A World Cup protest

BUSINESS DAY, 6 FEBRUARY 2003

YOU MAY NOT have noticed, sitting so far away, as you are, but I am writing this with no clothes on. Yes, you heard me – no clothes on. Naked, in other words. This is not just because I made a number of unwise decisions at the J&B Met last Saturday, not least the decision to carry on betting even after the seventeenth complimentary glass of the sponsor’s product in the sponsor’s marquee. The last I remember is yelling, “I’ll put everything I have on The Badger in Race 10. See! Even my shoes!”

But no, it is not just for reasons of poverty that I sit here writing all draughtily, feeling very thankful that modern technology allows me the safety of the personal computer, rather than the perilous keys of the old-fashioned typewriter. No, indeed, I am naked because I have gotten political. I am making a protest, damn it all.

I was inspired by the footage on the television news this week of a gang of flabby lady journalists who apparently whipped off their kit and lay down on a deserted patch of Cape Town to protest against Bush going to war. Now, there are too many obvious jokes to be made at this point, so I shall constrain myself to saying that once I had stopped laughing, my own political conscience was pricked. I too believe there is a pressing issue worth protesting, and so I am.

I shall remain in my pristine naked state as a statement against the commercial branding of cricket and sport and everything I hold dear. I do not mind the sportsmen themselves selling their faces and their names and spaces on their bats to large companies, but I most vehemently object to the principle of being told by the ICC what I may or may not wear to the ground during this year’s Cricket World Cup. All you good businessmen reading this column can tell me all you like how the money generated by exclusive rights is necessary so that we can afford all the fireworks and the giant cardboard zebras at the opening ceremony, and so that Ali Bacher can buy a nice houseboat when he retires, but I do not care. It is a matter of personal freedom.

If, after I have paid the better part of two grand to a scalper to watch the opening game on Sunday, I choose to go to the ground dressed like that clown from McDonald’s, bouncing on a giant inflatable waving a banner saying “I only drink Fanta Grape”, I should be able to, dagnabbit. And then, of course, the guys on the bank behind me should have the right to smack me around a bit for obstructing their view.

But I should most certainly be able to eat and drink whatever I please. For years now it has been almost mandatory to bring your own tasty treats to Newlands, otherwise you end up having to buy your sustenance from Anil’s Fine Boerie Rolls, or some such similar house of pain. No longer. Now, the only takeaway you are allowed to bring into the ground is apparently “a litre-bottle of unbranded water”. Vodka, in other words. Security is certainly going to be a thing to behold. If you get caught sneaking in a pipe bomb, you will be summarily ejected. If you get caught sneaking in a box of Nando’s flame-grilled chicken, you will get roughed up and then summarily ejected. Heaven help you if you get caught with a pipe bomb inside a box of Nando’s flame-grilled chicken.

Well, I will not stand for it. In two days the World Cup begins, and I shall not be a stooge of the multinationals. When the anthem plays I shall be at home, naked, standing to attention, one hand over my heart, the other hand clutching any item of fast food it feels like clutching. I will not be branded, I tell you. I will not be herded. I will stay home and clutch my freedom. Plus, I do not have tickets to any of the games.