[Copied and pasted from my external blog. Please do take a look. I'm trying to update regularly, every few days or so]
Okay, so I promised this would be posted last night (Monday), but clearly it wasn't . The reason for that is an attack of either perfectionism, or crap writing (depending on your viewpoint). Basically, I got the damn thing finished in time, but was particularly unhappy with it, something which most writers will be familiar with. After banging my head against the damn thing for several hours, and reminding myself that this was only supposed to be a quick piece and not a contender for the Man Booker prize, I got it to a stage where I'm happy enough to post it, at least.
This piece was, unsurprisingly, inspired by the droning noise that has been haunting the 2010 World Cup with all the controversy of Nick Griffin's ghost. It's not intended to be a in favour of or against the vuvuzelas (though I do find them annoying after a few minutes into a game). It's just an evolution of an idea that occurred to me during the England v US game.
I hope you enjoy it.
By Matthew S. Dent
Everyone remembers where they were when it happened. It was one of those moments. Most people were glued to their televisions, grinning inanely. Or at the pub, still dancing, singing, and getting drunk.
No one had expected that it would happen.
No one expected what would come next.
Those men in white shirts filed past Mandela. They wore their medals proudly. Even they hadn’t thought this was possible. That they could be stood in Soccer City victorious had been only a dream, even up to the final whistle.
But it had happened. And as Nelson Mandela commended the gold statuette into the hands of Steven Gerard, the vuvuzelas reached a triumphant and approving climax. The whole stadium was vibrating, and back home, a nation was rejoicing.
Holding the trophy above his head, no one watching expected the sudden dark shape that darted for his face. The trophy tumbled to the ground, as the entire England team fell under the swarm of gigantic, black-and-yellow insects, descending from above the stadium.
How long had they hidden there? In broad sight, were everyone not focused on the spectacle below. Clear to be heard, were the air not filled with the roar of plastic horns. How long had they been the unnoticed spectators of the tournament, nestled in the rafters through the day? These winged vuvuzelas were unnoticed no longer.
Jubilation turned to terror. Spectators turned to flee. The horn calls had ended, replaced by the screams of those who had sounded them. But that terrible, droning buzzing endured, escalating and drowning out all other sounds, until that terrible sound was all that existed.
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