Memorable moments: The pearly white buttocks

In 2005, Ally and I flew from the gray skies of London to Croatia for a short break, desperate for some Mediterranean sun and the famous crystal-blue water. We checked into our hotel, dropped our bags, and immediately headed for the balcony to soak in the "gorgeous" view.

The view, however, was not quite what the brochure had promised.

As we looked out, an enormous, very white man walked past directly below us, speaking loudly in German. He was entirely, unapologetically nude. A moment later, several more naked people strolled by. It turned out our hotel didn't just have a sea view; it looked directly onto a nudist beach. We soon discovered that nudity is a massive part of Croatian culture—in some areas, there are more nudist beaches than "textile" ones.

True to the "When in Rome" spirit, we decided to embrace the local customs. We spent our days lapping up the sun; Ally went topless, and I went entirely nude. Ally even took a few cheeky photos of me standing on the shore, proudly showing off my pearly white buttocks against the Adriatic blue.

When we got back to London, I was eager to share the trip with my family. This was in the era before social media, so I sat down late one night to email a selection of photos to my mum in Cape Town.

The next day, I received a reply: "Lovely photos, Graeme, but that last one is rather porno!"

In my late-night exhaustion, I had completely forgotten the golden rule of travel photography: always curate your "mother-friendly" folder before hitting send. I had inadvertently sent my mother a high-resolution portrait of her son’s Croatian "full moon."

Memorable moments: The Paarl Gymnasium massacre

Growing up, my mother was the silent, steady heartbeat of my rugby career. I have the most heart-warming memories of her standing in the pouring rain, huddled under an umbrella, cheering us on through every muddy scrum and sodden tackle. Her love was as consistent as the Cape winter weather.

But there was one fixture on the annual calendar for which her nervous system was simply not equipped: the away match against Paarl Gymnasium.

Paarl Gym was an Afrikaans powerhouse out in the country, and to our prep school eyes, they didn't look like children—they looked like a different species. They towered over us, their forearms the size of our thighs. We were convinced they’d been raised on a strict diet of boerewors and biltong instead of breast milk. For them, winning wasn't just a goal; it was existential.

I have a vivid, slightly traumatic memory of three of us desperately clinging to a single Paarl player, hitching a collective piggyback ride as he thundered toward the try line, completely indifferent to the extra weight of three terrified schoolboys.

And then there were the fathers.

The Paarl dads didn't just spectate; they participated. Many of them wore the exact same rugby kit as their sons, looking like older, angrier versions of the giants on the field. During one particularly lopsided encounter, I saw a father reach down, rip a side flag out of the turf, and begin stabbing the ground with it in a rhythmic frenzy.

"Moer hulle, seuns!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Murder them, boys!"

Needless to say, the score was always catastrophically one-sided. I don’t think we ever managed to cross their try line, let alone win a match. I never blamed my mum for sitting those ones out. While she was happy to watch us get wet in the rain, she drew the line at watching us get systematically dismantled by teenage titans while their fathers reenacted medieval battle cries on the touchline.

Memorable moments: Highlander of the high school

Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.

Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.

For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.

It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.

So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.

But life has a funny way of balancing things out.

Because despite all that effort…

I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.