Christmas in Durbs

I am not a happy bunny given that the denizens of Shite Heart Lane appear above us in the league. This being such a rare occurrence it has forced me to totally rethink normal day to day living.

Normally at Christmas, as we do year after year, Annie and I would have a 4-5kg. Ham, a luxury denied to many spud supporters, together with all the trimmings. And of course a good red wine… white always seems thin and vinegary, somewhat akin to the average comment emerging from the swamp dwellers in various august blogs. Come the New Year, we’re probably still eating ham sandwiches but that’s been a small price to pay.

This year, however, a change was called for. To me one of the finest meals is still plain old roast chicken, flavoured with anything from chili and garlic, to onion and curry leaf, delightful fresh tarragon or lime and thyme…but in the current circumstances, a rooster really seemed more appropriate…a white rooster.

Do you know how easy it is to buy a plump white rooster in downtown Durban? Still alive and kicking. How easy and (shame facedly I admit) very gratifying it is also, to watch said white rooster having its throat cut? How magnanimous one feels when offered the walkie talkies (the head and the feet) to say that the vendor may keep them?

It was only afterwards, driving home that I really thought about it. This bird had been a living entity just minutes prior. Full of the joys of spring, prancing around in the daylight, crowing to announce its prowess as a horny, gladiatorial specimen to end all specimens in the Chicken Little land it had inhabited, and, very much alive.

But now, it would crow no more. Because of me and my petty football tribalism. Mea culpa, sackcloth and ashes, sadness and shame.

So why did I have to spoil it and think ahead to May? Because that’s when I started laughing at the thought of “the day the crowing died”.

Hell that chicken tasted good.