My World cup, part 2

In this post, part two of the highly anticipated ⁽¹⁾ world cup saga, I will lead you through excellent police work, extreme disappointment and one of the best goals of the tournament.  All witnessed by me, none caused by me.  Of course it also dragged me into South African criminal justice system and eventually took me to the SAB World of Beer.

When we left the story someone stole The Skinny One’s ticket.  Distraught, he started shouting his ticket was missing.  An apprentice police constable apprehended a guy scurrying along for no reason.  He had no ticket to a sold out game, therefore we safely assumed he was there for nefarious purposes.  His guilt remains unproven as he did not have the ticket on him.  We then proceeded with a police escort through the first security checkpoint.  I haven’t mentioned the totpacks ⁽²⁾ The Skinny One put into his gloves and beanie.  He was determined not to be cold all the way back on the train.  With a police escort, you don’t get searched by security ⁽³⁾ so the industrial alcohol made it through the first layer. 

There I was, 1500km from home, watching 83000 of my best friends going in to watch the game.  I recorded a video of the poor policemen that had to stay outside the stadium in an attempt to record the anthems.  On the replay it sounds like a lot of vuvuzelas.  Just like the rest of the Nameless Tournament 2009+1.  I also disposed of the alcohol.  In the plastic recycling bin, because it was in plastic.

At one stage the suspect started crying.  I got the feeling that in the absence of witnesses he might have fallen down (or up) some stairs.  By now we were resigned to missing some soccer.  We waited for a detective whilst The Skinny One’s statement was taken.  The police was friendly and efficient right through.  The detective found us eventually, he had to walk all the way from the stadium to what I will call outer perimeter security interrogation room 1.  He escorted us to the Match offices in an attempt to get a new ticket printed.  The people here were most unhelpful.  They probably took some tests in intelligence when applying for the job.  Those that scored above “troglodyte” were rejected as too smart.  The rest were happily accepted as productivity partners of Match.  Named with the same sense of irony as Hopefield.  With half time approaching I was sent in as secret agent double o dikkes.  If I found someone sitting on my brother’s seat, I was to contact my friendly neighbourhood policeman.  Small impediment at this stage, we did not know which seat his ticket was for.  Clowns to the left of me; jokers to the right.  We had to get the other ticket’s number.  This Skinny and the detective forced from Match in the end and was smsed to me.  In code.  No not really. 

Soccer City (or the First National Stadium as a bank would like it to be called) is impressive.  She is beeg.  Very beeg.  Signage can improve somewhat.  I walked quite some distance, humiliated myself by asking for directions, did not take the friendly vendors up on their offer of paying R30 for insipid, barely beer and found a scoundrel sitting in the brother’s seat.

The view from the seat

Now I am not one to shy away from confrontation.  I am one to run like a rabbit from a hound from it.  So there was a bloke sitting in the seat.  This was going to test me.  Suddenly I come over all clever.  I take the camera and do a panorama shot to the right covering the stadium, pan left and capturing the thieving bastard on film.  I took a few more pictures.  Sat for a bit and watched some football.  I came all this way to do so, so I did so.  I saw Forlan curling it round the wall, one of the goals of the tournament.  And this the first time I watched live soccer!

By now guilt took over from cowardice so I went to the nearest ushers (they were police) and explain the situation.  They are not too interested; they are trainees, until i used a phrase The Skinny One used outside.  “In possession of stolen property” That got them going. They checked his ticket against mine, yup same name.  Then they went to fetch the cavalry.  The arresting officer was a woman, who, when seen in civvies was quite attractive, but in uniform, all business. 

A bloke in body armour arrived.  Flak jacket, shoulder protection, boots with built in knee guards.  Like a knight in Kevlar armour.  If this officer told me to lick his boots, I would be on my knees slobbering all over it.  As they escorted the bloke to the charge office under the stadium, he casually asks how quick this bastard is.  Not too bad he reckons.  “Well”, he said while touching his gun, “we just have to inform you that should you run, we will have to shoot you.” 

After what felt like seven kilometres (I really am that out of shape, it is probably 1km) we came to the inner charge office.  Just as we walk in a woman says to my brother “I’m sorry sir, there is no one sitting on that seat”  I tap her on the shoulder, real TV dramatic style, and declare:” Here he is.”  Here, publically, I want to apologise to the colonel running the show there. 

Sorry mam.

The rest of the game we spent giving statements.  The police were brilliant once again.  Whilst my brother waited, clearly in distress, the police behind the counter invited him to watch the game with them behind the counter on the small TV they had there.  Good to know they care. 

If you missed the Ghana vs Uruguay quarter final you missed a great game.  I know, because I saw it on TV in the middle of the night.  It went to overtime as a 1-1 draw.  An idiot, named Suarez, handled the ball in the penalty area denying Ghana a semi final spot.  Ghana missed the penalty.  So the game went to penalties to decide the winner.  The police finished with us as the penalties were taken.  I showed my brother which way the gates were (remember he never went in as he was with the detective the whole time) and he ran into the stadium to go blow his vuvuzela.  The team from South America won.  Cheating ##%*! 

The stadium empties quite well.  It is a new generation stadium so it should.  We walked back to the train station to catch our train the lovely transport company kept waiting for us.  So if Suarez did not handle the ball, The Skinny One and the Fat One would have walked home.  Well, walked some of the way and got a lift with an ambulance the rest of the way.

After an exciting day train travel is the best way to unwind

The train ride back was uncomfortable.  A packed train, a distraught sibling and lack of tot packs.  At the station the police and private security waited patiently for us to collect the car.  We collect some sugary drinks and go home.  All the Skinny One had to drink was tequila.  So we ate the food left by The Long Suffering One (Very good, thanks) and drank very ordinary tequila.  We talked about forgiveness, plans not working and bonding with your brother.  And watched most of the game on TV.  Went to bed before the hand ball.  Had to read that in the papers.

In part 3 we will get to a happy ending, a triumph for justice and further bonding.

(1)    By me
(2)    Cheap booze in a small plastic bag
(3)    The Police