Lazarus is a bloody amateur

It was so bloody hot in Platypus Bum Springs that even the flies couldn’t be bothered to challenge the swinging corks on the hats of the cobbers … and in the pub, some of those hats had even been chucked in the corner (A hat rack, mate? What do you think we are, bloody poofters?)

Even though it was long past sunset, it was still scorching.

Behind the bar, Bruce Foster was doing what he does quicker and better than just about any man on the planet, flinging the ice-cold tinnies around at a rate of knots.

The big-screen TV over the bar was on, but nobody was watching because it was silly Sheila sport like women’s cricket.

(And we all know they put this stuff on only to stop them going into the streets and burning their bras for the feminist cause, don’t we?)

Bruce Mutton, a sheep shearer from the other side of the Hardasastiffturd mountain range, wiped the froth from his beard and said, “What’s the fastest thing at The Wanderers?”

There were a few chuckles because the cobbers knew what was coming next.

“A South African batsman putting on his pads!”

Har har har rumbled around the corrugated iron building.

“And what’s the second fastest thing at The Wanderers?”

“The bloke lower than him in the order, putting on his pads!”

That was a good one, so the blokes got in another round and they laughed at Wickus, the visiting Boer from Pretoria.

Wombat Wally – who used to be called Bruce but got tired of people taking the piss – said: “What goes down faster than an ice-cold lager on a mid-summer day in the Outback?”

“The Proteas’ batting lineup!”

A voice shouted out: “Even you last longer than that, Bruce … that’s what Sheila says!”

Bruce Foster remarked: “Maybe we should leave them alone – losing by 107 runs in a T20 is brutal, mate!”

Then Bruce Holden (he was named after his “ute”) piped up: “Have you seen what’s going on in Port Elizabeth?

”The shock rippled around the corrugated iron building. The foregone conclusion had … bloody well gone!

“What the hell happened?” asked Bruce Barbie, who had just come in from roasting celebratory hunks of meat outside.

“They won … Even Dave-o couldn’t pull it off.”

Bruce Barbie shouted: “It’s that bloody awful brass band. They should be banned. Isn’t there a United Nations convention against torture?”

The silence hung.

“You gotta hand it to Quinnie and his boys, though,” came the voice of Bruce the Professor (he passed Standard Two English).

“We’ve just got over a natural disaster with the fires, but they live with an ongoing disaster every day … it’s called the government.

“None of the cobbers much liked any government, so there were a few grudging mutters of agreement.

“They got a minister who doesn’t know Geneva is in Switzerland. They got a power utility that can’t produce power, an airline which should be grounded, a train service which goes off the rails … and the government wants even tighter control on all sport!”

Bruce the Posh (he drank brandy instead of beer) said: “But still – they just made Lazarus look like a bloody amateur with that comeback from the dead.”

Wickus looked musingly into his Foster’s: “Ja, wouldn’t it be lekker if politics was more like cricket?”

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