It would be seriously understating the case to say that the Fearsome Fireman had a less than satisfying week.
The Fireman, a regular member of the usual gathering, had gained the “fearsome” tag more for the flash spontaneity of his cracks than any inherent aggression, had been dealt a full house of spades in the poker game of life.
In one of the gory Hannibal Lecter movies, FBI agent Clarice Starling has trouble understanding why Mason Verger disfigured his own face with a broken piece of mirror on the infamous cannibal’s advice.
The undercooked sides in the tattered remnants of the once proud Currie Cup may have left many rugby followers less than satisfied by the thin fare offered after a feast of Super Rugby, but this does not extend to the Super Smous.
There was a dishevelled look about the arithmetically challenged Golfer; his hair looked like it had been combed by a bunker rake and his eyes had the wild look of a man who thinks he has hit an acceptable drive only to see it suddenly develop into a monster hook.
There had been one of those long quizzical looks that signify that Dave the Silent was running his own internal computer programme as the ebb and flow of the aftermath surged through the gathering, the great escape at Ellis Park still fresh in their minds.