After all Sepp Blatter’s blather about an ‘African World Cup’, the sad irony is that we are on the verge of the unthinkable: that none of the six African teams will make it through to the second round. All six pack, but no cigar — is one way of putting it.

Certainly, the chiseled torsoes of the Ivorians, Cameroonians and Nigerians have made for visual appeal, but very little footballing substance. Luck has played a part — Mphela’s shot against the post for Bafana, the countless shots that the Cameroonians pummelled against the bodies of the Danish defence (on another day they might have won 5-2) — but if one is hard-nosed in one’s analysis, the only conclusion is that the African teams have lacked sufficient quality or, in the case of the Black Stars, tactical wit in failing to take advantage of a ten-man Australia in Rustenberg on Sunday. What a disappointment!

There is such talent; the African teams contain some of the leading individuals in the English Premiership. But it is far from clear that they have the cohesiveness of, say, the Dutch — not a phrase that I ever expected to roll off the tongue: a cohesive Dutch team at a World Cup! So, one needs to look at their leadership: the captains and especially the coaches.

In virtually all other respects the circus is moving along pretty nicely. As a commentator in the Financial Times recently observed ‘all that staging a World Cup proves is that you can stage a World Cup’. This is, though, no mean feat. I don’t think South Africans in general had any idea what a massive event the World Cup is. But they do now. Perhaps it will serve to jolt the country out of its tendency towards insularity and exceptionalism — a tendency that, no doubt, Apartheid encouraged. Well, SA is just an ordinary country now — but, apparently, capable of hosting an extraordinary mega-event.

The massive TV advert that I spoke of in earlier blogs should pay off: people around the world will see that an African country can deliver; a new respect will emerge; South Africa’s image and confidence should be enhanced. Meanwhile, I have embarked on my World Cup roadtrip with my 3Play Productions’ pals, Lawson Naidoo and Drew ‘Drewza’ Whaley — as well as my drol son, Jack (13), who had the temerity to not only profer a comment on my last blog, kindly drawing readers attention to my main typo!

Tonight (Tuesday) we are in Beaufort West and having just enjoyed a superb slow-cooked Lamb at Suretta’s we are now set for Wednesday — an early rise at 6am ahead of the drive to Bloem and the denouement against the mutinous French. Who is in greater disarray, them or the lamentable, arrogant, over-paid, conceited, under-performing, egotistic, molly-coddled, but otherwise thoroughly delightful English? Friday night was the first time that I have seen the English national team play. I will be far from sorry if it is the last. Luckily I had good company at the match, but their play was abysmal. Reminded of the chirp that once accompanied a batsman who had got out for a duck with the words ‘and you were lucky to get nought’, I thought that England were lucky to get booed. Instead, the boorish Rooney swore at the camera, complaining of disloyal fans. He earns more in a week than most of them earn in a year, yet he has the arrogance to contest their mild-mannered rebuke!

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