In not what you’d really call a representative sample, I surveyed a couple of people I know about what they thought was the most common New Year’s resolution.
Almost 100% said, “To quit smoking!” with authority – as though they’d gone to the trouble I had to actually ask the population.
These days smokers are right up there with paedophiles and Crocs-wearers on the unsavoury list. In movies when someone cracks up a cancer-stick you just know he’s the one who’s going to betray the hero at the end. And when asking for a light you so often get a smug “Oh no, I don’t smoke” response, as though these people donate hours of their time each week to slopping lobster bisque into bowls in a soup kitchen.
When confronted about their discrimination against puffers, these Nazis will sincerely tell you, “Some of my best friends are smokers.”
I kind of gave up on resolving to change something about myself at the beginning of each year; mainly because I was always so pissed when I made the commitment I forgot about it when I woke up on the 2nd of Jan.
I think instead of promising to stop something – like smoking or aiming for pigeons with your car – it’s a better idea pledging to start doing something that will be for the betterment of mankind, the environment, or at least your self-esteem.
It doesn’t even have to be that serious. Maybe something small that will make you a less boring person or expand your horizons – listening to new music, reading more expansively, trying on women’s clothing for a change.
Or you could adopt the Fight Club theory that “self-improvement is masturbation; now self-destruction… well, that might just be the answer we need” and vow to let yourself hit rock-bottom so you can build yourself up into the person you want to be.
Either way, we shouldn’t let society, the surgeon general, or our mothers tell us what we should change in 2011; we should choose something that we want to do and do that instead.
Your Teeth Are Like Stars, They Come Out At Night
I reckon most people who say they’re afraid of clowns are just saying it coz they imagine it’ll make them seem quirky and cool. Pretending to be scared of something designed to make you laugh is the bluntest form of irony – a sign of a below-average sense of humour trying to be big and clever.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
Zen and the Art of Doing the Dishes
My first job in England when I was over in 2003 was washing and polishing plates and cutlery for eight hours a day.
Sounds like a shitty job, and I suppose it was, but one benefit was it gave me a lot of time to think about stuffs. Not things like, “Why am I in such a kak job!”, but things like the meaning of life and why hippos are grey.
The three months before I was promoted were like a crash course in Zen meditation. I would totally zone out, focus on my breathing (and on the polishing), and sink into that calm, ethereal ocean of the subconscious. The only time I took a break was to go for a smoke or make chef a cup of tea.
Chef was a bit of a bastard. If the plates weren’t polished properly (on the bottom too) he’d send the lot back to be redone. The meditation made it possible to laugh about it on the odd occasion it happened, which kind of annoyed him.
The most basic form of meditation is to count your breaths. Inhale and count one, exhale and count two (in your head, not out loud), try to empty your head and focus on the in and out of said breaths, and if you get to ten without your thoughts trailing off then start back at one again – or start again whenever you find you’re thinking about Liz Hurley naked or how broke you are.
This training has since made doing the dishes at home a pleasure. Lucy does pretty much everything else, but she hates the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.
The fact that I have no problems in that department helps her to love me.
All I do is pop some Travelling Wilburys or Wrestlerish (a kick-ass SA band) in the cd player and zonk out – and before you can say Buddha it’s all sparkly.
I think that’s why so many rich people are stressed out and miserable; they just don’t realise the value of a monotonous, menial, mentally-unchallenging job.
It’s the reason lamas don’t give a… well, a llamas ass about money and possessions. They know something we don’t – once you’ve found Enlightenment you don’t need a fancy car to be smug, and you can laugh at all those rat racers perpetuating their own misery.
Sounds like a shitty job, and I suppose it was, but one benefit was it gave me a lot of time to think about stuffs. Not things like, “Why am I in such a kak job!”, but things like the meaning of life and why hippos are grey.
The three months before I was promoted were like a crash course in Zen meditation. I would totally zone out, focus on my breathing (and on the polishing), and sink into that calm, ethereal ocean of the subconscious. The only time I took a break was to go for a smoke or make chef a cup of tea.
Chef was a bit of a bastard. If the plates weren’t polished properly (on the bottom too) he’d send the lot back to be redone. The meditation made it possible to laugh about it on the odd occasion it happened, which kind of annoyed him.
The most basic form of meditation is to count your breaths. Inhale and count one, exhale and count two (in your head, not out loud), try to empty your head and focus on the in and out of said breaths, and if you get to ten without your thoughts trailing off then start back at one again – or start again whenever you find you’re thinking about Liz Hurley naked or how broke you are.
This training has since made doing the dishes at home a pleasure. Lucy does pretty much everything else, but she hates the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.
The fact that I have no problems in that department helps her to love me.
All I do is pop some Travelling Wilburys or Wrestlerish (a kick-ass SA band) in the cd player and zonk out – and before you can say Buddha it’s all sparkly.
I think that’s why so many rich people are stressed out and miserable; they just don’t realise the value of a monotonous, menial, mentally-unchallenging job.
It’s the reason lamas don’t give a… well, a llamas ass about money and possessions. They know something we don’t – once you’ve found Enlightenment you don’t need a fancy car to be smug, and you can laugh at all those rat racers perpetuating their own misery.
It's Not Personal, It's Monopoly
It’s like a tree stump in your gut.
Like someone has shoved a great big boxing glove down your throat and is punching you from the inside of your stomach.
It’s kind of like one of those sandworms from the movie Dune is eating its way out through your belly button.
Losing at Monopoly is an excruciating thing.
I’m not talking about having lost – when it’s all over and you’re packing up the board – but sitting in front of a fifty and a couple of fivers, with all your properties mortgaged and glaring red hotels on everyone else’s squares.
This is probably one of the most depressing moments of anyone’s, of any age’s, life.
You shake the dice like a schoolboy in the bushes watching the girls’ netball practice, mumbling the number you need to land on Community Chest or Water Board, closing your eyes as they bounce across the Free Parking money, only to be one move away from another round’s respite.
Landing on your soon-to-be-ex girlfriend’s Eloff Street, you’ve got to fork out what might as well be a hundred billion Rand and the freshly-plucked hairs from the inside of your left ear.
You know you can’t come up with the money, but you look glumly from side-to-side at your lot as though there’s a pile of hundreds you might’ve missed.
Oh, ha ha, it’s just a game, the winners always say; but then why does it feel so kak to lose at Monopoly? It’s not a poker game with real cash! Sure, it might be worth more than Zim Dollars, but you can’t buy as much as a night with a Wynberg Main Road Tranny with it – believe me, I’ve tried.
Robert Kawasaki – or whatever the ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ guy’s name is – says you should play Monopoly with your kids a lot because it teaches them how to manage money and ruthlessly fuck over their friends. I played my fair share of Monopoly as a kid and it didn’t do squat – I’m terrible with money!
I think it’s so depressing because being on the Monopoly skids feels real!
It brings back those memories of emptying your piggy bank to buy a loaf of bread and a tin of sweetcorn for dinner, scrounging through jacket pockets for coins to buy a couple of single cigarettes at the corner café, and closing your bank account to get the last R50 so you can buy booze and a piece of rope to get pissed and hang yourself.
It’s a terrible toy; designed to make you feel like a loser.
I always preferred the Mad Magazine Game, the point of which was to lose all your money… funnily enough, I was always very good at that.
Like someone has shoved a great big boxing glove down your throat and is punching you from the inside of your stomach.
It’s kind of like one of those sandworms from the movie Dune is eating its way out through your belly button.
Losing at Monopoly is an excruciating thing.
I’m not talking about having lost – when it’s all over and you’re packing up the board – but sitting in front of a fifty and a couple of fivers, with all your properties mortgaged and glaring red hotels on everyone else’s squares.
This is probably one of the most depressing moments of anyone’s, of any age’s, life.
You shake the dice like a schoolboy in the bushes watching the girls’ netball practice, mumbling the number you need to land on Community Chest or Water Board, closing your eyes as they bounce across the Free Parking money, only to be one move away from another round’s respite.
Landing on your soon-to-be-ex girlfriend’s Eloff Street, you’ve got to fork out what might as well be a hundred billion Rand and the freshly-plucked hairs from the inside of your left ear.
You know you can’t come up with the money, but you look glumly from side-to-side at your lot as though there’s a pile of hundreds you might’ve missed.
Oh, ha ha, it’s just a game, the winners always say; but then why does it feel so kak to lose at Monopoly? It’s not a poker game with real cash! Sure, it might be worth more than Zim Dollars, but you can’t buy as much as a night with a Wynberg Main Road Tranny with it – believe me, I’ve tried.
Robert Kawasaki – or whatever the ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ guy’s name is – says you should play Monopoly with your kids a lot because it teaches them how to manage money and ruthlessly fuck over their friends. I played my fair share of Monopoly as a kid and it didn’t do squat – I’m terrible with money!
I think it’s so depressing because being on the Monopoly skids feels real!
It brings back those memories of emptying your piggy bank to buy a loaf of bread and a tin of sweetcorn for dinner, scrounging through jacket pockets for coins to buy a couple of single cigarettes at the corner café, and closing your bank account to get the last R50 so you can buy booze and a piece of rope to get pissed and hang yourself.
It’s a terrible toy; designed to make you feel like a loser.
I always preferred the Mad Magazine Game, the point of which was to lose all your money… funnily enough, I was always very good at that.
Voldemort is an African
A guy was arrested last week with a bucket of body parts – an old man’s head, a baby’s torso, and arms and legs from another infant.
These were to be sold for muti.
People in Europe and America will be shocked by such things, but here in South Africa the story was on page 5 of the paper.
In Angola, albinos are hunted because sangomas – witchdoctors – pay big money for their limbs, which are believed to hold magical qualities.
The Oxford dictionary defines muti as a Zulu word that means traditional African medicine or magical charms. It specifically means African medicine using body parts.
A report by Under The Same Sun reveals that if the body parts are taken from a live victim, it is believed the screams enhance the muti’s effectiveness or magical qualities.
Muti is said to solve anything from money troubles to health issues, and body parts are traded across African borders for large sums of cash.
Muti is big business.
This evil underworld is, obviously, incredibly secretive; but earlier this year it was discovered that “you get just R10,000 for coming with a person”, Simon Fellows, project manager for the Mozambique Human Rights League, told the Argus in March this year of information received from the sister-in-law of a victim in KZN.
The sister-in-law said that the person’s eyes, nipples, clitoris and tongue were removed.
"Based on the accounts we received, there is internal trafficking and cross-border trafficking, but it is difficult to establish where the body parts are going. There is talk in South Africa that witchdoctors come in from outside." Fellows said.
There is a UN Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, but this barely covers organ trafficking. The Under The Same Sun report states that “in essence the protocol prevents human trafficking in the event that the victim is alive and the purpose of movement of that victim is to remove body parts. The protocol does not cover the issue of movement of body parts that have been removed without any… coercive elements…”
This problem does not have a legal solution. At the risk of sounding ethnocentric, this can only be solved through a massive change in cultural beliefs, and with so much anti-Western sentiment on this continent it is not something overseas human rights organisations can tackle – the change must come from within.
These were to be sold for muti.
People in Europe and America will be shocked by such things, but here in South Africa the story was on page 5 of the paper.
In Angola, albinos are hunted because sangomas – witchdoctors – pay big money for their limbs, which are believed to hold magical qualities.
The Oxford dictionary defines muti as a Zulu word that means traditional African medicine or magical charms. It specifically means African medicine using body parts.
A report by Under The Same Sun reveals that if the body parts are taken from a live victim, it is believed the screams enhance the muti’s effectiveness or magical qualities.
Muti is said to solve anything from money troubles to health issues, and body parts are traded across African borders for large sums of cash.
Muti is big business.
This evil underworld is, obviously, incredibly secretive; but earlier this year it was discovered that “you get just R10,000 for coming with a person”, Simon Fellows, project manager for the Mozambique Human Rights League, told the Argus in March this year of information received from the sister-in-law of a victim in KZN.
The sister-in-law said that the person’s eyes, nipples, clitoris and tongue were removed.
"Based on the accounts we received, there is internal trafficking and cross-border trafficking, but it is difficult to establish where the body parts are going. There is talk in South Africa that witchdoctors come in from outside." Fellows said.
There is a UN Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, but this barely covers organ trafficking. The Under The Same Sun report states that “in essence the protocol prevents human trafficking in the event that the victim is alive and the purpose of movement of that victim is to remove body parts. The protocol does not cover the issue of movement of body parts that have been removed without any… coercive elements…”
This problem does not have a legal solution. At the risk of sounding ethnocentric, this can only be solved through a massive change in cultural beliefs, and with so much anti-Western sentiment on this continent it is not something overseas human rights organisations can tackle – the change must come from within.
It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas Sucks!
I’ve never really had a definitive view on Christmas. Some years I walk around with a gormless, smiley expression, like I’ve been smoking rooibos tea again; and some years it just doesn’t seem like Santa’s going to come at all.
Almost everyone I know is broke already even though the first prezzies haven’t even been bought yet! I think for a lot of us it feels like January, but without the added depression of another Earth-shattering family dispute.
Unless every uncle and auntie pulls out all the stops to remind your mum or gran about how badly that childhood slight emotionally scarred them a hundred years ago, it just doesn’t feel like Jesus was born.
Even the Testament-wrestlers get upset! Banging on about how it’s all so commercial and we should remember that if it wasn’t for God there’s be no turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day – like we all don’t know already and just thought it was a funny coincidence that Jesus was born on the 25th.
I’d almost forgotten, but was reminded last night when I heard a guy in Woodstock singing a Christmas song. Something along the lines of, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth removed.”
You can sing miserable old hymns all year round, but December is reserved for the more up-tempo but equally depressing Cliff Richard or Elvis track… I lie, of course; I love the Elvis Christmas cd – it makes my bad dancing seem contrived and not merely genetic.
And it’s always interesting to browse music shops and see which artists are hard up for cash.
I think the last, dying breath of any musician is the Christmas album. It might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but there’s nothing that says ‘uncool’ like singing wholesome, happy, holiday tunes. This is the age of Emo – Santa’s got to be a dirty, old man or serial killer.
You can also tell it’s Christmas because shops have got spray-on snow in their windows. In a country that wouldn’t know snow if it fell from the sky, we’re so dying to be American that we fake it for December.
But I think fake happiness over the festive season is better than the alternative. If anything, it’s more of a cliché to be a Grinch.
The people who hate this time of year are probably the same people who hated the World Cup or anything that forces them to see other people happy. Not liking Christmas is kind of like not liking puppies and kittens.
Just think of it as a good excuse to get pissed, eat a lot, and bring up that time your brother played Wrestlemania with your favourite teddy and snapped its head off… I’ll never forgive him for that!
Almost everyone I know is broke already even though the first prezzies haven’t even been bought yet! I think for a lot of us it feels like January, but without the added depression of another Earth-shattering family dispute.
Unless every uncle and auntie pulls out all the stops to remind your mum or gran about how badly that childhood slight emotionally scarred them a hundred years ago, it just doesn’t feel like Jesus was born.
Even the Testament-wrestlers get upset! Banging on about how it’s all so commercial and we should remember that if it wasn’t for God there’s be no turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day – like we all don’t know already and just thought it was a funny coincidence that Jesus was born on the 25th.
I’d almost forgotten, but was reminded last night when I heard a guy in Woodstock singing a Christmas song. Something along the lines of, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth removed.”
You can sing miserable old hymns all year round, but December is reserved for the more up-tempo but equally depressing Cliff Richard or Elvis track… I lie, of course; I love the Elvis Christmas cd – it makes my bad dancing seem contrived and not merely genetic.
And it’s always interesting to browse music shops and see which artists are hard up for cash.
I think the last, dying breath of any musician is the Christmas album. It might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but there’s nothing that says ‘uncool’ like singing wholesome, happy, holiday tunes. This is the age of Emo – Santa’s got to be a dirty, old man or serial killer.
You can also tell it’s Christmas because shops have got spray-on snow in their windows. In a country that wouldn’t know snow if it fell from the sky, we’re so dying to be American that we fake it for December.
But I think fake happiness over the festive season is better than the alternative. If anything, it’s more of a cliché to be a Grinch.
The people who hate this time of year are probably the same people who hated the World Cup or anything that forces them to see other people happy. Not liking Christmas is kind of like not liking puppies and kittens.
Just think of it as a good excuse to get pissed, eat a lot, and bring up that time your brother played Wrestlemania with your favourite teddy and snapped its head off… I’ll never forgive him for that!
Love and Stuff...
I think every one of us, at some time or another, whether going through a hard time or lending an ear to a mate’s hard time, has spoken the words, “Relationships take work!”
This is as true a theory as E=MC… I don’t know how to put the little 2 above the C, but you get my drift – but just because you can spew it doesn’t mean you understand it.
You hear people saying it when their romance has marinated for a few years and now the fire has gone and it’s getting boring. Maybe there’s kids involved and a divorce is seen as unwise, maybe you’ve been in the relationship for so long it would seem like a waste to end it, it would seem like giving up, and now you feel it’s time to start putting this ‘work’ in.
The main problem with this theory is not the formula itself, but the fact that most people don’t understand the variables.
I think it’s Vince Vaughn’s character in the film ‘Made’ who says, “Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you a guy who’s bored of fucking her.”
Rosie O’Donnell in the Nineties classic, ‘Beautiful Girls’, says it a bit less crudely: “No matter how perfect she seems, it’s gonna get old. That’s why there’s gotta be something more going on over there other than the physical.”
Men in this respect are fucked. I know guys who place more importance on whether their mates think their girlfriend is hot than their own feelings of attraction towards her.
Women are just as ridiculous. Some girls stay with a guy even though he treats them like shit.
Then when their relationship starts turning to dust they bang on about how they just need to ‘work’ at it. You know, try and put in some effort to make the other person feel special.
The thing is that if it seems like work then you might as well throw in the towel. Your relationship is not your job. It’s probably more akin to a hobby, but that doesn’t really do it justice either.
Making the other person feel special should be something you want to do, not something you feel you should do in order to save a crumbling tower of what was once infatuation.
And this ‘work’ should be something you do constantly, not just when it’s all going pear-shaped.
I get annoyed that whenever I buy flowers for my fiancée the till-jockey over the counter asks what I’ve done wrong, as though that’s the only time men buy flowers. How does he know they’re not for my sick granny, or my mum on her birthday, or, God forbid, just because I love my significant other and want her to never doubt it.
It can be hard to be with someone for years and have ‘in love’ turn to just ‘love’ – there is a big difference. And quite often ‘in love’ turns to ‘attachment’ and you don’t even realise it; but it does sometimes happen that the relationship becomes like a favourite sweater – it’s old and tatty, but it brings back so many memories of good times that you don’t want to get rid of it.
You've got to then either get to a Sexpo and give it another bash, or get out!
You can have all the bungee-jumping and extreme ironing, but the most dangerous sport ever invented was love. If you’re not willing to risk injury then stay away from it.
When you’re in love with someone you’re always insecure. And you should be every day thinking of ways to make that person know it and try with all your might to keep that person in love with you.
For guys it’s not that difficult. If you’re in a relationship already all you really have to do is make the person you love feel like the most gorgeous, most important girl in the world.
I’m in love with Lucy because, aside from being the sexiest creature that ever lived, she inspires me every moment. And I try hard to pay this back by channelling that inspiration into ways to make her feel beautiful and special.
And because of everything she is, I really don’t find it all that hard.
This is as true a theory as E=MC… I don’t know how to put the little 2 above the C, but you get my drift – but just because you can spew it doesn’t mean you understand it.
You hear people saying it when their romance has marinated for a few years and now the fire has gone and it’s getting boring. Maybe there’s kids involved and a divorce is seen as unwise, maybe you’ve been in the relationship for so long it would seem like a waste to end it, it would seem like giving up, and now you feel it’s time to start putting this ‘work’ in.
The main problem with this theory is not the formula itself, but the fact that most people don’t understand the variables.
I think it’s Vince Vaughn’s character in the film ‘Made’ who says, “Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you a guy who’s bored of fucking her.”
Rosie O’Donnell in the Nineties classic, ‘Beautiful Girls’, says it a bit less crudely: “No matter how perfect she seems, it’s gonna get old. That’s why there’s gotta be something more going on over there other than the physical.”
Men in this respect are fucked. I know guys who place more importance on whether their mates think their girlfriend is hot than their own feelings of attraction towards her.
Women are just as ridiculous. Some girls stay with a guy even though he treats them like shit.
Then when their relationship starts turning to dust they bang on about how they just need to ‘work’ at it. You know, try and put in some effort to make the other person feel special.
The thing is that if it seems like work then you might as well throw in the towel. Your relationship is not your job. It’s probably more akin to a hobby, but that doesn’t really do it justice either.
Making the other person feel special should be something you want to do, not something you feel you should do in order to save a crumbling tower of what was once infatuation.
And this ‘work’ should be something you do constantly, not just when it’s all going pear-shaped.
I get annoyed that whenever I buy flowers for my fiancée the till-jockey over the counter asks what I’ve done wrong, as though that’s the only time men buy flowers. How does he know they’re not for my sick granny, or my mum on her birthday, or, God forbid, just because I love my significant other and want her to never doubt it.
It can be hard to be with someone for years and have ‘in love’ turn to just ‘love’ – there is a big difference. And quite often ‘in love’ turns to ‘attachment’ and you don’t even realise it; but it does sometimes happen that the relationship becomes like a favourite sweater – it’s old and tatty, but it brings back so many memories of good times that you don’t want to get rid of it.
You've got to then either get to a Sexpo and give it another bash, or get out!
You can have all the bungee-jumping and extreme ironing, but the most dangerous sport ever invented was love. If you’re not willing to risk injury then stay away from it.
When you’re in love with someone you’re always insecure. And you should be every day thinking of ways to make that person know it and try with all your might to keep that person in love with you.
For guys it’s not that difficult. If you’re in a relationship already all you really have to do is make the person you love feel like the most gorgeous, most important girl in the world.
I’m in love with Lucy because, aside from being the sexiest creature that ever lived, she inspires me every moment. And I try hard to pay this back by channelling that inspiration into ways to make her feel beautiful and special.
And because of everything she is, I really don’t find it all that hard.
Is Bad News My Inspiration?
My mother-in-law loves tea! She more often than not makes an entrance into a room with the words, “Anyone fancy a nice cup of tea?”
Having just returned from snowy, old England I can understand it. The temperature hit -5 while we were there and in Scotland the snow made it impossible to get anywhere.
It warmed my heart when, back in Cape Town, someone said they’d had nothing interesting to read since I’d been away and had missed my rantings.
“I haven’t read much SA news on holiday,” I told him, “so not much to complain about.”
It was kind of odd to watch the English news and have the majority of “Top Stories” feature the weather, but I must admit it made a nice change to Zuma’s infidelity, Malema’s racist rantings, and post-Fifa depression.
I think about ninety-five percent of conversation in England centres around the weather. Not even the student riots featured, and they’ve been smashing up buildings and throwing fire extinguishers around.
Pink Floyd guitarist Dave Gilmour’s son was arrested for his antics – always nice to see a rich kid looking out for his hard-earned Trust Fund. Apparently he was photographed trying to set a fire outside the Supreme Court, and “causing damage to the Union flag on the Cenotaph in Whitehall”.
If only attention-seeking was a crime…
Despite all the violence, Home Secretary Theresa May ruled out the use of water cannons.
I could only imagine our cops strapping on the riot gear and pumping them full of rubber bullets. It probably wasn’t physical injury she was so concerned about, but sympathy for the poor soaked students getting the sniffles from the cold.
I didn’t get the sniffles! My healthy, sun-drenched South African genes kept my immune system from throwing in the towel.
I did, however, get fat… or should I say fatter.
Not my fault. My mother-in-law is what is commonly called a “feeder”.
One day, after a gigantic slice of bacon and egg pie followed by enough cottage pie to house a family of six with a garage and braai area, I got a serious case of stomach cramps and dodgy tummy syndrome.
“He’s from Africa,” Lucy lambasted her, “that’s more food than they see in a year!”
The food in England is cheap, not as expensive as we poor South Africans think. In fact the only things that seemed more expensive were houses and cigarettes. All of the pubs we had lunch in charged 5.50 for a meal and a pint.
But I suspect it’s maybe just Cape Town that’s expensive. Over here in the tourist capital of SA it’s all priced for pommies and yanks, leaving us insignificant mountain-dwellers to hunt our own food – not so easy considering city wildlife pretty much only includes rats, pigeons and Long Street locals.
I have to admit in a strange way it’s nice to be back in SA and pick up the papers and see all the violence and corruption. It follows that Chinese curse we all know from the movies: “May you live in interesting times.”
If anything, we live in an ‘interesting’ country. I’m sure I’ll have something to complain about soon enough.
Having just returned from snowy, old England I can understand it. The temperature hit -5 while we were there and in Scotland the snow made it impossible to get anywhere.
It warmed my heart when, back in Cape Town, someone said they’d had nothing interesting to read since I’d been away and had missed my rantings.
“I haven’t read much SA news on holiday,” I told him, “so not much to complain about.”
It was kind of odd to watch the English news and have the majority of “Top Stories” feature the weather, but I must admit it made a nice change to Zuma’s infidelity, Malema’s racist rantings, and post-Fifa depression.
I think about ninety-five percent of conversation in England centres around the weather. Not even the student riots featured, and they’ve been smashing up buildings and throwing fire extinguishers around.
Pink Floyd guitarist Dave Gilmour’s son was arrested for his antics – always nice to see a rich kid looking out for his hard-earned Trust Fund. Apparently he was photographed trying to set a fire outside the Supreme Court, and “causing damage to the Union flag on the Cenotaph in Whitehall”.
If only attention-seeking was a crime…
Despite all the violence, Home Secretary Theresa May ruled out the use of water cannons.
I could only imagine our cops strapping on the riot gear and pumping them full of rubber bullets. It probably wasn’t physical injury she was so concerned about, but sympathy for the poor soaked students getting the sniffles from the cold.
I didn’t get the sniffles! My healthy, sun-drenched South African genes kept my immune system from throwing in the towel.
I did, however, get fat… or should I say fatter.
Not my fault. My mother-in-law is what is commonly called a “feeder”.
One day, after a gigantic slice of bacon and egg pie followed by enough cottage pie to house a family of six with a garage and braai area, I got a serious case of stomach cramps and dodgy tummy syndrome.
“He’s from Africa,” Lucy lambasted her, “that’s more food than they see in a year!”
The food in England is cheap, not as expensive as we poor South Africans think. In fact the only things that seemed more expensive were houses and cigarettes. All of the pubs we had lunch in charged 5.50 for a meal and a pint.
But I suspect it’s maybe just Cape Town that’s expensive. Over here in the tourist capital of SA it’s all priced for pommies and yanks, leaving us insignificant mountain-dwellers to hunt our own food – not so easy considering city wildlife pretty much only includes rats, pigeons and Long Street locals.
I have to admit in a strange way it’s nice to be back in SA and pick up the papers and see all the violence and corruption. It follows that Chinese curse we all know from the movies: “May you live in interesting times.”
If anything, we live in an ‘interesting’ country. I’m sure I’ll have something to complain about soon enough.
Nathan Casey and the Boring Blog Post: Part One
I’ve found myself in the probably-not-unique position of simultaneously loving movies and hating them at the same time.
This came to me one afternoon after watching the seventh Harry Potter instalment. You know, the one they’re making in two parts because, “the story’s just too big for one movie!”
Bollocks.
The reason, as everybody knows, is because now that the franchise is coming to a close they want to milk it for every last penny, cent and rupee possible.
On one hand this is not so bad. If you’re a fan of the angst-iuos boy wizard then an eighth part will make your wand stiffen. But on the other hand it’s kind of disappointing to know that the billions they made from all the other movies just wasn’t enough.
Despicable.
They’re doing the same for the Twilight movies. Which, again, is wonderful for washing powder manufacturers rubbing their hands together over the millions of panties that’ll need laundering, but excruciating for all the nice guys who agree to sit through the torment with their girlfriends.
Call me a grunting male stereotype, but the fact is I just don’t get the Twilight flicks. Women swoon over the vampire guy because he “so romantic and intense”, but the truth is most women would soon find him either boring or exhausting. And surely a guy who’s been alive for 500-odd years would think twice about marrying some chick he’s only known for a couple of months.
Nonsense.
A film that I haven’t seen on principle is the ‘Smurfs vs. GI Joe Movie’, aka: ‘Avatar’, aka: ‘Pocahontas in Space’. I’ve read the plot synopsis and a couple of reviews and it’s pretty much ‘Dances with Wolves’ in 3D.
What really made me howl with cynical laughter was the Director’s Cut re-release with an astonishing nine minutes of extra footage! It’s already over two and a half hours of explosions, what extra bits of revealing character development or exposition could we possibly get? The highest-grossing movie of all time, but that just wasn’t enough.
Greedy.
But I haven’t seen Avatar because something about it disturbed me almost as much as while watching the second Narnia movie (another me-being-a-good-boyfriend mistake), some guy in the back row started shouting something about how Jesus was coming back and we better all get our act together (true story).
I know that C.S Lewis was a card-carrying, door-knocking God-botherer, but as deluded as Christians are I thought it was on another level entirely to think that the production of Prince Caspian was more to prepare us for the Second Coming than to make a Dawntreader-load of cash.
Amusing.
I was uneasy about Avatar when people freaked out over me not having seen it. And I mean “freaked out” suicide bomber style. Grabbing-your-collar-to-shake-some-sense-into-you freaked out!
People almost writhed in agony when I said I wasn’t that interested, telling me it was the greatest cinematic achievement since The Godfather, Taxi Driver, or possibly even Steamboat Willy!
My theory is that for something to have such mass appeal by definition means it can’t be that deep or thought-provoking because, realistically, the majority of people don’t have such depth of thought.
Don’t take it personally. I’m not implying that by enjoying Avatar you’re a dribbling idiot, but you have to admit that the ‘message’ was nothing new.
But here I sit not having even seen the masterpiece. Who am I to talk?
As it happens someone gave us a copy of the film gratis, just so’s we’d watch it. So next time I sit here you might find me a changed man, longing for blue skin and a bar-brawler’s nose.
I hope I am pleasantly surprised, and not disappointed by just another special-effects laden, cash-generating turd.
Unlikely.
This came to me one afternoon after watching the seventh Harry Potter instalment. You know, the one they’re making in two parts because, “the story’s just too big for one movie!”
Bollocks.
The reason, as everybody knows, is because now that the franchise is coming to a close they want to milk it for every last penny, cent and rupee possible.
On one hand this is not so bad. If you’re a fan of the angst-iuos boy wizard then an eighth part will make your wand stiffen. But on the other hand it’s kind of disappointing to know that the billions they made from all the other movies just wasn’t enough.
Despicable.
They’re doing the same for the Twilight movies. Which, again, is wonderful for washing powder manufacturers rubbing their hands together over the millions of panties that’ll need laundering, but excruciating for all the nice guys who agree to sit through the torment with their girlfriends.
Call me a grunting male stereotype, but the fact is I just don’t get the Twilight flicks. Women swoon over the vampire guy because he “so romantic and intense”, but the truth is most women would soon find him either boring or exhausting. And surely a guy who’s been alive for 500-odd years would think twice about marrying some chick he’s only known for a couple of months.
Nonsense.
A film that I haven’t seen on principle is the ‘Smurfs vs. GI Joe Movie’, aka: ‘Avatar’, aka: ‘Pocahontas in Space’. I’ve read the plot synopsis and a couple of reviews and it’s pretty much ‘Dances with Wolves’ in 3D.
What really made me howl with cynical laughter was the Director’s Cut re-release with an astonishing nine minutes of extra footage! It’s already over two and a half hours of explosions, what extra bits of revealing character development or exposition could we possibly get? The highest-grossing movie of all time, but that just wasn’t enough.
Greedy.
But I haven’t seen Avatar because something about it disturbed me almost as much as while watching the second Narnia movie (another me-being-a-good-boyfriend mistake), some guy in the back row started shouting something about how Jesus was coming back and we better all get our act together (true story).
I know that C.S Lewis was a card-carrying, door-knocking God-botherer, but as deluded as Christians are I thought it was on another level entirely to think that the production of Prince Caspian was more to prepare us for the Second Coming than to make a Dawntreader-load of cash.
Amusing.
I was uneasy about Avatar when people freaked out over me not having seen it. And I mean “freaked out” suicide bomber style. Grabbing-your-collar-to-shake-some-sense-into-you freaked out!
People almost writhed in agony when I said I wasn’t that interested, telling me it was the greatest cinematic achievement since The Godfather, Taxi Driver, or possibly even Steamboat Willy!
My theory is that for something to have such mass appeal by definition means it can’t be that deep or thought-provoking because, realistically, the majority of people don’t have such depth of thought.
Don’t take it personally. I’m not implying that by enjoying Avatar you’re a dribbling idiot, but you have to admit that the ‘message’ was nothing new.
But here I sit not having even seen the masterpiece. Who am I to talk?
As it happens someone gave us a copy of the film gratis, just so’s we’d watch it. So next time I sit here you might find me a changed man, longing for blue skin and a bar-brawler’s nose.
I hope I am pleasantly surprised, and not disappointed by just another special-effects laden, cash-generating turd.
Unlikely.
Toilet Anxiety!
I was an anxious child.
I ground my teeth while I slept. I had this recurring dream about Nazi vampires and this tall woman in a torn, black dress who would float around.
I had another dream that there was an icecream on my pillow and when I woke up was crushed by disappointment.
The Old Spice advert with the crashing waves and the Carmina Burana blasting gave me a terrible feeling of claustrophobia; and it pained me to watch the tv show Fawlty Towers, but I did anyway.
I used to think that my parents were actually scientists and I was an android prototype.
As an adult I don’t really have any abnormal neuroses aside from the fear that I’m going to die and think my life has been one big waste of time.
I know a lot of people who have public toilet anxiety. So much so that they leave work or a party to drive home and take a dump.
My only problem in this respect is I can’t go unless I’ve got something to read.
As an aside: Women find it strange that men read in the toilet. I think this is because most men sit down to read the paper or a novel and are bombarded with ‘conversation’ about random bullshit that they’re just not in the mood for at the moment; so they excuse themselves to the bathroom for 45 minutes for some peace and quiet.
One of the things that bugs me about public toilets is that the door always opens inward. Only about two percent of men wash their hands after any kind of bathroom activity so once I’ve cleaned the germans off my digits I’ve got to touch the infested door handle, making my hygiene redundant.
An interior design student told me this was the case because if a door opened out from a public toilet it would smack people walking past.
It made sense, but didn’t make me feel any better.
I wonder if women are any better in this respect?
I’m sure they’ll say they are but I’d caution anyone about believing it. We’ve all discovered since Sex and The City that women are as disgusting, if not more so, than men.
As an aside: I tried to get in touch with my feminine side by sitting down one night with Lucy, sharing on a face-pack, and watching Sex and the City until the early hours of the morning. What I discovered was that women know as little about men as men do about women. Hell, I think women know even less about themselves than we do about them!
People have other anxieties about the bog. This girl I know freaks out when she enters a smelly toilet because she imagines tiny poo-particles entering her nose and clinging onto her sinuses, another girl I know stresses if the roll on the holder isn’t facing “flap-side out” (as she puts it), and my gran has to run the taps when she’s getting down just in case someone hears her.
Another guy I know justifies not washing his hands because he knows where his nob's been all day - he washes before he goes as he's not as sure about his hands.
My dad used to say the best thing to do when you were nervous about meeting someone was to imagine them on the shitter (he didn’t put it as eloquently as that, but you get the picture).
And that’s just it, isn’t it? We all do it, so what’s the big embarrassment?
Always think it could be worse, you could be one of those un lucky sods with the open township toilets! I wonder where those guys get away to to read the paper?
I ground my teeth while I slept. I had this recurring dream about Nazi vampires and this tall woman in a torn, black dress who would float around.
I had another dream that there was an icecream on my pillow and when I woke up was crushed by disappointment.
The Old Spice advert with the crashing waves and the Carmina Burana blasting gave me a terrible feeling of claustrophobia; and it pained me to watch the tv show Fawlty Towers, but I did anyway.
I used to think that my parents were actually scientists and I was an android prototype.
As an adult I don’t really have any abnormal neuroses aside from the fear that I’m going to die and think my life has been one big waste of time.
I know a lot of people who have public toilet anxiety. So much so that they leave work or a party to drive home and take a dump.
My only problem in this respect is I can’t go unless I’ve got something to read.
As an aside: Women find it strange that men read in the toilet. I think this is because most men sit down to read the paper or a novel and are bombarded with ‘conversation’ about random bullshit that they’re just not in the mood for at the moment; so they excuse themselves to the bathroom for 45 minutes for some peace and quiet.
One of the things that bugs me about public toilets is that the door always opens inward. Only about two percent of men wash their hands after any kind of bathroom activity so once I’ve cleaned the germans off my digits I’ve got to touch the infested door handle, making my hygiene redundant.
An interior design student told me this was the case because if a door opened out from a public toilet it would smack people walking past.
It made sense, but didn’t make me feel any better.
I wonder if women are any better in this respect?
I’m sure they’ll say they are but I’d caution anyone about believing it. We’ve all discovered since Sex and The City that women are as disgusting, if not more so, than men.
As an aside: I tried to get in touch with my feminine side by sitting down one night with Lucy, sharing on a face-pack, and watching Sex and the City until the early hours of the morning. What I discovered was that women know as little about men as men do about women. Hell, I think women know even less about themselves than we do about them!
People have other anxieties about the bog. This girl I know freaks out when she enters a smelly toilet because she imagines tiny poo-particles entering her nose and clinging onto her sinuses, another girl I know stresses if the roll on the holder isn’t facing “flap-side out” (as she puts it), and my gran has to run the taps when she’s getting down just in case someone hears her.
Another guy I know justifies not washing his hands because he knows where his nob's been all day - he washes before he goes as he's not as sure about his hands.
My dad used to say the best thing to do when you were nervous about meeting someone was to imagine them on the shitter (he didn’t put it as eloquently as that, but you get the picture).
And that’s just it, isn’t it? We all do it, so what’s the big embarrassment?
Always think it could be worse, you could be one of those un lucky sods with the open township toilets! I wonder where those guys get away to to read the paper?
Here Come the Sushi Sweats!
Sushi always reminds me of Jesus.
When I was a kid my dad would stick a tray of hot cross buns in the oven and toast them to perfection, whack a heart-palpitating amount of butter on top, and serve them crispy and warm on Easter morning.
I’d stuff my face and no matter how painfully bloated my stomach became I just couldn’t stop eating. I’d roll on the ground clutching my belly and moan, “Never again!”, the way I do now the morning after too much Jagermeister.
Sushi is much the same. I sit at the conveyer belt, grabbing two plates at a time, and not stopping until I hear the tear of my stomach lining.
It just tastes so good. The chopsticks used to slow me down, but I’ve mastered the art and these days I’m like Mr Miyagi – stick wings on the California roll and let it fly around the room, it won’t bother me.
The only problem I have is when it comes to paying the bill; I never know how much to tip the waiter.
Should you tip the waiter at a sushi bar? All he does is bring you a drink, and then the bill, and then he stands there with a sour face when you tip him ten percent of the Appletizer when you’ve spent R400 on sashimi.
To paraphrase Hank Moody, you’d think you’d just finger-banged his cat.
I asked the manager what he thought about tipping the sushi chef because I didn’t want to insult some ancient Asian cultural belief that I maybe knew nothing about, and all he said was that the chefs get a salary, while the waiter gets tips and a sjambokking if there’s a fingerprint on the glassware.
He wouldn’t tell me how much the chefs earned, but he said it’s okay to give them money and I shouldn’t be worried about the absurdly large cleavers they wield.
I did this and explained my actions to the waiter’s downturned maw, but he just grunted something in Hausa and snatched the notes from my hand.
The sushi chef, when I handed him his share of the gratuity, kind of looked at my outstretched hand, then up at the soy sauce dripping from my chin, and slowly took the money with an expression on his face like he thought I was Leon Shuster.
So now I’m even more confused.
I tried to think, “What would Jesus do?”, but then thought Jesus was probably too busy healing lepers to sit around at a sushi bar anxiously watching salmon roses circulate, hoping that no one got to them before he did.
I bet he was more a McDonald’s Drive-Thru man.
When I was a kid my dad would stick a tray of hot cross buns in the oven and toast them to perfection, whack a heart-palpitating amount of butter on top, and serve them crispy and warm on Easter morning.
I’d stuff my face and no matter how painfully bloated my stomach became I just couldn’t stop eating. I’d roll on the ground clutching my belly and moan, “Never again!”, the way I do now the morning after too much Jagermeister.
Sushi is much the same. I sit at the conveyer belt, grabbing two plates at a time, and not stopping until I hear the tear of my stomach lining.
It just tastes so good. The chopsticks used to slow me down, but I’ve mastered the art and these days I’m like Mr Miyagi – stick wings on the California roll and let it fly around the room, it won’t bother me.
The only problem I have is when it comes to paying the bill; I never know how much to tip the waiter.
Should you tip the waiter at a sushi bar? All he does is bring you a drink, and then the bill, and then he stands there with a sour face when you tip him ten percent of the Appletizer when you’ve spent R400 on sashimi.
To paraphrase Hank Moody, you’d think you’d just finger-banged his cat.
I asked the manager what he thought about tipping the sushi chef because I didn’t want to insult some ancient Asian cultural belief that I maybe knew nothing about, and all he said was that the chefs get a salary, while the waiter gets tips and a sjambokking if there’s a fingerprint on the glassware.
He wouldn’t tell me how much the chefs earned, but he said it’s okay to give them money and I shouldn’t be worried about the absurdly large cleavers they wield.
I did this and explained my actions to the waiter’s downturned maw, but he just grunted something in Hausa and snatched the notes from my hand.
The sushi chef, when I handed him his share of the gratuity, kind of looked at my outstretched hand, then up at the soy sauce dripping from my chin, and slowly took the money with an expression on his face like he thought I was Leon Shuster.
So now I’m even more confused.
I tried to think, “What would Jesus do?”, but then thought Jesus was probably too busy healing lepers to sit around at a sushi bar anxiously watching salmon roses circulate, hoping that no one got to them before he did.
I bet he was more a McDonald’s Drive-Thru man.
Sex, Drugs and Bat 'n Ball
So Herschelle Gibbs has revealed it’s not really such a gentleman’s game after all.
Not the greatest of contradictions – it is a ghostwritten autobiography, I believe.
How does that work exactly? You want to big yourself up and prove you’re not just a dumb jock, but everyone knows someone else wrote the thing, so really you’re just showing some insecurity or need for recognition.
Or is it because the writer is just lazy and doesn’t want to do any research so he says, Hey!, I’ll just transcribe whatever you say and structure it into some chapter format? A kind of glorified secretary.
I haven’t read ‘The Herschelle Diaries’ or whatever they’re calling it because, well, I don’t really give a shit, but apparently it’s ‘Trainspotting’ meets ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates ’ meets the ‘Hansie’ movie – sex, drugs and bat ‘n ball!
I have to admit I wasn’t that surprised. Professional cricketers are kind of schoolboy jocks who never had to grow up. I don’t think anyone will disagree with me that playing sport for a living isn’t really a real-real job.
But parents are anxiously biting their toenails, puffing their cheeks out, terrified that their little Southern Suburbs boytjie is going to be negatively influenced by such a prominent ‘role model’.
It’s not like growing a mullet and dangling the new kid feet first off the boarding house balcony has anything to do with their parenting – it’s just teenage antics – and picking up prozzies while smoking a fatty is good fun for a grown up but something you just don’t talk about.
I don’t quite understand why professional sportsmen are considered such great role models in the first place. They spend the greater part of their existence playing a relatively insignificant game – a nice life, I guess, but not really a vocation that adds anything meaningful to society.
I can understand the benefits of exercising outdoors, being part of a team, and slapping your mate’s arse with a wet towel after you’ve showered together, but surely that’s better as a hobby than as a career.
I’d rather my kids idolised someone like Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama or even Julius Malema – at least he’s open about what he believes in and not afraid to speak his mind.
Or fictional characters like Atticus Finch who fought racism in the American South, Tyler Durden who turned a generation of disillusioned men against a materialistic society, or Green Lantern who incinerated a planet in order to collect enough power rings so he could unravel reality and recreate it as a much nicer place.
Do we want our children to grow up as brawny meatheads who hit a ball or run fast for a living? Seems ridiculous, but what do I know?
I can only imagine that Herschelle Gibbs – not the not the sharpest shiruken in the ninja utility belt, and ugly as a parking lot – had the pressing need to brag about his sexual exploits and tell everyone how much beer he drank the other night.
Just like every other jock needs to.
Not the greatest of contradictions – it is a ghostwritten autobiography, I believe.
How does that work exactly? You want to big yourself up and prove you’re not just a dumb jock, but everyone knows someone else wrote the thing, so really you’re just showing some insecurity or need for recognition.
Or is it because the writer is just lazy and doesn’t want to do any research so he says, Hey!, I’ll just transcribe whatever you say and structure it into some chapter format? A kind of glorified secretary.
I haven’t read ‘The Herschelle Diaries’ or whatever they’re calling it because, well, I don’t really give a shit, but apparently it’s ‘Trainspotting’ meets ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates ’ meets the ‘Hansie’ movie – sex, drugs and bat ‘n ball!
I have to admit I wasn’t that surprised. Professional cricketers are kind of schoolboy jocks who never had to grow up. I don’t think anyone will disagree with me that playing sport for a living isn’t really a real-real job.
But parents are anxiously biting their toenails, puffing their cheeks out, terrified that their little Southern Suburbs boytjie is going to be negatively influenced by such a prominent ‘role model’.
It’s not like growing a mullet and dangling the new kid feet first off the boarding house balcony has anything to do with their parenting – it’s just teenage antics – and picking up prozzies while smoking a fatty is good fun for a grown up but something you just don’t talk about.
I don’t quite understand why professional sportsmen are considered such great role models in the first place. They spend the greater part of their existence playing a relatively insignificant game – a nice life, I guess, but not really a vocation that adds anything meaningful to society.
I can understand the benefits of exercising outdoors, being part of a team, and slapping your mate’s arse with a wet towel after you’ve showered together, but surely that’s better as a hobby than as a career.
I’d rather my kids idolised someone like Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama or even Julius Malema – at least he’s open about what he believes in and not afraid to speak his mind.
Or fictional characters like Atticus Finch who fought racism in the American South, Tyler Durden who turned a generation of disillusioned men against a materialistic society, or Green Lantern who incinerated a planet in order to collect enough power rings so he could unravel reality and recreate it as a much nicer place.
Do we want our children to grow up as brawny meatheads who hit a ball or run fast for a living? Seems ridiculous, but what do I know?
I can only imagine that Herschelle Gibbs – not the not the sharpest shiruken in the ninja utility belt, and ugly as a parking lot – had the pressing need to brag about his sexual exploits and tell everyone how much beer he drank the other night.
Just like every other jock needs to.
Did Emos Hijack the Eighties?
While chatting to a pasty guy in skinny jeans and an attention-seeking hat I realised that my childhood memories had been perverted for the misery of a generation.
Some of my favourite bands like The Smiths and The Cure now meant more to ironically fashionable misfits than they ever did to me. This made me wonder if I wasn’t maybe a closet emo!
I mulled over this for a while, but then decided I wasn’t up for the job.
I’m not nearly committed enough to skateboard in a jean pant tight enough to make your arse turn blue.
And as much as I enjoyed ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ I don’t think I’ve got the space in my flat for a Jack Skellington shrine, complete with plastic skulls and Tim Burton wig shelves.
At my age I don’t have the strength to maintain a constantly downturned mouth; and the receding hairline won’t allow the standard-requirement, face-obscuring fringe.
I must say I envy the ability to pour trendy scorn on our consumer-obsessed society while spending all your trust fund pocket money on overpriced, made-to-look-vintage t-shirts.
They’ve made my original copies of Eighties pop music cool, now I just need a tape-to-iPod converter.
And it’s good to know that no matter how sulky I am before my morning banana and coffee shake, I can grumpily be happy in the knowledge that apathy can still get you laid.
Just make sure you take off that shrunken jean pant before you get excited or you might hurt yourself.
Some of my favourite bands like The Smiths and The Cure now meant more to ironically fashionable misfits than they ever did to me. This made me wonder if I wasn’t maybe a closet emo!
I mulled over this for a while, but then decided I wasn’t up for the job.
I’m not nearly committed enough to skateboard in a jean pant tight enough to make your arse turn blue.
And as much as I enjoyed ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ I don’t think I’ve got the space in my flat for a Jack Skellington shrine, complete with plastic skulls and Tim Burton wig shelves.
At my age I don’t have the strength to maintain a constantly downturned mouth; and the receding hairline won’t allow the standard-requirement, face-obscuring fringe.
I must say I envy the ability to pour trendy scorn on our consumer-obsessed society while spending all your trust fund pocket money on overpriced, made-to-look-vintage t-shirts.
They’ve made my original copies of Eighties pop music cool, now I just need a tape-to-iPod converter.
And it’s good to know that no matter how sulky I am before my morning banana and coffee shake, I can grumpily be happy in the knowledge that apathy can still get you laid.
Just make sure you take off that shrunken jean pant before you get excited or you might hurt yourself.
How I Became A Parlotones Fan
I’d like the record to show that Nathan Casey is man enough to admit when he’s wrong.
I’d foolishly thought my skill on the tambourine and triangle in junior school was enough to secure a successful musical career. The rejection of my first homemade single, ‘Ring-sting coz I swallowed my bling-bling’, set this “failed musician” on a terrible path of bitterness and jealousy.
My eyes were opened to my folly by DJ Raine whose “25 years’ experience in the music business” proves you’re never too old to throw your granny panties on the stage, and by Jackie B, a man with little patience for punctuation or paragraphs, who breathlessly pushed me to the floor [that one’s for the fans].
The opportunity to promote barely edible, mutated chicken offcuts was a “reward” for all the Parlo’s hard work, Raine told me, and then proceeded to place her idols in the same class as waka-waka soccer promoter, Shakira – gently reassuring me it was alright for fans to be cruel sometimes, so I shouldn’t worry about it.
Not one to answer a rhetorical question such as, “what’s the point in being an artist if no one recognises your work?”, I could only sympathise with the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci and ponder on the meaninglessness he must have believed his life life’s work amounted to – I’m sure he was just in it for the recognition.
If that wasn’t thought-provoking enough, Jackie B forced me to reflect on my “anger issues” and soon I was curled under my desk, thumb-sucking, crying in a foetal position. I can only thank him for my awakening.
It does “take talent to become famous” I suddenly agreed – I watch enough reality tv to realise that.
Who am I to judge those who turn a blind eye to the plight of four-legged, beakless box-chickens if it “reminds them of the people who have given them joy and filled their lives with the beauty of music”?
And now I can see that those kids in South American sweatshops probably wouldn’t have jobs if it wasn’t for shoe manufacturers.
I was a convert!
With a mascara job that would’ve made Stanley Kubrick proud I rushed to the nearest church, clutching my new favourite band’s cd to my heart, and forced it into the pastor’s hands.
When he told me they were just a wannabe Killers tribute band I punched him in the face and quoted my mentor, Jackie B: “Even Jesus was unwelcome in his own country!”
I can only hope for your forgiveness and offer a big hug when I see you at the next Parlotones concert.
I’d foolishly thought my skill on the tambourine and triangle in junior school was enough to secure a successful musical career. The rejection of my first homemade single, ‘Ring-sting coz I swallowed my bling-bling’, set this “failed musician” on a terrible path of bitterness and jealousy.
My eyes were opened to my folly by DJ Raine whose “25 years’ experience in the music business” proves you’re never too old to throw your granny panties on the stage, and by Jackie B, a man with little patience for punctuation or paragraphs, who breathlessly pushed me to the floor [that one’s for the fans].
The opportunity to promote barely edible, mutated chicken offcuts was a “reward” for all the Parlo’s hard work, Raine told me, and then proceeded to place her idols in the same class as waka-waka soccer promoter, Shakira – gently reassuring me it was alright for fans to be cruel sometimes, so I shouldn’t worry about it.
Not one to answer a rhetorical question such as, “what’s the point in being an artist if no one recognises your work?”, I could only sympathise with the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci and ponder on the meaninglessness he must have believed his life life’s work amounted to – I’m sure he was just in it for the recognition.
If that wasn’t thought-provoking enough, Jackie B forced me to reflect on my “anger issues” and soon I was curled under my desk, thumb-sucking, crying in a foetal position. I can only thank him for my awakening.
It does “take talent to become famous” I suddenly agreed – I watch enough reality tv to realise that.
Who am I to judge those who turn a blind eye to the plight of four-legged, beakless box-chickens if it “reminds them of the people who have given them joy and filled their lives with the beauty of music”?
And now I can see that those kids in South American sweatshops probably wouldn’t have jobs if it wasn’t for shoe manufacturers.
I was a convert!
With a mascara job that would’ve made Stanley Kubrick proud I rushed to the nearest church, clutching my new favourite band’s cd to my heart, and forced it into the pastor’s hands.
When he told me they were just a wannabe Killers tribute band I punched him in the face and quoted my mentor, Jackie B: “Even Jesus was unwelcome in his own country!”
I can only hope for your forgiveness and offer a big hug when I see you at the next Parlotones concert.
Straight Men Are Gay
A controversial Ugandan newspaper, Rolling Stone, has been ordered by its country’s High Court to stop publishing the names and photos of men it suspects are gay. The reports have allegedly incited attacks.
Homosexuality is illegal in 36 African countries, with South Africa being the only one on the continent that has legalised same-sex marriage.
Earlier this year the Ugandan government proposed a bill sentencing gay men and women to life imprisonment or death.
Of all the things to get upset about, men who like a bit of cock shouldn't be one of them.
It has been said in one form or another by many African leaders that homosexuality is “un-African” – in a world that is striving for racial equality not only in policy but in beliefs and values, we are told it’s a “white thing”.
It has been argued that in fact it was Western principles of Christianity that first made homosexuality taboo. So actually it’s this fear of gays that is “un-African”. It’s the fear that’s the “white thing”.
I must say that personally I have a lot of respect for homosexual men and women who are open about their preferences. Especially those from backgrounds and environments in which gayness is considered despicable.
Gay men, in fact, have much bigger balls than straights. Imagine being so open about a disposition that could get you at the very least ostracised or beaten up, and at the worst killed! A lot more courageous than, say, drunkenly punching someone because they support a different soccer team than you.
The same man that blatantly gawks at a woman’s cleavage will become offended and possibly violent if another man was checking out his backside.
The sad fact is women have become so used to be treated as objects that they barely notice anymore. Men, on the other hand, aren’t that familiar with an assessment little better than a hungry dog checking out a juicy pork chop, and therefore are uncomfortable with it.
Imagine a construction site of gay builders on their lunch break, whistling and making lewd comments at macho pedestrians.
This idea perpetrated on us by conservatives and Christians that there is something immoral about homosexuality needs to be disregarded with the contempt that we have shown such equally backward ideas as the apartheid Immorality Act.
This is not a gay issue, it is a freedom issue.
Homosexuality is illegal in 36 African countries, with South Africa being the only one on the continent that has legalised same-sex marriage.
Earlier this year the Ugandan government proposed a bill sentencing gay men and women to life imprisonment or death.
Of all the things to get upset about, men who like a bit of cock shouldn't be one of them.
It has been said in one form or another by many African leaders that homosexuality is “un-African” – in a world that is striving for racial equality not only in policy but in beliefs and values, we are told it’s a “white thing”.
It has been argued that in fact it was Western principles of Christianity that first made homosexuality taboo. So actually it’s this fear of gays that is “un-African”. It’s the fear that’s the “white thing”.
I must say that personally I have a lot of respect for homosexual men and women who are open about their preferences. Especially those from backgrounds and environments in which gayness is considered despicable.
Gay men, in fact, have much bigger balls than straights. Imagine being so open about a disposition that could get you at the very least ostracised or beaten up, and at the worst killed! A lot more courageous than, say, drunkenly punching someone because they support a different soccer team than you.
The same man that blatantly gawks at a woman’s cleavage will become offended and possibly violent if another man was checking out his backside.
The sad fact is women have become so used to be treated as objects that they barely notice anymore. Men, on the other hand, aren’t that familiar with an assessment little better than a hungry dog checking out a juicy pork chop, and therefore are uncomfortable with it.
Imagine a construction site of gay builders on their lunch break, whistling and making lewd comments at macho pedestrians.
This idea perpetrated on us by conservatives and Christians that there is something immoral about homosexuality needs to be disregarded with the contempt that we have shown such equally backward ideas as the apartheid Immorality Act.
This is not a gay issue, it is a freedom issue.
The Scooter-Cycle Diaries
Che Guevara said, “There is nothing worth living for, if you are not willing to die for it!” He was probably talking about freedom and rights and stuff, not crossing the road to get a croissant and a pint of milk.
Sitting at my desk this morning, staring out the window, I noticed a guy almost get run down on his way over to the supermarket. He didn’t look to see if there was traffic, and an obnoxious face behind the windscreen of a 4x4 scowled and honked at him.
We all ignore the fact that pedestrians, in most cases, have the right of way. Maybe it’s all the American tv we are subjected to – you know, when a kiddie is playing in the road and the hero sees a truck about a hundred metres away heading for it, and instead of applying the brakes, the truck driver just toots his hooter and the hero has to whisk the nipper away in the nick of time.
Maybe the world is getting dumber because American stupidity is contagious.
There are, I suppose, rights we should all be willing to die for, but if your right of way is one of them then your life must not mean a lot to you.
People on scooters are much the same.
The other day a guy on a Vespa, with a little potty helmet on his head and no doubt a pretentious ‘boo-hoo-I’m-an-emo’ hat in his backpack tried to bully me off the road. Now anyone who’s seen my car will know I’m not afraid of the odd ding, and I let him through only because I didn’t want to kill him.
It reminds me of long ago when I had a bit of a roadside rant at some biker driving like a tit. The guy and his boyfriend on the back threatened to “slice you, ne” and then proceeded to tailgate me after I pulled away from the traffic lights.
Driving and revving right on my arse I concluded that there was only one thing to do – I slammed on the brakes.
Clearly scooter riders on a big boy motorbike.
It’s a bit worrying that scooter riders are not really bikers. Bikers have a healthy, if grudging, respect for automobiles. They know that an accident will not merely result in a dented fender, but quite possibly their death.
When I was a youth, we thought of scooters as a means of transport for old people and schoolgirls. No self-respecting manly man would totter around on one. We rode real motorbikes, albeit 50cc 2-stroke toys, but you rode them like Clint Eastwood rode a horse, not like your auntie sat having a wee.
Obviously teenage macho bullshit; insecure, immature nonsense.
We all rode like cowboys; tempting Fate and facing Death at every opportunity. That’s what cowboys do.
Like our big boy bikes back then, scooters are even more of a fashion accessory, ridden by trendy metrosexuals and emos, and occasionally by people living in the city who know it’s just simply an easier way to get around.
So before you climb into your made-to-look-vintage Che t-shirt and climb onto your can’t-be-comfy-in-skinny-emo-jeans scoot-scoot realise that we all look back on fashion and remember it as being embarrassingly ridiculous.
I suppose that’s also our right.
Sitting at my desk this morning, staring out the window, I noticed a guy almost get run down on his way over to the supermarket. He didn’t look to see if there was traffic, and an obnoxious face behind the windscreen of a 4x4 scowled and honked at him.
We all ignore the fact that pedestrians, in most cases, have the right of way. Maybe it’s all the American tv we are subjected to – you know, when a kiddie is playing in the road and the hero sees a truck about a hundred metres away heading for it, and instead of applying the brakes, the truck driver just toots his hooter and the hero has to whisk the nipper away in the nick of time.
Maybe the world is getting dumber because American stupidity is contagious.
There are, I suppose, rights we should all be willing to die for, but if your right of way is one of them then your life must not mean a lot to you.
People on scooters are much the same.
The other day a guy on a Vespa, with a little potty helmet on his head and no doubt a pretentious ‘boo-hoo-I’m-an-emo’ hat in his backpack tried to bully me off the road. Now anyone who’s seen my car will know I’m not afraid of the odd ding, and I let him through only because I didn’t want to kill him.
It reminds me of long ago when I had a bit of a roadside rant at some biker driving like a tit. The guy and his boyfriend on the back threatened to “slice you, ne” and then proceeded to tailgate me after I pulled away from the traffic lights.
Driving and revving right on my arse I concluded that there was only one thing to do – I slammed on the brakes.
Clearly scooter riders on a big boy motorbike.
It’s a bit worrying that scooter riders are not really bikers. Bikers have a healthy, if grudging, respect for automobiles. They know that an accident will not merely result in a dented fender, but quite possibly their death.
When I was a youth, we thought of scooters as a means of transport for old people and schoolgirls. No self-respecting manly man would totter around on one. We rode real motorbikes, albeit 50cc 2-stroke toys, but you rode them like Clint Eastwood rode a horse, not like your auntie sat having a wee.
Obviously teenage macho bullshit; insecure, immature nonsense.
We all rode like cowboys; tempting Fate and facing Death at every opportunity. That’s what cowboys do.
Like our big boy bikes back then, scooters are even more of a fashion accessory, ridden by trendy metrosexuals and emos, and occasionally by people living in the city who know it’s just simply an easier way to get around.
So before you climb into your made-to-look-vintage Che t-shirt and climb onto your can’t-be-comfy-in-skinny-emo-jeans scoot-scoot realise that we all look back on fashion and remember it as being embarrassingly ridiculous.
I suppose that’s also our right.
God Hates a Piss-Head
The dawn cracks like a free-range egg on the hard edge of the city bowl. Its bright, orange yolk spills across the streets and buildings and in through my bedroom window. God is a chef and this is Her fry-up.
On a beautiful morning like this I should be walking in the dog park or circling the block on a swift, brisk morning run. At the very least I should be out in the garden with a cup of Kenyan or apricot jam with some toast stuck underneath.
But I’m not. I’m lying on my back in bed, my shirt almost unbuttoned and one sock halfway off my foot, my tongue’s probably hanging out and I’m definitely snoring… until God flips that yolk through the window and it slaps across my fragile frontal lobe.
I sit up with an audible grunt. At first not sure where I am or how many eyes I’m supposed to have – I could swear only two – and for a sliver of a second I’m sure I feel fine. In that same fraction of a clock tick images from the previous night’s misbehavings hurtle past.
I was drunk. Very drunk. And I have somehow escaped a hangover.
Then that post-bingeing anomaly of something happening slowly but at the same time very quickly swirls between my stomach and head. In this long/rapid moment I realise that the alcohol is toying with me; lulling me into a false sense of security before whisking my brain into a frothy eggnog.
I swing off the bed and hastily zig-zag my way to the bathroom, smacking my shoulder on the wall and my hip on the hall table.
The ingredients placed inside my stomach last night have scrambled and, if I may stretch a metaphor to breaking point, a vomit-omelette is ready to be served.
The toilet laughs at me through his porcelain lips. He gargles the regurgitation down, knowing there’s more where that came from. I glare at his pasty judgement and crawl back into my dungeon of despair.
The scary thought that I’m dying enters my mind.
An hour later the more horrific thought that I won’t die torments me.
It is arguable that the most elusive medical breakthrough is not the cure for the common cold, but the perfect remedy for a bad babalaas.
Some swear by the “little, red ambulance” – Coca-Cola. Others will tell you water and exercise.
I knew a lawyer who would mix tomato juice and Black Label in a big glass and neck it – he called it a “Bloody Label”. From the banal to the bizarre.
I slowly rise from my pillow and place a pair of dark glasses over what used to be my eyes but are now no more than pain receptors. My furry tongue feels like a bloated blowfish, dead and decomposing. Funnily enough, the chorus from Lionel Ritchie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling” is looping in my head.
There must be some wisdom out there, I think, somewhere in the world there must be a decisive cure for the hangover. I conclude that I must ask the all-knowing consciousness that floats in the very air around us; that enigmatic, online oracle known in this dimension as Google.
At first she tells me what to do before I started drinking. However, in order to build a time machine I would need “a wormhole, a large Hadron Collider or a rocket that goes really, really fast”, according to Stephen Hawking.
I have none of these things.
Then she says I should eat toast. But what if anything I send down there demands a return ticket? And not via the scenic route, I might add.
There is a thick rubber band at the bottom of my throat. It shoots everything right back at me.
As I search I discover that in Puerto Rico a hangover is cured by rubbing lemons under your armpits, Africans generally believe peanut butter does the trick and the Native Americans consume six almonds before the drinking begins.
If you have an Irish mate you could get him to bury you up to your neck in mud – and they wonder where the reputation comes from.
A recommendation of breathing in the smoke from a coal fire makes me regret quitting the Chesterfields.
And in Romania I come across something called tripe soup: veggies and the lining from a cow’s stomach, boiled and steaming. Yummy!
You’d think that at my age, with all the binge drinking experience I’ve compiled, I’d be able to navigate the morning-after with ease. But my whiskey-soaked brain can’t turn the library door handle, let alone remember where the reference section is.
So my only option is to ride it out, groaning and sweating like a bad porno actress.
I try to bargain with God, telling Her I’ll never do this again… or at least not for a very long time. But She can see through my bullshit and lies. And I can feel her taloned fingers digging into my brain.
God hates a piss-head, so I implore the scientists of the world to cease the search for pimple pastes and constipation cures and focus on that which inflicts us all at some point.
I could really use your help right now.
Lace Up, Order In, Sell Out
As if a KFC snackbox wasn’t nauseating enough, the other day I came across a bottle of Parlotones wine. It was rose’, a wine much like their music – produced to appeal to the largest slice of an undiscerning demographic.
The week before at the cinema I was subjected to a 3D music video by none other than the Parlotones – an Olympian leap onto an already groaning bandwagon.
(Honestly, what’s next, 3D Antiques Roadshow?)
And the week before that, in the esteemed publication Heat (SA’s only weekly glossy), I couldn’t help feeling my bowels quake at the sight of a sidebar laughing at a new shoe on the market complete with a little Parlotones logo stitched into the side. The header was something droll – “Step into the Parlotones’ shoes”.
Now I’ll be honest, I’m not a fan. Even though I bought a Parlotones cd the other month for R80 I haven’t got past the first thirty seconds of the opening track because it’s just so annoying – the kind of wimpy commercial rock that could only appeal to upper-middle class white girls from Herschel. And I have to admit I fucking hate the Clockwork Orange eyeliner. So this is clearly not an objective opinion, but I don’t think anyone could reasonably disagree with the statement that the Parlotones are massive sell-outs.
(Upon writing, it has been brought to my attention a limited edition {only 5 million produced} Parlotones laptop is available… for fuck’s sake!)
Then I got to thinking about the fine line between art and commercially-produced stool-samples, its success based purely on the scope of appeal. Are television ads for McDonald’s or Mr Price modelling shoots considered art?
And then I got to thinking that maybe the Parlotones don’t consider themselves artists at all but merely entertainers or more specifically a brand. If they are only, unashamedly, in it for the money then is there anything wrong with branding their logo on anything from Pick ‘n Pay milkshakes to kwaai hubcaps?
Not at all, I suppose, as long as they don’t expect us to regard them as anything more than whores willing to sell themselves to the highest bidder.
And still then I got to thinking that if it was me being offered large sums of money to promote KFC or some shoe company would I turn it down or would I sell my creativity to the Devil (because make no mistake, Colonel Sanders is the Antichrist) (and make no further mistake, your creativity is your soul)?
I would love to say of course I wouldn’t be such a hack, but how could I know unless I’ve been in that situation?
I suppose that even rock stars need you eat – man cannot live on barely-legal groupie-sex alone – so maybe getting a fast food company to sponsor species-36 burgers for life or a clothing manufacturer making sure you don’t run around like a rural farm kid for a year or so isn’t that bad. Who am I to judge?
It might lose them respect, but I’m sure it gets them paid and laid.
However, I can’t help thinking that in the long run it’s a bad idea, because when the tennis-tekkies are worn out and the fingers licked clean what will they have left?
So cheers to the Parlotones’ no doubt forthcoming Christmas album – who needs credibility when you’ve got money?
The week before at the cinema I was subjected to a 3D music video by none other than the Parlotones – an Olympian leap onto an already groaning bandwagon.
(Honestly, what’s next, 3D Antiques Roadshow?)
And the week before that, in the esteemed publication Heat (SA’s only weekly glossy), I couldn’t help feeling my bowels quake at the sight of a sidebar laughing at a new shoe on the market complete with a little Parlotones logo stitched into the side. The header was something droll – “Step into the Parlotones’ shoes”.
Now I’ll be honest, I’m not a fan. Even though I bought a Parlotones cd the other month for R80 I haven’t got past the first thirty seconds of the opening track because it’s just so annoying – the kind of wimpy commercial rock that could only appeal to upper-middle class white girls from Herschel. And I have to admit I fucking hate the Clockwork Orange eyeliner. So this is clearly not an objective opinion, but I don’t think anyone could reasonably disagree with the statement that the Parlotones are massive sell-outs.
(Upon writing, it has been brought to my attention a limited edition {only 5 million produced} Parlotones laptop is available… for fuck’s sake!)
Then I got to thinking about the fine line between art and commercially-produced stool-samples, its success based purely on the scope of appeal. Are television ads for McDonald’s or Mr Price modelling shoots considered art?
And then I got to thinking that maybe the Parlotones don’t consider themselves artists at all but merely entertainers or more specifically a brand. If they are only, unashamedly, in it for the money then is there anything wrong with branding their logo on anything from Pick ‘n Pay milkshakes to kwaai hubcaps?
Not at all, I suppose, as long as they don’t expect us to regard them as anything more than whores willing to sell themselves to the highest bidder.
And still then I got to thinking that if it was me being offered large sums of money to promote KFC or some shoe company would I turn it down or would I sell my creativity to the Devil (because make no mistake, Colonel Sanders is the Antichrist) (and make no further mistake, your creativity is your soul)?
I would love to say of course I wouldn’t be such a hack, but how could I know unless I’ve been in that situation?
I suppose that even rock stars need you eat – man cannot live on barely-legal groupie-sex alone – so maybe getting a fast food company to sponsor species-36 burgers for life or a clothing manufacturer making sure you don’t run around like a rural farm kid for a year or so isn’t that bad. Who am I to judge?
It might lose them respect, but I’m sure it gets them paid and laid.
However, I can’t help thinking that in the long run it’s a bad idea, because when the tennis-tekkies are worn out and the fingers licked clean what will they have left?
So cheers to the Parlotones’ no doubt forthcoming Christmas album – who needs credibility when you’ve got money?
I Warned You About That 3D TV
When the world ends you can only imagine the whining. “Ooh, you didn’t tell me about it.” ”It’s not fair, boo hoo.”
Or the self-righteous indignation. “How dare you!” “Do you know who I am!” “Do you think my cheeks are always this puffy!”
But it’s over. Deal with it.
Jesus is coming… look busy.
Actually, it’s probably not Jesus. It’ll more likely be those biblical biker bastards of the Apocalypse – War, Pestilence, Disease and Death… I might have said Eugene Terreblanche but we all know he can’t ride a horse.
Or not on horses or motorbikes but definitely BMW 4X4s – the ultimate nobs in the ultimate nob-mobiles.
How do I know the world is ending? Let me explain…
You know in all those alien invasion movies or when a meteor is about to crash into Earth and the one thing they all have in common is there’s a black president in the White House… there you go.
As an aside: I remember just before the Stateside elections when Obama’s granny died and they had that pic in the papers of him shedding just one tear and I said to a white woman in the queue at 7-Eleven, “His publicist must be doing cartwheels” and she said as though I hadn’t even spoken, “We’ve been listening to an old Prophets of the City song all morning at home” and then started singing “We’re gonna have a black president” as only a middle-aged white hippy can sing and I said, “Hold on a second, Mugabe’s black, Idi Amin was black. How on earth does that make a difference?” and she ignored me and took her milk and bread home with her and I thought isn’t rooting for Obama because he are black as racist as saying that in the latter part of the twentieth century there’ve been more dictators of colour than any one’s that are white, so who’s to blame for the sorry state of the world?
Another portent of our destruction is how godless we’ve all become!!! I mean how can we arrogantly believe that we evolved from monkeys? Is the explanation that God made Man out of dirt (hence the dirty thoughts) and then made Whoa-Man out of a rib (“Whoa man, that’s my fucking rib!”) not good enough for us anymore? The Big Man, getting bad press and no respect, is about ready to bust a cap for real.
As an aside: People who base the Bible’s legitimacy on the fact that it’s been around for a long time make me want to buy and bury Harry Potter novels all over the place so in a million years when humanity has destroyed itself and evolved all over again they’ll be saying things like, “For Dumbledore’s sake!” or “Voldemort made me do it!”
Or if you believe aliens created us and are watching from the mothership then it’s definitely all over. How fucking boring have we become? The last interesting decade was the 80s – the 90s only had paisley shirts and Britney Spears to offer and the 00s two crap Matrix sequels and everyone wanting to be a surfer-dude! If my name was Darlovax IV and I had access to a Deathstar-sized vaporizer it’d be curtains for the mundane meat-sacks.
So now we’ve established irrefutably that the world is coming to an end you’re probably wondering when the zombies will start to take over, because George Romero would no doubt agree it’s definitely zombies that are going to destroy civilization.
Hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s not zombies that will be the cause, it’s 3D cinema. Let me explain…
As all pirates will know covering one eye makes you lose depth perception – not good if you’re counting booty or counting on being a ping-pong pro.
The way we see three dimensions is that the shutters in our eyes open and close rapidly and we kind of see everything from two angles and they’re put together into one picture.
This is all very scientific, as you can see.
What 3D cinema does is cause your eye-shutters to open and close at megasupaspeed (a scientific term, trust me) thereby and thus causing your brain to (really) re-wire itself on the go. They say that watching 3D is bad (m’kay) for old people, children, and pregnant ladies (pregnant slappers can watch as much as they want).
But because 3D is kind of crap unless it’s cartoon, it’s mostly kids that watch it [insert dramatic music]!!!
There have been no studies on the effects of long term 3D watching, and now 3D tvs are coming out, and in ten years or so when the kiddies brains have all been re-mashed and filled with subliminal Coke ads and are generally of no use anymore we will have our first zombie-related incidents.
We all know this kind of infection spreads like margarine with low self-esteem and because their brains are of no use anymore they’ll all be walking around wanting to eat yours (it’s the fastest way of getting it back in their head) (it’s not like they want to eat your brain, they just want to borrow it).
I would go on to tell you that our only hope will be the combined might of William Shatner, David Hasselhoff, and Mr T, but I don’t want to spoil the ending.
Or the self-righteous indignation. “How dare you!” “Do you know who I am!” “Do you think my cheeks are always this puffy!”
But it’s over. Deal with it.
Jesus is coming… look busy.
Actually, it’s probably not Jesus. It’ll more likely be those biblical biker bastards of the Apocalypse – War, Pestilence, Disease and Death… I might have said Eugene Terreblanche but we all know he can’t ride a horse.
Or not on horses or motorbikes but definitely BMW 4X4s – the ultimate nobs in the ultimate nob-mobiles.
How do I know the world is ending? Let me explain…
You know in all those alien invasion movies or when a meteor is about to crash into Earth and the one thing they all have in common is there’s a black president in the White House… there you go.
As an aside: I remember just before the Stateside elections when Obama’s granny died and they had that pic in the papers of him shedding just one tear and I said to a white woman in the queue at 7-Eleven, “His publicist must be doing cartwheels” and she said as though I hadn’t even spoken, “We’ve been listening to an old Prophets of the City song all morning at home” and then started singing “We’re gonna have a black president” as only a middle-aged white hippy can sing and I said, “Hold on a second, Mugabe’s black, Idi Amin was black. How on earth does that make a difference?” and she ignored me and took her milk and bread home with her and I thought isn’t rooting for Obama because he are black as racist as saying that in the latter part of the twentieth century there’ve been more dictators of colour than any one’s that are white, so who’s to blame for the sorry state of the world?
Another portent of our destruction is how godless we’ve all become!!! I mean how can we arrogantly believe that we evolved from monkeys? Is the explanation that God made Man out of dirt (hence the dirty thoughts) and then made Whoa-Man out of a rib (“Whoa man, that’s my fucking rib!”) not good enough for us anymore? The Big Man, getting bad press and no respect, is about ready to bust a cap for real.
As an aside: People who base the Bible’s legitimacy on the fact that it’s been around for a long time make me want to buy and bury Harry Potter novels all over the place so in a million years when humanity has destroyed itself and evolved all over again they’ll be saying things like, “For Dumbledore’s sake!” or “Voldemort made me do it!”
Or if you believe aliens created us and are watching from the mothership then it’s definitely all over. How fucking boring have we become? The last interesting decade was the 80s – the 90s only had paisley shirts and Britney Spears to offer and the 00s two crap Matrix sequels and everyone wanting to be a surfer-dude! If my name was Darlovax IV and I had access to a Deathstar-sized vaporizer it’d be curtains for the mundane meat-sacks.
So now we’ve established irrefutably that the world is coming to an end you’re probably wondering when the zombies will start to take over, because George Romero would no doubt agree it’s definitely zombies that are going to destroy civilization.
Hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s not zombies that will be the cause, it’s 3D cinema. Let me explain…
As all pirates will know covering one eye makes you lose depth perception – not good if you’re counting booty or counting on being a ping-pong pro.
The way we see three dimensions is that the shutters in our eyes open and close rapidly and we kind of see everything from two angles and they’re put together into one picture.
This is all very scientific, as you can see.
What 3D cinema does is cause your eye-shutters to open and close at megasupaspeed (a scientific term, trust me) thereby and thus causing your brain to (really) re-wire itself on the go. They say that watching 3D is bad (m’kay) for old people, children, and pregnant ladies (pregnant slappers can watch as much as they want).
But because 3D is kind of crap unless it’s cartoon, it’s mostly kids that watch it [insert dramatic music]!!!
There have been no studies on the effects of long term 3D watching, and now 3D tvs are coming out, and in ten years or so when the kiddies brains have all been re-mashed and filled with subliminal Coke ads and are generally of no use anymore we will have our first zombie-related incidents.
We all know this kind of infection spreads like margarine with low self-esteem and because their brains are of no use anymore they’ll all be walking around wanting to eat yours (it’s the fastest way of getting it back in their head) (it’s not like they want to eat your brain, they just want to borrow it).
I would go on to tell you that our only hope will be the combined might of William Shatner, David Hasselhoff, and Mr T, but I don’t want to spoil the ending.
Our Fragile Democracy
Is South Africa a democracy? Or are we merely playing at one?
At the moment we have a Constitution and the right to vote; we have freedom of movement, expression and association. The terror that was apartheid is a long-dead animal with no chance of resurrection… at least not in its old form.
I’m not sure if most in this country realise how fragile our freedoms are today. It is very easy for the ANC to tolerate an inconvenience such as voting when the margin between victory and loss is so wide.
We have already witnessed how ungracious they are in defeat.
In 2009, when the Democratic Alliance won the honour of governing the Western Cape, the MK veterans’ association threatened to make the province ungovernable, even though this victory was not through floor-crossing or any other kind of bureaucratic interference, and on Sunday Julius Malema, president of the ANCYL, told us in his inimitable vitriolic and nonsensical fashion that someone who “looked like” Helen Zille would never “rule” the Western Cape.
A telling remark that exposes the youth leader’s ideas about his position not being one of public service but “rule”.
Every day new incidents of corruption, mismanagement and unnecessary spending come to light through the hard and often dangerous work of investigative reporting across South Africa. This “negative” and “unpatriotic” reporting has caused such embarrassment to the alleged “leaders” that journalists suffer threats, are offered bribes and investigated by our National Intelligence Agency.
This “forced transparency” is so undesirable to our rulers that they will do anything to cover it up.
The proposed Protection of Information bill cannot be allowed to become a reality. The weak argument for the protection of “state secrets” is utter nonsense – we are not at war or under threat of invasion; our war is a war against tyranny; our greatest threat is incompetence and greed.
This bill will be nothing more than the legal gagging of journalists who are our first defence and our last hope against power-hungry politicians.
“War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.” – Is this what they would have us believe?
At the moment we have a Constitution and the right to vote; we have freedom of movement, expression and association. The terror that was apartheid is a long-dead animal with no chance of resurrection… at least not in its old form.
I’m not sure if most in this country realise how fragile our freedoms are today. It is very easy for the ANC to tolerate an inconvenience such as voting when the margin between victory and loss is so wide.
We have already witnessed how ungracious they are in defeat.
In 2009, when the Democratic Alliance won the honour of governing the Western Cape, the MK veterans’ association threatened to make the province ungovernable, even though this victory was not through floor-crossing or any other kind of bureaucratic interference, and on Sunday Julius Malema, president of the ANCYL, told us in his inimitable vitriolic and nonsensical fashion that someone who “looked like” Helen Zille would never “rule” the Western Cape.
A telling remark that exposes the youth leader’s ideas about his position not being one of public service but “rule”.
Every day new incidents of corruption, mismanagement and unnecessary spending come to light through the hard and often dangerous work of investigative reporting across South Africa. This “negative” and “unpatriotic” reporting has caused such embarrassment to the alleged “leaders” that journalists suffer threats, are offered bribes and investigated by our National Intelligence Agency.
This “forced transparency” is so undesirable to our rulers that they will do anything to cover it up.
The proposed Protection of Information bill cannot be allowed to become a reality. The weak argument for the protection of “state secrets” is utter nonsense – we are not at war or under threat of invasion; our war is a war against tyranny; our greatest threat is incompetence and greed.
This bill will be nothing more than the legal gagging of journalists who are our first defence and our last hope against power-hungry politicians.
“War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.” – Is this what they would have us believe?
A Country of Boys
When I was growing up my mother always told me, “Manners make a man.” She told me this so often that it must have stuck, and it has guided my behaviour throughout my life.
There is the myth in Africa that to be considered a “real man” one must have as many sexual partners as possible, callously disregarding a woman’s worth, as though they are mere meaty morsels to be devoured.
Men on this continent appear to think that the number of women they impregnate, the number of children they “father”, somehow proves their strength. I must add that the actions of our president, Jacob Zuma, do nothing but perpetuate this behaviour.The truth is that any boy can make a baby, but it takes a man to be a father.
I believe that the measure of a man is the respect he shows to women; particularly the woman he is courting, in a relationship with, or married to.
The behaviour that stems from this belief is more than the mere façade of opening car doors or writing love letters when courting a lady; it is not a ploy to obtain love or sex. True, deep respect will not falter or be hidden when in the company of boorish male friends or colleagues.
This idea is proved when I observe the actions of my friend, Mark, a true English gentleman who stands when a lady arrives or departs a table, and compare it to the gorilla stomping down Long Street who throws his arm around a woman he does not know and dribbles, “I want to make you my wife.”
It is no wonder that Mark is adored by the women he knows and respects, while the “little boy” on Long Street is left with a disgusted dismissal to slouch off with his equally insignificant male cohorts.
This abhorrent view of women as objects solely for male sexual consumption, with little meaningful worth, appears endemic on our continent, in our country’s culture, regardless of the fact that it is the majority of women who raise and feed the children, while the father is either unemployed or absent.
These actions scar our society deeply. It is so bad that South African women seem to just have accepted it as a part of life – the way it has always been and will forever be.
This attitude spreads disease, amasses the population, and leaves the children of our country with a despicable model of male behaviour – a model which they will go on to imitate.
The responsibility of changing this facet of our culture lies with both men and women because these roles in society are learned from those who raise us.
Men must adopt an attitude of respect and treat any behaviour or comment to the contrary with the contempt it deserves.
And women must raise their children to know that a man is more than a walking penis, and that their duty is to be more than a pathetic propagator of the population.
It cannot be said enough: the measure of a man is the respect he shows to women.
Right now we are living in a country of boys – our president’s irresponsible, immature behaviour includes him in this sample. The question is, can we become a country of men?
There is the myth in Africa that to be considered a “real man” one must have as many sexual partners as possible, callously disregarding a woman’s worth, as though they are mere meaty morsels to be devoured.
Men on this continent appear to think that the number of women they impregnate, the number of children they “father”, somehow proves their strength. I must add that the actions of our president, Jacob Zuma, do nothing but perpetuate this behaviour.The truth is that any boy can make a baby, but it takes a man to be a father.
I believe that the measure of a man is the respect he shows to women; particularly the woman he is courting, in a relationship with, or married to.
The behaviour that stems from this belief is more than the mere façade of opening car doors or writing love letters when courting a lady; it is not a ploy to obtain love or sex. True, deep respect will not falter or be hidden when in the company of boorish male friends or colleagues.
This idea is proved when I observe the actions of my friend, Mark, a true English gentleman who stands when a lady arrives or departs a table, and compare it to the gorilla stomping down Long Street who throws his arm around a woman he does not know and dribbles, “I want to make you my wife.”
It is no wonder that Mark is adored by the women he knows and respects, while the “little boy” on Long Street is left with a disgusted dismissal to slouch off with his equally insignificant male cohorts.
This abhorrent view of women as objects solely for male sexual consumption, with little meaningful worth, appears endemic on our continent, in our country’s culture, regardless of the fact that it is the majority of women who raise and feed the children, while the father is either unemployed or absent.
These actions scar our society deeply. It is so bad that South African women seem to just have accepted it as a part of life – the way it has always been and will forever be.
This attitude spreads disease, amasses the population, and leaves the children of our country with a despicable model of male behaviour – a model which they will go on to imitate.
The responsibility of changing this facet of our culture lies with both men and women because these roles in society are learned from those who raise us.
Men must adopt an attitude of respect and treat any behaviour or comment to the contrary with the contempt it deserves.
And women must raise their children to know that a man is more than a walking penis, and that their duty is to be more than a pathetic propagator of the population.
It cannot be said enough: the measure of a man is the respect he shows to women.
Right now we are living in a country of boys – our president’s irresponsible, immature behaviour includes him in this sample. The question is, can we become a country of men?
Defending the Right to Offend
Why was it that when talking to a black Zimbabwean cab driver I felt uncomfortable when he said, “Blacks can’t run a country!”?
His opinion, he told me, was born from his observations of the goings on in his own country, and the state of the rest of the African continent.
While analysing my own internal feeling of discomfort I concluded that I, along with most whites in the Western world, have become a victim of oversaturation of political correctness.
Political correctness is defined as the avoidance of forms of expression or action that are perceived to exclude, marginalise, or insult groups of people who are socially disadvantaged or discriminated against.
By this definition, and by society’s example, it is politically incorrect for me to say that women are bad drivers, but within the p.c. boundaries for First for Women Insurance to discriminate against men in their service and ridicule them in their advertising.
Don’t get me wrong, I find the fact neither offensive nor amusing, but rather interesting in what it reveals about our social mindset.
Why is it socially acceptable for there to be a Black Editors’ Forum, but unthinkable for it to have a white obverse? Are blacks secretive and racist? Don’t they think that whites have anything intelligent or meaningful to contribute?
I don’t believe this is the case, so why the discrimination? And why the lack of public outcry?
Because to question a black forum for blacks only is deemed as being insensitive for the years of oppression that they underwent – the fact that it marginalises whites, coloureds and Indians is inconsequential.
It is true that white males have dominated the business and political worlds for centuries, and that this should and is changing, but this obsession with being politically correct is changing our discourses beyond repair.
We find ourselves constantly biting our tongues when discussing politics in the company of South African blacks; walking on eggshells around Christians in case our own beliefs offend them.
Am I racist or an Afro-pessimist? If so, then why do my Zimbabwean and Congolese friends have the same views about the direction our South African leadership is taking us? They’re black; have their minds all been colonised so they can’t think objectively?
Am I insensitive to others’ beliefs? When a Christian wants to convert my friend, Mark, but puts his fingers in his ears when Mark talks about evolution, who is narrow-minded?
This ridiculous idea that it is disrespectful to have a differing or controversial opinion on anything stems from fear – the fear that we will appear intolerant if we speak our mind or question another’s views; the fear that we will be ostracised by our community, or one day even incarcerated.
There seems to be a belief that one has a right to not be upset or offended, but our Constitution bestows no such right.
For there to be healthy, robust and meaningful debate on anything there is the guarantee that some people will be offended – to end racism, sexism, and all the other “isms” in our society thought leaders need to express their views without fear.
We must understand that we have the right to offend.
His opinion, he told me, was born from his observations of the goings on in his own country, and the state of the rest of the African continent.
While analysing my own internal feeling of discomfort I concluded that I, along with most whites in the Western world, have become a victim of oversaturation of political correctness.
Political correctness is defined as the avoidance of forms of expression or action that are perceived to exclude, marginalise, or insult groups of people who are socially disadvantaged or discriminated against.
By this definition, and by society’s example, it is politically incorrect for me to say that women are bad drivers, but within the p.c. boundaries for First for Women Insurance to discriminate against men in their service and ridicule them in their advertising.
Don’t get me wrong, I find the fact neither offensive nor amusing, but rather interesting in what it reveals about our social mindset.
Why is it socially acceptable for there to be a Black Editors’ Forum, but unthinkable for it to have a white obverse? Are blacks secretive and racist? Don’t they think that whites have anything intelligent or meaningful to contribute?
I don’t believe this is the case, so why the discrimination? And why the lack of public outcry?
Because to question a black forum for blacks only is deemed as being insensitive for the years of oppression that they underwent – the fact that it marginalises whites, coloureds and Indians is inconsequential.
It is true that white males have dominated the business and political worlds for centuries, and that this should and is changing, but this obsession with being politically correct is changing our discourses beyond repair.
We find ourselves constantly biting our tongues when discussing politics in the company of South African blacks; walking on eggshells around Christians in case our own beliefs offend them.
Am I racist or an Afro-pessimist? If so, then why do my Zimbabwean and Congolese friends have the same views about the direction our South African leadership is taking us? They’re black; have their minds all been colonised so they can’t think objectively?
Am I insensitive to others’ beliefs? When a Christian wants to convert my friend, Mark, but puts his fingers in his ears when Mark talks about evolution, who is narrow-minded?
This ridiculous idea that it is disrespectful to have a differing or controversial opinion on anything stems from fear – the fear that we will appear intolerant if we speak our mind or question another’s views; the fear that we will be ostracised by our community, or one day even incarcerated.
There seems to be a belief that one has a right to not be upset or offended, but our Constitution bestows no such right.
For there to be healthy, robust and meaningful debate on anything there is the guarantee that some people will be offended – to end racism, sexism, and all the other “isms” in our society thought leaders need to express their views without fear.
We must understand that we have the right to offend.
Set the Truth Free!
Their lies are the thread that will sew our eyes shut, and the world we see will be nothing but the stitches.
Maybe we deserve it, because only the few seem to care. No one I speak to in my normal, everyday existence seems to be concerned about the authorities, our elected protectors, desperately doing everything in their power to stop us knowing what is going on.
Are we so caught up in our selfish pursuits that we no longer take notice of the bigger picture? Is our vision of the future so narrowly self-absorbed that we cannot see how this will affect us? Have we been tricked into thinking that voting once in a while makes us politically active?
We are victims of a lifestyle obsession. And our only driving concern is improving our lot. Corruption, poverty, injustice – these things don’t concern us anymore. Discussing improper tenders and political self-enrichment has become as trite and boring as talking about the weather!
It is so prevalent and so sickening we have all turned away.
We thought the war was won, and were so enthralled in victorious euphoria we did not notice a new battle unfold. But now it is upon us and we have become so fat and lazy and gutless we have chosen to ignore it; leaving it to others to fight for us.
But the truth does not set us free; it only empowers us to free ourselves.
The ANC wants to take this power away. They are terrified that one day we will wake up and fight back.
That time is now!
Their illogical arguments to convince us that it is in our best interests are verbal defecation. Their rotten, paper thin lies turn any sane citizen’s stomach.
Our minds are not theirs to control. We will not be told what we are allowed to know.
This war must be fought by all. The time has come for us to set the truth free.
Maybe we deserve it, because only the few seem to care. No one I speak to in my normal, everyday existence seems to be concerned about the authorities, our elected protectors, desperately doing everything in their power to stop us knowing what is going on.
Are we so caught up in our selfish pursuits that we no longer take notice of the bigger picture? Is our vision of the future so narrowly self-absorbed that we cannot see how this will affect us? Have we been tricked into thinking that voting once in a while makes us politically active?
We are victims of a lifestyle obsession. And our only driving concern is improving our lot. Corruption, poverty, injustice – these things don’t concern us anymore. Discussing improper tenders and political self-enrichment has become as trite and boring as talking about the weather!
It is so prevalent and so sickening we have all turned away.
We thought the war was won, and were so enthralled in victorious euphoria we did not notice a new battle unfold. But now it is upon us and we have become so fat and lazy and gutless we have chosen to ignore it; leaving it to others to fight for us.
But the truth does not set us free; it only empowers us to free ourselves.
The ANC wants to take this power away. They are terrified that one day we will wake up and fight back.
That time is now!
Their illogical arguments to convince us that it is in our best interests are verbal defecation. Their rotten, paper thin lies turn any sane citizen’s stomach.
Our minds are not theirs to control. We will not be told what we are allowed to know.
This war must be fought by all. The time has come for us to set the truth free.
The Male Brain and the Geek Gene
In Germany recently a man married his cat. She was on her way out, he said, and he loved her so much he only felt it was right to marry the female feline.
We read so many stories of this nature. A man marries a goat in full wedding regalia – him in a tuxedo, the poor goat in a pretty white veil.
One can only imagine the two sides of the church – his relatives on one side, the goat’s family and farm friends on the other.
God knows what happens on the wedding night; or maybe even God averts Her eyes.
The one thing these stories have in common, besides the assumed act of bestiality, is that it’s always men betrothing household pets or barnyard beasts. I have not yet come across a story of a woman walking down the aisle with an alligator. Why is this?
There’s that old chestnut telling us that a woman who strives to be equal to a man is an underachiever, but there might be a mite of truth to it.
Something that you might not know about men: Every man is a geek.
Some men try and hide their geekness, heaping scorn upon those regard the Matrix as theology or quote the philosophy of Gandalf, but those macho guys who can tell you the 1987 SA/New Zealand tour team roster… well, geeks come in all flavours.
We are Star Wars geeks, comic book or computer geeks. And yes, some of us are sports geeks.
The sports geek is an odd anomaly. He realises his geekness and that it is unattractive to the broader spectrum of the fairer sex, but his unfortunate male mind tries to combat this genetic disposition not by striving to understand the wants and needs of women but by focusing on a perceived less noticeable area of obsession.
As Ben Elton lamented, what is the difference between the guy who holes up in a dark room, calls himself Eldritch the Magician and plays Dungeons & Dragons on the weekend, and the guy who pays £70 for a football jersey with some photocopy machine’s name on it?
The Geek Gene is what makes the male brain obsessed with trivia; not random but specific facts relating to their chosen field of geekness.
While women multi-task, men fixate.
This genetic affliction is apparent from a young age when boys start to collect. Stamps, coins, bogeys.
I knew a guy who kept all his empty cigarette packs in a box under his bed!
I, personally, had an impressive collection of Chappies wrappers – ‘Did you know?’ 428 through 967 if I recall correctly.
It’s not all sad though. The fact is that museums or libraries probably wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for this male inclination; our obsession with collection.
As we get older we move on to amass towering mountains of useless trivia – each U2 record title and the year it was released; how many times Italy has won the World Cup; how often Bugs Bunny says, “What’s up, doc?” in Space Jam.
Even gay men suffer the effects; hence the desire to open an antique shop overflowing with knitted toilet roll covers and intricately designed teaspoons.
A gay man with a doily collection is still a man.
Depending on how patriarchal their culture is, men either grow up promiscuous or polygamists.
Just ask yourself: how many women refer to notches on their bedpost? What better way to prove your manhood than by publicly displaying your collection of wives? It’s not our fault, it’s genetic!
It’s not about the sex – women are not objects to be dominated, they’re objects to be stuck on the shelf above the DVD library.
Unfortunately, this Geek Gene directs the way we relate to the world and each other.
It is the reason our conversations are so emotionally scant and shallow – how can we understand something as vague as emotion when our brains are wired to compile lists of facts and statistics?
It is the reason we never understand what our wives and girlfriends are trying to tell us – put it in a bullet list in descending order of importance and our unevolved EQ might start to kick in; but probably not.
And it is the reason men around the world propose to donkeys and ewes – in these extreme cases, once we have realised that no woman on the face of the planet would spend a fraction of their time in our company, it is the only option left available.
We read so many stories of this nature. A man marries a goat in full wedding regalia – him in a tuxedo, the poor goat in a pretty white veil.
One can only imagine the two sides of the church – his relatives on one side, the goat’s family and farm friends on the other.
God knows what happens on the wedding night; or maybe even God averts Her eyes.
The one thing these stories have in common, besides the assumed act of bestiality, is that it’s always men betrothing household pets or barnyard beasts. I have not yet come across a story of a woman walking down the aisle with an alligator. Why is this?
There’s that old chestnut telling us that a woman who strives to be equal to a man is an underachiever, but there might be a mite of truth to it.
Something that you might not know about men: Every man is a geek.
Some men try and hide their geekness, heaping scorn upon those regard the Matrix as theology or quote the philosophy of Gandalf, but those macho guys who can tell you the 1987 SA/New Zealand tour team roster… well, geeks come in all flavours.
We are Star Wars geeks, comic book or computer geeks. And yes, some of us are sports geeks.
The sports geek is an odd anomaly. He realises his geekness and that it is unattractive to the broader spectrum of the fairer sex, but his unfortunate male mind tries to combat this genetic disposition not by striving to understand the wants and needs of women but by focusing on a perceived less noticeable area of obsession.
As Ben Elton lamented, what is the difference between the guy who holes up in a dark room, calls himself Eldritch the Magician and plays Dungeons & Dragons on the weekend, and the guy who pays £70 for a football jersey with some photocopy machine’s name on it?
The Geek Gene is what makes the male brain obsessed with trivia; not random but specific facts relating to their chosen field of geekness.
While women multi-task, men fixate.
This genetic affliction is apparent from a young age when boys start to collect. Stamps, coins, bogeys.
I knew a guy who kept all his empty cigarette packs in a box under his bed!
I, personally, had an impressive collection of Chappies wrappers – ‘Did you know?’ 428 through 967 if I recall correctly.
It’s not all sad though. The fact is that museums or libraries probably wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for this male inclination; our obsession with collection.
As we get older we move on to amass towering mountains of useless trivia – each U2 record title and the year it was released; how many times Italy has won the World Cup; how often Bugs Bunny says, “What’s up, doc?” in Space Jam.
Even gay men suffer the effects; hence the desire to open an antique shop overflowing with knitted toilet roll covers and intricately designed teaspoons.
A gay man with a doily collection is still a man.
Depending on how patriarchal their culture is, men either grow up promiscuous or polygamists.
Just ask yourself: how many women refer to notches on their bedpost? What better way to prove your manhood than by publicly displaying your collection of wives? It’s not our fault, it’s genetic!
It’s not about the sex – women are not objects to be dominated, they’re objects to be stuck on the shelf above the DVD library.
Unfortunately, this Geek Gene directs the way we relate to the world and each other.
It is the reason our conversations are so emotionally scant and shallow – how can we understand something as vague as emotion when our brains are wired to compile lists of facts and statistics?
It is the reason we never understand what our wives and girlfriends are trying to tell us – put it in a bullet list in descending order of importance and our unevolved EQ might start to kick in; but probably not.
And it is the reason men around the world propose to donkeys and ewes – in these extreme cases, once we have realised that no woman on the face of the planet would spend a fraction of their time in our company, it is the only option left available.
The City Lives!
I realised not long ago that I never appreciated my city until I left and came back.
Something that struck me while travelling was that people from Durban or Johannesburg, when asked where they’re from, always reply, “South Africa”. Capetonians will, without exception, say, “Cape Town”.
A friend of mine half-jokingly says that if South Africa went to war he would think twice about getting involved, but if Cape Town went to war he would be among the first to sign up. It is this slightly skewed form of patriotism that makes our city unique in South Africa.
There are only a few cities in the world where the citizens feel linked to it in an almost genetic, almost spiritual way – where the people of that city feel as though they have the streets and buildings, the good and bad running under their skin.
Cape Town is one of those cities.
The stone and grime and crime don’t just belong to an individual – the city has a soul that is made up of the thousands of souls that inhabit it. The amalgamation of these minds and spirits possesses the avenues and structures like a ghost, a mist that swirls in through the windows and cracks and animates it all!
The city becomes more than the sum of these souls; it becomes something different.
The city lives – it has a mood and voice; it has flashes of inspiration and bouts of depression. We speak through the city as the city speaks through us.
Our thoughts and actions are like seeds that we plant in the place we call home. We grow our city.
The grumbles from Durbanites and Joburgers about our cliques, our attitude and how we’re always banging on about our mountain betray their lack of connectedness with their own habitats.
Our Mother City is not something that we long to “get away from” for a holiday – we take off from work at 2.30 on a Friday to spend quality time with her.
For Capetonians this is not just a place, it is an extension of our lives and voices and hearts. When the city is hurt we are hurt. When it lifts its head in glory our heads are lifted with it.
Everything we are was grown within the womb of this Mother City and although some leave her side for adventures on other shores, we always feel the same warmth and love when we return to her embrace.
Something that struck me while travelling was that people from Durban or Johannesburg, when asked where they’re from, always reply, “South Africa”. Capetonians will, without exception, say, “Cape Town”.
A friend of mine half-jokingly says that if South Africa went to war he would think twice about getting involved, but if Cape Town went to war he would be among the first to sign up. It is this slightly skewed form of patriotism that makes our city unique in South Africa.
There are only a few cities in the world where the citizens feel linked to it in an almost genetic, almost spiritual way – where the people of that city feel as though they have the streets and buildings, the good and bad running under their skin.
Cape Town is one of those cities.
The stone and grime and crime don’t just belong to an individual – the city has a soul that is made up of the thousands of souls that inhabit it. The amalgamation of these minds and spirits possesses the avenues and structures like a ghost, a mist that swirls in through the windows and cracks and animates it all!
The city becomes more than the sum of these souls; it becomes something different.
The city lives – it has a mood and voice; it has flashes of inspiration and bouts of depression. We speak through the city as the city speaks through us.
Our thoughts and actions are like seeds that we plant in the place we call home. We grow our city.
The grumbles from Durbanites and Joburgers about our cliques, our attitude and how we’re always banging on about our mountain betray their lack of connectedness with their own habitats.
Our Mother City is not something that we long to “get away from” for a holiday – we take off from work at 2.30 on a Friday to spend quality time with her.
For Capetonians this is not just a place, it is an extension of our lives and voices and hearts. When the city is hurt we are hurt. When it lifts its head in glory our heads are lifted with it.
Everything we are was grown within the womb of this Mother City and although some leave her side for adventures on other shores, we always feel the same warmth and love when we return to her embrace.
Am I a Perv for Thinking We Shouldn't Ban Porn?
Thinus Oosthuizen, in a stern letter to The Argus yesterday, questions whether freedom of speech applies to “irresponsible views” and lambasts the Argus for having “slipped up on your responsibility to prevent the promotion of the destructive evil of pornography” – as though the paper has a “page 3 girl” ala The Sun.
First off, freedom of speech applies to irresponsible, ignorant, arrogant and any other kind of opinion provided it doesn’t incite racial hatred or violence. People should be allowed to, if I may misquote Steve Biko, “say what they want”, no matter how misguided or narrow their views are. We can choose to ignore them if they are irrelevant or engage those views in debate if we disagree.
Secondly, the Argus has a responsibility to report the news fairly and accurately, without any bias or agenda. If they took a stance either for or against pornography without allowing us to hear all aspects of the argument then I’m afraid they would lose all credibility.
So should we welcome a ban on the viewing of pornography like we had pre-democracy? There is no question that to an extent pornography does objectify and exploit women, but I disagree with the belief that seeing a bit of boob on etv is more harmful to children than, say, watching WWE wrestling. And if I’m right, then would our next step in the fight to protect our “vulnerable children” be the banning of wrestling?
Is Oosthuizen’s objection really to this treatment of women as objects or does his outrage come from some old-fashioned belief that nakedness is shameful? His writing smacks of some sense of moral superiority and high ground; we see this in the way he attacks Jane Duncan’s character with words like “irresponsible” and calls her arguments “incomprehensibly stupid”.
In 2008 the ANC proposed a ‘media tribunal’ that was staunchly opposed by all in the industry. In that same year they also drafted a ‘Protection of Information Bill’ in order to muzzle the press on topics such as corruption in the name of state security. Any victory against freedom of speech would be welcomed by many in our government.
The genius in the government proposing a ban on pornography is the lack of public outcry as people tend to focus on the pornography aspect and not the limitation of our rights. Those who should oppose it will fear being seen as perverts and the image of a strong anti-pornography majority will falsely appear. If a ban of this nature is imposed on us it will open the door a little more for the limitation of our freedoms.
Ironically, with the scrapping of the adult content pay-channel, a victory for the conservatives, they may just have shot themselves unwittingly in the foot. Surely a better way would be to regulate this “evil” and only allow it on channels that are specifically subscribed to by choice. That way the protection of our children would rightly be the responsibility of parents and not the state, who are more concerned with controlling what we are allowed to see and eventually what we are allowed to think.
Oosthuizen is right about one thing, “you cannot be neutral – it is much too important”.
First off, freedom of speech applies to irresponsible, ignorant, arrogant and any other kind of opinion provided it doesn’t incite racial hatred or violence. People should be allowed to, if I may misquote Steve Biko, “say what they want”, no matter how misguided or narrow their views are. We can choose to ignore them if they are irrelevant or engage those views in debate if we disagree.
Secondly, the Argus has a responsibility to report the news fairly and accurately, without any bias or agenda. If they took a stance either for or against pornography without allowing us to hear all aspects of the argument then I’m afraid they would lose all credibility.
So should we welcome a ban on the viewing of pornography like we had pre-democracy? There is no question that to an extent pornography does objectify and exploit women, but I disagree with the belief that seeing a bit of boob on etv is more harmful to children than, say, watching WWE wrestling. And if I’m right, then would our next step in the fight to protect our “vulnerable children” be the banning of wrestling?
Is Oosthuizen’s objection really to this treatment of women as objects or does his outrage come from some old-fashioned belief that nakedness is shameful? His writing smacks of some sense of moral superiority and high ground; we see this in the way he attacks Jane Duncan’s character with words like “irresponsible” and calls her arguments “incomprehensibly stupid”.
In 2008 the ANC proposed a ‘media tribunal’ that was staunchly opposed by all in the industry. In that same year they also drafted a ‘Protection of Information Bill’ in order to muzzle the press on topics such as corruption in the name of state security. Any victory against freedom of speech would be welcomed by many in our government.
The genius in the government proposing a ban on pornography is the lack of public outcry as people tend to focus on the pornography aspect and not the limitation of our rights. Those who should oppose it will fear being seen as perverts and the image of a strong anti-pornography majority will falsely appear. If a ban of this nature is imposed on us it will open the door a little more for the limitation of our freedoms.
Ironically, with the scrapping of the adult content pay-channel, a victory for the conservatives, they may just have shot themselves unwittingly in the foot. Surely a better way would be to regulate this “evil” and only allow it on channels that are specifically subscribed to by choice. That way the protection of our children would rightly be the responsibility of parents and not the state, who are more concerned with controlling what we are allowed to see and eventually what we are allowed to think.
Oosthuizen is right about one thing, “you cannot be neutral – it is much too important”.
Paul is our New Saviour!
So now that the world has witnessed the immense power of Paul the Octopus we all need to ask ourselves: is any other religion necessary anymore?
The numbers six and seven have been rendered obsolete, eight is the new black! It was eight predictions – one for each of his puckered suckers – that proved to all of us that he is the One. The Spanish are already worshipping him, so now it’s time for all of us to follow suit and bow down before this incredible and holy psychic power.
So what if he only has another year to live? Chop him up, batter and deep fry his body, he will surely rise again from within the pits of our stomachs or maybe even be born again in each one of us!
Throw down your burkas and your Bibles; forget Scientology and star signs; Paul is our new Saviour!
The numbers six and seven have been rendered obsolete, eight is the new black! It was eight predictions – one for each of his puckered suckers – that proved to all of us that he is the One. The Spanish are already worshipping him, so now it’s time for all of us to follow suit and bow down before this incredible and holy psychic power.
So what if he only has another year to live? Chop him up, batter and deep fry his body, he will surely rise again from within the pits of our stomachs or maybe even be born again in each one of us!
Throw down your burkas and your Bibles; forget Scientology and star signs; Paul is our new Saviour!
Was It A Dream?
An ethereal stillness, like the universe had exhaled, floated in the air. We drifted back into reality, dazed, blinking our eyes as though awoken from a deep dream. It was Monday and it was all over.
The past thirty days it was as though our world had been transformed into a fantastical, Tolkien-esque land of magic and wonder. The earth stopped turning as nations descended on us to face each other on the battlefields. We cheered as heroes clashed and won great victories; and felt our hearts drop when sometimes those same heroes fell in defeat.
South Africa was graced with mystical protectors of pride and nefarious, dream-destroying villains. The people chose their allegiances and dutifully regaled themselves in flags and colours, blowing their trumpets in victory and even in despair.
We watched with delight as animated generals (Diego Maradonna), long-haired warriors (Siphiwe Tshabalala), wicked wizards (Luis Suarez), mutineers (Nicolas Anelka) and even clairvoyant calamari (Paul the psychic octopus) ignited the stage of South Africa. We let this wonderful whirlwind lift us high, but now it has passed and dizziness descends.
The aftermath of such magical madness leaves us with a sweet sorrow, a kind of emptiness, as the light that rushed into our hearts starts to subside evanescently. Will we go back to our normal lives? Or will we find that the events of the past month (it moved by so quickly) have changed us? The people I have spoken to, different cultures from abroad and close by, have opened my eyes some more. The world seems smaller now, as does this beautiful country I call home.
I have never been more proudly a South African.
The past thirty days it was as though our world had been transformed into a fantastical, Tolkien-esque land of magic and wonder. The earth stopped turning as nations descended on us to face each other on the battlefields. We cheered as heroes clashed and won great victories; and felt our hearts drop when sometimes those same heroes fell in defeat.
South Africa was graced with mystical protectors of pride and nefarious, dream-destroying villains. The people chose their allegiances and dutifully regaled themselves in flags and colours, blowing their trumpets in victory and even in despair.
We watched with delight as animated generals (Diego Maradonna), long-haired warriors (Siphiwe Tshabalala), wicked wizards (Luis Suarez), mutineers (Nicolas Anelka) and even clairvoyant calamari (Paul the psychic octopus) ignited the stage of South Africa. We let this wonderful whirlwind lift us high, but now it has passed and dizziness descends.
The aftermath of such magical madness leaves us with a sweet sorrow, a kind of emptiness, as the light that rushed into our hearts starts to subside evanescently. Will we go back to our normal lives? Or will we find that the events of the past month (it moved by so quickly) have changed us? The people I have spoken to, different cultures from abroad and close by, have opened my eyes some more. The world seems smaller now, as does this beautiful country I call home.
I have never been more proudly a South African.
The Stench of Victory
Are the people of Uruguay celebrating? The reason for such a seemingly obvious question is because I’d rather my team lost than won by cheating.
We thought it was the foreigners who’d get robbed in Africa, strangely it seems to be the other way around! Anyone who watched the game between Ghana and Uruguay will agree that Uruguay were unquestionably outplayed by Ghana… and yet they still won through to the semi-finals. How did this happen? They simply cheated. After Friday’s game I hope parents will curb their children’s viewing of the rest of this World Cup because the lessons they should be learning from sport – teamwork and fair play – are dismally absent from the professional sport.
There has been so much of it too. Kaka was red carded in the match against Ivory Coast because of it; England was denied a goal because the German keeper, who must have seen he was scored against, continued play. And who is to say the referees aren’t in on it as well? Does Fifa investigate stuff like this?
In rugby if there is a blatant infringement preventing the opposing team from scoring a penalty try is awarded – why do we not have such laws in the game of soccer?
Something that aroused suspicion in the England/Germany game was the lack of questioning by the television commentators. One can only assume that Fifa, who are considering banning replays of bad calls, have instructed commentators along those lines. Our newspapers, lauded by the ANC for their positive reporting about the Cup, have also been dictated to by Fifa.
This is what happens when an organisation – be it a political party or sporting body – gains too much power.It is trite to go on about how power corrupts and blah blah, but it is a universal truth. Fifa has always been blasé about their status as a money-making, totalitarian regime, but the lack of outrage by the viewing, paying public shows a terrible apathy.
I look forward to the Tri-nations and 2011 Rugby World Cup. At least in rugby the team that plays a better game is the team who takes home glory – skill wins the day, not luck.
Ghana can go home with their dignity and integrity intact. Cheaters might win, but winners never cheat. In our eyes they are winners.
We thought it was the foreigners who’d get robbed in Africa, strangely it seems to be the other way around! Anyone who watched the game between Ghana and Uruguay will agree that Uruguay were unquestionably outplayed by Ghana… and yet they still won through to the semi-finals. How did this happen? They simply cheated. After Friday’s game I hope parents will curb their children’s viewing of the rest of this World Cup because the lessons they should be learning from sport – teamwork and fair play – are dismally absent from the professional sport.
There has been so much of it too. Kaka was red carded in the match against Ivory Coast because of it; England was denied a goal because the German keeper, who must have seen he was scored against, continued play. And who is to say the referees aren’t in on it as well? Does Fifa investigate stuff like this?
In rugby if there is a blatant infringement preventing the opposing team from scoring a penalty try is awarded – why do we not have such laws in the game of soccer?
Something that aroused suspicion in the England/Germany game was the lack of questioning by the television commentators. One can only assume that Fifa, who are considering banning replays of bad calls, have instructed commentators along those lines. Our newspapers, lauded by the ANC for their positive reporting about the Cup, have also been dictated to by Fifa.
This is what happens when an organisation – be it a political party or sporting body – gains too much power.It is trite to go on about how power corrupts and blah blah, but it is a universal truth. Fifa has always been blasé about their status as a money-making, totalitarian regime, but the lack of outrage by the viewing, paying public shows a terrible apathy.
I look forward to the Tri-nations and 2011 Rugby World Cup. At least in rugby the team that plays a better game is the team who takes home glory – skill wins the day, not luck.
Ghana can go home with their dignity and integrity intact. Cheaters might win, but winners never cheat. In our eyes they are winners.
When the Party's Over
Those in the know will tell you that the harder the party, the bigger the hangover. After a party as large as the World Cup… well, we’ll all know very soon.
Right now most of us don’t want the celebrations to end. When they do we will probably wake up with a terrible sense of loss, an empty wallet and a return to our stark reality.
It pains me to think that all the actions of goodwill and unity over the past month could have an equal and opposite reaction. The mounting threats of xenophobic violence, if acted on, could undo all the national pride of hosting the greatest sport event in the world and return our South African psyche to the shame of 2008.
The office of Fikile Mbalula, the deputy minister of police, wrote in a statement to the Mail & Guardian newspaper that “the issue of xenophobic attacks after the World Cup has no foundation, except to influence the vulnerable… to commit crime,”, it then goes on to say that he has “confidence in both the police and our people.”
These are heady days of the World Cup and maybe the ANC is in the throes of Fifa-induced drunkenness, but it would be good for them to stop the party for just a moment and remember how ill-prepared the government was two years ago when the xenophobic clashes first erupted. I certainly hope this laughing show of Dutch courage can be backed up and is not just another nonsensical belch we’re so used to from politicians drunk with importance. Last time the mess was left to the South African public to sort out, practically ignored by those elected as custodians of our country until the eleventh hour, and Mbalula’s show of smugness and arrogance does not inspire confidence.
It would be a terrible irony if on Friday we all stand as proud Africans behind Ghana, opportunistically clutching at glory through another nation, and then, on July 12, murder and steal from those very Africans we called brother. It would show us all to be untrustworthy, two-faced frauds.
We all need to sober up now and prepare ourselves for when the party’s over.
Right now most of us don’t want the celebrations to end. When they do we will probably wake up with a terrible sense of loss, an empty wallet and a return to our stark reality.
It pains me to think that all the actions of goodwill and unity over the past month could have an equal and opposite reaction. The mounting threats of xenophobic violence, if acted on, could undo all the national pride of hosting the greatest sport event in the world and return our South African psyche to the shame of 2008.
The office of Fikile Mbalula, the deputy minister of police, wrote in a statement to the Mail & Guardian newspaper that “the issue of xenophobic attacks after the World Cup has no foundation, except to influence the vulnerable… to commit crime,”, it then goes on to say that he has “confidence in both the police and our people.”
These are heady days of the World Cup and maybe the ANC is in the throes of Fifa-induced drunkenness, but it would be good for them to stop the party for just a moment and remember how ill-prepared the government was two years ago when the xenophobic clashes first erupted. I certainly hope this laughing show of Dutch courage can be backed up and is not just another nonsensical belch we’re so used to from politicians drunk with importance. Last time the mess was left to the South African public to sort out, practically ignored by those elected as custodians of our country until the eleventh hour, and Mbalula’s show of smugness and arrogance does not inspire confidence.
It would be a terrible irony if on Friday we all stand as proud Africans behind Ghana, opportunistically clutching at glory through another nation, and then, on July 12, murder and steal from those very Africans we called brother. It would show us all to be untrustworthy, two-faced frauds.
We all need to sober up now and prepare ourselves for when the party’s over.
How About Some Ubuntu For A Change
I have on more than one occasion heard some disgruntled grumbling about this being called the ‘African World Cup’. The moan is that the South African taxpayer footed the bill for all this Fifa madness and if the entire continent wants to take credit then they should cough up some of the moolah.
Is it because we were all a bit sketchy about Bafana’s chances of getting anywhere? Before the magnificent victory of the ‘Boys Boys’ over the grumpy French our president, Jacob Zuma, released a statement along the lines of “We should be proud, anyway”, implying that they didn’t have a hope of getting through to the Death Round play-offs to the quarter-finals. If this is the case then an African World Cup might mean less shame.
I, for one, believed they could do it and, by gosh, they almost did. If it wasn’t for the red card for our goalie and accompanying penalty for the offside Uruguay striker along with the obviously disheartening mass exodus of Bafana ‘supporters’ in that second group match, I think that second and third goal might not have gone through and our guys could have done it. Who knows?
Or is it because the rest of the world, along with thinking we have lions as pets and ride elephants to work, like to lump all the natives together? The continent has 61 territories and over 2000 languages are spoken – a melting pot if ever there was one. Most of us don’t even realise how unique and diverse our everyday experience is.
The fact is that South Africa isn’t only a home to South Africans. We have many legal and illegal residents from all over the continent not only stealing our women and jobs but also contributing greatly to our economy. We have come a long way since 1994 but it is still in many respects a divided nation. We all pretty much vote along colour lines, there is a depressing gap between the haves and the have-nots, and the tragic xenophobic violence of 2008 revealed that the animosity is not just a black/white thing. We need events like this to bring us together no matter how short-lived and fickle that unity may be.
Surely we can agree that this moment is one to be shared and not clutched selfishly to our South African chests. Let’s stop the whinging, magnanimously call this the African World Cup, and kick-off the process of uniting not only South Africa, but the entire African continent as well!
Is it because we were all a bit sketchy about Bafana’s chances of getting anywhere? Before the magnificent victory of the ‘Boys Boys’ over the grumpy French our president, Jacob Zuma, released a statement along the lines of “We should be proud, anyway”, implying that they didn’t have a hope of getting through to the Death Round play-offs to the quarter-finals. If this is the case then an African World Cup might mean less shame.
I, for one, believed they could do it and, by gosh, they almost did. If it wasn’t for the red card for our goalie and accompanying penalty for the offside Uruguay striker along with the obviously disheartening mass exodus of Bafana ‘supporters’ in that second group match, I think that second and third goal might not have gone through and our guys could have done it. Who knows?
Or is it because the rest of the world, along with thinking we have lions as pets and ride elephants to work, like to lump all the natives together? The continent has 61 territories and over 2000 languages are spoken – a melting pot if ever there was one. Most of us don’t even realise how unique and diverse our everyday experience is.
The fact is that South Africa isn’t only a home to South Africans. We have many legal and illegal residents from all over the continent not only stealing our women and jobs but also contributing greatly to our economy. We have come a long way since 1994 but it is still in many respects a divided nation. We all pretty much vote along colour lines, there is a depressing gap between the haves and the have-nots, and the tragic xenophobic violence of 2008 revealed that the animosity is not just a black/white thing. We need events like this to bring us together no matter how short-lived and fickle that unity may be.
Surely we can agree that this moment is one to be shared and not clutched selfishly to our South African chests. Let’s stop the whinging, magnanimously call this the African World Cup, and kick-off the process of uniting not only South Africa, but the entire African continent as well!
You've Got That World Cup Feeling 2
Saturday – Long Street – England/Yankee half-time! My meek vuvuzela skills are met by a respectable lady’s lamenting, “Oh no, you’re not going to blow that thing are you?” Less a question than an instruction by someone used to ordering around us lesser social classes.
I smiled, “You’re not a World Cup Grinch, are you?” Her friends found it amusing; her, not so much.
It seems the humble vuvu is making almost as many headlines as the beautiful game itself. No matter what the Hate All Vuvuzela Enthusiasts (HAVE’s) might say, those of us on the other side (let’s call us the HAVE-not’s) have found it to be an international unification tool. Passing it around like a peace pipe, laughing as my British girlfriend taught a true African how to blow it properly, gleefully unconcerned about the scary germs we were exposing ourselves to, we befriended and bonded with folks from New York, London and even as far as the Northern Suburbs! Our posse included Italians and Brazilians and as the drinks flowed the talk went from football to politics to whose national anthem would best suit a House beat. We all sang and vuvu’d down the street and left feeling the world was a smaller place and we could learn and teach so much over this month. When people and cultures are thrown together in a football calabash or restaurant or nightclub the only thing to do is take the opportunity to broaden your social horizon.
So please, all the pessimists, you can’t beat us, so you might as well join us. Then you will know the true meaning of Ayoba!
I smiled, “You’re not a World Cup Grinch, are you?” Her friends found it amusing; her, not so much.
It seems the humble vuvu is making almost as many headlines as the beautiful game itself. No matter what the Hate All Vuvuzela Enthusiasts (HAVE’s) might say, those of us on the other side (let’s call us the HAVE-not’s) have found it to be an international unification tool. Passing it around like a peace pipe, laughing as my British girlfriend taught a true African how to blow it properly, gleefully unconcerned about the scary germs we were exposing ourselves to, we befriended and bonded with folks from New York, London and even as far as the Northern Suburbs! Our posse included Italians and Brazilians and as the drinks flowed the talk went from football to politics to whose national anthem would best suit a House beat. We all sang and vuvu’d down the street and left feeling the world was a smaller place and we could learn and teach so much over this month. When people and cultures are thrown together in a football calabash or restaurant or nightclub the only thing to do is take the opportunity to broaden your social horizon.
So please, all the pessimists, you can’t beat us, so you might as well join us. Then you will know the true meaning of Ayoba!
You've Got That World Cup Feeling
With so much to prove to local and international fans, Bafana Bafana scored the first goal of the 2010 Fifa World Cup. I’m not even a soccer fan, but when Siphiwe Tshabalala booted that new ball through the net I leapt to my feet screaming, “Laduuuuumaaaaa!!!” Then the air erupted in a vuvuzela volcano spewing not ash, but unmitigated joy that seeped through every pore, charging and swelling an entire nation with pride. All the dissenters were washed away in the tidal wave and sent cowering back into their caves of negativity.
After a return goal by Mexico, if you were strong enough, you might have been able to strain the tension through a sieve. A nation was hovering over their seats. So this is what a united nation felt like.
The question is will this feeling of brotherhood and unity last after the last game is played, the Cup won, and the world left our shores? Will we still feel the urge to hug a stranger in the streets? Or after the dust has settled will we go back to complaining about characteristics that are nothing more than cultural traits and not personal attacks on our way of life?
We need to take this time when it’s easy to make friends outside of our usual cliques to not only have a beer and a laugh but to learn more about those we consider the Other. We naturally fear the unknown, but if we now have such opportunity to socialise with people we know little about and spend time in areas we would on any other day never consider frequenting, then we can transform the Other into the Another – another South African; him just like me, me just like him.
The Super 14 final in Soweto opened many eyes and hearts to the idea that we’re not so different after all. The World Cup can only enhance this. Let’s hold on to these ideas after it’s all over.
After a return goal by Mexico, if you were strong enough, you might have been able to strain the tension through a sieve. A nation was hovering over their seats. So this is what a united nation felt like.
The question is will this feeling of brotherhood and unity last after the last game is played, the Cup won, and the world left our shores? Will we still feel the urge to hug a stranger in the streets? Or after the dust has settled will we go back to complaining about characteristics that are nothing more than cultural traits and not personal attacks on our way of life?
We need to take this time when it’s easy to make friends outside of our usual cliques to not only have a beer and a laugh but to learn more about those we consider the Other. We naturally fear the unknown, but if we now have such opportunity to socialise with people we know little about and spend time in areas we would on any other day never consider frequenting, then we can transform the Other into the Another – another South African; him just like me, me just like him.
The Super 14 final in Soweto opened many eyes and hearts to the idea that we’re not so different after all. The World Cup can only enhance this. Let’s hold on to these ideas after it’s all over.
My Vuvuzela Blues
The vuvuzela has been a contentious issue for boring and negative whites since they heard the disastrous news the Soccerball World Cup was coming to town. The best attempt was, “Africans have such beautiful singing voices, why do they need a tuneless trumpet?” Nice try, love.
Now I’m as excited about Blatter’s Bonanza as the next bloke, but is it necessary for me to show my exuberance by parping a vuvuzela at six in the morning until my throat bleeds? At least wait'll the first game's been played. I’m not sure if it was just the one guy or they were working in shifts, but for two hours that distinctive, unmistakeable sound of a cow giving birth to a World Cup stadium assaulted my ears.
So much for national unity, I wanted to kill the guy.
The anti-vuvuzela minority front will tell you they’re noisy and tuneless and should be banned at football matches. As South Africa’s new weapon of mass destruction they want you to believe that the humble vuvu will so distract players they’ll be unable to kick in a straight line and might possibly fall to the ground and foam at the mouth. Our country will be embarrassed and the world will go home shaking their heads and lamenting the terrible time they had at Africa’s first staging of the beautiful game.
In all honesty, I quite like the vuvuzela. It’s fun, spirited, and just about anyone who can blow bubblegum can play one. It’s as South African as Madiba or moaning about Malema and will soon be the next big thing at sports events globally. This is something to be proud of, no matter how many early mornings and headaches it costs.
Once we all realise that this is going to be the most unique, most exciting, most colourful World Cup in history and accept that the oddly-pitched parping sound is the aural equivalent of our national pride and unquenchable enthusiasm it’ll sound more like birds singing sweetly than a sad ogre blowing its nose... even at six in the morning.
Now I’m as excited about Blatter’s Bonanza as the next bloke, but is it necessary for me to show my exuberance by parping a vuvuzela at six in the morning until my throat bleeds? At least wait'll the first game's been played. I’m not sure if it was just the one guy or they were working in shifts, but for two hours that distinctive, unmistakeable sound of a cow giving birth to a World Cup stadium assaulted my ears.
So much for national unity, I wanted to kill the guy.
The anti-vuvuzela minority front will tell you they’re noisy and tuneless and should be banned at football matches. As South Africa’s new weapon of mass destruction they want you to believe that the humble vuvu will so distract players they’ll be unable to kick in a straight line and might possibly fall to the ground and foam at the mouth. Our country will be embarrassed and the world will go home shaking their heads and lamenting the terrible time they had at Africa’s first staging of the beautiful game.
In all honesty, I quite like the vuvuzela. It’s fun, spirited, and just about anyone who can blow bubblegum can play one. It’s as South African as Madiba or moaning about Malema and will soon be the next big thing at sports events globally. This is something to be proud of, no matter how many early mornings and headaches it costs.
Once we all realise that this is going to be the most unique, most exciting, most colourful World Cup in history and accept that the oddly-pitched parping sound is the aural equivalent of our national pride and unquenchable enthusiasm it’ll sound more like birds singing sweetly than a sad ogre blowing its nose... even at six in the morning.
The Simba Lekker Flavour Competition
In an obvious effort to re-crisp soggy sales, instead of enhancing quality Simba Chips unzipped its Lekker Flavour Competition encouraging South Africans to send in suggestions for new chip flavours and for some reason an accompanying picture (?) of your inspiration. My own entry, Bacon & Egg flavour and diagrammatic instructions on how to roll a joint, was clearly discarded with contempt for such simple brilliance. So now, inspired by the bitterness of rejection, I submit my opinions on all four “lekker flavours”.
BRENDAN JOHNSTON’S SNOEK & ATCHAR
Remember Creoles? Sure, they stank like a dirty fisherman, but the MSG flavour with a slight hint of seafoodiness was amazing… then they were gone. So I envisioned being whisked back to those heady days of “fish Niknaks”. Not so.
If Dr Moreau genetically spliced a Sea Harvest lorry driver with one of those Indians on Durban beach selling fake Ray-Ban’s and got him to run the Two Oceans Marathon this is what the sweat on the soles of his feet would taste like. A better name would be Week-Old Fishpaste & Donkey Dick.
AYANDA THABEDE’S VETKOEK & POLONY
If you’ve ever been in a holding cell in a Cape Town police station you’ll know that for breakfast they serve hard-boiled eggs on bread and a plastic cup of tepid tea. For lunch they serve sandwiches made from the leftover breakfast bread filled with a thick slice of pink Shoprite polony and a plastic cup of tepid tea.
The good news is now they can serve these chips to the inmates and soon have them begging for the old mouldy bread and processed pig-butt. Some scientists work on a cure for cancer, some find it more important to focus on coming up with the chemical equivalent of polony-flavour – who am I to judge?
ALETTA CROFTON’S WALKIE TALKIE CHICKEN
The fact that a white woman who wasn’t Evita Bezuidenhout sent this in shows how far some people will go to try and convince us they’re socially and culturally integrated. And the fact that most rich housewives who wouldn’t have chicken feet and beaks touch their kitchen counter in Constantia will giggle with their book club mates and think that eating this vile product will bring them closer to their domestic worker proves what phonies we all are.
Shame on us whites without the courage to, in the spirit of nation building, eat a chicken’s feet and beak and be proud.
MONRAY SACKANARY’S MASALA STEAK GATSBY
I once ate a real Gatsby at the Grand Parade and suffered from stomach cramps and projectile pukage for the rest of the school holidays – thanks for the memories, Monray, maybe Bobotie & Barf Bucket would be better.
In all honesty, this is by far the most edible and hopefully digestible of the lot (I’ll tell you in a few hours) so I guess it gets my vote. A winner by default.
BRENDAN JOHNSTON’S SNOEK & ATCHAR
Remember Creoles? Sure, they stank like a dirty fisherman, but the MSG flavour with a slight hint of seafoodiness was amazing… then they were gone. So I envisioned being whisked back to those heady days of “fish Niknaks”. Not so.
If Dr Moreau genetically spliced a Sea Harvest lorry driver with one of those Indians on Durban beach selling fake Ray-Ban’s and got him to run the Two Oceans Marathon this is what the sweat on the soles of his feet would taste like. A better name would be Week-Old Fishpaste & Donkey Dick.
AYANDA THABEDE’S VETKOEK & POLONY
If you’ve ever been in a holding cell in a Cape Town police station you’ll know that for breakfast they serve hard-boiled eggs on bread and a plastic cup of tepid tea. For lunch they serve sandwiches made from the leftover breakfast bread filled with a thick slice of pink Shoprite polony and a plastic cup of tepid tea.
The good news is now they can serve these chips to the inmates and soon have them begging for the old mouldy bread and processed pig-butt. Some scientists work on a cure for cancer, some find it more important to focus on coming up with the chemical equivalent of polony-flavour – who am I to judge?
ALETTA CROFTON’S WALKIE TALKIE CHICKEN
The fact that a white woman who wasn’t Evita Bezuidenhout sent this in shows how far some people will go to try and convince us they’re socially and culturally integrated. And the fact that most rich housewives who wouldn’t have chicken feet and beaks touch their kitchen counter in Constantia will giggle with their book club mates and think that eating this vile product will bring them closer to their domestic worker proves what phonies we all are.
Shame on us whites without the courage to, in the spirit of nation building, eat a chicken’s feet and beak and be proud.
MONRAY SACKANARY’S MASALA STEAK GATSBY
I once ate a real Gatsby at the Grand Parade and suffered from stomach cramps and projectile pukage for the rest of the school holidays – thanks for the memories, Monray, maybe Bobotie & Barf Bucket would be better.
In all honesty, this is by far the most edible and hopefully digestible of the lot (I’ll tell you in a few hours) so I guess it gets my vote. A winner by default.
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