Johannesburg – The biggest game of the year, they keep telling us. Yeah, right! You can hear the patrons at Milpark and the practitioners of Chloorkop chuckle because they know infinitely better.
Those days of that game being the two hours that stops South Africa on a Saturday are long gone.
Back in the day, you could walk through the city centres of Joburg, Durban and – okay, not quite the fair Cape – you would wonder if there was a mass funeral somewhere.
People would be at home, at a shebeen or a shisa nyama salivating at the prospect of bragging rights for the next few months.
The scale of the occasion meant that even weddings couldn’t coincide with the big game.
Guests would simply melt away at about 2pm and make a return around 6pm. Their mood upon their return reflected the fortunes of their side on that particular afternoon.
Those who greeted everyone were on the right side, while those who drank the night away in isolation had been humbled.
Those were the good ol’ days when the derby dictated the mood of at least half the nation.
Nowadays, Mzansi’s version of “El Clasico” has disintegrated into what can only be classed as “El Farcico” with the eternal promise of big things and then the consistent let-down of millions.
When Kaizer Chiefs and Orlando Pirates lock horns these days, there seems to be greater interest in who is occupying the expensive seats, quaffing on Moet and nibbling on wings.
Like many of the great social events on the calendar, the Soweto Derby has become one of those places that one goes to be seen, rather than to see.
You can be sure our minister of all sorts and recreation was there and would have been at the after-party that follows such hype-fests.
The main problem with the derby perhaps lies in the fact that it is no longer a battle of two football powers but rather a slugfest of two brands.
Chiefs, who will happily sell you anything from a humble jersey to a bespoke funeral, don’t even have a home any more.
Their players are forever on the road growing the brand and comprising their quality and their confidence as a result.
The sales suits will tell you that their home is wherever they play but the inconvenient truth is that even their own players couldn’t tell you where their home patch is now.
Cape Town? Port Elizabeth, maybe? Or what about Durban? They certainly have a fan base, but where is their fortress? Where do they take teams when they want them to hear their fans the loudest? Everywhere, but actually nowhere, it seems.
To sell one’s soul may bring in millions, but it takes away, too.
Chiefs seem to have an endless stream of patrons, customers and subscribers but where are their diehards these days?
To see real fans you have to head to Bloemfontein or Mpumalanga, where they will stand and sing and cheer all afternoon long.
Their loyalty is not dolled up with gadgets and gimmicks.
They are simply there to see their favourite team do them proud and they care for little else.
It is no wonder the Premiership table looks as it does at the moment.
Those teams chasing glory – the pure football clubs that sneer at weeks of overselling all for the sake of two hours of underwhelming finished product – will carry on in their quest for league glory long after the champers fizzles out at Soccer City.
Quite how we can still call a game between mid-table dwellers as the biggest of our footballing calendar is frankly ludicrous, and a great disrespect to those teams that deliver consistently where it matters most.
But, as they say, cheap products usually attract a lot of customers.