The Number 22

It makes me wish I was a double agent in a bad Eighties spy movie and some American or Russian bonecrusher would tie me down to a chair in a dilapidated warehouse in a deserted neighbourhood and start pulling my teeth out… because eventually they’d get to the one that’s giving me trouble.

Toothache is one of the only legitimate reasons for a bad mood. When a little old lady at the bus stop smiles because you moved off the seat so she could sit there, you just want to punch her in the face.

Not her face in particular. It could be anyone. Any face.

It gets worse when the bus you’re supposed to catch – the number 22 – drives straight past you without even so much as a sideward glance. You run after it waving your hand, but then remember Don Johnson’s words from the film ‘Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man’: “My old man told me before he left this shitty world: Never chase women or busses; you always get left behind.”

Truer words are not very often spoken.

I don’t know what it is about the number 22 bus. It’s always late with a grumpy driver who tears through the streets like a maniac.

I remember one rainy bus ride out to Mutley Plain when the ‘22’ driver hit a cyclist. The poor pedal-powered patsy bounced off the large window, startling some old dear, without so much as slowing down.

The bus driver’s expression – common to all bulldogs while dining on wasps – didn’t flicker, and he carried on as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred. I sighed with a slight wave of homesickness and thought about the roads of Cape Town.

But enough with the flashbacks.

That same day the morose ‘22’ flew past, leaving me more than a bit pissed off, got worse.

The weather knuckled down and with a bit of effort managed to cough an hour’s worth of hail out; and my tooth – not to be outdone – turned my mouth into an Iranian nuclear testing site – with suicide-bomber-practice-run intervals between each mushroom-cloud-main-event – while I waited at the bus stop to embark on my return journey.

Needless to say, my sense of humour had packed his belongings into a hanky and tied it onto the end of a stick and told me he was taking the magic beans and my signed copy of ‘Green Eggs and Ham’ and marrying a washed-up pornstar in a kitsch Las Vegas church to pursue his dream of training Boston Terrier puppies to bark the hits of Chesney Hawks.

This news left me devastated.

After fifteen minutes of trying not to scare the old ladies waiting with me, I saw the much-anticipated ‘22’ careering down the road. Holding my hand out and stepping into the road, I flagged the Frankenfaced steering-wheel-pusher down.

Of course, he stopped five metres away from where I was standing. And as I walked towards him the grannies jumped to their feet in front of me.

So, being a gentleman in spite of the dental demolition derby running across my gums, I slowed down and patiently followed the OAPs; imagining that soon I would be holding on for dear life as the sour-faced Citybus speedster either brought me closer to home or closer to God.

Before I knew it the accordion-doors were closing and the bus was shooting off without me or the old ladies on board. As it turned out the grannies had clocked the number ‘8’ bus a mile up the road and were giving their old bones a head start before it flew past as well.

Next time I’ll just elbow them out the way.

… later that day, when I’d eventually met up with Lucy, she said I’d probably have seen the funny side if it wasn’t for the misery-inducing cavity.

Secret agents might laugh in the face of danger, but it’s hard to laugh with toothache.

In Defense of Letter Writing

Does anyone still email?

I don’t mean those poor buggers who work in veal-fattening pens – otherwise known as office cubicles (thank you, Douglas Coupland) – and send emails related to work; I’m talking about personal, friendly correspondence.

The Facebook has taken over this function. And if one was prone to punching out a one-line, four-word “So how’s it going?” email, an FB message would be even shorter. Along the lines of “Howzit, china?” if you’re of the South African persuasion.

I know it’s a bit pathetic that my heart is warmed when, upon opening my inbox, I see an email from my mum. So you can only imagine the Lepidoptera-storm in my stomach when through the letterbox falls an actual, handwritten letter from the same dear mother-of-mine.

I’m sad like that.

An uncle used to always give Greg and me writing paper for Christmas. It would usually have a character along the lines of Garfield or He-Man in the bottom right corner, and the same image on the envelope.

A bit of a crap present when you’re seven or eight, and possibly more than a mite contrived. I think we used the paper to write him a thank-you note and never again.

We knew that next Xmas we’d get more so we never saved it.

Maybe it made an impression, though, because these days I love writing letters. Well, it’s not really the writing I love, but the thought of someone expecting the usual bills and pizza delivery menus in their letterbox only to find an actual, handwritten letter.

Sure, my hand aches and cramps up slightly. But at least it’s for a more noble reason than it was when I was sixteen.

I don’t think what’s in the letter is important. It doesn’t have to be well-written or exciting, but to think that someone took the time to sit down and carefully write something out just for you – that is worth more than a hundred emails and a million text messages.

It’s a hint that you’re getting old when you reminisce about how things are a-changing and moan about them, so I’m not going to moan but rather try to encourage even just one person to write a letter to someone they know.

Even if it’s your wife and you’re sending it to the house you both live in – nothing is more romantic than a love letter from the person who’s crumpled face you see on the pillow next to you every morning.

One of the greatest things you can do is make someone feel special and loved. Another is to inspire someone. Sending a letter is an easy way to make someone feel special. And, who knows, you might just inspire them to do the same.

More Than One Way To Feed A Cat

I stir my tea and stare out the window at the pouring rain. I notice, at the bottom of the garden, Rodney sits looking forlorn and miserable.

About half an hour ago, the moment I kick-started the gigantic yellow Dyson vacuum cleaner in the front room, he darted his furry ginger backside out the back door to his favourite spot just below a bird’s nest. Now, too scared to venture back inside, he has gone from fat and fluffy to soaked and scrawny.

I step over the puddles to stand on the edge of the lawn and call his name, “Rodney… Rodney…”

His eyes – great big saucers of ennui – blink twice.

Not wanting to squelch across the muddy grass, I bring out the secret weapon. I crouch down and in that voice reserved for cats shout, “Fish!”

Quicker than Jabba the Hut to the annual Empire Christmas party buffet table, Rodney bolts across the lawn, past me, and in front of his food bowl. Of course I have no fish to give him, but I put some cat food in his bowl, open and close the microwave door, and he doesn’t know the difference.

The reason Rodney probably can’t tell if I’ve given him fish or not is because he scoffs his food so quickly that I’m certain it never touches his tongue. It’s not eating, really, but inhalation.

If ever there was a being that just ate, slept and shat – it is Rodney.

In the wee hours of the morning Rodney will be at the bottom of the stairs squawking. He won’t let up until someone stumbles down the stairs and puts some food in his bowl; or, if there is food there already, pushes it from the sides into the middle.

A few hours later he will be making desperate noises – looking from his food bowl to you to his food bowl – until he is fed yet again. His flat face and bad sinuses make his puling sound like the last gasps of some pathetic dying thing, and are impossible to ignore.

If one were so inclined, a conveyer belt could be designed with a small cat-mouth-size funnel at the end that poured ‘Felix with Beef & Jelly!’ down his gob. In all likelihood the contraption would break down before old fatguts was satisfied.

But I can’t get mad at him or feel any kind of contempt for such greediness.

When a snorting, burping lump like Rodney has licked his lips and then deposited a turd the size and shape of a baby seal into his litter tray, all he has to do is aim his sorrow-filled eyes at yours, meow in that whispering way so you swear he’s trying to form the word “Help”, and gently paw at your knee.

Then you let him climb onto your lap, and hope you can get to the next commercial break before he needs feeding again.

Christmas with Batman

As I chew on my miniature tree-shaped cooking-chocolate from the fifth window of my advent calendar I have to ask myself, “So just what does Captain America have to do with Christmas, anyway?”

Is it maybe because Santa – or at least the image of Father Christmas we have today – was apparently invented by the American Coca-Cola Company?

Or possibly because the Jolly Fat Man’s red and white suit, combined with the blue of his freezing cold Northern Polish skin colour, is the same as the Yankee flag?

Or is it, as so many of those unhappy Occupy Wall Street campers would no doubt rant, because Christmas and all it stands for has been hijacked by the heinous marketing department henchman working for the bastard capitalist bosses?

I don’t care, really, but is it too much to ask for an actual yuletide-themed advent calendar?

Unless you’re willing to pay top-Pound for one punted as ‘traditional’ and ‘authentic’ and therefore an extra three quid or such, the answer is ‘no’ and you’ll have to be happy with Batman or Barbie or Snoop Dogg.

At the end of the day, though, the chocolate is pretty much the same cheap processed muck regardless of the picture on the front, but I’m not unhappy with that. Another Marvel-inspired ad-cal I had the displeasure of purchasing a few years back was NOT filled with elf-turds, but rather disgusting chewy gummy-type things.

Very disappointing!

But maybe comic book campness is appropriate after all, as I had to perform numerous death-defying heroics just to get the absurdly massive Christmas tree down from the loft. If I’d known it was going to be such a business I’d have dressed in spandex and got Lucy to film and post it on Yoohoo-Tube.

Wobbly ladder + (tumble-down-stairs/broken bannister) x 1 000 000 hits = a season to remember!

To add to the effect I’d have my mum-in-law at the foot of the stairs, splinters of wood raining down, mad as hell and looking like the Red Skull.

In the next few weeks I’ve got to brave it all again to retrieve the Santa outfit, so with the right planning I’ll get my shot at fleeting glory yet.

I’m not sure what’ll be more challenging: trying to find said suit in the overstuffed loft, or attempting to convince my niece and nephew that Father Christmas smells of biltong and says “howzit” and “just now” in a funny accent.

Mild-mannered blogger by night! Fat, drunk, laughing man with a sack full of half-price puzzles and board games by day!

And next year they can put my face on a calendar.

Hypochondriaphobia

It’s all Health & Safety’s fault!

My mum-in-law has a bad cold. She’s sneezing and coughing… and touching things! Wherever her hands go they leave blue stains.

On every cup of tea. On the door handles. All over the cat’s fur as she pats him on the head.

At first I think she’s had a bum pen and it’s leaked ink all over her hands. I ask Lucy if she’s not worried about the ink on her favourite blouse.

My wife pops the cap on my pill bottle. Apparently, it’s only me who can see the infection being plastered all over the show.

You see, starting a new job ‘n all (and being just another Third World immigrant) it was necessary for me to watch the standard Health & Safety dvd teaching me how to wash my hands and informing me that things like rubber bands and product packaging should not be cooked along with the veg.

To send the message home, they get some guy to touch a pair of pork chops and then a lettuce head, and then shine a UV light onto all of it to show you where all the germs have spread.

I watched the movie, signed the form, and discussed my favourite bits with colleagues.

I didn’t expect, one week later, to be seeing Smurf-cum everywhere.

I know it’s all in my head. And I know that, to be washing my hands every ten minutes, is maybe a bit OCD and maybe a bit hypochondriacal. But I’m not scared of getting sick as much as I’m afraid of being afraid of getting sick.

In school some of my classmates often accused me of being “hypo-active”. I knew what they meant and never corrected them because, well, I figured I read more books in a year than they probably would their entire lives. The problem with being surrounded by idiots is they don’t know they’re idiots… and they all stick together.

The thing is, I never really did think I was sick. I just hated school so much I’d pretend to be ill to get some time off.

But now, thanks to Health & Safety, there is a part of my brain that IS turning me into a hypochondriac! And if thinking you’re sick all the time is hypochondria, what’s the word for thinking you’re being a hypochondriac?

And if Frankie Roosevelt is right and “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself” then I’m more frightened than ever!

And it’s all Health & Safety’s fault.

A S'Efrican's Culture Surprise

After a while you stop noticing the accents… and then you realise that you’re the one with the funny accent when a punter at the place you work smiles in that awkward way because they didn’t understand a word you just said but are politely humouring you.

Another barfly, after arguing vehemently that England have a better Rugby World Cup track record, change from aggravated to jolly when they realise that you’re actually not from New Zealand but South Africa.

Then they ask if you’re a “kaffir lover”.

You frown and tell them (as though you’re talking to a naughty child) how derogatory that word is, and about how much the Apartheid government fucked up your country, and most of the time they apologise or at least look incredibly sheepish.

I don’t think it’s a racist thing when they say it. Or at least not in any vindictive, aggressive way. It’s more like them trying to find some kind of connection. I can only imagine – because of the terrible attempt at an Afrikaans accent – that they watched Lethal Weapon 2 a few too many times and it’s all they really know about us.

What I’ve learned about people is that no matter how good they’ve got it they’ll find something to moan about. If it’s not the weather or the busses, it’s (believe it or not, fellow Saffers) taxi drivers.

Like the “poverty stricken” rioters in London (who organised their hijinks via Blackberry!!!) people just don’t know how great they’ve got it. It’s all well and good to show starving African orphans on a tellybox Oxfam ad, but unless you’ve seen dishevelled streetkids and landmine-crippled beggars firsthand I don’t think you can appreciate the luck you’ve been saddled with.

For me Plymouth seems like Cape Town in the Winter, but minus not only the crime but also the underlying aggression that seems to sit just beneath the surface of everyone’s consciousness.

Of course, it’s only a bit wet and windy now (much milder than good ‘ol CT) and I’m sure when Winter really gets going I’ll eventually get annoyed with the kids in the park throwing snowballs at me when I’m walking the cat.

But up until then, it’s been less of a culture shock and more of a… well, let’s call it a pleasant ‘culture surprise’.

No More Stormers

I’ve always felt lucky that, by pure accident of birth, I’ve had decent sport’s teams to support. Western Province and Stormers rugby. Cape Cobras cricket.

Even Cape Town Ajax is quite good – not that I really follow football, but anyway.

It’s always seemed bizarre to me when people from South Africa stoically support a team like Chelsea or Manchester United; and even more bizarre when someone from the UK supports a team from another city or county.

I could never support the Sharks, because I wasn’t born in Durban. And now residing in Plymouth I feel if I’m to follow any team it’d have to be a one from my newly adopted city.

Doing a bit of research on the Plymouth Albion rugby website in a stopover at Abu Dhabi, I read that their weekend home game was played to “a crowd of almost 3000 people” – smaller in scale than, say, Newlands rugby ground that often hosts around fifty thousand fans.

And it appears they’re not so hot when it comes to the game either, being third from the bottom of the Championship log the last time I checked. Although this was possibly because two of their players had been away playing for the Canadian squad sent to the World Cup.

If I were so inclined I could imagine myself as the newest member of this team. And I might be convinced to firmly believe that it’s not just tries and penalties that win rugby games, but screaming and shouting and flag waving too.

If not, I could at least believe that the more bums on stadium seats means more money to buy (or rent, really) better players, thereby improving performance.

It was a bit of a culture shock when I posited to Lucy that maybe we could pop down to our local and watch the next Albion game on the tellybox. She smiled warmly at my naïveté and said, “They don’t televise Albion matches.”

In South Africa they put even schoolboy games on Supersport.

So it seems I’ll have to burst my comfort bubble and venture into the wild. Go there, do that, get the t-shirt.

But with a Plymouth Albion jersey at a whopping fifty quid I’ll just have to make do with reports in the Herald.

Endorphinatics

Breakfast choices aren’t tough when the options are All Bran Flakes, Honey Nut Cornflakes, and Crunchy Cookie Crisp Cereal, but it does cause some mild cognitive dissonance.

You see, whenever I hear the word ‘bran’ I can’t help thinking of an old lady’s toenails, and I couldn’t bring myself to eat fancy Cornflakes unless I was wearing a tie and rushing off to a board meeting – it just seems like too much of a responsible choice.

So it’s the one with the purple-nosed cartoonwolf on the front and spot-the-difference on the back.

Even if the box does boast ‘Whole Grain Guaranteed’ and ‘ With Added Vitamins’, I know a cereal made to look like little chocolate chip cookies that tastes like a bowl of refined white sugar can’t be good for me. And I’m fine with that, I just wish Chip the Wolf wouldn’t keep trying to tell me what a healthy start I’m getting.

Because I’ve been down that road, and it can only end in sorrow.

FROM THE JAWS OF TRAGEDY
According to Patrick Holford, who even Jesus would call a goody-goody, you should only eat fruit and Jungle Oats for breakfast otherwise you might be dead by Thursday. Reading his weighty tome, The Optimum Nutrition Bible, scared me so much I once stopped drinking milk and ran down the street screaming if anyone even mentioned white bread or deep-fried chips.

For a year I survived on water, green tea, low GI sawdust and anxiety. Not a drop of alcohol passed my lips and I gave smokers that look I was so used to getting from reborn Christians.

And I’ll admit I felt better than I ever had.

I used to think that sluggish mornings and mood swings and near-suicidal depression was just the way it felt to be alive. I got my arse to the gym, joined yoga classes, and started worshipping at the altar of fat-free me.

And inevitably, like any newborn religious-type person, I became incredibly judgemental of everyone else.

At the supermarket I’d look in other people’s trolleys and shake my head, tutting loudly. I watched barroom drunks and wondered if they knew the long-term repercussions of all that salt they consumed with tequila.

Soon enough I was climbing into bed at nine on a Friday so I could be up early enough to beat the crowds to the Virgin Active step machine, ordering a burger with no bun and salad instead of chips if I felt ‘naughty’, and telling people that an apple would wake you up in the morning faster than a cup of coffee.

I became the guy you didn’t invite to a Saturday braai because my non-drinking made drinkers feel uncomfortable. I cut the fat off lamb chops and brought no-mayo potato salad.

But I didn’t care about losing friends. I was an endorphin addict; a feel good junkie. And like all junkies the only thing I could think of was my next high.

Then I was waking up at 4am so I could get a run in before gym before work. On my lunch break I’d sneak off to the bathroom to do meditative breathing exercises. I’d always offer to make the tea so I could sneak in a bag of rooibos chai without anyone knowing.

If it wasn’t for the intervention I don’t know where I’d be today.

I arrived home to find my family and close friends in the front room. My secret stash of Ryvita and unsalted cashews piled embarrassingly on the coffee table next to multivitamins and a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo dvd.

I was ashamed.

With teary consent I allowed them to lock me in a dark room, away from any access to filtered water and fat-free cottage cheese. Working in shifts they sat with me through sleepless nights when all I wanted was just one push-up, and held my hand as, trembling, I took my first bite of a KFC Zinger.

ONE DAY AT A TIME
Now I’m back on track. Taking it one day at a time. I’ll often see someone with a yoga mat under their arm buying rice cakes and want to stop them, tell them that they’re making a big mistake.

It’s not worth it, I’d plead, you’ll only hurt the ones you love.

You might think you’re in control, I’d say, but that exercise bike is riding you.

End of Part One

The last thing you think, on the eve of immigration, as you stare down at your exactly 23kg stuffed suitcase is: Have I packed enough socks?

Of course, the first thing any Capetonian asks upon hearing of your imminent flight is, “You’re not stopping in Joburg, are you?” As their lips form these words a look of absolute angst will cross their face and their next sentence is always, “Because then you can kiss your luggage goodbye.”

It seems to be the one thing we all have in common, because if you believe Julius Malema then “all whites are criminals” for pinching the property long ago, and if you ask any Constantia housewife she’ll tell you that “THEY all steal!” with such certainty because she once secretly looked in her domestic worker’s coat pockets and saw some if the Lipton rooibos teabags saved especially for guests.

Whenever I hear the term ‘they’ in a South African context I can’t help but raise my eyebrows and ask, “But what would the Illuminati want with your teabags?”

After telling this same housewife you’re moving to the UK they then ask probably the most used travel cliché in South Africa, “But what about the cold weather?”

“Well,” I always reply, “it’d be nice to have something to complain about other than crime, government corruption, and the lack of Burger King.” I told Lucy if she ever hears me moan about the weather to just ask me who Julius Malema is.

In short, there’s more to life than the weather.

But after packing and repacking and weighing our luggage for the umpteenth time it looks like everything’s fine. Today, our last day in South Africa, we’re just pottering around the house, stuffing some sentimental nick-nacks in our carry-ons.

Last Wednesday my mum, brother and I buried my father’s ashes beneath a tree at Rhodes Memorial my mum and him used to picnic under. Mum said it was fitting that, after holding on selfishly to his remains for six years, we buried them just before I left.

It gave us all a magnificent feeling of closure, as well as wet faces, and mum remarked that it was such an exciting new chapter in my life. It all felt like the end of a movie, and in my mind it was less the beginning of a new chapter and more like a sequel.

But unlike most sequels, this one is bound to be as good as the original.

Boobs on the Boob-Tube

Television in the late Noughties and early, what?,Teenies, is starting to remind me of what movies were like in the Eighties.

Not because all the fading Nineties movie stars are rebirthing their careers in shows like CSI and Law & Order, but because so many tv shows feel that a story can’t be told unless a horde of nameless, forgettable actresses get their baps out.

It seems that the evolution of storytelling will eventually end in a channel-surf with wave after wave of porn and some news and cartoons in between. I expect to be washed ashore confused by Cow & Chicken, depressed by Third World corruption, and sporting a massive erection.

But it’s not just an oversaturation of Bristol Cities that stirs our loins, we need exploding heads and severed limbs too. As though producers can’t decide if we’re more aroused by a naked lady engaging in carnal conduct, or slow-motion headbutts and multi-angle roundhouse kicks.

Personally, I blame Sex & the City. Those girls made it okay to show boobs on the boob-tube, coz if it’s good for the feminists then it’s good for the chauvinists.

Not for me, though, because I’ve always believed that the concepts of sex and Sarah Jessica Parker should never be paired.

Too skinny for my taste.

In many ways television is now better than the Big Screen. At least the popcorn’s cheaper, and if you need a cup of tea or a leak there is the handy commercial break. But that’s all the ads are good for and really I prefer buying the box set and viewing and entire season in one rainy weekend.

These days all I have to worry about is strategic product placement, and if that was working I’d be driving an Aston Martin and drinking vodka martinis. So good to be able to hide my under-achieving behind a faux Zen-like contempt for material possessions.

In truth, though, I don’t really mind being tricked into buying useless luxuries, I just find the constant interruption annoying. I’d rather they put the ads into subtle, subliminal flashes.

That way they could market the BMWs behind the boobies, and the face packs after the face punches.

Kindle & 3D Books

Whenever there’s a breakthrough along the lines of Kindle or some other form of books on ‘puter a massive cry about the death of print publishing chimes like an annoying Nokia ringtone.

And it always makes me wonder if the end of paperbacks will spell the end of the world, mainly because of an article I read positing that the only people planting hectares of trees these days are paper companies.

No more need for paper means all that land will be sold for condos or shopping malls.

Possibly a bit far-fetched and merely the wailings of hysterical luddites? I suppose we’ll only know when we’re gasping for oxygen while reading an online eco-novel that’s not much more than a long-winded ‘I told you so’.

The only problem I have with bookstores closing down and getting all my reading emailed is how I’m going to impress guests without a pretentious bookshelf lined with literature I’ll probably never read.

Less honest book-lovers will bore you with opinions on the smell and feel of a book, the sound a page makes as you turn it, and the high cost of replacing an e-reader when it drops in the bathwater.

Something that turned me off about Kindle and its ilk was a report of publishers releasing ‘3D books’. For instance a novel about the Vietnam War would have paragraphs in which the sounds of gunfire and grenades would play, much the same as if you were reading it in the thick of battle, or on a taxi ride in downtown Johannesburg.

I thought I’d try a 3D novel out before dismissing it entirely, and while reading Moby Dickin bedplayed one of those hippy whale noise CDs and asked my wife to shoot a water pistol in my face.

Needless to say, the only person having fun was Lucy.

And then I imagined online libraries. It would definitely be more convenient, and there’d be no chance of an old woman hissing “Shhhhhhh!” when I giggled at the naughty bits in a Jilly Cooper novel.

The downside would be no more sexy librarian scenario in pornographic movies.

Personally, I need books to be stay offline for a bit longer. If only so I’ve got a few joke- and useless trivia books to stack on top of the toilet cistern.

Verbal Constipation

Every writer,at least once a lifetime, will in absolute desperation resort to writing about writers’ block; as though the act of writing in itself will serve as a laxative to their verbal constipation.

And believe me, it does feel like constipation.

You wake up in the morning with the desire to fill a page with words. But after all the rituals have been performed – coffee, cigarette, music – nothing comes out. You push and push, grit your teeth through the pain, but nothing is produced except turgid air.

The stench is unbearable. It is deleted and you push some more. Still to no avail.

In the grips of a bad block a writer will feel worthless and deluded. As though they have nothing to say and were foolish to ever believe they did.Your dream is revealed to you as childish and all this invested time a waste. Your life is a sham and you are pathetic.

Because you are a writer the melodrama comes naturally.

There are a few remedies the constipated writer might try – a walk in the park, drinks with a friend, failed suicide – but sometimes these things just don’t work and the writer realises he must figure out the cause of the block.

This is usually anxiety that manifests as an obstacle. It stands in your way, grinning malevolently, and no matter how hard you try to punch it in the face or kick it the groin it just doesn’t go down.

Its legs are rooted, you see, and the only way to topple this monster and step over it is to dig deep and find these roots – once they are found you can pull them out.

The Wild Wild West(ern Cape)

Like a loaded spring, tightly coiled and then released, his Texan drawl looped and corkscrewed and the words rolled off his tongue like a Slinky down some stairs, “Damn, it’s like the Wild West out there!”

If I closed my eyes I could’ve imagined he tipped his Stetson, placed a hand on a shining belt buckle, and maybe rolled a matchstick around his teeth… but he didn’t.

This American tourist – bright shirt, too-short shorts, those spectacles with flip-up sunglass shades – was talking about our roads.

Not the dirt or concrete, the litter or pigeon corpses, but the way we South Africans bully and barge our vehicles along and across the skinny lanes of our highways and byways.

He’d just driven to and from Simonstown and was now back in Long Street telling of the terror that is driving in the Western Cape.

THIS TOWN AIN’T BIG ENOUGH FOR THE BOTH OF US
I slowly press my foot down on the accelerator. It’s been half an hour since I got out of first gear. A police siren makes me move over to let the big truck packed with awaiting trial prisoners through. As I try to move back I slam my brakes as a red BMW recklessly swerves into my lane, the front of the car barely filling the gap and bullying its way ahead of me. I don’t hoot or make a fuss because, well, this is how it goes.

First came road rage – a selfish act or illegal manoeuvre would cause outrage. We would sit on our horns and scream expletives from the window. When we realised the driver in front couldn’t hear us we’d resort to our limited knowledge of sign language to get the message of our unhappiness across.

Then came apathy – we turfed this in the big box of ‘Things We Can’t Do Anything About So Why Bother’. Drivers balanced their right to indignation with the energy it consumed and decided to save the energy.

Finally we adopted the proverb, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”, and sucked on the scabby sore to be infected with the disease of inconsiderate driving. No longer would we be muggins waiting in the queue at the turn-off; we’d just drive in the parallel lane and cut in at the front like so many others.

We took what we hated and made it a part of us.

…BUT I DIDN’T SHOOT THE DEPUTY!
Columnist Chris Roper pinpoints it perfectly when he writes that the attitude of South Africans is: It’s only a crime if someone else is doing it. We all still tut when a taxi drives in the yellow lines, stops on a red line, and cuts through traffic like a hot spur through churned cream.

But slowly it’s getting to the point where we will all do these things. It’s not quite there yet, but at the rate we’re all starting to ignore the rules of the road and the rights of other perambulators it’s only a few years off.

Instead of following any shining examples that might be out there, we have decided to instead emulate the attitudes of the worst examples.

THE WILD WILD WEST(ERN CAPE)
We might as well have John Wayne and Clint Eastwood operating public transport.

Taxi drivers are the modern day cowboys as they tear through the streets like bandits escaping the cavalry, and so often are involved in turf wars that end in a shoot-out injuring more innocent bystanders than the grunting gunslingers.

I remember a firefight in the Nineties between two taxi factions outside Claremont train station that quickly became known as “Gunfight at the OK Bazaar” – at the OK Corral they kept livestock, but at the OK Bazaar you’ll only find jackets and shoes made from livestock.

What we need is a sheriff. Maybe if we did away with all the fat, incompetent policemen and replaced them with one fearless, trigger happy vaquero he (or she) could round up these rabble-rousers and lock them up for good.

Personally, however, I’m not in favour of public lynching.

Or maybe the best thing would be for all of us to just obey the rules of the road and be thoughtful of others – stop talking on our cell phones while cutting people off, start using our indicators and stop racing to block the auto indicating into our lane, possibly let someone into traffic once in a while.

If we do this we’ll soon discover that the simple act of being nice makes us feel good. And we can save on big belt buckles and expensive shitkickers.

A Bad Case of Bookworms!

As I write this my wife is sprawled on a deckchair outside in the sun reading Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen.

I turn to look at her in a cute red bikini and the pair of pink sunglasses she bought on our honeymoon and my heart fills with pride. Not because I’m sure she is one of the most beautiful women of her generation, but because I’ve always found Austen to be such hard work.

I wonder if admiration is the right word if she’s having fun. The same novel was a setwork for my first year Varsity English, and I have to admit that about sixty pages in I stopped reading when I realised I had no idea what was going on.

Of course, I ended up watching the BBC movie in order to pass the exam.

So many people have told me they haven’t read one book since they left school; and there is always an odd note of pride when they say this, which I find peculiar.

Maybe it’s because the books I remember reading in school were either laboriously boring or way above our young heads.

In standard five, for instance, I remember the class being dragged through Hemingway’s ‘The Old Man and the Sea’. Timeless classic it may be, but for a bunch of fourteen year olds it’s just a book about a geezer on a boat.

I also could never understand why the teacher would make every student read aloud. Up and down the desks we went, each having to follow as a classmate droned in tedious monotone with no respect for punctuation or pace.

In effect, I think school can kill any desire a young mind has for reading, and does more to promote the belief that books are boring. What we need is not for our educators to stuff classics down our throats, but for them to nurture a love of prose so that we eventually find our way to respectable literature.

As parents we also have a duty towards our children. My mum might have dashed my hopes when I dumped Castle Grayskull in the shopping trolley, but a request for a book was never refused.

My sentimental mum a while back dug out a massive packing box she’d kept for over twenty-five years full of books from my childhood. Every ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ and Roald Dahl was there, as well as a few Beano annuals, and a collection of shorter works dubiously entitled ‘The Gay Way Series’.

But that was back when ‘gay’ meant ‘happy’ and the books did not in any way promote good dress sense or espouse the merits of Abba. And they should make us happy, not make us wish the bell would ring so we could run around throwing a tennis ball at our peers.

I can only thank mum and dad for not skimping on the books. It is the reason I am never bored on the train, in a queue, and it is the reason I’m sitting here writing – books are an inspiration.

Maybe when Lucy’s finished that intimidating Jane Austen I’ll have a go.

Nothing Better Than A Broken Heart

Our first love arrives like a caped superhero exploding through a glass ceiling, landing with a boom in the pit of our stomach. This masked mystery embodies all the clichés we have come to accept – it lets us fly, gives us Herculean strength and a shield of invulnerability.

Like a geek in a Batman movie, we are all nervous excitement and idiotic grin.

But then the hero becomes the villain and we are left broken and bruised; a bloodied heap on the floor, mere moments away from death. You feel as though you were tricked, deceived and fooled – and how it sucks to be a sucker.

The pain of that first lost love is so pure we truly believe we will never get over it. We believe the rest of our lives will be spent in a dark room with the curtains closed – maybe a sad Cure version of the Superman theme playing in the background.

LOVE’S SCAB
Some of us throw our hearts on the highway a few more times. We hope the trucks and taxis will miss it, but more often than not it ends up burst and in the dirty gutter – maybe a tyre track, tin can or tossed away fag-end making it almost unrecognisable.

It looks up at us and whimpers for help, but we pretend we can’t see it and carry on walking.

We are conditioned to give a little less of ourselves the next time around. We clothe ourselves in a suit of armour. We wear that armour for so long a scab grows between it and our soul.

We allow that scab to set, and the shell becomes a second skin that we believe to be our true appearance.

THE LUCKY DENT
Then a stranger rides into town.

This person promptly kicks down the saloon doors and starts shooting the place up. Tables are upheaved, glasses smashed, and even the piano guy runs for cover.

But you just stand there in your shiny pants and metal vest. This armour has lasted so long you’ve gone from medieval England to the Wild West in it – odd that no one noticed.

But then you flinch when a bullet doesn’t ricochet. Oh yes, it gets through and punctures a piece of wobbly flesh and you’re momentarily stunned.

If you’re a coward you’ll run, find a blacksmith and fix that suit up. And never again cross paths with the wily stranger popping off armour-piercing rounds into your jaundiced belly.

But if you have an ounce of courage you’ll stand tall and let the bullets shoot through you. You’ll grow a pair of metaphorical cobblers and let the best thing that could ever happen, happen.

PLANKING IS FOR PUSSIES
Extreme sports are for people not brave enough to love.

Sounds cheesy, I know, but the most dangerous thing you’ll ever do is to love someone openly and let the chips fall where they may.

“The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open,” Chuck Palahniuk writes in the sex addiction novel, ‘Choke’, and the happiest person in the world would at some stage need to have been the most miserable.

All that separates us from the other animals is our ability to fight against our instincts. We need to harden our resolve and pick up that hot coal again and again. We need to step over the pain and risk even more.

Those with courage will learn from past disaster, not merely react to it. They will let themselves again and again be swept away, run over, and shot through the heart – and one day they will get back much more than they have lost.

Ignore the Smell of Cheese

Like all young boys in the act of purchasing contraceptive thingies for the first time, I was acutely embarrassed.

Mingling in the shop a while, I picked up a pack of Niknaks crisps, a chocolate bar and a litre of milk. Joining the back of the queue and then leaving it when an old lady got behind me.

Eventually, when the store was deserted again, I attempted to casually rush to the counter.

As the lady rang up my items I looked over her shoulder and asked for a pack of Peter Stuyvesant Filter, a box of matches… and a 3-pack of Rough Riders, please – which I immediately hid underneath the cheese-flavoured Niknaks when yet another elderly lady walked in and stood behind me.

It was New Year’s Eve, 1991, and I was fourteen.

Before you get any ideas, the condoms weren’t for me but an older friend who imagined he was getting lucky that night. To spare his own embarrassment I’d agreed to make the purchase for him.

A few years later, when the opportunity of getting jiggy with a lady was at least a possibility in my universe, I felt the same nervous guilt when sliding a pack of ‘Wet ‘n Wild’ across the counter – always attempting to hide it amongst some other unnecessary items in case God saw and ejected a bolt of lightning from his index finger through the top of my head.

Well, not really, as I’ve never believed in a stuffy, fundamentalist God. If anything, it was probably because I imagined the till jockey would take one look at awkward me and think, “Who’d have sex with you?”

Only later in life did I come to the realisation that if the cashier was a woman she should commend me for being safe and respecting the other party’s right not to suffer a surprise pregnancy; and if the shop assistant was a guy he should give me a thumbs up as if to say, “Right on, brother.”

My brother’s art teacher must have known this and had the right idea when every Friday he’d put a big jar of Family Planning condoms out so the boys could be safe over the weekend without the mortification of actually having to ask for them.

Another friend of mine’s dad always kept the house well stocked with what he called “dong-bags”; however, I’m not sure if they were for the use of his son or rather for the couple to make sure they didn’t have another naughty little shit.

I suppose some parents might think that keeping one’s children in a steady supply of rubber sheaths would amount to encouraging promiscuity, but I’m also pretty sure those same parents would be too conservative to have that much-dreaded ‘sex talk’ with said offspring.

Sex was taboo for so long, and now with AIDS and all that keeping oneself protected has needed to come out in the open. Maybe if society just agreed that it’s the one thing we all have in common it would make it easier to talk about it. And it would certainly make it easier for the poor, clammy-palmed teenager on the other side of the counter.

The only foreseeable problem would be a downturn in the sales of Niknaks.

SA's Shameful Response to the UK Riots

I have to admit being a bit ashamed, over the past week, to be a South African. For a change this has nothing to do with anything Julius Malema has said, but rather with a seemingly large section of the general population.

It appears that so many of us are taking the time to write letters to our newspapers to express our unbridled glee at the rioters tearing through London.

Ines Schumacher from Johannesburg writes to the Mail & Guardian asking: “How dangerous is the country?”

“…rioting appears to be commonplace,” Schumacher believes, “… each day a dozen people are admitted to hospital… buildings are burning down left, right and centre…”

The tone of this correspondence isn’t hysterical, merely spiteful.

What disturbed and perturbed me was Schumacher then remarks that because of Britain’s pre-Fifa reports on how dangerous South Africa was “what’s the harm in poking a bit of fun at them now?”

What’s the harm in “poking fun” at violence and bloodshed? Must have been high times in the Schumacher household when Anders Behring Breivik blew away dozens of youngsters in Norway, or maybe in 2008 the family spent a weekend in Alexandra to watch our own people necklacing foreigners.

The letter is glib and insensitive and petty, and I must admit that Schumacher’s attempts at humour were lost on me.

Similarly, in the Cape Argus SMS column, readers spewed nothing but clichéd vitriol: “…how the chickens come home to roost…”, “…the grass is not greener on the other side…”; and my personal favourite: “…it looks like they may taste their own medicine…”

The writers seemed to be educated, if not eloquent, at least to the most average standards acceptable, and yet they were actively encouraging our media to childishly ‘get back’ at the UK media.

They want our journos to write about how dangerous it is to visit Britain, and question their ability to hold next year’s Olympics.

I might be wrong, but I doubt that the holders of these sentiments live in houses without thick burglar bars, electric fences or 24-hour Armed Response protection. Funny, because that’s how the majority of Brits live.

In fact, it’s embarrassing that an English community’s response to the killing of a member of that community is pretty much the equivalent of a normal South African council workers’ wage dispute – shops are destroyed and robbed and people are hurt.

The difference is that this happens at least once a month in South Africa as opposed to once in a blue moon in the United Kingdom. And in the UK over a thousand people are arrested because of it compared to the handful of arrests in good ol’ SA.

I imagined that South Africans, because of our violent past and violent present, would have shown some empathy towards those affected by this disorder, but instead all we can show is a ‘tit-for-tat’ mentality and gross insensitivity.

The Fury of Fish Hoek!

Sometimes things are so bizarre it takes a while to gather a reaction.

Walking down Main Road in Fish Hoek, an old guy comes from behind and bashes past me. I comment on it and he turns his head and says angrily, “You bumped into me!”

Dressed in a purple tracksuit and Elvis Presley sunglasses, he was an amusing sight. But what made it more amusing was when, while scowling at us, he walked into a post box.

We couldn’t help feeling as bit sorry for him after that.

Also in Fish Hoek, my jalopy stopped in the road waiting to turn right, a car pulls up next to us and a guy rudely shouts through the passenger window, “It’s illegal to turn across a solid line!”

Even if I was making an illegal turn – which I wasn’t – it’s not like South Africans follow the rules of the road anyway.

“Apparently,” Lucy says, “drinking seawater makes you mad.”

We were deliberating on the reasons behind the mental state of our new neighbours. I reckoned it was the high instance of retirees in the area, she supposed there was something in the water.

I don’t really believe my theory – there’s nothing to prove that getting old means getting grumpy. My gran is eighty-seven and lovely and charming and sweet. The fact is that if you’re young and grumpy then you’ll be old and grumpy; young + happy = old + happy.

As kids we believed there was a military base hidden in the mountains around Fish Hoek, so maybe an experiment leaked into the sea or reservoir and the water does make one surly.

Not as dramatic as a zombie holocaust but reality seldom is.

Or maybe it’s because Fish Hoek is so far away from Cape Town CBD – not so much physical distance as lifestyle – that people have just evolved differently.

Maybe all that free time for Sudoku, television, tea and rusks doesn’t make one more relaxed and laid back, but just annoyed that there are so many people having so much more fun than you.

My Cockney Education - Part I

Although most people from Joburg are likely to call you their ‘china’, not many of them know that that the term comes from the cockney slang, ‘china plate’, which translates to ‘mate’.

When my mother-in-law visited from England she often encouraged me to have a “butcher’s” at something or other; butcher’s – butcher’s hook – look.

Further investigation led me to watching the entire box-set of Only Fools and Horses, with the inimitable Delboy saying things like, “The old dog’s knackered!” and “You’ve got a right rash on your boat race!”

So now, for no reason other than it makes my wife laugh, I share my first rhyming slang lesson with you.

LESSON #1: DOWN THE PUB

“Let’s swing by the Battle for a Gary!”
Battle Cruiser – Boozer
Gary Glitter – Bitter

“I’ll get the drinks, you grab us a lion’s and we can have a bowler.”
Lion’s Lair – Chair
Bowler Hat - Chat

“I’ll have an Ari of Nelson…”
Nelson Mandela – Stella (Artois)
Aristotle – Bottle

“…and my fruit wants a Winona.”
Fruit Gum – Chum
Winona Ryder – Cider

“Ooh, have a butcher’s at the Bristols on that twist!”
Butcher’s Hook – Look
Bristol Cities – Titties
Twist and Twirl – girl

“Oi, that’s my bricks ‘n mortar!”
Bricks and Mortar – Daughter

“That guy with her looks a right doctor.”
Doctor Dre – Gay

“Nah, he’s a Julius.”
Julius Caesar – Geezer

“Just the one for me, the wife’s Pope and babbling a Ruby tonight.”
Pope in Rome – Home
Babbling Brook – Cook
Ruby Murray – Curry

“No worries, I’m off to the Rick for a gypsey’s.”
Rick Whitter – Shitter
Gypsey’s Kiss – Piss

“Great. You grab the Jack. I haven’t got a sausage.”
Jack and Jill – Bill
Sausage and Mash – Cash

That should be enough to get you started. Now, I’m off to the pub with the trouble.

Way of the Weekend Warrior

When Saturday comes round there always seems to be a surplus of faux Hell’s Angels – fully clad in leather jackets, potty helmets and chaps.

They cruise the highways in large groups, snarling at little children and giving the finger to old people. They'll tell you their name is Sammy Sawtooth or Ted the Decapitator. They'll get boozy and pinch waitress's bums.

These men (and their obligatory ‘old ladies’) are examples of the rather sad Weekend Warrior.

CHAPS IN CHAPS!
The guys on Harley hogs and Japanese superbikes are merely moonlighting.

From Monday to Friday they are mild mannered accountants and lawyers – but when the working week is over the banker becomes the bad-ass, and the dentist becomes the demon.

You can almost see them on a Saturday morning bringing the wife tea and a rusk in bed, and then sneaking off to the hidden room behind the decoupage workbench in the garage.

This room is their Batcave – containing a fake beard, leather-jacket-with-sleeveless-denim-jacket-on-top, and the complete Steven Seagal collection on Blu-Ray. They suit up solemnly and hit the streets… no doubt with a ZZ Top tune playing in their head.

SAD-O OR SUPERHERO?
We all know that Clark Kent’s milksop was the hardcore Superman. And playboy fop Bruce Wayne was really a cover for his nightly pursuits as Batman. So the only imaginable motivation for these sad-o’s would be a deeply buried desire to be a man of mystery.

That explains the denim over leather – didn’t the man of Steel and Dark Knight wear their undies on top of their trousers? And the fake beard would hide their visage in case they came across Betty from the marketing department.

I’m sure some of their colleagues from work join them on their weekend rampage, but these activities are kept hidden from the boringly average ‘citizens’.

The first rule of Superhero Bike Club is: you don’t talk about Superhero Bike Club.

YOU CAN DO IT TOO!
If you can’t afford a Harley, don’t be discouraged. We can all indulge in childhood fantasies.

I once met a guy who donned a top hat and tails and performed magic tricks in his spare time. A friend of mine knew a guy who dressed up in a ninja suit at night and climbed buildings. True fact.

The women of the Beaufort West Scrabble Society dropped their doilies when I thumped their champion with ‘xylophone’ on a Triple Word Score to win – little did they know that I was mentored by the most cutthroat and diabolical Scrabble player of the 20th Century: my mum.

We all hide secret lives – be they ninja surmounter, Scrabble hustler or hog rider – and these lives are the red cape beneath our dinner jacket... so please don't laugh.

How Sue Sylvester C's It!

Too many of my friends refuse to watch the telly show Glee because they fear that liking it might make them question their sexuality. My wife and I bang on about it so much someone remarked that we sound like freshly brainwashed Christians.

I’m not sure what it is about Glee – the singing, the slushies-in-the-face, but one thing that stands out is the heinous, Machiavellian monster that is Sue Sylvester.

So in an attempt to convert my too-macho-for-their-own-good mates, I’ve compiled fifteen of the most despicable Sue Sylvester quotes from the first season of Glee.

In her own words: “You are about to board the Sue Sylvester Express. Destination: Horror!”

1. “You know, for me, trophies are like herpes. You try to get rid of them, but they keep coming. You know why? Sue Sylvester has hourly flare-ups of burning, itchy, highly contagious talent.”

2. “I've never wanted kids... don't have the time, don't have the uterus.”

3. "You know what, I checked out of our conversation about a minute back, so good luck with your troubles, and I'm gonna make it a habit not to stop and talk to students because this has been a colossal waste of my time."

4. “You have all the sexuality of all those pandas down at the zoo who refuse to mate."

5. "I'm reasonably confident that you will be adding revenge to the long list of things you're no good at, right next to being married, running a high school glee club, and finding a hair style that doesn't make you look like a lesbian.”

6. “I thought I smelled cookies wafting from the ovens of the little elves who live in your hair.”

7. "I will go to the animal shelter and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat. And then on some dark cold night, I will steal away into your house and punch you in the face."

8. “Your delusions of persecution are a tell-tale sign of early stage paranoid schizophrenia.”

9. “I'm having a really difficult time hearing anything you have to say today because your hair looks like a briar patch. I keep expecting racist, animated Disney characters to pop up and start singing songs about living on the bayou.”

10. "Every time I try to destroy that clutch of scab-eating mouth-breathers, it only comes back stronger, like some sexually ambiguous horror villain."

11. “I am engorged with venom and triumph.”

12. "I, for one, think intimacy has no place in marriage. I walked in on my parents once and it was like seeing two walruses wrestling."

13. “Boy, the only thing missing from this place is a couple dozen bodies – limed and rotting in shallow graves under the floorboards.”

14. “Oh I will bring it, William. You know what else I'm gonna to bring? I'm gonna bring some Asian cookery to wipe your head with. Cause right now you've got enough product in your hair to season a wok.”

15. “Your resentment... is delicious.”

And that’s how Sue… C’s it!

Snort-A-Tan with Ubertan!

The one and only time I was offered cocaine elicited a personal rule that maybe more people should adopt.

My response to the question was, “The only thing I stick up my nose is my finger.”

It seems logical to me that of all the male body’s orifices, there are three that should be used solely for substance expulsion – one of them is the nasal cavity.

Maybe this fairly straightforward rule should be taught in biology classes throughout the UK, because the Daily Mail reports that “hordes of young women” have been buying and snorting Ubertan – “It’s estimated that British users number tens of thousands.”

Ubertan’s alleged side effects include nausea, allergic reactions and heart palpitations.

A Google search directed me to a non-existent ubertan.com and a forum where the substance is enthusiastically punted by a woman named Catherine saying it was “totally brill” and that the only side effects were a “loss of appetite”.

The fact is that this Catherine sounds less like a real person and more like the boiled slugs that roll around in dodgy marketing departments. She claims that Ubertan is “a plant extract, with Amino and Fatty Acids that increases the Melanin in your skin.”

On the same forum Scott Stevenson tells us, “This is almost definitely rebranded Melanotan II…Claims that it is simply made of 'plant extracts' are dubious at best.” He carries on about something I’d never heard of called Melanotan, which is another tanning product sold as a nasal spray.

Further investigation found this site that calls Melanotan ‘The Barbie Drug’ and reveals that the product has been having trouble gaining regulatory approval in Australia and the US, whose FDA said, “The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has issued a Warning Letter to Brian Manookian, owner of Melanocorp, Inc. in Hendersonville, Tenn. for the illegal sale and marketing of the product Melanotan II, which is not FDA-approved, on Melanocorp's Web site. FDA recommends that consumers who are currently using Melanotan II stop using this product and consult their health care provider if they have experienced any adverse events that they suspect are related to its use.”

Apparently, it is flat-out illegal in the UK.

The infamous Catherine gives her UK number (07542 287 148), so call her if you've had a bad day and want to hurl abuse at someone.

My advice is that if your hairdresser or beauty therapist offers this product to you, slap them across the face… and if you know someone who is using it slap them too.

And some more good advice: Don’t drink moisturiser!

South Africa Ready for the Undead!

Luckily, by the time the zombie apocalypse hots up, we’ll all be ordering off Amazon.

Our groceries will be delivered by armed men in armoured trucks, police will be on high alert and stop people randomly in the street to question them, and our homes will all be surrounded by high walls and electric fences.

Of course, the best place to live at the end of the world will be South Africa. If only because it won’t be such a lifestyle adjustment.

We all carry guns with us everywhere and live with thick bars on our windows. The roads are already absolute mayhem – with people staggering in the middle lane, groaning with their hands in front of them.

And Joburgers are already stopping at deserted petrol stations holding jerry cans like they do in Walking Dead and George Romero movies.

Plus, South Africans all have a natural suspicion of anyone they don’t know personally – so none of this eek-it’s-a-zombie! nonsense.

In all likelihood, the scourge of the undead will be the best thing that ever happened to SA.

Black and white will find that we’re not so different after all – at least we breathe air and turn our noses up at bloody chunks of human flesh – and we can unite at the polling stations to vote for more lax gun laws.

Of course, Julius Malema will blame the whole End of Days scenario on Helen Zille and the white racists in the DA… and Jacob Zuma will impregnate one.

I am Responsible for the Death of Amy Winehouse

Even though I’d want my kids to think it was the drugs that killed Amy Winehouse – and even though I’m sure they played a big part in her demise – I couldn’t in good conscience feel that I, and most of you out there, shouldn’t shoulder some of the blame as well.

It’s kind of like when Princess Diana died. Those that ‘loved’ her so much – and showed that ‘love’ by devouring all news and gossip about her life – were quick to blame the paparazzi, but conveniently let themselves off the hook.

Kind of like throwing a bucket of petrol on an open flame and then blaming the flame.

Sure, there were some who recognised the public’s responsibility in Diana’s death, and scowled at the readers of tabloid trash, but that realisation was quickly forgotten as we moved on to the next celeb to stalk.

Now take Amy Winehouse. The latest member of the morbid ’27 Club’ and a girl who, in the public’s eyes, could do little right. She was someone who shot to mega-stardom relatively quickly and frequently got shitfaced.

Because of her party lifestyle we were never short of photos and stories about her exploits. With seldom a good word to read about, and even though I’m sure a lot of celebs try to ignore all the shit being spread about them, it’s got to be hard to avoid it all of the time.

Now think of how horrible it feels to hear someone running you down – it doesn’t even have to be someone you know – and imagine yourself, after a bad day that’s left you feeling worthless, just wanting to get away from it all.

You might go to the movies to escape for an hour and a half. You might phone a friend and get together for a drink.

Or, if you have pretty much unlimited financial resources, you might decide, sod it, and go on a month-long drug and booze binge.

Or imagine fucking up – having an argument with your wife or being caught driving drunk (a common pastime in good ol’ SA) – and strangers thinking it was their ‘right’ to be told about it.

It would probably push you over the edge.

The tragedy that is the Amy Winehouse story is a case of an addictive personality placed under extreme stress and handed enough money to ruin themselves.

The personality is hereditary. The money earned. But the stress is our fault.

The most shameful thing that will happen in the coming week is how all the tabloids that wrote so much venomous vitriol about Ms Winehouse will be telling us how wonderful she was and how much we’ll all miss her.

And those of us who so ferociously gorged on the gossip will wipe our dripping chins and say, yes, we really loved her, what a tragedy.

I believe in free speech, but it is often shameful what we do with that freedom.

Robert Mugabe Joke Day

Talk about thin-skinned! A 52-year-old man in Zimbabwe has to stand trial for telling a joke about despotic prez Robert Mugabe, News24 reports.

So in solidarity with office clowns across Africa, I hereby declare today ‘Mad Bob Bad Joke Day’, and to kick it off here’s one my dad told me back when he still walked this bizarre mudball we call home (I mean Earth, not South Africa).

Poor Bob Mugabe dies and the bus drops him off, suitcases in hand, outside the Pearly Gates of Heaven. He steps through the Gates and when he approaches Saint Peter looks down the long guest list, “I’m sorry, Mr Mugabe, but your name’s not here.”

Peter picks up the phone and calls the front desk at Hell. He’s on that list, and Satan says he’ll send two demons to pick him up.

Bob arrives in Hell to a warm reception. “Mr Mugabe,” says an elated Lucifer, “we’ve got your room ready. Just grab your bags and follow me.”

But, oops, Bob’s gone and forgotten his suitcases.

“No worries,” says Lu, “I’ll send some cronies to get them.” He clicks his fingers and two little demons appear, “Go get Mr Mugabe’s bags, will you.”

The demons salute and rush off back to the Pearly Gates. But when they get there the Gates are locked tight. They peer in and see Bob’s bags on the other side.

“Oh shit,” says the first demon, “what are we gonna do now?”

The second demon has a plan. He lifts his colleague onto his shoulders and tells him to climb on top of the wall. Then the first demon pulls the second up and they jump down to get the bags.

Meanwhile, Peter and the Archangel Gabriel are on their lunch hour having tea and sandwiches in the Peter’s office.

Saint Peter looks out the window and sees two demons standing next to a pair of suitcases. “For fudge’s sake!” exclaims Peter angrily.

“What’s up?” asks Gabriel.

Peter slams his teacup down and says, “That bloody Mugabe hasn’t been in Hell for five minutes and already we’ve got refugees!”

Drum roll, please. Thanks folks, I’ll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress.

Next Comes a Stetson & Some Six-Shooters

Growing up, I always looked upon Clint Eastwood as the measure of all that was manly.

Clint didn’t bother with moisturiser or hairstyles. He maybe bathed once a month and the only reason Dirty Harry didn’t sport a grizzly was because he had a job that required he shave.

As a cowboy he could wear a dress and if anyone took the piss he’d bust a bullet through their brains.

His eyes were squinty (in a way, I believe, women found sexy) and his voice was gruff and intimidating. The dangerous eyes and gravel-throat was in no small part due to the massive amounts of tobacco the Man With No Name imbibed, but the threat of lung cancer is meaningless when Lee Van Cleef is gunning for you.

I always aspired to be as masculine as Mr Eastwood, and this morning – for the first time in history – I managed to hand-roll a decent cigarette!

Yes, it’s a big thing. To paraphrase Pinocchio, “I’m a real cowboy now!”

As much as the Marlboro Man might disagree, a pack a smokes is for pussies. Real cowboys smoke rollies.

And until this morning my attempts had been mostly bad and downright ugly, but today Lucy remarked that I’d gotten “pretty good”.

The humble rollie lost some of its coolness due to the general retardedness of stoners – who mumbled and fumbled it away from the gunslinger – but now it’s back in the hands of… well… guys too broke to buy Dunhill from the pub’s cigarette machine.

But the image of the rollie-smoker is set to change from ‘a bit dodgy’ to ‘modern day vaquero’.

The other day while practicing in a pub – a hair’s breadth from perfecting my skill – a little lady leaned over and asked, “Ooh, could you roll me one of those?”

I obliged, and I’m sure the look of disappointment on her face was because when I handed it to her she clocked my wedding band and knew that a Real Cowboy was always faithful to his woman.

Now all that’s left is to buy a pair of shitkickers and learn to ride a horse.

Yeeha!

I'd love to Poke you, but I'm Married

Whenever I log on to Facebook it tells me I’ve been poked by someone, but I have no idea if it’s recent or if it was in 2008.

I’m always unsure what to do. I don’t want to poke them back – what if poking isn’t cool anymore? But I also don’t want to appear rude and ignore their virtual prod.

This is just one of the reasons we need an online manual of Facebook etiquette.

In such a manual we would learn that updating your status during a date is akin to rearranging your man-junk (what a friend likes to call a cabinet reshuffle) for all to see, even if it is to say ‘Nathan just told a funny joke’ (which, if I’m honest, would be breaking news… but even so).

This guide could also go a long way to stopping those cryptic ‘I’m so sad :(’ statuses followed by an ‘I don’t want to talk about it…’ when long-face-enquiries come forth – because, if you’re glum, no one wants to then reply ‘Well, why the fuck did you tell us then?’

There is nothing more despicable than the attention-seeking status update.

In some ways Facebook is a game –SimPersonality, if you like.

Remember when you first joined and felt a right loser coz you only had five friends. So you searched your friend’s friends list and if you vaguely recognised the person it was a like lovers reunited in a field of daisies.

Hell, even the postman would be there liking your liking of ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’.

A friend of mine created a personality by thinking of the most normal name he could and finding a picture online of an unremarkable face – he’s got loads of friends and he doesn’t exist.

I reckon an eighth of the profiles are just people’s pornstar names (that’s your first pet’s name plus your mother’s maiden name).

But in some respects it is more real than reality.

Just think of the last time you discovered that someone had unfriended you. It’s kind of the final word on that relationship, and brings new meaning to the dumper’s cliché, “We can still be friends”.

One of the first things I learnt in school was how to answer the phone politely; maybe my kids will learn that when becoming FB friends for the first time you should post a nice message on their wall enquiring about their wellbeing.

I mean, how big was Goliath really?

When it comes to anecdotes, size matters.

Most male conversation has nothing to do with getting to know each other, but rather a verbal Ping-Pong game of one-upmanship.

Or maybe not Ping-Pong, as this game is best played standing around an open flame arranging boerewors and burgers on a grid (male conversation, I mean, not Ping-Pong).

Maybe it’s more like passing a rugby ball around during practice, the ball managing to get bigger and more complex as it travels…that’s if we’re sticking with the sports metaphor.

In fact, gross embellishment is such a given when shooting the shit with friends that any denomination has to be blown up in order not to sound pathetically insignificant. If you really did drink twelve beers before vomiting on the rollercoaster you’ve got to at least double it or the twelve will be automatically reduced to maybe four in the listener’s mind.

This expectation of exaggeration is involuntary; and this doubt is a defence mechanism. We’ve all heard the telling of events that we were present for, and heard the variables involved grow exponentially in outrageousity, that we can’t help mentally shrinking a big fish into a tadpole.

However, anecdotes that can almost always be taken at face value will involve the teller’s reminiscence of a restaurant they once worked at.

There is nothing too disgusting, bizarre or unbelievable that couldn’t have happened in a place where people eat food and get drunk.

One of my favourite involves a manager at an Irish pub getting a blowjob in the storeroom from a waitress, then walking through the establishment greeting and chatting to regulars. After making his way through the tables he got to the bar and the barman pointed out that his fly was open and his cock was hanging out.

100% true.

Another all-time best involves a couple having a post-bender breakfast. One has to assume they’d not returned home and were still blatted on whatever substances they’d consumed.

After ordering bacon and eggs the girl disappeared into the toilet for a long time. When the manageress started getting a bit worried at the length of her absence, and banging on the door elicited no response, they busted in to find the girl fallen off the throne with her pants around her ankles.

But it doesn’t end there. She’d been up-chucking in the dustin as she passed out, and the floor and her chin were covered in it.

Also, along with vomiting, the poor girl was in the process of… how can I put this? Dropping anchor? Laying some cable? Releasing a chocolate frog into the wild?

It was a mess.

And then after they’d cleaned it all up and the couple had left, the guy returned later in an attempt to book a table for later that evening; presumably with his girlfriend.

Needless to say, he was politely told to fuck off.

There are some stories that don’t need any embellishment, but if you’re a guy you probably wouldn’t believe them.

I forgive you. It’s not your fault.

The Quotable Malema

If it was put to a vote, I’d bet that the majority of South Africans would ditch the proposed ‘African Union’ for the cooler sounding ‘United States of Africa’. Not because of any conceptual conflict, but just coz here in SA we’re kind of obsessed with anything American.

They’ve got bimbo Paris Hilton – we’ve got Khanyi Mbau. They’ve got floppy haired, reality show rich guy Donald Trump – we’ve got BEE wannabe Tokyo Sexwale.

And do I even need to mention Chuck Norris and Steve Hofmeyer?

Most of the time the Yanks top us, but when it comes to embarrassing politicians a hundred Bushes and Palins couldn’t reach the wading-in-his-own-bullshit ankles of our own Julius Malema.

I’ve picked ten of my fave quotes from Sir Juju on a number of topics, but there are hundreds more.

Here goes:

1. On the ANC’s chances of a two-thirds majority: “Two-third majority? Our aim is a three-thirds majority!” (My guess is that his maths is as bad as his woodwork.)

2. On rape: “When a woman didn’t enjoy it, she leaves early in the morning. Those who had a nice time will wait until the sun comes out, request breakfast and ask for taxi money.” (That's why, guys, it's safer for your confidence levels if you get a flat near a taxi rank.)

3. In response to his 14 traffic fines (over five grand): "I only know revolution, I don’t know anything about driving.” (Sounds like most of the taxi drivers.)

4. To a BBC journalist: “Rubbish is what you have covered in that trousers!” (The journo obviously forgot to comb his pubes that morning.)

5. On Zuma (in 2009): “If Zuma is corrupt, then we want him with all his corruption. We want him with all his weaknesses. If he is uneducated, then we want him as our uneducated president.” (Luckily for Zuma, SA women have such low standards as well.)

6. In a Third Degree interview with Debra Patta, asked if he would kill himself after failing Matric: “Kill myself? I would rather commit suicide!” (Well, what can you say to that?)

7. On the Caster Semenya scandal: “Hermaphrodite, what is that? Somebody tell me, what is hermaphrodite in Pedi? There's no such thing... hermaphrodite... in Pedi. So don't impose your hermaphrodite concepts on us.” (Actually, there is a word for 'hermaphrodite' in Pedi - it's 'Kgalamatona'.

8. After a complaint about noise from a party at his house: ““Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do? Who the fuck are you?” (As far as catchphrases go, that's gotta be up there.)

9. On why he doesn’t read the newspaper: "When I want to know about a certain country I will make a research about it and go through the relevant material. I don't just read everything that is going to mislead me." (That's just what I said to the guy handing out free copies of The New Age.)

10. And the famous: "We are prepared to die for Zuma! We are prepared to take up arms and kill for Zuma!” (After the uproar he explained that the word 'kill' was used to show 'love and compassion'... he then asked for taxi money.)

We can look forward to even more when we elect Juju as our 'President for Life' in 2019 or around there.

So proud!

Floyd Shivambu should Remove his Foot & Wash his Mouth out with Soap!

I was always under the impression that a spokesperson was a sort of PR person for a company, celebrity or political party – there to make their employer look intelligent, thoughtful and concerned about whatever issues they wanted to appear concerned about.

But it seems to work a bit differently in South Africa, where ANCYL spokesman Floyd Shivambu seems to think the term ‘Rainbow Nation’ refers to the use of politicians’ colourful language.

On YouTube we can listen to the recorded telephone call from News24 reporter Jacques Domisse to Shivambu, in which the rather dim-witted sounding Shiv tells Domisse: “…you cannot force yourself to speak to people if they do not speak to you.” and then proceeds to tell the probably-rubbing-his-hands-with-glee journo to “fuck off”.

Then, a few days later, in lieu of an apology, he said that the report’s aim was to “divert attention” from the League’s national conference resolutions, and that reporters wanted to "engage in disgustingly provocative methods and means of engagement".

The “provocative” engagement on Domisse’s part was to ask for Julius Malema’s comments on the R78 000 His Jujuness spent at the Royal Malewane lodge, seeing as the Youth League prez likes to punt himself as a “champion of the poor”.

Baleka Mbete, the ANC’s chairperson, condemned the behaviour as being “unacceptable” – of course, in ANC-speak this means we’ll wait for it to blow over and forget about it.

It’s easy to write this off as arrogance or stupidity, but I think Shivambo is ahead of his peers when it comes to media relations.

He knows that when the Secrecy Bill kicks off they’ll be able to dispense with the tired response of “No comment!” and simply tell nosy media pigs to just “Fuck off!”