Hate Object


This is a vuvuzela

It’s a long brightly-coloured horn, originally made from tin or aluminium, but latterly of plastic.

It makes a monotonous, braying noise like a drunken rhinoceros gargling with a sack of drawing pins.

South African football fans like to go to matches and blow their vuvuzelas in impromptu choirs of thousands of the damned things.  I watched a commentary-free feed of England’s final warm-up game against the United Zirconium All-Stars  (something like that anyway – 90 minutes of almost unremitting tedium, since you ask) and these things were blaring away mindlessly for the entire game.  The only thing worse would have been to actually be there in the stadium with no volume control.

Vuvuzelas are likely to be an irksome, boring and omnipresent feature of the forthcoming World Cup, along with brain-dead TV directors who just have to cut away from the action to show us (yawn….) yet another boring Mexican Wave. Colour me enthralled.

Watching the games with the volume on zero is becoming a real possibility.  The prospect of the fatuous John Motson droning mind-numbing  inconsequentialities to an accompaniment of umpteen thousand vuvuzelas is enough to make me want to eat my own head.

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