No hope of White supremacy

SHE stood before us, a statuesque, 5ft 11 vision of Aryan loveliness.

Her name was Claudia and she was to be our guide.

Immediately, the decision to forego the pleasure of a lie-in at the hotel in favour of a tour around South Africa’s parliament seemed to have been justified. “Howya Claudia,” we chorused cheekily, imbued with that particular type of confidence that comes from wearing a blazer abroad. Claudia smiled thinly, her heart clearly not in it.

The year was 1994, and the Irish Universities were only the second official touring party, after England’s senior team, to visit South Africa since Nelson Mandela had taken office.

It was a fascinating time to be in the country, but it was obvious many South Africans were having great difficulty adjusting to the change sweeping their land, Claudia among them. She proved impervious to our roguish wit and when she showed us around the magnificent main chamber, her disregard for the incoming regime was evident.

The walls were covered in the loud, proud, colours of the new national flag.

“This chamber naw riflicts the colours of our new Rainbow Nation and, though the room dates bik to the time of Cecil Rhodes, it has been completely restyled,” said Claudia through gritted teeth, the new decor clearly not to her liking.

Our guide’s icy aloofness had, by this stage, quietened our group. As we parted, she received one half-hearted offer to accompany us for a drink on the Waterfront, which might have loosened her up a bit, but she did not even acknowledge the invitation.

Her loss.

Claudia was an Afrikaaner, one of the descendants of the original Dutch settlers, and a people I found it very hard to warm to.

Shortly afterwards, we played Stellenbosch University, the rugby-obsessed cradle of Afrikaner intellectualism and an institution which had produced countless Springboks and its fair share of prime ministers, including Henrik Verwoerd, the man who had introduced apartheid in 1948.

We had a decent team, the presence of Gary Longwell and Hubi Kos in the second row kept yours truly on the bench, while captain David Humphreys and a teenage Dominic Crotty starred in the backline.

The Irish Universities beat Stellenbosch that day, which they had not expected. Apparently, Stellenbosch had not lost at home since the siege of Mafeking and our win went down like tofu at a beef-packers convention.

At the post-match function, our hosts steadfastly refused to mingle, made their speeches in Afrikaans and then disappeared en masse the moment their official duties had been fulfilled.

“Screw them,” we thought and settled in for long night of lager, laughter and song.

Rugby has always been the Afrikaaner’s chosen sport. Historically, they have adhered to a ‘circle the wagons’ philosophy, and rugby was a means of expressing their might and superiority over other, lesser peoples.

When it comes to rugby, the Afrikaners possess a Nell McCafferty-like sense of self-worth, which, similar to the fag-loving narcissist from Derry, makes them difficult to like.

It also makes it tough for them to cope with failure, as evidenced by the outclassed Boks’ descent into violence at Twickenham two years ago and by former coach Rudolf Straeuli’s bizarre boot-camp training methods when he realised he didn’t have a team to compete at last year’s World Cup.

The Geo Cronje race row, which erupted at the same time last year, was another low point. Cronje, a big bearded Boer and a hero among die-hard Afrikaners, refused to room with his coloured colleague Quinton Davids, confirming the negative impression many people had of the game in South African.

And then, along came Jake White.

The new coach has been a breath of fresh air. He has combined the enthusiasm of youngsters like Burger and van Niekerk with the know-how of rejuvenated older players such as Montgomery and Matfield.

He has judiciously included coloured players in his squad, in the face of heavy criticism, and encouraged his players to become more media-friendly and erode the traditional image of the dour, brooding Bok.

However, there is one South African rugby trait White has not been able to change, nor wished to - the arrogance.

Having captured their first Tri-Nations since 1998, the coach boldly declared South Africa should win the next two World Cups. It is clear he also fully expects to preside over the first touring team to complete the Northern Hemisphere Grand Slam since Alan Jones’ brilliant Australian side of 1984.

And then, this week, White stated bluntly that only three of the Irish team would even be considered for a place in the Sprinboks’ starting 15.

Arrogance can be compelling - as it was when Muhammad Ali taunted his hapless opponents or when Brazil stroked the ball around in 1970, with barely concealed disdain for the opposition.

But in White’s case it is too much too soon. There is an element of the emperor’s new clothes about this Springbok outfit. They certainly have some wonderful players, but are a long way off world domination.

Last weekend’s match against Wales, bizarrely hailed as a classic in some quarters, could be employed as an instructional video on how not to retain possession.

Ireland have a great chance tomorrow. The loss of Gordon D’Arcy is considerable, and it would have been nice to see Geordan Murphy in his best position of full back, but Eddie O’Sullivan has still picked a side that can gain our first victory over the South Africans since Seán Lemass was Taoiseach.

They also have the Lansdowne Road factor and, after White’s utterances, all the motivation they could ever wish for.

No indeed, I am not a fan of South African arrogance and I believe they will lose out tomorrow - just as Claudia did all those years ago.