After the last elections a lady I know from Khayalitsha told me about how at the eleventh hour she changed her allegiance from ANC to Democratic Alliance because the DA were handing out “nicer things” like t-shirts and boerewors rolls.
I also hear it’s not uncommon for candidates to hand out cellphone airtime to prospective punters.
I suppose with no hope of any real change the best bet seems to be ‘take what you can get now!’
It smacks of ‘stepfather syndrome’ – like your mom’s new boyfriend buying your good graces with gifts; it gets him in the door and into her panties, and later when you find out he’s a dickhead it’s too late.
I suppose giving away free stuff is one way to make friends, but the ANC know that to be prom queen you’ve got to get people to want to be you.
That’s why the ruling party big wigs tool around in cars that cost more than 520 weeks of wages, bring bodyguards to court sporting Armani and artillery, and base their campaigns on how good a dancer their president is.
And if status don’t do it, star power will. That’s why jazz guitarist Jimmy Dludlu can now be seen traipsing door-to-door telling his fans to vote the right way or it’s not only Jesus that will hate you, but celebs as well.
Having “offered [his] services to the party for this election campaign”, one wonders what those might be besides lending his famous face to election hopefuls.
Maybe he’s planning to strum along as Zuma sings his famous ‘machine gun’ song, or possibly an up-tempo version of the ‘kill the boer’ ditty comrades are so fond of.
Poor old Helen Zille tries to keep up – learning to toi-toi and boning up on some struggle tunes – and we can only hope she won’t get an Idols runner-up to tag along with her this time.
A friend of mine reckons politicians shouldn’t be allowed to bang on about what they’re going to do, they should only be allowed to talk about what they’ve done already. If the best they can come up with is a keyring and hotdog then it might give us something to think about.
If our democracy keeps sinking deeper into a mere popularity contest, with issues given brief lip service and the real question being how many famous people we can get on board and how many t-shirts we can hand out, then we might as well make the elections an SABC reality show and we can all phone in our votes.
At least then the airtime will be useful.
Prime Slime
Maybe E-TV should just go ahead and change its name to WWE-TV.
No matter what time of the day, if you switch over to this channel, you’re sure to witness two guys pretending to beat the bejeezus out of each other. We all know it’s an act, and that no one really gets hurt, but we call it ‘sport’ and watch it anyway.
I’ll admit it makes for better daytime television than Days of our Lives reruns and infomercials for snail goo face packs, but the fact that it’s Prime Time viewing is a pretty pathetic reflection of public intellectualism.
Why is this American theatre on in a South African Prime Time slot anyway? Is the target audience for ETV really so undiscerning? Or do we as a nation like to unwind after a hard day’s slog by watching grown men slap and pull hair?
WWE Wrestling is kind of like a violent soap opera for boys. The men tend to spend more time scheming and insulting each other on-stage (or in-ring?) than actually fighting, and the costumes are so camp they could be rejects from the set of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
For decades parents have expressed concern about their children being exposed to such violence, but to my mind there is a lot more to be worried about if your kids idolise these artificial athletes.
I’d feel as though I’d neglected my duties as a responsible parent if one day my son asked for a t-shirt bearing the flexing bicep and growling mug of some bulging steroid case who dressed in tight luminous bicycle shorts and bickered like a menstruating fishwife with other, similarly-attired men.
Having your kids grow up to think all problems are solved through violence is one thing, but if they have to pop on a yellow one-piece and police-dog muzzle first, you know you’ve got problems.
With more of a sense of social responsibility, the SABC often televises boring ministerial debates during the day. And I’m sure the housewives and unemployable alcoholics who watch our politicians look down on those who choose the sweaty beefcakes.
But I suppose in Parliament the characters are as ridiculous, the arguments even more childish, and the eventual outcome just as pointless.
No matter what time of the day, if you switch over to this channel, you’re sure to witness two guys pretending to beat the bejeezus out of each other. We all know it’s an act, and that no one really gets hurt, but we call it ‘sport’ and watch it anyway.
I’ll admit it makes for better daytime television than Days of our Lives reruns and infomercials for snail goo face packs, but the fact that it’s Prime Time viewing is a pretty pathetic reflection of public intellectualism.
Why is this American theatre on in a South African Prime Time slot anyway? Is the target audience for ETV really so undiscerning? Or do we as a nation like to unwind after a hard day’s slog by watching grown men slap and pull hair?
WWE Wrestling is kind of like a violent soap opera for boys. The men tend to spend more time scheming and insulting each other on-stage (or in-ring?) than actually fighting, and the costumes are so camp they could be rejects from the set of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
For decades parents have expressed concern about their children being exposed to such violence, but to my mind there is a lot more to be worried about if your kids idolise these artificial athletes.
I’d feel as though I’d neglected my duties as a responsible parent if one day my son asked for a t-shirt bearing the flexing bicep and growling mug of some bulging steroid case who dressed in tight luminous bicycle shorts and bickered like a menstruating fishwife with other, similarly-attired men.
Having your kids grow up to think all problems are solved through violence is one thing, but if they have to pop on a yellow one-piece and police-dog muzzle first, you know you’ve got problems.
With more of a sense of social responsibility, the SABC often televises boring ministerial debates during the day. And I’m sure the housewives and unemployable alcoholics who watch our politicians look down on those who choose the sweaty beefcakes.
But I suppose in Parliament the characters are as ridiculous, the arguments even more childish, and the eventual outcome just as pointless.
Reservoir Hyenas
Looking at the photos of his court appearance, I reckon Julius Malema might just be the greatest politician South Africa has ever seen.
Like a Tarantino creation, he strutted into the Johannesburg High Court flanked by automatic weapon wielding bodyguards, afraid that the Afriforum tree-huggers might pop a cap in his taxpayer-fattened ass. Or maybe he was afraid that the “boers” he so wanted to “shoot” would do the job.
The case of hate speech has been brought against him by human rights group, Afriforum, for singing Ayesaba Amagwala, known as the ‘Kill the Boer’ song.
There were no angry Afrikaans protesters. No placards saying “kill the doos”. No “bloody agents” with “rubbish in [their] trousers” calling for his thick head. There were only ANCYL supporters out for some Malema magic – better than old Steven Seagal reruns on SABC any day.
But he knew that already, and calling him thick-headed is wrong.
Malema is smart enough to know that by making him a martyr would only make his legend greater. And without any real threat, he knows he needs to create a threat in the minds of his supporters. Even if the threat is a fiction, it still gives him power.
He is right to call the prosecution “Mickey Mouses”. Compared to the movie star that is Malema, they are lowly television continuity announcers.
Like Jacob Zuma, singing his machine gun song and dancing his way into power, Malema is a showman of the highest order.
He knows that the South African political arena is a circus; a show not meant to inform or educate, but to entertain. He knows the public is becoming bored with just comedy and drama, and in a successful effort to score points with his audience, has added an element of action to it all.
As long as he keeps his audience entertained they will keep watching, keep supporting.
I believe this boy will be president one day. And when that happens, we can expect the horror movie to begin.
Like a Tarantino creation, he strutted into the Johannesburg High Court flanked by automatic weapon wielding bodyguards, afraid that the Afriforum tree-huggers might pop a cap in his taxpayer-fattened ass. Or maybe he was afraid that the “boers” he so wanted to “shoot” would do the job.
The case of hate speech has been brought against him by human rights group, Afriforum, for singing Ayesaba Amagwala, known as the ‘Kill the Boer’ song.
There were no angry Afrikaans protesters. No placards saying “kill the doos”. No “bloody agents” with “rubbish in [their] trousers” calling for his thick head. There were only ANCYL supporters out for some Malema magic – better than old Steven Seagal reruns on SABC any day.
But he knew that already, and calling him thick-headed is wrong.
Malema is smart enough to know that by making him a martyr would only make his legend greater. And without any real threat, he knows he needs to create a threat in the minds of his supporters. Even if the threat is a fiction, it still gives him power.
He is right to call the prosecution “Mickey Mouses”. Compared to the movie star that is Malema, they are lowly television continuity announcers.
Like Jacob Zuma, singing his machine gun song and dancing his way into power, Malema is a showman of the highest order.
He knows that the South African political arena is a circus; a show not meant to inform or educate, but to entertain. He knows the public is becoming bored with just comedy and drama, and in a successful effort to score points with his audience, has added an element of action to it all.
As long as he keeps his audience entertained they will keep watching, keep supporting.
I believe this boy will be president one day. And when that happens, we can expect the horror movie to begin.
Is Lady Rugga A Muncher?
Local television sucks.
Most of the time our comedies are as amusing as stepping barefoot in dog shit, our dramas are less controversial than the general family get-together, and our game shows are low-budget replicas of better-produced, more entertaining overseas ones.
We follow the American formula when it comes to everything from our scripts to our cookie-cutter, assembly-line television presenters, and viewers should keep this in mind when anticipating the forthcoming selection of the “first female rugby commentator in South Africa”.
That quote is being trumpeted at the moment louder than the Stormers fans’ boo’s at an opposing team; like it’s a gigantic, stiletto’d leap forward for gender rights.
Following from the success of the ‘Player 23’ marketing campaign, Vodacom has created ‘Lady Rugga’ – which I’m assuming is a female version of the Jan and Elton characters from their adverts.
What they don’t realise is they’re setting themselves up for an epic fail no matter what the outcome.
Most girls I know don’t know much about what should really be called the beautiful game, and the handful of women’s rugby matches I’ve taken in haven’t held my interest as much as, say, Anna Kournikova in a short skirt at Wimbledon.
At risk of a black eye, let’s just say the girls who pass around the pigskin ain’t dainty. But having said that I’m sure they know a hell of a lot more than me about the game’s strategy and rules and psychological burdens.
And therein lies the rub. Because of our broadcasters’ insistence that any member of the female persuasion on telly must be eye-gogglingly and mind-bogglingly beautiful, petite and slim, where are they going to find a sexy presenter with the rugby chops to keep up with Naas Botha and the other guy with the flat hairdo?
Is it going to be a blonde bimbo who knows nothing about the game? Just throwing a petrol bomb onto the fire of the chauvinistic ignorance of the average rugby fan?
Or a meaty, hairy-chinned female forward to do the job? Perpetuating the other stereotype of the rugby chick being an over-testosterone’d vagina-tarian?
I await the result with bated breath.
Most of the time our comedies are as amusing as stepping barefoot in dog shit, our dramas are less controversial than the general family get-together, and our game shows are low-budget replicas of better-produced, more entertaining overseas ones.
We follow the American formula when it comes to everything from our scripts to our cookie-cutter, assembly-line television presenters, and viewers should keep this in mind when anticipating the forthcoming selection of the “first female rugby commentator in South Africa”.
That quote is being trumpeted at the moment louder than the Stormers fans’ boo’s at an opposing team; like it’s a gigantic, stiletto’d leap forward for gender rights.
Following from the success of the ‘Player 23’ marketing campaign, Vodacom has created ‘Lady Rugga’ – which I’m assuming is a female version of the Jan and Elton characters from their adverts.
What they don’t realise is they’re setting themselves up for an epic fail no matter what the outcome.
Most girls I know don’t know much about what should really be called the beautiful game, and the handful of women’s rugby matches I’ve taken in haven’t held my interest as much as, say, Anna Kournikova in a short skirt at Wimbledon.
At risk of a black eye, let’s just say the girls who pass around the pigskin ain’t dainty. But having said that I’m sure they know a hell of a lot more than me about the game’s strategy and rules and psychological burdens.
And therein lies the rub. Because of our broadcasters’ insistence that any member of the female persuasion on telly must be eye-gogglingly and mind-bogglingly beautiful, petite and slim, where are they going to find a sexy presenter with the rugby chops to keep up with Naas Botha and the other guy with the flat hairdo?
Is it going to be a blonde bimbo who knows nothing about the game? Just throwing a petrol bomb onto the fire of the chauvinistic ignorance of the average rugby fan?
Or a meaty, hairy-chinned female forward to do the job? Perpetuating the other stereotype of the rugby chick being an over-testosterone’d vagina-tarian?
I await the result with bated breath.
Bible Bashing Bergie Buddhas
I sometimes feel sorry for God.
When I’m having lunch at a Long Street restaurant and a guy carrying a loudhailer and a Bible walks down the road shouting about how “filthy with sin” we all are, I think two things.
1. Get a job.
2. If I was God would I want this crazy person as a representative?
If a bloke in a moth-eaten sports jacket, with greasy hair and yellow teeth, tried to sell you timeshare, you’d surely think it was some kind of a scam.
Ditto for the people on the train waving the Good Book, railing against the Devil, covering the captive and unimpressed audience in spittle. All I can say is thank God for the iPod.
The same way the everyday Muslim must hate the fundamentalist fuckers strapping crackers to their chest and blowing up in shopping malls, the quiet Christian surely feels foolish when witnessing these mental misfits with their streetside sermons.
Could you be blamed for getting to the Pearly Gates and, upon realisation that Atheism wasn’t the best choice, telling the Big Man it was because of the bad press he got from paedophile priests and bonkers bergies?
I’m sure He’s a reasonable dude. I’m sure He’d have a chuckle and understand.
I’d like to think He’d rather tally up all the good stuff against the mean shit you’ve done and judge you on that.
I once thought that agnostics were the worst kind of fence-sitters, even though I was one. I mean, I have a personal belief based on personal experience – that evolves the older I get – but I’m well aware that this belief is partly there to make me feel better.
And if it makes you feel better then isn’t it a good thing?
As long as you don’t force it up anyone’s arse or kill those who don’t agree with you, then what does it really matter if you believe in a magic Tellytubby riding a steamroller who’ll have you shovelling horse manure for eternity unless you grow a mullet?
But they’d have me locked up if I went around preaching about that, so I’ll just keep my views to myself.
When I’m having lunch at a Long Street restaurant and a guy carrying a loudhailer and a Bible walks down the road shouting about how “filthy with sin” we all are, I think two things.
1. Get a job.
2. If I was God would I want this crazy person as a representative?
If a bloke in a moth-eaten sports jacket, with greasy hair and yellow teeth, tried to sell you timeshare, you’d surely think it was some kind of a scam.
Ditto for the people on the train waving the Good Book, railing against the Devil, covering the captive and unimpressed audience in spittle. All I can say is thank God for the iPod.
The same way the everyday Muslim must hate the fundamentalist fuckers strapping crackers to their chest and blowing up in shopping malls, the quiet Christian surely feels foolish when witnessing these mental misfits with their streetside sermons.
Could you be blamed for getting to the Pearly Gates and, upon realisation that Atheism wasn’t the best choice, telling the Big Man it was because of the bad press he got from paedophile priests and bonkers bergies?
I’m sure He’s a reasonable dude. I’m sure He’d have a chuckle and understand.
I’d like to think He’d rather tally up all the good stuff against the mean shit you’ve done and judge you on that.
I once thought that agnostics were the worst kind of fence-sitters, even though I was one. I mean, I have a personal belief based on personal experience – that evolves the older I get – but I’m well aware that this belief is partly there to make me feel better.
And if it makes you feel better then isn’t it a good thing?
As long as you don’t force it up anyone’s arse or kill those who don’t agree with you, then what does it really matter if you believe in a magic Tellytubby riding a steamroller who’ll have you shovelling horse manure for eternity unless you grow a mullet?
But they’d have me locked up if I went around preaching about that, so I’ll just keep my views to myself.
Stag Night
After a table dance in front of twenty people, having thrown the G-string I was wearing into the crowd, I climb down and think, “I could do this every weekend!”
Maybe an hour ago I was in the back of a minibus taxi, struggling fishnets up my legs, wondering just how confident I was with my sexuality.
It’s a common sight in Cape Town on a Saturday evening – men on the verge of marriage, dressed in women’s clothing, a beer mug handcuffed to their arm.
Strippers and strip clubs seem so 20th Century. Honestly, it’d feel like cheating to have some big-breasted Russian poking her nipples into my eyes – so it’s me dressed for success, deliberating over which bog-door to go through.
Some guys think it’s funny to grab my arse and ask for a blowjob. They get a bit freaked when I cup their nuts in my hand and tell them it’ll cost a tenner. There’s a flicker of doubt and they think maybe this is my ‘coming out’ night and not a bachelor’s party.
But after the fourth pint and a few Jagermeisters, appropriately having a Bavarian sausage platter for dinner, I forget about the pink wig and sexy nightie. Out the corner of my eye I see a table of German tourists staring at me and think, “What the fuck are they looking at?”
It’s kind of like being a moderately famous soap opera actor. Strangers ask to have their picture taken with me. Groups of girls buy me shots at the bar. It’s easy to see why some people get addicted to being the centre of attention.
At Quay Four in the Waterfront, a woman gets aggro with me for cutting in on her and some guy on the dancefloor. I think she’s just a bad sport until my mate informs me that the ‘woman’ is actually another guy in drag – the only difference being he’s not on his stag night.
Welcome to Cape Town.
Later in the night a bouncer won’t let us jump the queue at a club. I kick up a stink, and what normally would get me a black eye and maybe a broken rib gets us in.
We meet up with my fiancée, Lucy, on her hen night. She’s wearing angel wings and ‘cock-boppers’. We drunkenly relay tales from the last few hours.
I’m fat with a beard and just make a really ugly chick, but Lucy says the next morning she found me in the stockings and pink wig a strange turn-on.
Maybe I should do this every weekend.
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