Time to bring out The Beanie Of Destiny

I’m wearing a beanie as I type this. I’m not doing anything too remarkable in it these days, but let me tell you, some of the best experiences of my life have come while wearing a beanie.

Wearing a beanie signifies a clear mental step for me. The beanie represents the victory of utility over glamour. In a beanie, I am unable to look like anything but a round-faced white man. A cold one.

It is winter plumage, the beanie. Donned perhaps around June every year, just as we realise, okay, winter is still cold around these parts.

The beanie inflicts a slightly hot, scratchy discomfort upon the wearer, but this is tolerated due to its desirable side effect of stopping you from freezing to death.

Beanies have been indispensable when I have embarked upon some of the more interesting adventures of my life. An experience needs to be interesting if I’m going lose the feeling in my hands while doing it.

I’ve hated cold since I got chilblains on my toes from riding back from surfing at night in a wet wetsuit on a 50cc motorcycle. So it usually takes a lot to lure me out of my TV-watching lair on a cold night. Luckily, I’ve got beanies.

I was wearing a beanie when my dad took me to watch the 1980 rugby Springboks beat the British Lions 12-10 at Boet Erasmus Stadium/Stadion in the erstwhile Port Elizabeth in pouring rain that didn’t let up the entire day.

I went behind the grandstand to pee, but my hands were so numb, I couldn’t undo my zip. So I stood there, nine years old, already drenched from beanied head to toe, in a black rubbish bin bag and I just peed in my pants.

I’m still glad I went. Theuns Stofberg took a quick throw in to Gerrie Germishuys who scored in the corner for Naas Botha to kick the winning conversion. I was shivering like a jelly, but stoked!

I was wearing a beanie, also in a flood, when I waded back from FNB Stadium to the Sasol on Nasrec Road to find a taxi. So buzzed from the vibe as we bade farewell to Mr Mandela. The rain bucketed down, the dignitaries gave eulogies, but the real tribute was paid in the bowels of the stadium, where marchers toyi-toyied and sang freedom songs around the tunnels of the stadium.

Again, I emerged wet, newly enlightened and wearing a beanie.

Perhaps even the same one I wore for six consecutive days trudging up Kilimanjaro with a blow-up sheep sex aid, which may have been named Nancy, if memory serves.

I spent two days convinced I was dying of altitude sickness, with a pulse in the 120s, but apparently that’s just how it goes and you don’t eventually die. You live to march through the ice field and witness your climbing partner vomit a vomit of relief on the crest of Stella Point silhouetted against the rising sun, also in a beanie.

Because of the road I have walked in beanies – trudged, mainly – they make me feel intrepid. As if I’m about to do something adventurous.

I have therefore welcomed the return of beanie season like pirate captain Sir Henry Morgan, anticipating the launch of Caribbean raiding season during the 1670s.

I may only be making my sixth Ricoffy of the day by candlelight using the hot water tap before pottering back to bed for more expensive Twitter. But I am doing it in a beanie of endeavour; The Beanie Of Destiny; a beanie that touched the roof of Africa!