seemed like he wasn’t quite ready to enter the fray. Nonetheless, a couple of swear words were exchanged much like a Sonny and Ricko fight scene but not quite to that extent, and it was back to the drawing board as Scotty ‘low gravity center’ Rogers and Hannes ‘nobody knows my first name’ Handley were feeling a lot fresher than the likes of Dittmer, MacDonald and myself and whoever else shares a special relationship with a cousin called Peter Stuyvesant.

After Nick Stander eventually managed to get his right boot on and do the lace up which took all of five minutes as he hadn’t quite been taught essentials such as that by whoever does such a thing (Westwood? Mrs. Stander?), Buttsy sent another frightfully high drop kick into the Marquard landing zone. Hell, even the girls watching from the top of fuller managed to catch a good Butcher’s hook at the pig skin and that which was written on it before it got dealt with by the ground. In a moment of sheer poetry, both forward packs watched as the ball graciously bounced between them and landed behind the advancing Cobra’s pack. It was as if the Cobras had just been lobbed by the mother of all Federer lobs and Wimbledon would be back in the Swiss alps once again. Fast-forward a few minutes and G van der Rhede proved why he is unable to pass while running as well as guard his face from a cheap shot in rucks as the soldier had to take a blood-bin soon in. One wasn’t quite sure if it was the Chinese he dealt with just before the game that sent him packing or his girlfriend watching on the sidelines. The jury is still out as they say in the classics. Nonetheless, with a less co-ordinated pack now on for the cobras at the entrance of Phil Voget esquire (or did he get a doctorate for his post-match performance?), Corn Ackwan decided he needed to get the backline firing in order to make up for a deficiency in the tight. As the pass reached him he looked more shocked than he did when he woke up in Beatty’s garden all those years back and the astonished gape across his chevy chase told all. The ball dealt him with some severe Lifebuoy-soap syndrome and it was like watching corn trying to cut something out of the herd at the base camp of Kilimanjaro. He’ll tell you he did but either way, it wasn’t pretty. Knock-on, marquard ball. Chin up, Corn.

Pretty soon it was time for the backline to prove they had one up on the forwards, or maybe that was what was running through Butler’s head as he tapped and went on the Marquard twenty-two and barrel-chested his way to the five meter line, only to be bundled into touch by one of the marquard forwards around his size. However, Buttsy was determined to show he could roll with the punches and with the instruction to myself and Drill-Sarge Bones along the lines of, “Bones go wide, Jordan come on a dummy switch, watch me bounce this first-five into the queue at Tiger next week”, he preceded to shrug off tackles much like Richard Bands on King Carlos at Eden Park a couple years back, only to trump the former-bok by offloading at the sight of the tryline to fellow playmaker and soon to be departing captain courageous Thomas Simon Howard Brukman son of Tony. It was poetry in motion as Brukman envisaged a waterpolo pool in front of him as some kind of mirage and swallow(or should I say seal) dived over for what was, well, a classic. One could almost hear the feint wurring of the radio that John Dittmer brought along for commentary companionship on the game crackling something along the lines of ‘Brukman, he surely must score, just the tryline to beat’ in a thick, Scottish Borders accent. Bill Mclaren, you beauty. Cobras are back in the game, tails in the air at 19-14, but the game is still in the balance.

Forgive me for sparing a few insignificant details like the fifteenth break around the fringes by their massive prop. The rest reads like a karma-sutra guide to sex. Or a TV guide. Or an eco’s textbook, whichever way you look at it, there is something for everone. Fifteen minutes to go. Position: corn’s one leg at a frigid angle sticking out of a…ruck. Flanagan’s hand’s stealing a ball swifter than a…nubile teenager at soBhar. At fifteen minutes into the half, Graeme Steen (from Walker, Texas Ranger and that dude from Lord of the Rings) gives a frightfully good performance as he delivers a cameo pass to Butler (Dawson’s Creek; 40 Days, 40 Nights) who sends a typically Tarantino-esque speculator pass to Biderman-Pam (The Wedding Singer, Happy Gilmore). Pam deals with the pass much like George from Seinfeld. He has a double dip, blames his mom and offloads his shit onto a curly-haired guy with a sense of Humour, Dittmer (as played by Seinfeld himself). Seinfeld, I mean Dittmer, wraps up the set with a bolt for the line and releases to the wing which, ceteris paribus, leaves only for the unemployment rate, Y, Output, I, or Tito Mboweni, TM, to fuck things up for Brad Milne who raises the interest rate and thereby increases his supply of Booze and Money by scoring in the corner for an inch-perfect try that tends to zero when the Cobras are greater than and not equal to Marquard. On the Y-axis you have the Cobras on 26 points and on the X-Axis, Marquard, on 14 in the short run equilibrium.

Then, send in the clowns. Stack and Clarkson on for Bones and B-Pam as the freckled brigade tries to outdo their greasy Italian and Jewish precursors. Armstrong goes on a cracking run and offloads to Zoid trotting back from another offside position, who in turn attempts a speculator to try outdo Butler but only succeeds in granting the opposition fullback a chance to expose the bear family clinging to Dittmer’s back and the effect of the Kop he dealt with during the conversion interval.

Matt Kemp finally blows the game in what was a display of reffing that Tappe could learn from on video, apart from a few hands-in occurrences. Its all smiles and cheers as the Cobra’s finish off their round-robin games with a flourish, bouncing back from a Nadoes drilling to squeeze home against Ubumbo Spears and then the Marquard Lions to the tune of 14-0 and 26-19 respectively. Many thanks to SAB, Costa Ghioules, The baby Cobras from ‘skoppe and the UCT rugby club facilites for what was an evening to be remembered long into the future. Eat your heart out, Phil Voget. Forever blowing bubbles. lets get fuckin mental!