He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how. — Nietzsche
The ear is the avenue to the heart. — Voltaire
Everything flows. — Heraclitus
South Africa! They don't know what we know! — Dricus du Plessis
All aphorisms are not equally wise. — Louis de Villiers
LAST Sunday morning, I sat and cheered with half of South Africa when Dricus du Plessis shouted: “Now they know what we know!" Mercifully, I didn't get up at 5am because I was already awake — for the San Francisco 49ers' NFL quarterfinal against the Green Bay Packers, which they only began to clinch with seven minutes to go.
After that, rather sleepy and quite plastered, I switched straight to Las Vegas for mixed martial arts: the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) middleweight world title fight between Sean Strickland and our own Dricus du Plessis.
The Canadian p/s-ologist Jordan Peterson has stepped into the breach for this outburst because many of these tough guys are so damn fragile that we have to keep this in mind all the time, but from p/s-ology Peterson doesn't seem to know much more than how inadequate his and their little dicks make him and his disciples feel.
However, Du Plessis then beat this paragon of modern masculinity, and yours truly shouted awake his block 7.30am last Sunday with pure pleasure; Strickland's eye was bleeding, his title didn't even survive one defence and it was a South African who beat him.
However, I still don't know what we know that they don't, although I could think of quite a few possibilities:
We know to purchase inverters before our power supply runs out again.
We know politicians are lowlifes across the board (OK, almost everyone knows this these days, but we may have been a bit sooner to realise it).
We know our lives are as precarious as that last centimetre of bathwater when the plug starts slurping gorrrrrrrrrrrr.
We know it's easier in about half the world, but the boredom of that life disqualifies half of us from wanting to try.
We know you have to cheer loudly at the bottom of the world when someone from your region becomes a world champion, because they won't make it easily.
We know Coke tastes good in brandy; we know you're looking for an excellent right shoulder if you have to scrum; that you can make dry biltong tolerable with a dab of butter; and that you should keep quiet when volunteers are wanted. We know all our abalone are in China.
And we know one point is enough to win, as the Springboks and Du Plessis have proven.
There are also many things that we don't know we know, and things that they know that we don't know, such as that a train will soon arrive; you can walk by yourself in the dark at night to get a shwarma at the corner shop; and that next week there will be two or three great music groups playing again at local clubs or stadiums.
The government was therefore drawn to Du Plessis because thanks to him, many of us forgot for a few hours about the government's bullshit. On Sunday night, the ANC Youth League even congratulated Banyana Banyana on their victory over Namibia when it was actually Bafana Bafana.
Banyana would probably have won more convincingly than their male counterparts.
They probably would have governed better than the ANC, too, but let me spare you further unnecessary depression.
Somewhere during the state of lockdown, I began to look askance at the UFC's mixed martial arts, largely thanks to a then-resident godchild and his chums.
I subsequently got used to the fact that bar fights have become a standardised sport these days; in a cage, moreover, where headlocks and strangulation might be too subtle. So I was rather amused by the horror of childhood friends who witnessed the fight last Sunday morning.
I could have forewarned them that it's not a viewing pleasure for your average pacifist, but they didn't ask.
I could also have advised them that the main battle starts a few hours later than advertised, almost like a doctor's appointment but with much more blood spatter on the floor.
I believe responsible, consenting adults can do whatever they want, even if the floor ends up looking like a Yayoi Kusama installation on a day when she had only red and white to work with.
In any case, UFC is here to stay.
There are eight world titles for men and four for women, and there is no chance to hide from each other as boxers have done for years behind the alphabet of WBC, WBA, IBF and WBO. Of course, this also makes Dana White, the UFC big boss, more potent than the dozens of shysters who regulate the boxing world, although in no way more moral.
After the Du Plessis/Strickland fight, White said he thought Strickland had won. One of the judges also said it was pretty even.
To my layman's eye, Strickland pretty much won the first round and Du Plessis definitely won the fourth, while the other three were tied. Whether it's figure skating, surfing or a brutal brawl, sports subject to the whims of judges are always less satisfying than the others.
But look at the scoreboard. Well done, our Dricus.
On a much sadder note, I heard last week that Sports Illustrated magazine is dying. The staff are being fired in droves, artificial intelligence has been used to write a report or three and the new owner — the ironically named Authentic Brands — is quickly shutting up shop.
Sports Illustrated used to publish decent sports stories of a few thousand words, but maybe man's attention span is now really screwed up. If you can't say it on Tiktok you're talking shit, is the new premise.
It's almost as depressing as the war, the climate and the self-confidence the internet has offered to morons worldwide. I will just sit back and watch Dricus bliksem a Yank for my peace of mind.
It's Friday, so here are a few zef tunes for skipping or walking to the fighting cage or just to the party:
The Beastie Boys:
And AC/DC, with the late scoundrel Bon Scott singing:
The master, who could never understand why everyone wants to keep fighting everyone else ... for the love of... :
♦ VWB ♦
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