It started like any other day. I wasn’t even aware there was anything different. Well there were more beeping car and house alarms when I woke up. And barking dogs, but there are always barking dogs on all sides where I live. But there was the sound of no traffic. I ventured out and saw nothing. Clearly there had been something odd going on; houses abandoned, deserted streets, and empty V cans blowing down the road like tumbleweeds.
I had slept in before but never to find this. Then a car from a side street appeared, small black flags fluttering as it speed away – “watch out – get off the street!” the terrified driver yelled at me as he sped passed.
Then I saw ‘them’ following, a large group of stomping people moving down the road, pale and fixated. Silently they shuffled towards me vacantly, menacingly, and I realised they were no longer of this world, they were the undead. Wearing dark green scarves the overseas rugby zombies wearily trod along the FanTrail on the way to Eden Park, wanting blood.
It’s been going for a while now, some weeks. A strange disease has taken over and taken our neighbours, our friends, and our loved ones from us. Losing their brains to the RWC syndrome, nothing makes sense anymore and no-one is safe from photos, tv cameras and the collection of international media.
Once sane ordinary Kiwis now sport silly little flags from their vans and cars, flapping about like Whale Oil flaunting name-suppression orders. And if you haven’t noticed people can only talk about one thing, ‘did Mike Tindall cheat on Zara?’ and other important RWC related news.
The newsmedia is mostly about the invasion but as yet no medical cure has yet been found. Like the Christchurch earthquakes we need to just ride it out till it stops, and therein lies the challenge.
As someone who is so far immune to the affliction, I have gathered with others in safe areas to discuss what we can do to keep ourselves from falling. One-by-one though we’re peeling off, struck down by the cup in horrible ways. One of my friend’s wives started harmlessly watching the first few minutes of Australia versus Ireland, and now all they both do is jabber about loose mauls and Sexton. I assume that’s rugby not some swingers club they’ve joined.
I’m the last person to comment on rugby, having only ever watched two games; a televised Lion’s game in late 1970-something, and a club game in Sri Lanka, but I have learnt how to talk rugby. In the 80s and 90s I discovered I would get nods by talking vaguely about Canterbury’s character as ‘a hard working and determined desire to win’ and Wellington’s as ‘moments of brilliance followed by perplexing ineptitude’. Auckland was ‘brilliant season followed by a patchy one’ and Waikato ‘lots of heart but lack of skills and follow through’. These would always promote a longer discussion where additional platitudes seemed to satisfy everyone.
If you mostly confine yourselves to talking about the ‘AB’s’ (That’s the un-trademarked name for the All Blacks) I’ve divined the following phrases should keep you safe; ‘McCaw is a legend’, ‘Good game but teams need to cut the penalty count’, and ‘We’re lifting our game with every match’. Of other teams, “I’m not convinced, what do you think?” People will cover the rest of the conversation for you.
Now it’s time to keep our heads down. we’re all safe unless we lose. Then it will really be time to head for the hills.
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