Things were going on in Vuvuzela-land until the Dutch struck.

As I told you, I had suddenly become an ardent fan of Samba football and as you remember, I arrived at the Soccer Park and was received by very positive vibes as the Samba boys whipped the behinds of their fellow South Americans.

My choice of the Samba boys was not random of course. First and foremost, they are the Kings of football and the world has no dispute whatsoever, over this. Second, the whole country (including birds), revolves around football and when they win a World Cup, the processions in Rio de Jeneiro by naked birds is a sight to behold.

Therefore my calculations were that since there was no doubt that the Samba boys had the World Cup in their sight, there was no wiser thing to do than side with the winners.

In siding with the winners I was not planning to derive any football satisfaction, I am not crazy. My plan was to celebrate World Cup victory than the Brazilian themselves and if possible, be able to win a heart or two which would enable me obtain a Visa to Rio de Jeneiro where I would go and watch the ‘Bikini World Cup.’

I was so sure of myself when I descended on the Soccer Park with my yellow Vuvuzela blowing so hard I could feel my brains flowing out of my ears. We were here to witness the demise of the Dutch.

As usual the Samba birds were in plenty and I joined the party-before–the-party to celebrate a victory that was to come, ushering ‘us’ into the semi-finals from where ‘we’ would beat whoever was pushed in ‘our’ way out of the way and stride on gallantly. That was the general attitude.
The game started in earnest and as we expected, our blue eyed boy Robinho gave us a piece of ‘what was to come.’ I whispered into the ear of a Samba bird nearest to me that I could see the Dutch facing punishment harsher than that of Chile. For this observation I got a hug and a tender kiss.
Things were turning out to be good all round.
Then Sjneider (they should have called him sniper) struck to equalize for the Dutch.

But this did not affect our moods initially- after all, hadn’t Ivory Coast and North Korea scored but gone ahead to be crushed? We went ahead with the celebrations and simply dismissed as mere ‘Dutch courage’ as Arjen Robben twisted and turned with the ball only to find himself confronted by an impenetrable thicket of blue-shirted gallant Samba defenders. Our hopes were still alive until that 68 minute strike by the same sniper guy.

I urged the Samba birds on; telling them that the Dutch would not know what had struck them in the last minutes of the game.

I could see hope wiping off the Samba birds’ faces as the Dutch put on a spirited fight as time passed. Towards the 85th minute I found myself dancing alone in the forest of yellow birds and the way they looked at me, I am sure they thought I was simply nuts. I simply continued to cheer so as to portray myself as a Samba fanatic with the hope of deriving the obvious results.

When the final whistle went, I was so exhausted, embarrassed and dejected. All my plans had crashed to the ground. Crest-fallen, we walked out of the Soccer Park. I could see some Vuvuzelas littering the ground – no doubt discarded in anger by Samba fans.

I did not have any reason to discard mine since my reasons for having it were not soccer related in the first place. I held on to it as I tried to think of Plan B. But I could not think of any plans.

I could not go for German birds because they drink too much. I could not think of the Dutch birds – they are too frank for my liking.

The Spanish? Don’t even think about it! I hate their judges to the extent that I would only hunt a Spanish bird if I did not know she is Spanish. I knew I had to get out of Vuvuzela-land fast.

I am now in the land of 1 K hills and I don’t even intend to watch the finals on TV – Unless of course some soccer crazy bird convinces me to do it. See you next week.

Ends