When I was a child, that grizzled drill sergeant we call God tried to teach me about hangovers.
Occasionally mum would allow us a chocolate Mighty Milk – they later changed the name to the odd-sounding Steri Stumpy, which for some reason always made me think of a guy with his legs cut off at the knees.
Dad would punch a hole in the top of it with his keys so we could drink it, and I would without fail down the lot in a series of frantic gulps.
I knew it was a bad idea, and that not long after I would suffer a painful belly-wrench. But I didn’t care; I loved that Mighty Milk so much I just couldn’t stop myself.
I got so used to the hurt that by the age of eight I could take a punch in the gut from Mike Tyson and carry on building a model airplane without skipping a beat.
So you see it’s not so much the headache part of a hangover that bothers me. The hangovers that I dread are the ones when I wake up feeling like Linda Blair.
I’m talking about that floating, hazy feeling; that heavy lump of shame; when you can’t remember what you did or who you offended, but you know it was along the lines of a 360 degree head rotation and projectile pukage onto a priest.
Losing mates this way is a bit more dramatic than finding you’ve been unfriended a few months after the fact, and it’s usually just as public and embarrassing as a series of angry wall posts ping-ponged across t’interweb.
Naturally, this hasn’t stopped me from drinking as much, but rather just to identify the types of poison that turn me from a jolly Jekyll to a heinous Hyde.
And much study has brought me to the conclusion that if Satan gave golden showers, you’d smell like you’d been in a Mexican barfight – tequila is the Devil’s discharge.
Seriously, they should just package Jose Cuervo in veiny, red penis-shaped bottles – maybe with two great testes so it won’t fall over as easily… and horns on its bell-end.
It looks like piss. It tastes like piss. No, no, it’s from the blue agave plant in Mexico. It’s just a coincidence that it resembles a liquid by-product excreted through the urethra. Don’t worry about the taste, lick some salt and suck a lemon afterwards.
You’d have to be shitfaced to fall for that!
All the teenage Satanists from the Eighties grew up to be Brandhouse reps pushing what they tell you is cactus juice.
With God telling you one thing and the Devil winking and suggesting another, it’s tough.
If, as Eric Draven in The Crow tells a junkie, Mother is the name for God in the hearts and minds of children, then Satan is the tattooed slag you wouldn’t take home to meet her.
I stopped drinking once, until a good friend told me I was much more fun drunk. And according to Chuck Palahniuk all God does is watch you and then kill you when you get boring, so...
I guess life’s just more exciting when you’re confused.
Burn Your TV Licence, It's The Sane Thing To Do
So as it turns out, paying your TV license was maybe not the right thing to do.
A judgement in the Johannesburg High Court has found the South African Broadcasting Corporation well worthy of its moniker, SANC.
“Judge CJ Claasen found the SABC had violated its licence conditions… through its blacklisting of political commentators… and in coverage of the 2005 Zimbabwe elections.” (Cape Argus – 26/01/2011)
Under the chairmanship of Snuki Zikalala the public (state?) broadcaster manipulated SABC coverage, and then covered-up this manipulation through official on-air denials.
The reality is that we don’t need protection from the press, we need protection from Party propaganda!
These revelations beg the question; do we need a public broadcaster at all?
e-tv – a free channel supported solely through advertising revenue – provides better quality international and locally-made programming and costs us nothing.
It would be understandable if, like the BBC, there were no commercials on SABC channels, but this is not the case. You can’t watch five minutes of substandard news and talk shows without being bombarded with ads for the Floor Wiz or sanitary towels.
And looking at the quality of programmes, one has to wonder into which minister’s pocket all the money goes?
For all its whinging about “unfair reporting”, the ANC has revealed itself to be the greatest threat to Truth in South Africa. One can only imagine the lies printed in the equally aligned ruling party rag, The New Age – just another ANC wolf in Free Press clothing.
This causes even greater concern over a Media Tribunal and Protection of Information Act – they not only want to chain our tongues, but pour poison into our ears as well.
In my view we should do away with a State broadcaster, and even more vehemently oppose the restrictions on free speech.
A judgement in the Johannesburg High Court has found the South African Broadcasting Corporation well worthy of its moniker, SANC.
“Judge CJ Claasen found the SABC had violated its licence conditions… through its blacklisting of political commentators… and in coverage of the 2005 Zimbabwe elections.” (Cape Argus – 26/01/2011)
Under the chairmanship of Snuki Zikalala the public (state?) broadcaster manipulated SABC coverage, and then covered-up this manipulation through official on-air denials.
The reality is that we don’t need protection from the press, we need protection from Party propaganda!
These revelations beg the question; do we need a public broadcaster at all?
e-tv – a free channel supported solely through advertising revenue – provides better quality international and locally-made programming and costs us nothing.
It would be understandable if, like the BBC, there were no commercials on SABC channels, but this is not the case. You can’t watch five minutes of substandard news and talk shows without being bombarded with ads for the Floor Wiz or sanitary towels.
And looking at the quality of programmes, one has to wonder into which minister’s pocket all the money goes?
For all its whinging about “unfair reporting”, the ANC has revealed itself to be the greatest threat to Truth in South Africa. One can only imagine the lies printed in the equally aligned ruling party rag, The New Age – just another ANC wolf in Free Press clothing.
This causes even greater concern over a Media Tribunal and Protection of Information Act – they not only want to chain our tongues, but pour poison into our ears as well.
In my view we should do away with a State broadcaster, and even more vehemently oppose the restrictions on free speech.
Gimp Balls 'n Girl Scouts
A friend of mine has a fetish for feet. He loves summer not because girls wear short skirts, but because their toes are on display in sandals and slops.
He once told me I had nice feet, which I’ll admit made me a bit uncomfortable. Not that I’m homophobic or he’s homosexual, but I kind of felt like my nob was hanging out.
Personally, I’m a boots man. A nice pair of knee-highs or uggs on a woman and I’m there.
And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Think of every porno you’ve watched – the girls always shag with their shoes on.
This is either because they don’t want to get their dirty feet on the bed linen, or that men like shoes as much as Posh Beckham does.
I think most people have some fetish that they never talk about. We, as a society, seem to think that any indication of a preference to the missionary position is perverted. Sex is probably the oldest anathema of the civilised world.
Ridiculous! It’s the one thing we all have in common – from teenagers to old codgers, rugby jocks to make-up-wearing trannys, even priests like a bit of choirboy coitus every now and again.
Sex should be something that (if you’ll excuse the bludgeoning pun) brings us together.
One of the most unmentionable – and I’d wager common – fetishes involves the Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform.
It’s what made Britney Spears so popular, but I don’t think it’s the underage chicky-boo inside that’s the harbinger of heavy-breathing – it’s the actual item of clothing itself.
My theory is that most men didn’t get that much action in their teen years due to shyness, insecurity, or just pimples and gangly legs. No matter how many women they can pull in later years that memory of the hottest girl in school spurning their advances sticks like chewed up bubblegum in the corner of their hippocampus.
It’s not sex with underage girls they want; it’s any woman in a school uniform and pigtails.
My advice to females of all consenting ages – if you can’t think of anything to get him for his birthday, head for the back-2-school section of your local Pep store.
The irony is that sex shop owners are as guilty as the pseudo-pious when it comes to this mentality of “let’s do it and say we didn’t”.
Because they think we think fornication is filthy, the manager of Adult World thinks he can get away with not employing a cleaning lady.
It’d be the very definition of a dirty job, but either that or have a strict ‘clean up after yourself’ policy in the viewing booths. Use a hanky after hanky-panky.
But every one of us is guilty by feeling shame when we imagine getting a spanking or licking off a cream bikini. By bending to the wills of society’s sanctimonious we are maybe not making it worse, but we are certainly not making it any less taboo.
So get over yourself. You’re not that sick and twisted. Tell your partner all the kinky things you want to do to them.
My bet is they want to do something twice as weird to you.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Ross Hillier
He once told me I had nice feet, which I’ll admit made me a bit uncomfortable. Not that I’m homophobic or he’s homosexual, but I kind of felt like my nob was hanging out.
Personally, I’m a boots man. A nice pair of knee-highs or uggs on a woman and I’m there.
And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Think of every porno you’ve watched – the girls always shag with their shoes on.
This is either because they don’t want to get their dirty feet on the bed linen, or that men like shoes as much as Posh Beckham does.
I think most people have some fetish that they never talk about. We, as a society, seem to think that any indication of a preference to the missionary position is perverted. Sex is probably the oldest anathema of the civilised world.
Ridiculous! It’s the one thing we all have in common – from teenagers to old codgers, rugby jocks to make-up-wearing trannys, even priests like a bit of choirboy coitus every now and again.
Sex should be something that (if you’ll excuse the bludgeoning pun) brings us together.
One of the most unmentionable – and I’d wager common – fetishes involves the Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform.
It’s what made Britney Spears so popular, but I don’t think it’s the underage chicky-boo inside that’s the harbinger of heavy-breathing – it’s the actual item of clothing itself.
My theory is that most men didn’t get that much action in their teen years due to shyness, insecurity, or just pimples and gangly legs. No matter how many women they can pull in later years that memory of the hottest girl in school spurning their advances sticks like chewed up bubblegum in the corner of their hippocampus.
It’s not sex with underage girls they want; it’s any woman in a school uniform and pigtails.
My advice to females of all consenting ages – if you can’t think of anything to get him for his birthday, head for the back-2-school section of your local Pep store.
The irony is that sex shop owners are as guilty as the pseudo-pious when it comes to this mentality of “let’s do it and say we didn’t”.
Because they think we think fornication is filthy, the manager of Adult World thinks he can get away with not employing a cleaning lady.
It’d be the very definition of a dirty job, but either that or have a strict ‘clean up after yourself’ policy in the viewing booths. Use a hanky after hanky-panky.
But every one of us is guilty by feeling shame when we imagine getting a spanking or licking off a cream bikini. By bending to the wills of society’s sanctimonious we are maybe not making it worse, but we are certainly not making it any less taboo.
So get over yourself. You’re not that sick and twisted. Tell your partner all the kinky things you want to do to them.
My bet is they want to do something twice as weird to you.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Ross Hillier
I was a Middle-Aged Buddha
Whenever I sit down to enjoy a slice of pizza or a Mickey-D quarter pounder with cheese, my mother’s voice echoes in my ears, “You’re digging your grave with a knife and fork.”
Strange, as I tend to lean towards food that requires the least amount of cutlery – burgers, chicken pies, spaghetti bolognaise is tough, but I’ve found a thick drinking straw can just as easily do the trick.
My mom is a veritable volcano of clichés. One of her favourites is, “Don’t have a champagne taste on a beer bottle budget.”
Genius!
Some of them I took literally as a child – I thought one should “save your money for a rainy day” so when you couldn’t play outside you could at least go see a movie at Cavendish Square.
Not a bright kid, me.
She taught us that “wisdom comes with Winters” and to “always forgive your enemies because nothing annoys them so much.”
I’ve always wanted to pen a self-help book entitled, ‘Mother’s Book of Wisdom’ – I envision the sole copy of this handed down through the generations; yellow pages, leather-bound, notes in the margin.
Forget the propaganda of the global schooling systems – teach the kid how to read and let him get on with it.
My mom is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t like to sugar-coat reality. When I was sixteen and going through the obligatory boo-hoo-I-hate-the-world phase she asked me, “Do you think your friends are going to want to be around someone who’s miserable all the time?”
When, many moons ago, she arrived at her parents place to find my grandfather with an MX-6 parked outside and a car salesman on the crux of a big commission, she looked the young salesman up and down, turned to my grandfather and said, “You don’t want that, daddy, it’s a poor man’s Porsche.”
A tongue of sharpened steel, wielded as mercilessly as a shogun samurai’s sword.
In a round-about way she has taught me that while knowledge may come in the form of a university text book, wisdom is best passed along through proverbs and sayings.
Words: Nathan Casey
Pic: Lucy Yearling
Strange, as I tend to lean towards food that requires the least amount of cutlery – burgers, chicken pies, spaghetti bolognaise is tough, but I’ve found a thick drinking straw can just as easily do the trick.
My mom is a veritable volcano of clichés. One of her favourites is, “Don’t have a champagne taste on a beer bottle budget.”
Genius!
Some of them I took literally as a child – I thought one should “save your money for a rainy day” so when you couldn’t play outside you could at least go see a movie at Cavendish Square.
Not a bright kid, me.
She taught us that “wisdom comes with Winters” and to “always forgive your enemies because nothing annoys them so much.”
I’ve always wanted to pen a self-help book entitled, ‘Mother’s Book of Wisdom’ – I envision the sole copy of this handed down through the generations; yellow pages, leather-bound, notes in the margin.
Forget the propaganda of the global schooling systems – teach the kid how to read and let him get on with it.
My mom is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t like to sugar-coat reality. When I was sixteen and going through the obligatory boo-hoo-I-hate-the-world phase she asked me, “Do you think your friends are going to want to be around someone who’s miserable all the time?”
When, many moons ago, she arrived at her parents place to find my grandfather with an MX-6 parked outside and a car salesman on the crux of a big commission, she looked the young salesman up and down, turned to my grandfather and said, “You don’t want that, daddy, it’s a poor man’s Porsche.”
A tongue of sharpened steel, wielded as mercilessly as a shogun samurai’s sword.
In a round-about way she has taught me that while knowledge may come in the form of a university text book, wisdom is best passed along through proverbs and sayings.
Words: Nathan Casey
Pic: Lucy Yearling
Short Back 'n Sides and a Liver Transplant, Please
As I write this, the top of my head is a post-shampoo fluff-fro. Kind of like the bit of muffin that sticks out above the paper cup.
In the mornings, pre-wash, I look like Morrissey and Ace Ventura's lovechild, and if I try to flatten it I look like I’m auditioning for a Beatles tribute band.
Back in thirteenth century Europe you could get a haircut, beard trim, and an abscess drained. Part of a barber’s job description was surgery.
The monks had to undergo bloodletting, but were forbidden to shed blood themselves. So they passed this task on to the barbers, who used to pop in to cut and shave them anyway.
Doctors didn’t mind, and considered bloodletting and other such minor surgery as beneath them anyway, so it worked out quite well.
This went on for 600 years. Ambroise Pare, considered by some medical historians as the father of modern surgery, was a barber-surgeon in Paris around 1533.
He went on to become an army surgeon and personal physician to four French monarchs. In his time he introduced the implantation of teeth, pioneered the use of artificial limbs and eyes, and found a better way to treat gunshot wounds than boiling oil.
He was also directly involved with the invention of the brushcut and mullet, but these never really took off until Bloemfontein was discovered.
I think I read somewhere that Shaolin monks shave their heads because they see a hairstyle as a material possession – a big no-no! This wasn’t in one of those Dalai Lama books, mind, or even a reputable publication of any sort.
In all probability it’s really just so there’s no hair-pulling in kung-fu practice.
I considered taking my head to a professional (you can read that any way you want), but then Lucy suggested I just let her cut it.
She disappeared and then came back into the room with the sides of her mouth curled into an evil grin and a maniacal, swirling vortex-like look in her eyes.
In her hand she had a pair of scissors. She snipped them forebodingly.
I just hope I have ears left after she’s done.
Words: Nathan Casey
Pic: Lucy Yearling
In the mornings, pre-wash, I look like Morrissey and Ace Ventura's lovechild, and if I try to flatten it I look like I’m auditioning for a Beatles tribute band.
Back in thirteenth century Europe you could get a haircut, beard trim, and an abscess drained. Part of a barber’s job description was surgery.
The monks had to undergo bloodletting, but were forbidden to shed blood themselves. So they passed this task on to the barbers, who used to pop in to cut and shave them anyway.
Doctors didn’t mind, and considered bloodletting and other such minor surgery as beneath them anyway, so it worked out quite well.
This went on for 600 years. Ambroise Pare, considered by some medical historians as the father of modern surgery, was a barber-surgeon in Paris around 1533.
He went on to become an army surgeon and personal physician to four French monarchs. In his time he introduced the implantation of teeth, pioneered the use of artificial limbs and eyes, and found a better way to treat gunshot wounds than boiling oil.
He was also directly involved with the invention of the brushcut and mullet, but these never really took off until Bloemfontein was discovered.
I think I read somewhere that Shaolin monks shave their heads because they see a hairstyle as a material possession – a big no-no! This wasn’t in one of those Dalai Lama books, mind, or even a reputable publication of any sort.
In all probability it’s really just so there’s no hair-pulling in kung-fu practice.
I considered taking my head to a professional (you can read that any way you want), but then Lucy suggested I just let her cut it.
She disappeared and then came back into the room with the sides of her mouth curled into an evil grin and a maniacal, swirling vortex-like look in her eyes.
In her hand she had a pair of scissors. She snipped them forebodingly.
I just hope I have ears left after she’s done.
Words: Nathan Casey
Pic: Lucy Yearling
Time to Reconsider my Toilet Reading!
You could set your watch by my small intestine.
Seriously, my bladder is as regular as a racist remark from Julius Malema’s mouth. Although the quality of Juju’s utterances have somewhat less substance, they are often much more putrid.
There’s nothing worse than popping into the bog for the long haul and then realising you’ve got nothing to read. I tend to keep a broad spectrum of literature on top of the cistern – anything from Julian Baggini’s modern philosophy to Zapiro’s political sketchings to SA’s only weekly glossy.
There’s nothing better than browsing a Heat magazine when you’re releasing a chocolate frog into the wild – it stimulates the emission.
Usually I buy Heat and pretend it’s a gift for Lucy, then have to exercise Herculean restraint in waiting for her to finish perusing before I get my greasy paws on it.
Most movie stars and musicians try to avoid the paps, but us Saffers just love having our picture taken. Some of them even email their holiday snaps to the editor!
The definition of the South African celebrity is something I can’t seem to conjure in my befuddled brain.
We must be the one of the few nations who consider continuity announcers as ‘famous', and I often scratch my head wondering, “Who the fuck is Kanyi Mbau?”
There are pics of her all over the tabloids. If I had to guess I’d say she was one of the lesser-known, more’r-brainless Kardashian sisters. But she’s not even a reality tv ‘star’ – from what I can tell, all she’s done is shag a few rich blokes and toddled off with their cashdollar.
Listing ‘socialite’ on your CV is kind of like considering ‘piss-head’ as a vocation.
Unlike America, where you have to be moderately good-looking to get to the top of the tabloid totem-pole, in SA you can be a fat slob and ugly as a government edifice.
This must be a source of comfort to the average vox pop on the street; to know that no matter how uninformed your opinion or inadequate your abilities, you could still punt Dixie Cola if only you could get on Survivor.
But lately, there are two slightly androgynous twins with a penchant for lipstick and vacant expressions that are seriously affecting my bowels. The last couple of times I’ve had trouble dropping off the Cosbys because the sight of these South African ladyboys makes my tummy twist and constipation set in.
The matching set of mangina-munchers are none other than the local Locnville.
My unconscious ability to retain information about these pretty choirboys makes me think that in my last life I must have been a peado priest – and no matter how much I smack my head with the toilet brush, I just can’t get it out of there.
Even though the idea that their groupies call themselves ‘villens’ causes bile to jump up and high-five the back of my tongue, I thought, maybe I’m a fan and I don’t even know it!
I theorised on the possibility of a memory travelling back in time, a future destiny backwashed from a greasy quantum mechanic’s throat during his lunch-break, and against my better judgement, I YouTube’d a couple of their vids.
Most kids, their balls drop around the age of thirteen. Listening to Locnville’s voices, an analogy involving one of those meteors that plummet and cause tidal waves ping-ponged around my skull.
They're okay, I thought.
But a couple more tunes and it all sounded the same and just got annoying – like Goldfish for gaylords – throwaway, plastic Christmas cracker crap that will unfortunately be recycled over and over and sold in some or other pristine packet.
In short, nothing special.
And as much as I feel sympathy for the celebs that Heat lambasts, I get even more annoyed with the ones they fawn over purely because they’re South African.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Heat (SA's Only Weekly Glossy)
Seriously, my bladder is as regular as a racist remark from Julius Malema’s mouth. Although the quality of Juju’s utterances have somewhat less substance, they are often much more putrid.
There’s nothing worse than popping into the bog for the long haul and then realising you’ve got nothing to read. I tend to keep a broad spectrum of literature on top of the cistern – anything from Julian Baggini’s modern philosophy to Zapiro’s political sketchings to SA’s only weekly glossy.
There’s nothing better than browsing a Heat magazine when you’re releasing a chocolate frog into the wild – it stimulates the emission.
Usually I buy Heat and pretend it’s a gift for Lucy, then have to exercise Herculean restraint in waiting for her to finish perusing before I get my greasy paws on it.
Most movie stars and musicians try to avoid the paps, but us Saffers just love having our picture taken. Some of them even email their holiday snaps to the editor!
The definition of the South African celebrity is something I can’t seem to conjure in my befuddled brain.
We must be the one of the few nations who consider continuity announcers as ‘famous', and I often scratch my head wondering, “Who the fuck is Kanyi Mbau?”
There are pics of her all over the tabloids. If I had to guess I’d say she was one of the lesser-known, more’r-brainless Kardashian sisters. But she’s not even a reality tv ‘star’ – from what I can tell, all she’s done is shag a few rich blokes and toddled off with their cashdollar.
Listing ‘socialite’ on your CV is kind of like considering ‘piss-head’ as a vocation.
Unlike America, where you have to be moderately good-looking to get to the top of the tabloid totem-pole, in SA you can be a fat slob and ugly as a government edifice.
This must be a source of comfort to the average vox pop on the street; to know that no matter how uninformed your opinion or inadequate your abilities, you could still punt Dixie Cola if only you could get on Survivor.
But lately, there are two slightly androgynous twins with a penchant for lipstick and vacant expressions that are seriously affecting my bowels. The last couple of times I’ve had trouble dropping off the Cosbys because the sight of these South African ladyboys makes my tummy twist and constipation set in.
The matching set of mangina-munchers are none other than the local Locnville.
My unconscious ability to retain information about these pretty choirboys makes me think that in my last life I must have been a peado priest – and no matter how much I smack my head with the toilet brush, I just can’t get it out of there.
Even though the idea that their groupies call themselves ‘villens’ causes bile to jump up and high-five the back of my tongue, I thought, maybe I’m a fan and I don’t even know it!
I theorised on the possibility of a memory travelling back in time, a future destiny backwashed from a greasy quantum mechanic’s throat during his lunch-break, and against my better judgement, I YouTube’d a couple of their vids.
Most kids, their balls drop around the age of thirteen. Listening to Locnville’s voices, an analogy involving one of those meteors that plummet and cause tidal waves ping-ponged around my skull.
They're okay, I thought.
But a couple more tunes and it all sounded the same and just got annoying – like Goldfish for gaylords – throwaway, plastic Christmas cracker crap that will unfortunately be recycled over and over and sold in some or other pristine packet.
In short, nothing special.
And as much as I feel sympathy for the celebs that Heat lambasts, I get even more annoyed with the ones they fawn over purely because they’re South African.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Heat (SA's Only Weekly Glossy)
My Kingdom for a BI-31 Form!
It’s tough to remain pleasant when you’ve had to manoeuvre through Wynberg main Road traffic with no air conditioning, swerving out the way of taxis, barking expletives with every breath.
Sweating more than a paedo in a Santa suit, the inside of your nostrils is assaulted by the thick odour of a Home Affairs office resembling a busy bovine slaughterhouse, and the woman behind the counter sports an expression like she’s personally removed her cancerous vagina sans anaesthetic.
“Hello,” I smiled broadly, on what they call the charm offensive, “all I need is the BI-31 form.”
I wasn’t sure if she’d gone for a Botox treatment and they’d accidentally filled her whole face up with lead, or thought she’d look younger if she could just get her jowls to hang lower than her tits. Either way, the look she’d gone for didn’t inspire confidence.
Her tongue convulsed like the slow-motion replay of a Yellowtail’s death, in a voice like a suicidal housewife from Oranje she said, “What do you want to do?”
The fun part about Home Affairs isn’t the sweltering heat inside, the endless queues, or even dodging TB-laden coughs like a Matrix baddie. It’s not zoning out the shrieks of teenage mothers’ babies or humming a favourite tune so as to avoid getting some cell-phone’s blaring kwaito music stuck in your head.
The most exciting bit about Home Affairs is the anticipation of speaking to the government employee on the other side of the counter.
Like opening a lucky packet or popping a Christmas cracker, you’re never sure whether you’re going to pull out a key ring or nail clippers, or a plastic spinning top and one of those roll-the-ball-into-the-hole games.
The woman behind the counter was definitely in the spinning top category.
“I want to marry my fiancée from England,” I said, “I got one of the papers here a week ago but we lost it,” and then repeated, “it’s the BI-31 form.”
I’d foolishly believed that if I got my facts in order – visited the website and found out the exact name of the form I needed – it would be a quick, in and out job.
With less emotion than a ventriloquist’s dummy, without even the slightest facial wobble, she said, “You need to go to the Immigration offices in Riebeek…”
“No, no,” I interrupted, “a man last week gave me exactly what I needed. It’s the BI-31 form.”
She spoke a bit louder and slower; the way she’d learnt to talk to her slightly backward, fully inbred nephew, “What is it you want to do?”
I looked around for a piece of paper, a map, or Ken and Barbie dolls to help my explanation, then slowly said, “My fiancée is from England. A British citizen. A foreign national. I am a South African citizen. I was born here. We want to get married. We need the BI-31 form. Please.”
This exchange replayed itself in varying ways, each coming up short in the joy department. How I longed for a koeksuster with which to bribe this greasy-haired, no-neck behemoth of a woman.
She stubbornly refused to move her chubby legs across the room and through the little door – where the previous week a polite, young, black gentleman had retrieved said form – and as my ire rose and my hope sank I realised my hair would be grey and thin, and my fingernails long and curly, before her sausage-fingers would place a BI-31 form in my clammy palm.
I gave up, but not before demanding to see “the person in charge!”
She looked out at the disorganised, teeming mass of people angrily complaining at the tops of their lungs, then across to her colleagues shaking their heads and directing people to other, longer queues to slowly die in, and in dead seriousness and deader monotone replied, “There’s no one in charge here.”
And so the penny drops.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photograph: Ross Hillier
The Eighth Deadly Sin
After a near-death experience involving chopsticks, a small Asian woman, and a particularly authentic Jungle Curry from Yindee’s the other night, I decided I better check my status with the bossman upstairs.
Apparently, it’s not looking so good.
I wasn’t sure if the Ten Commandments had rendered the Seven Deadly Sins redundant, so I asked around. My enquiry was mostly met with a kind if glazed expression, followed by a quick check of the watch and rapid re-memory of an urgent proctologist appointment.
I decided to run with the seven. Mainly because there’s less to remember and I prefer Brad Pitt to Charlton Heston.
We all know the seven most reprehensible characteristics are lust, greed, gluttony, pride, envy, sloth and wrath.
I considered these and then considered myself.
My ratings weren’t looking good. Just the other night I was slobbed out on the couch eating my third bag of Cheese Curls, watching a Jessica Simpson movie and wishing I had Apple TV like Mark.
That’s four right there!
I think humanity’s pretty screwed all round. Just looking out my window made me feel better – at least I’ll have company, I thought.
And then I thought that maybe God left out the most inexcusable and common sin of all. Call it the Eighth Deadly Sin, or even better, push it right to the top of the list.
I’m talking about the inexcusable and incredibly annoying trait of attention-seeking.
We used to think that it was only little kids who broke a vase, started crying, or messed around with a Ouija board to get their parents to punch them in the face.
But people everywhere, of every age, seem to think they need a good face-punching.
Psychologist M. Farouk Radwan, of course, lays the blame squarely on the shoulders of parents – mommy didn’t hug you enough and daddy was too busy playing golf to stick your bunny drawings on the fridge.
Narcissists also want your attention all the time, but I tend to ignore them because I know I’m much more interesting.
Children naturally think they’re the centre of the universe, but wouldn’t seeing to their every whim and constantly telling them they special make that worse?
How do we stop ourselves wearing jauntily-angled Emo hats and blaring hip-hop out our car windows? Is my haircut going to draw more attention to me if it’s not the same as everyone else’s? Is it my fault when children point at my hairy ears and shout, “Shrek! Shrek!”?
Through much spiritual reflection and great philosophical reasoning I was comforted by the thought that I’m not a “beautiful and unique snowflake” but merely as poked as everyone else in God’s eyes.
It made it much easier to not change and carry on my heathen-esque existence. Heaven probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me anyway – it’d be full of Christians!
So I’ll just order a double and a side of chillies and let the super-sized fries fall where they may. Have fun, that’s my motto, and I’ll see you in Hell.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photography: Ross Hillier (http://rosshillier.com)
Apparently, it’s not looking so good.
I wasn’t sure if the Ten Commandments had rendered the Seven Deadly Sins redundant, so I asked around. My enquiry was mostly met with a kind if glazed expression, followed by a quick check of the watch and rapid re-memory of an urgent proctologist appointment.
I decided to run with the seven. Mainly because there’s less to remember and I prefer Brad Pitt to Charlton Heston.
We all know the seven most reprehensible characteristics are lust, greed, gluttony, pride, envy, sloth and wrath.
I considered these and then considered myself.
My ratings weren’t looking good. Just the other night I was slobbed out on the couch eating my third bag of Cheese Curls, watching a Jessica Simpson movie and wishing I had Apple TV like Mark.
That’s four right there!
I think humanity’s pretty screwed all round. Just looking out my window made me feel better – at least I’ll have company, I thought.
And then I thought that maybe God left out the most inexcusable and common sin of all. Call it the Eighth Deadly Sin, or even better, push it right to the top of the list.
I’m talking about the inexcusable and incredibly annoying trait of attention-seeking.
We used to think that it was only little kids who broke a vase, started crying, or messed around with a Ouija board to get their parents to punch them in the face.
But people everywhere, of every age, seem to think they need a good face-punching.
Psychologist M. Farouk Radwan, of course, lays the blame squarely on the shoulders of parents – mommy didn’t hug you enough and daddy was too busy playing golf to stick your bunny drawings on the fridge.
Narcissists also want your attention all the time, but I tend to ignore them because I know I’m much more interesting.
Children naturally think they’re the centre of the universe, but wouldn’t seeing to their every whim and constantly telling them they special make that worse?
How do we stop ourselves wearing jauntily-angled Emo hats and blaring hip-hop out our car windows? Is my haircut going to draw more attention to me if it’s not the same as everyone else’s? Is it my fault when children point at my hairy ears and shout, “Shrek! Shrek!”?
Through much spiritual reflection and great philosophical reasoning I was comforted by the thought that I’m not a “beautiful and unique snowflake” but merely as poked as everyone else in God’s eyes.
It made it much easier to not change and carry on my heathen-esque existence. Heaven probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me anyway – it’d be full of Christians!
So I’ll just order a double and a side of chillies and let the super-sized fries fall where they may. Have fun, that’s my motto, and I’ll see you in Hell.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photography: Ross Hillier (http://rosshillier.com)
Biltong Before Bedtime
The other night I dreamt that a massive, orange penguin was walking around the house. Then the penguin burst open (it was just a penguin suit) and a bunch of little penguins burst out!
I half-woke up and worriedly told Lucy, “Close the door! The penguins will get in.” then burst out laughing.
In 1953 the University of Chicago’s Sleep Research Laboratory discovered that about an hour after we hit the sack we experience a burst of rapid eye movement, or REM, along with a change in brain wave activity – our brains act like they do when we’re awake.
About 80% of people recall their dreams if woken during REM; and only around 30-50% if woken after REM, but this is more a memory of dreaming without the particulars.
What’s interesting is that D-state (desynchronised- or dreaming-state) shut-eye has been observed in monkeys, dogs, cats, rats, elephants, shrews and opossums, and even in some birds and reptiles.
I sometimes dream about flying, and I wondered if birds sometimes dream about sitting in their undies on the couch with beer, pizza and a James Bond movie on TV.
Surgical deconstruction shows that the ability to dream depends on the pontine tegmentum area in the brain stem, and involves a bodily chemical called norepinephrine and sometimes serotonin.
Physiological changes include increased variability in heart rate, a jump in activity in the respiratory system and sexual organs (often caused by Jessica Simpson or Oprah), higher blood pressure and almost total relaxation of the skeletal muscles.
I’ve noticed that I tend to dream more vividly and bizarrely when the moon is full.
This is not psychosomatic, because sometimes I don’t even realise it’s a full moon until after the weird nightmares.
For me, slumberland is either in blue-and-white (like I’m in a dark room at night) or in bright, primary colours (like you’d see in a child’s old colouring-in book).
The scariest dream I ever had went something like this: I was Batman swinging from the rooftops, the grass was lumo green and the buildings processed-cheese yellow. I landed on a red roof and a guy at the other end told me everyone I knew was dead and had been replaced with robots. He peeled his face back and there was a gray, metal robot-face underneath. Then Robin did the same to reveal a metal mug.
Philosophers argue that dreams are either reflections of reality, sources of divination, extensions of the waking state, or curative.
In ancient Greece there was a practice known as ‘temple sleep’. Sick people would dos down in a god’s temple and wait for the big man (usually Asdepius) to give them two Panado and a note for work.
Psychologists laugh at such superstitions, but offer no better answers.
Freud wrote that dreams are a reflection of our repressed wishes – hostile and sexual – and that we keep ourselves from waking to avoid awareness of our disgusting desires.
Maybe I should get Lucy to dress up in a penguin suit for my birthday.
Carl Jung believed dreams balanced those bits of our character that are underrepresented in our daily lives and that they could affect those lives when we were denying ourselves true elements of our personalities.
Time to get that Batman costume out again.
Personally, I think those dream interpretation books are bollocks – if you’re so interested go see a shrink, you cheapskate. You can’t just paint all our psyches with the same hippie paintbrush.
All we know for sure is that you shouldn’t eat cheese, chocolate, or biltong before bed because that will always lead to anarchy in the land of Nod.
As for the moon thing – tides of the largest amplitude occur during the full moon or new moon, and the human body is, what, 80% liquid?
That’s got to have some effect.
I half-woke up and worriedly told Lucy, “Close the door! The penguins will get in.” then burst out laughing.
In 1953 the University of Chicago’s Sleep Research Laboratory discovered that about an hour after we hit the sack we experience a burst of rapid eye movement, or REM, along with a change in brain wave activity – our brains act like they do when we’re awake.
About 80% of people recall their dreams if woken during REM; and only around 30-50% if woken after REM, but this is more a memory of dreaming without the particulars.
What’s interesting is that D-state (desynchronised- or dreaming-state) shut-eye has been observed in monkeys, dogs, cats, rats, elephants, shrews and opossums, and even in some birds and reptiles.
I sometimes dream about flying, and I wondered if birds sometimes dream about sitting in their undies on the couch with beer, pizza and a James Bond movie on TV.
Surgical deconstruction shows that the ability to dream depends on the pontine tegmentum area in the brain stem, and involves a bodily chemical called norepinephrine and sometimes serotonin.
Physiological changes include increased variability in heart rate, a jump in activity in the respiratory system and sexual organs (often caused by Jessica Simpson or Oprah), higher blood pressure and almost total relaxation of the skeletal muscles.
I’ve noticed that I tend to dream more vividly and bizarrely when the moon is full.
This is not psychosomatic, because sometimes I don’t even realise it’s a full moon until after the weird nightmares.
For me, slumberland is either in blue-and-white (like I’m in a dark room at night) or in bright, primary colours (like you’d see in a child’s old colouring-in book).
The scariest dream I ever had went something like this: I was Batman swinging from the rooftops, the grass was lumo green and the buildings processed-cheese yellow. I landed on a red roof and a guy at the other end told me everyone I knew was dead and had been replaced with robots. He peeled his face back and there was a gray, metal robot-face underneath. Then Robin did the same to reveal a metal mug.
Philosophers argue that dreams are either reflections of reality, sources of divination, extensions of the waking state, or curative.
In ancient Greece there was a practice known as ‘temple sleep’. Sick people would dos down in a god’s temple and wait for the big man (usually Asdepius) to give them two Panado and a note for work.
Psychologists laugh at such superstitions, but offer no better answers.
Freud wrote that dreams are a reflection of our repressed wishes – hostile and sexual – and that we keep ourselves from waking to avoid awareness of our disgusting desires.
Maybe I should get Lucy to dress up in a penguin suit for my birthday.
Carl Jung believed dreams balanced those bits of our character that are underrepresented in our daily lives and that they could affect those lives when we were denying ourselves true elements of our personalities.
Time to get that Batman costume out again.
Personally, I think those dream interpretation books are bollocks – if you’re so interested go see a shrink, you cheapskate. You can’t just paint all our psyches with the same hippie paintbrush.
All we know for sure is that you shouldn’t eat cheese, chocolate, or biltong before bed because that will always lead to anarchy in the land of Nod.
As for the moon thing – tides of the largest amplitude occur during the full moon or new moon, and the human body is, what, 80% liquid?
That’s got to have some effect.
Big Brother's Little Granny is Watching You
It’s surprising that there’s so much freedom and democracy around, because there are dictators everywhere!
The granny-Goebbels living below us wrote a rude note in the foyer because someone dared hang their laundry in the communal braai area. It was only for a few hours in the sun, and as I passed it on the way to do Lucy and my gruds I thought, “Wish I could let myself do that!”
I can’t, you see, because my paranoid South African mind worries that someone will jump over the wall and pinch my holy t-shirts and Lucy’s sexy knickers.
As a resident, the fact someone else could do it didn’t bother me at all.
She signed the handwritten letter: The Trustees, before she putty’d it to the marble counter-top. I figured if she’d gone to all the trouble to call a meeting and vote on it the least she could do was type and print it out with a cute Swastika letterhead.
And then I thought about all the other mini-dictators in the world, ruling their little Zimbabwes with an iron, wrinkly fist.
Not all are wrinkly and frail either. Just think of your boss, or your mother, laying down the law with no parliamentary committee or public participation. And almost everyone on a block of flats’ body corporate are self-righteous control freaks.
It’s inevitable that some of these people would end up on the top of the pile; the figureheads of entire nations.
With the possible exception of hippies, most parents are fascist bastards – they have to be – otherwise their kids would end up pregnant teenagers, drug addicts or worse… writers!
Most of the time it’s much easier to steer someone else’s destiny than your own. And growing up you quickly realise that most of the decisions that affect your life are made in your absence (if I may paraphrase Salman Rushdie).
People blab that “power corrupts; and absolute power corrupts absolutely” – I don’t think that’s true at all. The world isn’t a kiddies’ TV show, but imagine the state of it if everyone in authority was bent?
Corruption does not necessarily infect those in power, but those with corruptible natures will always seek out power.
The granny-Goebbels living below us wrote a rude note in the foyer because someone dared hang their laundry in the communal braai area. It was only for a few hours in the sun, and as I passed it on the way to do Lucy and my gruds I thought, “Wish I could let myself do that!”
I can’t, you see, because my paranoid South African mind worries that someone will jump over the wall and pinch my holy t-shirts and Lucy’s sexy knickers.
As a resident, the fact someone else could do it didn’t bother me at all.
She signed the handwritten letter: The Trustees, before she putty’d it to the marble counter-top. I figured if she’d gone to all the trouble to call a meeting and vote on it the least she could do was type and print it out with a cute Swastika letterhead.
And then I thought about all the other mini-dictators in the world, ruling their little Zimbabwes with an iron, wrinkly fist.
Not all are wrinkly and frail either. Just think of your boss, or your mother, laying down the law with no parliamentary committee or public participation. And almost everyone on a block of flats’ body corporate are self-righteous control freaks.
It’s inevitable that some of these people would end up on the top of the pile; the figureheads of entire nations.
With the possible exception of hippies, most parents are fascist bastards – they have to be – otherwise their kids would end up pregnant teenagers, drug addicts or worse… writers!
Most of the time it’s much easier to steer someone else’s destiny than your own. And growing up you quickly realise that most of the decisions that affect your life are made in your absence (if I may paraphrase Salman Rushdie).
People blab that “power corrupts; and absolute power corrupts absolutely” – I don’t think that’s true at all. The world isn’t a kiddies’ TV show, but imagine the state of it if everyone in authority was bent?
Corruption does not necessarily infect those in power, but those with corruptible natures will always seek out power.
The Ghosts of Long Street
There is no inspiration in isolation.
In the Summer, Long Street is one of the most inspirational places in Cape Town.
Most of the time just sitting in its atmosphere lets words pour from my pen. I sit and look at the faces of passers-by and it’s almost as though I can read their thoughts.
Drunk tourists and drug-addled streetkids. Brainless Barbies and baby-weilding beggars. Falsely confident jocks on a night out from the suburbs. Blasé locals who’ve seen all the weirdness Town can throw at them.
Their energies wrap around each other – an invisible, omnipotent mist – and make the Street more than the sum of its different, often conflicting parts.
If one sits quietly and listens, the Street will speak to you.
It will tell you all the desires of those that have walked it. It will tell you stories of glory and triumph. It will tell you stories of desperation and recklessness.
If you allow your soul to open and truly listen you will learn more than any book or sage could relate about the human condition.
Our suffering and fleeting jubilation. Our struggles and sins and selfishness.
But also our honour and charity. Our loving kindness. Our empathy and compassion.
The Street will tell you tales. Fables of reflection that, once heard, will let you choose the person that you want to be. And leave behind the person that you are.
But most of all, Long Street will show you that you are not alone. Everyone is searching for the same things in life – companionship, trust, self-respect and happiness however brief. You are not alone.
This Street is the face of mankind’s soul.
In the Summer, Long Street is one of the most inspirational places in Cape Town.
Most of the time just sitting in its atmosphere lets words pour from my pen. I sit and look at the faces of passers-by and it’s almost as though I can read their thoughts.
Drunk tourists and drug-addled streetkids. Brainless Barbies and baby-weilding beggars. Falsely confident jocks on a night out from the suburbs. Blasé locals who’ve seen all the weirdness Town can throw at them.
Their energies wrap around each other – an invisible, omnipotent mist – and make the Street more than the sum of its different, often conflicting parts.
If one sits quietly and listens, the Street will speak to you.
It will tell you all the desires of those that have walked it. It will tell you stories of glory and triumph. It will tell you stories of desperation and recklessness.
If you allow your soul to open and truly listen you will learn more than any book or sage could relate about the human condition.
Our suffering and fleeting jubilation. Our struggles and sins and selfishness.
But also our honour and charity. Our loving kindness. Our empathy and compassion.
The Street will tell you tales. Fables of reflection that, once heard, will let you choose the person that you want to be. And leave behind the person that you are.
But most of all, Long Street will show you that you are not alone. Everyone is searching for the same things in life – companionship, trust, self-respect and happiness however brief. You are not alone.
This Street is the face of mankind’s soul.
Heroes & Philosophers
“So are you a dog or cat person?” she asked me.
“I’m not sure,” I pondered, “I’m kind of both.”
“No, no, no,” she shook her head and waved her wine glass, “you can’t be both! You have to choose one.”
Now, I’m not a fence-sitter. I tend to form opinions and stick to them until someone much wiser shows me the error of my thoughts. But to the whole dog/cat thing I hadn’t given much consideration.
I like dogs. They’re loyal and friendly. And I must admit they’re a lot more useful than cats – they herd sheep, lead the blind, and protect your house from burglerers.
But they’re also needy, attention-seeking, and dirty buggers when they eat their own poo. And after you pet a dog, your hand smells!
I like cats too. They’re clean and affectionate when they want food. They’re low-maintenance and generally look after themselves – no walkies or Frisbee-obsession.
But cats can make you feel like an idiot a lot of the time. Like when you make that “kssk-kssk” sound and call them in a baby voice and all they do is look at you and lick their bum, as though even that’s more interesting than getting tickles from you.
And there’s no cat in the world that would tear into a burning building to drag its owner out. They’ll just sit in a tree thinking, “Wow, lucky I got outta there in time,” and move in with the granny next door.
I had a cat who would watch the sunrise every morning – as though she was pondering the existence of a soul. We tend to just leave cats to their contemplations and ennui, trusting that they have more important matters to deliberate on.
But I think we often expect too much from our dogs. Whereas a cat can come and go as it pleases, sit wherever it wants, and not have to sleep outside in a cold kennel, dogs had better do as they’re told or face the consequences.
I always see people ‘affectionately’ thumping dogs across their sides as though they’re beating a dusty rug. These people always go, “He loves it!” thump-thump-thump.
I figure the only reason the dog doesn’t bite them is coz it’s shit-scared of the scolding and possible newspaper-whack it’d receive if it did! Not love or loyalty, just downright terror.
The same goes for the burning building scenario. Dog stares at the flames and black smoke and thinks, “Shit, I hope Dad’s okay,” with no intention of rushing into the inferno.
But then he imagines seeing Dad standing next to him, covered in ash, having fought and crawled through the blaze, with singed eyebrows and a rolled up Mail & Guardian in his hand, “And where the fuck were you?!?”
Whack-whack-whack!
So to the wine-waving, drunken dog-lover – I won’t discriminate. And here’s why:
If dogs are the courageous heroes of the domestic animal kingdom, cats are the philosophers.
I think in any universe, you need both.
“I’m not sure,” I pondered, “I’m kind of both.”
“No, no, no,” she shook her head and waved her wine glass, “you can’t be both! You have to choose one.”
Now, I’m not a fence-sitter. I tend to form opinions and stick to them until someone much wiser shows me the error of my thoughts. But to the whole dog/cat thing I hadn’t given much consideration.
I like dogs. They’re loyal and friendly. And I must admit they’re a lot more useful than cats – they herd sheep, lead the blind, and protect your house from burglerers.
But they’re also needy, attention-seeking, and dirty buggers when they eat their own poo. And after you pet a dog, your hand smells!
I like cats too. They’re clean and affectionate when they want food. They’re low-maintenance and generally look after themselves – no walkies or Frisbee-obsession.
But cats can make you feel like an idiot a lot of the time. Like when you make that “kssk-kssk” sound and call them in a baby voice and all they do is look at you and lick their bum, as though even that’s more interesting than getting tickles from you.
And there’s no cat in the world that would tear into a burning building to drag its owner out. They’ll just sit in a tree thinking, “Wow, lucky I got outta there in time,” and move in with the granny next door.
I had a cat who would watch the sunrise every morning – as though she was pondering the existence of a soul. We tend to just leave cats to their contemplations and ennui, trusting that they have more important matters to deliberate on.
But I think we often expect too much from our dogs. Whereas a cat can come and go as it pleases, sit wherever it wants, and not have to sleep outside in a cold kennel, dogs had better do as they’re told or face the consequences.
I always see people ‘affectionately’ thumping dogs across their sides as though they’re beating a dusty rug. These people always go, “He loves it!” thump-thump-thump.
I figure the only reason the dog doesn’t bite them is coz it’s shit-scared of the scolding and possible newspaper-whack it’d receive if it did! Not love or loyalty, just downright terror.
The same goes for the burning building scenario. Dog stares at the flames and black smoke and thinks, “Shit, I hope Dad’s okay,” with no intention of rushing into the inferno.
But then he imagines seeing Dad standing next to him, covered in ash, having fought and crawled through the blaze, with singed eyebrows and a rolled up Mail & Guardian in his hand, “And where the fuck were you?!?”
Whack-whack-whack!
So to the wine-waving, drunken dog-lover – I won’t discriminate. And here’s why:
If dogs are the courageous heroes of the domestic animal kingdom, cats are the philosophers.
I think in any universe, you need both.
Thinking Out the Ballot Box
I think Cape Town is a very well-run city. Helen Zille and the Democratic Alliance are doing a much better job than the ANC, who stole the city through floor-crossing a few years ago because they couldn’t get actual votes.
The blowhards who rule our beloved country bang on about how racist Cape Town is because they voted whites into power, but I don’t think it’s a race thing at all.
And I don’t think it’s all got to do with race when it comes to the ANC either. They don’t want all the money and power for blacks, they want it for themselves.
I truly believe that for the most part the DA are striving to make this city better for the people living in it, even when it comes to the new liquor law.
Unfortunately, I think Taki Amira and the rest of the party poopers spoiling everyone’s fun just don’t have the ability to think out of the box or be even the mildest bit creative.
I’m not really for or against the new law. It just seems pointless.
Sending everyone home early won’t stop drunk drivers – we need more roadblocks and better policing; we need to instil the belief that it is idiotic to sit behind the wheel when you can barely stand.
And it’s certainly not going to help those poor families with an abusive, alcoholic patriarch – if anything they’ll be even more pissed off and prone to violence when they get sent packing because their local’s got to close early.
In the UK, many pubs and clubs blacklist punters who cause trouble or get violent on or around the premises. This Pubwatch scheme works wonders because if you get shitfaced and start a brawl that’s it! You won’t be allowed into any of the participating pubs.
But it is all up to the bars and restaurants to uphold this social responsibility and work together.
A crazy idea that might curb domestic abuse would be to make bottle stores require ID and proof of residence from patrons. All purchases would need to be recorded and regularly checked by the police. Any retailers that sold without recording the customers’ details would need to be fined or shut down.
Domestic abuse recidivists could then be blacklisted and if they’re serious offenders they could be banned from purchasing liquor.
This would also help to get drunk bergies off the streets – no address, no hooch.
The law as it stands isn’t bad at all, but we need to tackle these problems in creative ways, from every angle.
I just feel sorry for all the waiters and bartenders who, after all the crap they’ve had to deal with, might enjoy an after-work drink to unwind, but can’t… because everything’s shut :(
The blowhards who rule our beloved country bang on about how racist Cape Town is because they voted whites into power, but I don’t think it’s a race thing at all.
And I don’t think it’s all got to do with race when it comes to the ANC either. They don’t want all the money and power for blacks, they want it for themselves.
I truly believe that for the most part the DA are striving to make this city better for the people living in it, even when it comes to the new liquor law.
Unfortunately, I think Taki Amira and the rest of the party poopers spoiling everyone’s fun just don’t have the ability to think out of the box or be even the mildest bit creative.
I’m not really for or against the new law. It just seems pointless.
Sending everyone home early won’t stop drunk drivers – we need more roadblocks and better policing; we need to instil the belief that it is idiotic to sit behind the wheel when you can barely stand.
And it’s certainly not going to help those poor families with an abusive, alcoholic patriarch – if anything they’ll be even more pissed off and prone to violence when they get sent packing because their local’s got to close early.
In the UK, many pubs and clubs blacklist punters who cause trouble or get violent on or around the premises. This Pubwatch scheme works wonders because if you get shitfaced and start a brawl that’s it! You won’t be allowed into any of the participating pubs.
But it is all up to the bars and restaurants to uphold this social responsibility and work together.
A crazy idea that might curb domestic abuse would be to make bottle stores require ID and proof of residence from patrons. All purchases would need to be recorded and regularly checked by the police. Any retailers that sold without recording the customers’ details would need to be fined or shut down.
Domestic abuse recidivists could then be blacklisted and if they’re serious offenders they could be banned from purchasing liquor.
This would also help to get drunk bergies off the streets – no address, no hooch.
The law as it stands isn’t bad at all, but we need to tackle these problems in creative ways, from every angle.
I just feel sorry for all the waiters and bartenders who, after all the crap they’ve had to deal with, might enjoy an after-work drink to unwind, but can’t… because everything’s shut :(
Make the [Prime] Circle Bigger
For the last couple of years some of the best music in the world has come out of South Africa.
One just has to listen to albums like Zebra & Giraffe’s Collected Memories, Prime Circle’s last two releases All or Nothing and Jekyll & Hyde, or bands like Cassette, Taxi Violence and Hog Hoggidy Hog to wonder why the hell musicians in this country struggle so.
Is it because the Americans are painfully closed-minded when it comes to international anything and just believe what the TV tells them?
We get fed such mediocre, boring bullshit from the States – all image and no substance. So-called artists who sell millions of records purely by shaking booty or pretending to be a gangster.
Is it because, when we have the opportunity to showcase our talent through events like the World Cup opening ceremony, our politicians stick to ‘traditional’ artists trying to be West Side Ali G imitations or safe but mundane bands like the Parlotones?
It’s almost as if there’s a government conspiracy to say to the world, “Look how gracious we are to let the whities on the stage, but doesn’t it sound like a kak version of the Killers?”
When I was a teenager all we had to offer was deafening bile like Mango Groove and MarcAlex – South African music was embarrassing and crap – but things have changed and I think most people my age don’t realise it.
Many still wrongly believe local is lame.
It’s not enough to buy a cd here and there and occasionally go to a Kirstenbosch concert. Proud South Africans need to be proactive and help get our musicians’ talent out there.
When Lucy’s mom returned to England I gave her a pile of discs to give to her son – everything from the Plastics to Plush to Wrestlerish. Hell, I even threw in some Watershed and old Squeal albums.
Listening to Prime Circle’s new Jekyll & Hyde causes my chest to puff up with patriotism. And, as one reviewer suggested, I will wave it in the face of every foreigner I meet.
We need them and those of their ilk to be able to keep doing what they’re doing, because if they fail all we will be left with is American finger-bling wavers, British gayboy bands, and a KFC snackbox.
One just has to listen to albums like Zebra & Giraffe’s Collected Memories, Prime Circle’s last two releases All or Nothing and Jekyll & Hyde, or bands like Cassette, Taxi Violence and Hog Hoggidy Hog to wonder why the hell musicians in this country struggle so.
Is it because the Americans are painfully closed-minded when it comes to international anything and just believe what the TV tells them?
We get fed such mediocre, boring bullshit from the States – all image and no substance. So-called artists who sell millions of records purely by shaking booty or pretending to be a gangster.
Is it because, when we have the opportunity to showcase our talent through events like the World Cup opening ceremony, our politicians stick to ‘traditional’ artists trying to be West Side Ali G imitations or safe but mundane bands like the Parlotones?
It’s almost as if there’s a government conspiracy to say to the world, “Look how gracious we are to let the whities on the stage, but doesn’t it sound like a kak version of the Killers?”
When I was a teenager all we had to offer was deafening bile like Mango Groove and MarcAlex – South African music was embarrassing and crap – but things have changed and I think most people my age don’t realise it.
Many still wrongly believe local is lame.
It’s not enough to buy a cd here and there and occasionally go to a Kirstenbosch concert. Proud South Africans need to be proactive and help get our musicians’ talent out there.
When Lucy’s mom returned to England I gave her a pile of discs to give to her son – everything from the Plastics to Plush to Wrestlerish. Hell, I even threw in some Watershed and old Squeal albums.
Listening to Prime Circle’s new Jekyll & Hyde causes my chest to puff up with patriotism. And, as one reviewer suggested, I will wave it in the face of every foreigner I meet.
We need them and those of their ilk to be able to keep doing what they’re doing, because if they fail all we will be left with is American finger-bling wavers, British gayboy bands, and a KFC snackbox.
HEATWAVE 2011
The City Bowl feels like a suburb of Hell.
As though our feigned ignorance and blind eyes turned have angered God, and all the whores and politicians have pulled us with them into the hungry Abyss.
On the other hand, it takes about half the time to bake a cake.
The sun and I have never really been good mates. I blame the Irish blood for my fair complexion – I go the colour of cheap Wimpy ketchup in twenty minutes and by nightfall I’m peeling like Goldmember.
On Wednesday the temperature supposedly hit around 40 Celsius, but it always feels much worse, doesn’t it?
At least that’s what the hamsters think – they’re monged out in their cages licking and then sleeping against the ice blocks we put in for them; too soporific to run on their wheels, let alone ride little bicycles through flaming hoops like they usually do when they want to be fed. I think this heat might actually kill Julius!
All the Pomms and Saffers in Queen’s Country, after regarding our half-melted Facebook updates, say something along the lines of, “Don’t complain about it; it’s minus five here!”
Maybe we should trade?
It’s fine if you’re on holiday and can lounge by the pool all day, occasionally flopping into the water when your tongue turns to biltong, but it’s not all shits and giggles if you’re stuck in an office.
Deodorant is useless – even anti-perspirant. You leave the house for two minutes and you’re dripping like an Emo’s eyeball and smelling like a monitor lizard.
There’s so much rage on the road that grannies are giving you the finger as they cut you off to get to the icecream bicycle man.
Even your hair and fingernails are sweating.
You’d think respite would come when the sun went to sleep, but it almost seems to get worse!
Cuddling is out of the question – body heat, hello? And when you wake up soaked in warm liquid… well, it reminds me of the last time I drank ouzo.
Plus, this heat always gives me terrifying nightmares – snakes devouring teddy bears, Buddha falling into a thornbush, or Gary the Tooth Fairy’s Variety Show!
I’m one night away from sleeping in the garden with the sprinkler on.
But as soon as the oceans have evaporated we can be sure torrential rains will follow. And at the rate 2010 passed by you know the Winter will be here sooner than you can toast a marshmallow on your steering wheel.
And then, in true Capetonian style, we’ll all be complaining about the cold.
As though our feigned ignorance and blind eyes turned have angered God, and all the whores and politicians have pulled us with them into the hungry Abyss.
On the other hand, it takes about half the time to bake a cake.
The sun and I have never really been good mates. I blame the Irish blood for my fair complexion – I go the colour of cheap Wimpy ketchup in twenty minutes and by nightfall I’m peeling like Goldmember.
On Wednesday the temperature supposedly hit around 40 Celsius, but it always feels much worse, doesn’t it?
At least that’s what the hamsters think – they’re monged out in their cages licking and then sleeping against the ice blocks we put in for them; too soporific to run on their wheels, let alone ride little bicycles through flaming hoops like they usually do when they want to be fed. I think this heat might actually kill Julius!
All the Pomms and Saffers in Queen’s Country, after regarding our half-melted Facebook updates, say something along the lines of, “Don’t complain about it; it’s minus five here!”
Maybe we should trade?
It’s fine if you’re on holiday and can lounge by the pool all day, occasionally flopping into the water when your tongue turns to biltong, but it’s not all shits and giggles if you’re stuck in an office.
Deodorant is useless – even anti-perspirant. You leave the house for two minutes and you’re dripping like an Emo’s eyeball and smelling like a monitor lizard.
There’s so much rage on the road that grannies are giving you the finger as they cut you off to get to the icecream bicycle man.
Even your hair and fingernails are sweating.
You’d think respite would come when the sun went to sleep, but it almost seems to get worse!
Cuddling is out of the question – body heat, hello? And when you wake up soaked in warm liquid… well, it reminds me of the last time I drank ouzo.
Plus, this heat always gives me terrifying nightmares – snakes devouring teddy bears, Buddha falling into a thornbush, or Gary the Tooth Fairy’s Variety Show!
I’m one night away from sleeping in the garden with the sprinkler on.
But as soon as the oceans have evaporated we can be sure torrential rains will follow. And at the rate 2010 passed by you know the Winter will be here sooner than you can toast a marshmallow on your steering wheel.
And then, in true Capetonian style, we’ll all be complaining about the cold.
Is there a Doom spray for Litterbugs?
Is it okay to excuse someone’s behaviour, give them the benefit of the doubt, because they’re of a certain race?
I’m wondering because the other day while driving we saw the car in front of us throw an empty plastic bottle out their car window and into the street. Lucy, being English, was shocked; I just kind of shrugged and didn’t make too much of it, not because I am apathetic towards littering, but because the car was full of black people.
I assumed they were from an historically disadvantaged area that was probably rubbish-strewn. I assumed they had not such a great education and weren’t exposed to the Zeebi adverts I was as a kid telling us not to litter.
I assumed that they just didn’t know any better.
I sometimes struggle with my attitudes towards other races. Often I see behaviour that makes me sigh – getting offered “nice Charlie” every five steps by Nigerians in Long Street; being cut off by a taxi only to have it slam on the brakes in front of me – I sometimes think things that I know are wrong.
For every dodgy black person I’ve met, I know twenty that are good, honest people. And living in Cape Town I’ve met more than my fair share of dodgy whites.
But then I pick up the paper and read about Julius Malema’s latest racist rant and my mind boggles at the massive support he has, or my fiancée gets treated like dirt at work because she’s white and British and dealing with young South African blacks.
Witnessing the simple act of littering out a car window made me sigh.
I wondered if it was because they came from a township with Pick ‘n Pay packets flapping from every fence. But surely that would make them more aware of how horrible it is to have rubbish just dumped in the street? They were adults; surely their minds could make that connection.
Maybe it was an act of spite? Or defiance of some kind?
Maybe not-littering is something one needs to learn from an early age?
I think it is human nature to box people. Not punch them in the face, but to compartmentalise. Think about it next time you’re in a bad mood in traffic:
Old person driving too slow – fucking grannies should have to do their driving test again when they hit eighty!
Twenty-year-old sits on your arse when you’re doing 120 – fucking young prick should learn how to drive!
Taxi almost kills you – fucking guy probably bought his license!
Psychologists tell us that racists only see the stereotypical behaviour and not the actions that go against the prejudicial beliefs. The hard part is being honest enough with ourselves to know when we are letting the cliché feed racist thoughts.
So what does my reaction to the plastic bottle out the car window tell me about myself? Am I racist for justifying the action? Am I apathetic when it comes to certain races because I think that’s just the way they behave?
In school they told us that when we saw someone littering we should point and shout, “Litterbug! Litterbug!” loudly until the offender picked their rubbish up and deposited it in the bin.
Maybe I should just start doing that again.
I’m wondering because the other day while driving we saw the car in front of us throw an empty plastic bottle out their car window and into the street. Lucy, being English, was shocked; I just kind of shrugged and didn’t make too much of it, not because I am apathetic towards littering, but because the car was full of black people.
I assumed they were from an historically disadvantaged area that was probably rubbish-strewn. I assumed they had not such a great education and weren’t exposed to the Zeebi adverts I was as a kid telling us not to litter.
I assumed that they just didn’t know any better.
I sometimes struggle with my attitudes towards other races. Often I see behaviour that makes me sigh – getting offered “nice Charlie” every five steps by Nigerians in Long Street; being cut off by a taxi only to have it slam on the brakes in front of me – I sometimes think things that I know are wrong.
For every dodgy black person I’ve met, I know twenty that are good, honest people. And living in Cape Town I’ve met more than my fair share of dodgy whites.
But then I pick up the paper and read about Julius Malema’s latest racist rant and my mind boggles at the massive support he has, or my fiancée gets treated like dirt at work because she’s white and British and dealing with young South African blacks.
Witnessing the simple act of littering out a car window made me sigh.
I wondered if it was because they came from a township with Pick ‘n Pay packets flapping from every fence. But surely that would make them more aware of how horrible it is to have rubbish just dumped in the street? They were adults; surely their minds could make that connection.
Maybe it was an act of spite? Or defiance of some kind?
Maybe not-littering is something one needs to learn from an early age?
I think it is human nature to box people. Not punch them in the face, but to compartmentalise. Think about it next time you’re in a bad mood in traffic:
Old person driving too slow – fucking grannies should have to do their driving test again when they hit eighty!
Twenty-year-old sits on your arse when you’re doing 120 – fucking young prick should learn how to drive!
Taxi almost kills you – fucking guy probably bought his license!
Psychologists tell us that racists only see the stereotypical behaviour and not the actions that go against the prejudicial beliefs. The hard part is being honest enough with ourselves to know when we are letting the cliché feed racist thoughts.
So what does my reaction to the plastic bottle out the car window tell me about myself? Am I racist for justifying the action? Am I apathetic when it comes to certain races because I think that’s just the way they behave?
In school they told us that when we saw someone littering we should point and shout, “Litterbug! Litterbug!” loudly until the offender picked their rubbish up and deposited it in the bin.
Maybe I should just start doing that again.
Maybe An Exorcist Would Help!
I slept on the couch again last night.
Not because Lucy and I had a fight or anything, but because I was snoring.
It doesn’t happen that often, but every now and again my throat makes a noise like a slimy corpse being dragged along gravel; for Lucy it’s like trying to sleep in a jellyfish-pounding plant.
It’s so bad sometimes I startle myself awake! Jumping out of bed I grab a broomstick to defend us against a clumsy phlegm-monster climbing through the bedroom window until I realise it’s just me.
It’s then that I get the spare blanky out of the closet, take my pillow and settle down on the uncomfortable couch. The result is I wake up the next morning with a sore back and a grumpier-than-usual disposition.
Snoring can be caused by a number of things – nasal stuffiness or allergies, the position you sleep in, small or collapsing nostrils, smoking, alcohol, or even just being a fatty. And the first step is to find out which of these you are.
A quick check with the British Snoring & Sleep Apnoea Association kindly told me I wasn’t overweight (apparently I’m normal), but I’m sure their opinion would alter if they could see my pregnant profile in the bathroom mirror.
If you’re what they call a ‘mouth breather’ and sleep with your mouth open, it’s apparently easy to cure. Just get yourself a mouth guard that forces you to breathe through your nose, or some ‘chin-up strips’ that’ll hold your gob closed.
I suggest you discuss this with your partner first, lest she finds it disturbing waking up next to Hannibal Lecter and you’ve wasted your money.
The other turn of events could be she finds it a kinky turn-on and you’ve got to wear it all the time.
Great success!
What excited me more (because I’m a bit odd) was a new laser treatment – I could just imagine Gert Frobe standing over Sean Connery:
“Do you expect me to talk?”
“No mister Bond, I expect to fix your deviated septum!”
When you sleep the muscles in your tongue, throat and the roof of your mouth relax; when you then breathe this tissue flaps around making a sound like a McDonald’s chef prepping the ‘special sauce’ for your quarter-pounder.
What the [insert finger exclamation here] laser does is warm the inner tissue of the palate to form rigid scar tissue that’ll, hopefully, not flobber about so much.
A Google search for the average cost revealed that most places that do this kind of treatment are in countries like Croatia, Czech republic and Germany – the kind of locales movies like Hostel are set in.
The average cost is between £300 - £400 in Germany and Czech Republic – reasonable – and a staggeringly low £92 in Croatia… probably some back-alley butcher with a blowtorch.
I couldn’t find any herbal remedies, so the hippy market is wide open, and I decided my best bet is to get down to my local otolaryngologist for help.
Either that or buy a comfier couch.
Not because Lucy and I had a fight or anything, but because I was snoring.
It doesn’t happen that often, but every now and again my throat makes a noise like a slimy corpse being dragged along gravel; for Lucy it’s like trying to sleep in a jellyfish-pounding plant.
It’s so bad sometimes I startle myself awake! Jumping out of bed I grab a broomstick to defend us against a clumsy phlegm-monster climbing through the bedroom window until I realise it’s just me.
It’s then that I get the spare blanky out of the closet, take my pillow and settle down on the uncomfortable couch. The result is I wake up the next morning with a sore back and a grumpier-than-usual disposition.
Snoring can be caused by a number of things – nasal stuffiness or allergies, the position you sleep in, small or collapsing nostrils, smoking, alcohol, or even just being a fatty. And the first step is to find out which of these you are.
A quick check with the British Snoring & Sleep Apnoea Association kindly told me I wasn’t overweight (apparently I’m normal), but I’m sure their opinion would alter if they could see my pregnant profile in the bathroom mirror.
If you’re what they call a ‘mouth breather’ and sleep with your mouth open, it’s apparently easy to cure. Just get yourself a mouth guard that forces you to breathe through your nose, or some ‘chin-up strips’ that’ll hold your gob closed.
I suggest you discuss this with your partner first, lest she finds it disturbing waking up next to Hannibal Lecter and you’ve wasted your money.
The other turn of events could be she finds it a kinky turn-on and you’ve got to wear it all the time.
Great success!
What excited me more (because I’m a bit odd) was a new laser treatment – I could just imagine Gert Frobe standing over Sean Connery:
“Do you expect me to talk?”
“No mister Bond, I expect to fix your deviated septum!”
When you sleep the muscles in your tongue, throat and the roof of your mouth relax; when you then breathe this tissue flaps around making a sound like a McDonald’s chef prepping the ‘special sauce’ for your quarter-pounder.
What the [insert finger exclamation here] laser does is warm the inner tissue of the palate to form rigid scar tissue that’ll, hopefully, not flobber about so much.
A Google search for the average cost revealed that most places that do this kind of treatment are in countries like Croatia, Czech republic and Germany – the kind of locales movies like Hostel are set in.
The average cost is between £300 - £400 in Germany and Czech Republic – reasonable – and a staggeringly low £92 in Croatia… probably some back-alley butcher with a blowtorch.
I couldn’t find any herbal remedies, so the hippy market is wide open, and I decided my best bet is to get down to my local otolaryngologist for help.
Either that or buy a comfier couch.
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