contribution by Jordan Biederman-Pam
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 uctpurplecobras.blogspot.com) - 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.
[Graeme: Due to Jordan's slighly overzealous writing the rest of the article can be found here. Read it it's worth it but make sure you're comfortable. Any contributions to the Cobras site can be sent to me at firstname.lastname@example.org. That includes you Phil]
This is getting long but I’m enjoying myself so scroll down if you want the final straw, I mean score.