Gunnertalk: Conversations from an African Pub

I watched last Saturday’s drawn game with Sunderland in the dark confines of an overflowing pub in downtown Johannesburg and was quite ‘priviledged’ to sit-in on an exchange between a cross-section of soccer fans also there for the occasion.



Enjoy the session with me.


Its 6.25pm local time and we are all perched on rickety stools scattered around seven tables. The music is naturally too loud to hear the Skysports commentators of Efan Ekoku and Peter Drury, so some over-enthusiastic types do the honours as the teams file out of the tunnel.
Cameras close up on the faces of Cesc Fabregas, Kieran Richardson and referee Phil Dowd as they lead both teams out onto the well-manicured lawn.
To my right, a beefy, Nigerian-looking, dark bloke pipes up.
“Oh yes, they’ve given them a Man U referee. There’s no way Arsenal can win this game”
To my left, a little, subdued fella, clutching a sweating bottle of transparent something responds: “Why are they wearing yellow? Whenever we don’t wear red, we don’t win!”.
“Don’t start making excuses my man”, beefy Nigerian fires back. “Just accept that you can’t win anyway”.
“What do you mean, making excuses?”, little fella turned around, eyes darting like a squirrel’s. “Who are Sunderland that we have to make excuse for?”
“Oh, so you don’t know they have Gyan now, the Ghanaian? You will be surprised that he will finish you today. Remember Van Persie and Bendtner are not there. And Walcott too. And of course, you guys don’t have a keeper”, beefy Nigerian boasted with glee obviously pleased with himself for this unsolicited team update.
“My friend, so there’s no one in goal for us. Is that what you mean?”
“Ah, Almunia is not a keeper now, you know”.
Little fella clearly was a Gunner. His sparring partner wasn’t a Sunderland supporter, just someone who backed anyone playing against Arsenal.
The match kicks-off and Sunderland launch opening forays into Arsenal area, winning an early corner kick.
“You see, I told you, Arsenal will die today”, beefy Nigerian sang with a wide grin, as if Arsenal was a human being.
Corner kick comes to nothing. Ball is cleared and we momentarily string passes in the middle much to the distaste of beefy Nigerian.
“Everytime one touch, one touch. Wenger thinks this is Champions League where they can play and score as they like”.
No response from little fella who pretends he did not hear. The music from the loudspeakers go up an octave for some reason and a fat lady in jeans mini-skirt brushes past me on her way to the bar. She attracts lots of attention as she jiggles her behind in a sleazy attempt to attract even more attention.
“Give the ball to that man!”, beefy Nigerian yells at the screen as Sunderland break into our half of the pitch. My eyes return to the screen in time to see El Mohammady attempt a pass to “that man”, which was blocked by Song.
“Ah, this Song. Is it Wenger who told him to cut this hairstyle?”, beefy Nigerian asked sheepishly, in reference to Song’s new hyena chops-dyed look.
Little fella, who looks a cross between a Malawian, a South African and a Zimbabwean glances over at his sparring partner and just shakes his head sadly. As if to say, what an irrelevant comment that was.
Suddenly; “GOAL, GOAL, OH, WHAT A GOAL!”
Little fella shot from his stool and did a jiggy-dance on the floor, joined by several apparently undercover Gunners.
“Ah, ah”, a stunned-looking Beefy protested as the replays of Fabregas’ fluke goal were repeated from several angles. “Ah, ah how can that be a goal? It was deflection and the keeper was not in the post and because of that they should count it as a backpass”.
I smiled inwardly at this new, bizarre interpretation of football rules. There was no pacifying Beefy however as Phil Dowd restarted the game.
“This Man U referee…how can he allow that? They are the ones killing football. What kind of goal is that? How can he allow that? Did he not see that the ball hit Fabregas’ hand?”
This latest intelligence stirred a new voice.
“My friend, what do you mean handball? Can’t you see the replay? What handball? You better finish that beer quickly so you can see clearly”. General laughter at this attack on Beefy.
Looking overwhelmed, Beefy stayed subdued for a few minutes as he contemplated this new turn of events. Like a wounded dog, he sat silent on his stool with sad eyes following the action on the big, overhanging screen.
Soon it was halftime and the referee blew the half over.

True or False..."when we don't wear red, we don't win?" 

I went out to make a call and check if my vehicle (a minibus) was still where I left it. Being a very notorious neighbourhood and also being a weekend where the streets were overflowing with drunken revellers, undesirables and what-have-you, one could not be too careful.
I returned to a heated debate between Beefy, little fella and an assortment of other faces. The fat lady in miniskirt who was now being cuddled around the waist down by a hefty, half white, half black bouncer-looking type. The category of people generally known as coloureds here. Coloured man, who apparently had no interest in football was trying to tell all those assembled that he once watched Man United play at Old Trafford and there was no way the Fabregas goal would have stood at the famous Theatre of Dreams if it was scored by an away side.
He was immediately shouted down by a group of excited, clearly Arsenal-supporting sorts who were obviously pleased with the events of the first half.
Fat lady looked from one face to the other, basking in the attention from her new boyfriend as she slurped the liquid contents from the brown bottle in her chunky left hand.
Commercials over on the big screen, the teams came out again to commence hostilities for the second half. Meanwhile I had to stand now since my stool had since been re-possessed while I was out checking my vehicle. Here, you don’t go asking questions.
“This man sef”, in reference to Sunderland coach, Steve Bruce, “when will he bring Gyan now?”, Beefy wondered. “If Gyan was here, by now they would have scored three against that your keeper”, he predicted, directing his tirade at little fella.
“I thought you said we didn’t have a keeper. Why haven’t the others scored since?”, little fella attempted to shut him up.
“Ah wait now, you will see what will happen when Gyan comes. I’m sure they are reserving him for this second half”.
Game resumes and ten minutes later, Song sees red.
“Eh, eh, I told you...that Song”, Beefy celebrated. “He thinks this is African Cup of Nations where you can push people around on the pitch and referee will not say anything. Ah, I trust this referee, he will not take nonsense”.
“What did he do?”, little fella protested, looking around him for support. Something which I momentarily considered offering him as I also seethed at the injustice of the Song sending-off.
Fired up now, beefy offered a steady stream of encouragement to Sunderland players as he saw the chanceof beating ten-man Arsenal.
Then came the 76th minute and the penalty for Arsenal.
Oh God, this referee!”, lamented Beefy. “See how they are killing football in England. What did that guy do now?”. ‘That guy’ being El Mohamady who had brought down Nasri in the box.
“Ah, ah I thought you said he is not like an African referee that allows pushing. So now he has shown that he won’t allow kicking as well”, little fella taunted him as he smiled, obviously pleased with this golden chance to seal the points.
Moments later, the smiled vanished from his face as Rosicky skied his shot into the crowd.
“Ah, I told you. Didn’t I tell you? I said they can’t score wayo penalty”, Beefy danced on his stool as huge moans and invectives were directed at the screen and Rosicky in particular from around inside the pub.
Little fella, clearly taken aback by this unexpected setback, couldn’t muster any form of reply.
Soon, finally, Gyan was introduced and Beefy serenaded his entry.
“Eh, eh, now this is the end of Arsenal. My friend, you will see football now. Classical football, not this thing you people have been doing since. Let them just give the ball to Gyan and your keeper will be in trouble”.
Well, the game drifted to its closing minutes and still ‘trouble’ refused to happen. Gyan himself saw very little of the ball as we warded off attack-after-attack.
“This referee should blow this game off now”, pleaded little fella as the clock showed the 90 minutes were up.
“What do you mean blow this game?”, Beefy reacted sharply as he sought to cling to the fading hope of Sunderland salvaging something. Anything. Now, with the minutes all but gone, he looked disturbed and dispirited.
I for one, was quivering with nerves as the game drifted into extra time. We hadn’t been our scintillating selves but surely now, after all the yeoman’s work done by our defenders, we weren’t going to chuck it all away.
Then in the 95th, new introduction, Boudjewin Zenden crossed into our box. The ball was headed out; someone headed it back in and after and almighty ding-dong, it fell to Bent who smashed it home.
Pandemonium, bedlam broke around me. The noise that erupted swallowed up the strains of Congolese music that had all along provided a backdrop in the pub.
I made my exit, crestfallen.
On my way out, I saw little fella with hands deep in his pockets crossing the busy road. Poor guy. Wish I could say or do something to lift a fellow Gunner; who had single-handedly defied a garrulous opponent and almost made him eat all his words.
Well, it is the lot of the fan. Helpless and forever hostage to the mistakes and failings of players thousands of miles away.
I headed to my vehicle, which thankfully was still standing where I left it.
At least we didn’t lose, I told myself. If only Rosicky had scored that penalty. If only…