Drugs in sport are bad, unethical, unsporting, even dangerous to the athletes’ lives. But they are not as bad as losing to Scotland. They are the minnows of the six nations, the one team you can pretty much bank on beating. Well, that is if you’re a semi-decent team. But the Boks, at the moment, are not. They are terrible. How we went from having two teams in the super 14 final to this, I have no clue.
They say we have a team of seasoned campaigners. But “seasoned” is just the nice way of saying old. I prefer the term “over-seasoned”, as in marinated to the bone to disguise their vrot taste. Our team has reached its sell-by-date. Maybe it is because of the green jumpers that we haven’t noticed the mould. Or maybe we have noticed, but there is nothing we can do. No one is going to fire the coaching team and the coaching team won’t fire the senior players, so we are stuck. Stuck with biltong dressed up as springbok.
Our only hope is drugs. Anabolic steroids. And lots of them. The stuff that got Ben Johnson over the line. The dope all them cyclists are pumping to get them up those vertical hills. We need some of that chemical Holy Ghost to fill our boys with the righteous power. Some muscle-crack to get their weary old bones working again. How else will we get our team of octogenarians to keep up with the young’uns like Sonny Bill and Kurtley Beale? Bring on the methylhexaneamine! Bring on the testosterone shots! Let’s supersize the doses, none of these little syringes, I want them drinking the whole damn bottle. Enough to kickstart a dead elephant, or that 5 000kg sack of deadweight we like to call a team.
There is that guy who now lives in South Africa. Dr Ekkart Arbeit. That crazy East German doctor who turned a girl into a man. He jacked her up on so many banned substances that she had to have a sex change to finish off what he started. Maybe he can do the same for the Springboks. Because they could do with some bulking up in the ball region. And man up to the challenges that face their team this weekend. Have their elbows become that creaky, have their eyes become that feeble, they can’t see or pass a ball? Come on, boys, man up, or get on the gear, and let the juice do it for you. We need results. Don’t you realise there are thousands of poor bastid Saffas working deadbeat £4.50 an hour jobs in London who are dreaming of you sticking it to the English? Just for that one minute of glee on Monday. But they ain’t gonna get it, if you don’t come up with a plan. Get the good doctor on the blower, it’s time for a fix.