Suffer the little children…

CHRIS BENNETT celebrated the 11^th June in style.

SOMEBODY said to me on a recent delightful visit (aren’t they all) to the Mother City, “Yes; but what are we going to do about the child Malema?”

My companion was a local broadcaster and we were sitting in the exquisite News Café, inside the foyer of the magnificent Artscape, perhaps one the finest venues of its kind in the world and certainly with the finest name.

Well we needn’t have worried. The glory of the vuvuzela, especially the vuvuzela en masse, en fête, is a miracle to behold, for many; all differences dissolved; doubtless not for long, but dissolved nonetheless.

As for the ineffectual kids who wish to dictate to our hard working leaders, they were forgotten; brushed under the carpet of irrelevancy where they would be well advised to remain. As someone once said, “Little boys should be seen; and never heard of again.”

Nothing has drawn the people of this country closer together in such a remarkably short time as has this spectacular football festival, the FIFA World Cup.

The faces of the fans splashed all over the newspapers of the world carry South Africa’s most profound message. “We have arrived; we can do it; we have done it, and we have done it well.”

They might have added, “Come and visit our unique country and see for yourself”.

I deliberately didn’t see the opening Bafana Bafana match on Friday; I wanted to see the opening ceremony and then rush back to start this column.

My right hand man, Michael Diya, who had declined the opportunity to see the game on my friend Tegwyn’s humungus flat screen with the excuse that he would not be able to jump up and down shouting, gave me an enthusiastic report of the game.

After half an hour listening to his (admittedly excellent) English I was convinced the score had been BB23/Mex3. When I realised it was a 1/1 draw I really didn’t mind. I gather the young man did more than his share of jumping up and down.

The venue for those in this neck of the woods was the High Rock Pub and Grill, a beautifully positioned eating house that has on occasion received a very mild tongue lashing from your columnist, but which, let it be said, now puts on good food and makes an occasion like this into the mother of all celebrations.

Keith and Ingrid, the hosts of High Rock, may never forgive me, and I shouldn’t think that I would be moved to forgive them either, but to them both I say very well done indeed. (I should explain that I once had the temerity to make a negative observation of their pub, as should be done from time to time to any pub worthy of the name).

If you want to see the football in all its glory, go to Palm Beach, the pub at Greenhart.

Another delightful encounter of the week was with Ann, a florist in Port Shepstone. I had struggled for some time to think of a way of expressing my appreciation and gratitude to the kind woman in the Strand who found, and returned to me, my pacemaker card.

In no time Ann had arranged for a basket of fynbos and proteas to be delivered to the good woman’s door. Ann was also rather effuse with her praise of this column, something I accept in humility and gratitude.

The South Coast is really a splendid place.