Although most people from Joburg are likely to call you their ‘china’, not many of them know that that the term comes from the cockney slang, ‘china plate’, which translates to ‘mate’.
When my mother-in-law visited from England she often encouraged me to have a “butcher’s” at something or other; butcher’s – butcher’s hook – look.
Further investigation led me to watching the entire box-set of Only Fools and Horses, with the inimitable Delboy saying things like, “The old dog’s knackered!” and “You’ve got a right rash on your boat race!”
So now, for no reason other than it makes my wife laugh, I share my first rhyming slang lesson with you.
LESSON #1: DOWN THE PUB
“Let’s swing by the Battle for a Gary!”
Battle Cruiser – Boozer
Gary Glitter – Bitter
“I’ll get the drinks, you grab us a lion’s and we can have a bowler.”
Lion’s Lair – Chair
Bowler Hat - Chat
“I’ll have an Ari of Nelson…”
Nelson Mandela – Stella (Artois)
Aristotle – Bottle
“…and my fruit wants a Winona.”
Fruit Gum – Chum
Winona Ryder – Cider
“Ooh, have a butcher’s at the Bristols on that twist!”
Butcher’s Hook – Look
Bristol Cities – Titties
Twist and Twirl – girl
“Oi, that’s my bricks ‘n mortar!”
Bricks and Mortar – Daughter
“That guy with her looks a right doctor.”
Doctor Dre – Gay
“Nah, he’s a Julius.”
Julius Caesar – Geezer
“Just the one for me, the wife’s Pope and babbling a Ruby tonight.”
Pope in Rome – Home
Babbling Brook – Cook
Ruby Murray – Curry
“No worries, I’m off to the Rick for a gypsey’s.”
Rick Whitter – Shitter
Gypsey’s Kiss – Piss
“Great. You grab the Jack. I haven’t got a sausage.”
Jack and Jill – Bill
Sausage and Mash – Cash
That should be enough to get you started. Now, I’m off to the pub with the trouble.
Way of the Weekend Warrior
When Saturday comes round there always seems to be a surplus of faux Hell’s Angels – fully clad in leather jackets, potty helmets and chaps.
They cruise the highways in large groups, snarling at little children and giving the finger to old people. They'll tell you their name is Sammy Sawtooth or Ted the Decapitator. They'll get boozy and pinch waitress's bums.
These men (and their obligatory ‘old ladies’) are examples of the rather sad Weekend Warrior.
CHAPS IN CHAPS!
The guys on Harley hogs and Japanese superbikes are merely moonlighting.
From Monday to Friday they are mild mannered accountants and lawyers – but when the working week is over the banker becomes the bad-ass, and the dentist becomes the demon.
You can almost see them on a Saturday morning bringing the wife tea and a rusk in bed, and then sneaking off to the hidden room behind the decoupage workbench in the garage.
This room is their Batcave – containing a fake beard, leather-jacket-with-sleeveless-denim-jacket-on-top, and the complete Steven Seagal collection on Blu-Ray. They suit up solemnly and hit the streets… no doubt with a ZZ Top tune playing in their head.
SAD-O OR SUPERHERO?
We all know that Clark Kent’s milksop was the hardcore Superman. And playboy fop Bruce Wayne was really a cover for his nightly pursuits as Batman. So the only imaginable motivation for these sad-o’s would be a deeply buried desire to be a man of mystery.
That explains the denim over leather – didn’t the man of Steel and Dark Knight wear their undies on top of their trousers? And the fake beard would hide their visage in case they came across Betty from the marketing department.
I’m sure some of their colleagues from work join them on their weekend rampage, but these activities are kept hidden from the boringly average ‘citizens’.
The first rule of Superhero Bike Club is: you don’t talk about Superhero Bike Club.
YOU CAN DO IT TOO!
If you can’t afford a Harley, don’t be discouraged. We can all indulge in childhood fantasies.
I once met a guy who donned a top hat and tails and performed magic tricks in his spare time. A friend of mine knew a guy who dressed up in a ninja suit at night and climbed buildings. True fact.
The women of the Beaufort West Scrabble Society dropped their doilies when I thumped their champion with ‘xylophone’ on a Triple Word Score to win – little did they know that I was mentored by the most cutthroat and diabolical Scrabble player of the 20th Century: my mum.
We all hide secret lives – be they ninja surmounter, Scrabble hustler or hog rider – and these lives are the red cape beneath our dinner jacket... so please don't laugh.
They cruise the highways in large groups, snarling at little children and giving the finger to old people. They'll tell you their name is Sammy Sawtooth or Ted the Decapitator. They'll get boozy and pinch waitress's bums.
These men (and their obligatory ‘old ladies’) are examples of the rather sad Weekend Warrior.
CHAPS IN CHAPS!
The guys on Harley hogs and Japanese superbikes are merely moonlighting.
From Monday to Friday they are mild mannered accountants and lawyers – but when the working week is over the banker becomes the bad-ass, and the dentist becomes the demon.
You can almost see them on a Saturday morning bringing the wife tea and a rusk in bed, and then sneaking off to the hidden room behind the decoupage workbench in the garage.
This room is their Batcave – containing a fake beard, leather-jacket-with-sleeveless-denim-jacket-on-top, and the complete Steven Seagal collection on Blu-Ray. They suit up solemnly and hit the streets… no doubt with a ZZ Top tune playing in their head.
SAD-O OR SUPERHERO?
We all know that Clark Kent’s milksop was the hardcore Superman. And playboy fop Bruce Wayne was really a cover for his nightly pursuits as Batman. So the only imaginable motivation for these sad-o’s would be a deeply buried desire to be a man of mystery.
That explains the denim over leather – didn’t the man of Steel and Dark Knight wear their undies on top of their trousers? And the fake beard would hide their visage in case they came across Betty from the marketing department.
I’m sure some of their colleagues from work join them on their weekend rampage, but these activities are kept hidden from the boringly average ‘citizens’.
The first rule of Superhero Bike Club is: you don’t talk about Superhero Bike Club.
YOU CAN DO IT TOO!
If you can’t afford a Harley, don’t be discouraged. We can all indulge in childhood fantasies.
I once met a guy who donned a top hat and tails and performed magic tricks in his spare time. A friend of mine knew a guy who dressed up in a ninja suit at night and climbed buildings. True fact.
The women of the Beaufort West Scrabble Society dropped their doilies when I thumped their champion with ‘xylophone’ on a Triple Word Score to win – little did they know that I was mentored by the most cutthroat and diabolical Scrabble player of the 20th Century: my mum.
We all hide secret lives – be they ninja surmounter, Scrabble hustler or hog rider – and these lives are the red cape beneath our dinner jacket... so please don't laugh.
How Sue Sylvester C's It!
Too many of my friends refuse to watch the telly show Glee because they fear that liking it might make them question their sexuality. My wife and I bang on about it so much someone remarked that we sound like freshly brainwashed Christians.
I’m not sure what it is about Glee – the singing, the slushies-in-the-face, but one thing that stands out is the heinous, Machiavellian monster that is Sue Sylvester.
So in an attempt to convert my too-macho-for-their-own-good mates, I’ve compiled fifteen of the most despicable Sue Sylvester quotes from the first season of Glee.
In her own words: “You are about to board the Sue Sylvester Express. Destination: Horror!”
1. “You know, for me, trophies are like herpes. You try to get rid of them, but they keep coming. You know why? Sue Sylvester has hourly flare-ups of burning, itchy, highly contagious talent.”
2. “I've never wanted kids... don't have the time, don't have the uterus.”
3. "You know what, I checked out of our conversation about a minute back, so good luck with your troubles, and I'm gonna make it a habit not to stop and talk to students because this has been a colossal waste of my time."
4. “You have all the sexuality of all those pandas down at the zoo who refuse to mate."
5. "I'm reasonably confident that you will be adding revenge to the long list of things you're no good at, right next to being married, running a high school glee club, and finding a hair style that doesn't make you look like a lesbian.”
6. “I thought I smelled cookies wafting from the ovens of the little elves who live in your hair.”
7. "I will go to the animal shelter and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat. And then on some dark cold night, I will steal away into your house and punch you in the face."
8. “Your delusions of persecution are a tell-tale sign of early stage paranoid schizophrenia.”
9. “I'm having a really difficult time hearing anything you have to say today because your hair looks like a briar patch. I keep expecting racist, animated Disney characters to pop up and start singing songs about living on the bayou.”
10. "Every time I try to destroy that clutch of scab-eating mouth-breathers, it only comes back stronger, like some sexually ambiguous horror villain."
11. “I am engorged with venom and triumph.”
12. "I, for one, think intimacy has no place in marriage. I walked in on my parents once and it was like seeing two walruses wrestling."
13. “Boy, the only thing missing from this place is a couple dozen bodies – limed and rotting in shallow graves under the floorboards.”
14. “Oh I will bring it, William. You know what else I'm gonna to bring? I'm gonna bring some Asian cookery to wipe your head with. Cause right now you've got enough product in your hair to season a wok.”
15. “Your resentment... is delicious.”
And that’s how Sue… C’s it!
I’m not sure what it is about Glee – the singing, the slushies-in-the-face, but one thing that stands out is the heinous, Machiavellian monster that is Sue Sylvester.
So in an attempt to convert my too-macho-for-their-own-good mates, I’ve compiled fifteen of the most despicable Sue Sylvester quotes from the first season of Glee.
In her own words: “You are about to board the Sue Sylvester Express. Destination: Horror!”
1. “You know, for me, trophies are like herpes. You try to get rid of them, but they keep coming. You know why? Sue Sylvester has hourly flare-ups of burning, itchy, highly contagious talent.”
2. “I've never wanted kids... don't have the time, don't have the uterus.”
3. "You know what, I checked out of our conversation about a minute back, so good luck with your troubles, and I'm gonna make it a habit not to stop and talk to students because this has been a colossal waste of my time."
4. “You have all the sexuality of all those pandas down at the zoo who refuse to mate."
5. "I'm reasonably confident that you will be adding revenge to the long list of things you're no good at, right next to being married, running a high school glee club, and finding a hair style that doesn't make you look like a lesbian.”
6. “I thought I smelled cookies wafting from the ovens of the little elves who live in your hair.”
7. "I will go to the animal shelter and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat. And then on some dark cold night, I will steal away into your house and punch you in the face."
8. “Your delusions of persecution are a tell-tale sign of early stage paranoid schizophrenia.”
9. “I'm having a really difficult time hearing anything you have to say today because your hair looks like a briar patch. I keep expecting racist, animated Disney characters to pop up and start singing songs about living on the bayou.”
10. "Every time I try to destroy that clutch of scab-eating mouth-breathers, it only comes back stronger, like some sexually ambiguous horror villain."
11. “I am engorged with venom and triumph.”
12. "I, for one, think intimacy has no place in marriage. I walked in on my parents once and it was like seeing two walruses wrestling."
13. “Boy, the only thing missing from this place is a couple dozen bodies – limed and rotting in shallow graves under the floorboards.”
14. “Oh I will bring it, William. You know what else I'm gonna to bring? I'm gonna bring some Asian cookery to wipe your head with. Cause right now you've got enough product in your hair to season a wok.”
15. “Your resentment... is delicious.”
And that’s how Sue… C’s it!
Snort-A-Tan with Ubertan!
The one and only time I was offered cocaine elicited a personal rule that maybe more people should adopt.
My response to the question was, “The only thing I stick up my nose is my finger.”
It seems logical to me that of all the male body’s orifices, there are three that should be used solely for substance expulsion – one of them is the nasal cavity.
Maybe this fairly straightforward rule should be taught in biology classes throughout the UK, because the Daily Mail reports that “hordes of young women” have been buying and snorting Ubertan – “It’s estimated that British users number tens of thousands.”
Ubertan’s alleged side effects include nausea, allergic reactions and heart palpitations.
A Google search directed me to a non-existent ubertan.com and a forum where the substance is enthusiastically punted by a woman named Catherine saying it was “totally brill” and that the only side effects were a “loss of appetite”.
The fact is that this Catherine sounds less like a real person and more like the boiled slugs that roll around in dodgy marketing departments. She claims that Ubertan is “a plant extract, with Amino and Fatty Acids that increases the Melanin in your skin.”
On the same forum Scott Stevenson tells us, “This is almost definitely rebranded Melanotan II…Claims that it is simply made of 'plant extracts' are dubious at best.” He carries on about something I’d never heard of called Melanotan, which is another tanning product sold as a nasal spray.
Further investigation found this site that calls Melanotan ‘The Barbie Drug’ and reveals that the product has been having trouble gaining regulatory approval in Australia and the US, whose FDA said, “The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has issued a Warning Letter to Brian Manookian, owner of Melanocorp, Inc. in Hendersonville, Tenn. for the illegal sale and marketing of the product Melanotan II, which is not FDA-approved, on Melanocorp's Web site. FDA recommends that consumers who are currently using Melanotan II stop using this product and consult their health care provider if they have experienced any adverse events that they suspect are related to its use.”
Apparently, it is flat-out illegal in the UK.
The infamous Catherine gives her UK number (07542 287 148), so call her if you've had a bad day and want to hurl abuse at someone.
My advice is that if your hairdresser or beauty therapist offers this product to you, slap them across the face… and if you know someone who is using it slap them too.
And some more good advice: Don’t drink moisturiser!
My response to the question was, “The only thing I stick up my nose is my finger.”
It seems logical to me that of all the male body’s orifices, there are three that should be used solely for substance expulsion – one of them is the nasal cavity.
Maybe this fairly straightforward rule should be taught in biology classes throughout the UK, because the Daily Mail reports that “hordes of young women” have been buying and snorting Ubertan – “It’s estimated that British users number tens of thousands.”
Ubertan’s alleged side effects include nausea, allergic reactions and heart palpitations.
A Google search directed me to a non-existent ubertan.com and a forum where the substance is enthusiastically punted by a woman named Catherine saying it was “totally brill” and that the only side effects were a “loss of appetite”.
The fact is that this Catherine sounds less like a real person and more like the boiled slugs that roll around in dodgy marketing departments. She claims that Ubertan is “a plant extract, with Amino and Fatty Acids that increases the Melanin in your skin.”
On the same forum Scott Stevenson tells us, “This is almost definitely rebranded Melanotan II…Claims that it is simply made of 'plant extracts' are dubious at best.” He carries on about something I’d never heard of called Melanotan, which is another tanning product sold as a nasal spray.
Further investigation found this site that calls Melanotan ‘The Barbie Drug’ and reveals that the product has been having trouble gaining regulatory approval in Australia and the US, whose FDA said, “The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has issued a Warning Letter to Brian Manookian, owner of Melanocorp, Inc. in Hendersonville, Tenn. for the illegal sale and marketing of the product Melanotan II, which is not FDA-approved, on Melanocorp's Web site. FDA recommends that consumers who are currently using Melanotan II stop using this product and consult their health care provider if they have experienced any adverse events that they suspect are related to its use.”
Apparently, it is flat-out illegal in the UK.
The infamous Catherine gives her UK number (07542 287 148), so call her if you've had a bad day and want to hurl abuse at someone.
My advice is that if your hairdresser or beauty therapist offers this product to you, slap them across the face… and if you know someone who is using it slap them too.
And some more good advice: Don’t drink moisturiser!
South Africa Ready for the Undead!
Luckily, by the time the zombie apocalypse hots up, we’ll all be ordering off Amazon.
Our groceries will be delivered by armed men in armoured trucks, police will be on high alert and stop people randomly in the street to question them, and our homes will all be surrounded by high walls and electric fences.
Of course, the best place to live at the end of the world will be South Africa. If only because it won’t be such a lifestyle adjustment.
We all carry guns with us everywhere and live with thick bars on our windows. The roads are already absolute mayhem – with people staggering in the middle lane, groaning with their hands in front of them.
And Joburgers are already stopping at deserted petrol stations holding jerry cans like they do in Walking Dead and George Romero movies.
Plus, South Africans all have a natural suspicion of anyone they don’t know personally – so none of this eek-it’s-a-zombie! nonsense.
In all likelihood, the scourge of the undead will be the best thing that ever happened to SA.
Black and white will find that we’re not so different after all – at least we breathe air and turn our noses up at bloody chunks of human flesh – and we can unite at the polling stations to vote for more lax gun laws.
Of course, Julius Malema will blame the whole End of Days scenario on Helen Zille and the white racists in the DA… and Jacob Zuma will impregnate one.
Our groceries will be delivered by armed men in armoured trucks, police will be on high alert and stop people randomly in the street to question them, and our homes will all be surrounded by high walls and electric fences.
Of course, the best place to live at the end of the world will be South Africa. If only because it won’t be such a lifestyle adjustment.
We all carry guns with us everywhere and live with thick bars on our windows. The roads are already absolute mayhem – with people staggering in the middle lane, groaning with their hands in front of them.
And Joburgers are already stopping at deserted petrol stations holding jerry cans like they do in Walking Dead and George Romero movies.
Plus, South Africans all have a natural suspicion of anyone they don’t know personally – so none of this eek-it’s-a-zombie! nonsense.
In all likelihood, the scourge of the undead will be the best thing that ever happened to SA.
Black and white will find that we’re not so different after all – at least we breathe air and turn our noses up at bloody chunks of human flesh – and we can unite at the polling stations to vote for more lax gun laws.
Of course, Julius Malema will blame the whole End of Days scenario on Helen Zille and the white racists in the DA… and Jacob Zuma will impregnate one.
I am Responsible for the Death of Amy Winehouse
Even though I’d want my kids to think it was the drugs that killed Amy Winehouse – and even though I’m sure they played a big part in her demise – I couldn’t in good conscience feel that I, and most of you out there, shouldn’t shoulder some of the blame as well.
It’s kind of like when Princess Diana died. Those that ‘loved’ her so much – and showed that ‘love’ by devouring all news and gossip about her life – were quick to blame the paparazzi, but conveniently let themselves off the hook.
Kind of like throwing a bucket of petrol on an open flame and then blaming the flame.
Sure, there were some who recognised the public’s responsibility in Diana’s death, and scowled at the readers of tabloid trash, but that realisation was quickly forgotten as we moved on to the next celeb to stalk.
Now take Amy Winehouse. The latest member of the morbid ’27 Club’ and a girl who, in the public’s eyes, could do little right. She was someone who shot to mega-stardom relatively quickly and frequently got shitfaced.
Because of her party lifestyle we were never short of photos and stories about her exploits. With seldom a good word to read about, and even though I’m sure a lot of celebs try to ignore all the shit being spread about them, it’s got to be hard to avoid it all of the time.
Now think of how horrible it feels to hear someone running you down – it doesn’t even have to be someone you know – and imagine yourself, after a bad day that’s left you feeling worthless, just wanting to get away from it all.
You might go to the movies to escape for an hour and a half. You might phone a friend and get together for a drink.
Or, if you have pretty much unlimited financial resources, you might decide, sod it, and go on a month-long drug and booze binge.
Or imagine fucking up – having an argument with your wife or being caught driving drunk (a common pastime in good ol’ SA) – and strangers thinking it was their ‘right’ to be told about it.
It would probably push you over the edge.
The tragedy that is the Amy Winehouse story is a case of an addictive personality placed under extreme stress and handed enough money to ruin themselves.
The personality is hereditary. The money earned. But the stress is our fault.
The most shameful thing that will happen in the coming week is how all the tabloids that wrote so much venomous vitriol about Ms Winehouse will be telling us how wonderful she was and how much we’ll all miss her.
And those of us who so ferociously gorged on the gossip will wipe our dripping chins and say, yes, we really loved her, what a tragedy.
I believe in free speech, but it is often shameful what we do with that freedom.
It’s kind of like when Princess Diana died. Those that ‘loved’ her so much – and showed that ‘love’ by devouring all news and gossip about her life – were quick to blame the paparazzi, but conveniently let themselves off the hook.
Kind of like throwing a bucket of petrol on an open flame and then blaming the flame.
Sure, there were some who recognised the public’s responsibility in Diana’s death, and scowled at the readers of tabloid trash, but that realisation was quickly forgotten as we moved on to the next celeb to stalk.
Now take Amy Winehouse. The latest member of the morbid ’27 Club’ and a girl who, in the public’s eyes, could do little right. She was someone who shot to mega-stardom relatively quickly and frequently got shitfaced.
Because of her party lifestyle we were never short of photos and stories about her exploits. With seldom a good word to read about, and even though I’m sure a lot of celebs try to ignore all the shit being spread about them, it’s got to be hard to avoid it all of the time.
Now think of how horrible it feels to hear someone running you down – it doesn’t even have to be someone you know – and imagine yourself, after a bad day that’s left you feeling worthless, just wanting to get away from it all.
You might go to the movies to escape for an hour and a half. You might phone a friend and get together for a drink.
Or, if you have pretty much unlimited financial resources, you might decide, sod it, and go on a month-long drug and booze binge.
Or imagine fucking up – having an argument with your wife or being caught driving drunk (a common pastime in good ol’ SA) – and strangers thinking it was their ‘right’ to be told about it.
It would probably push you over the edge.
The tragedy that is the Amy Winehouse story is a case of an addictive personality placed under extreme stress and handed enough money to ruin themselves.
The personality is hereditary. The money earned. But the stress is our fault.
The most shameful thing that will happen in the coming week is how all the tabloids that wrote so much venomous vitriol about Ms Winehouse will be telling us how wonderful she was and how much we’ll all miss her.
And those of us who so ferociously gorged on the gossip will wipe our dripping chins and say, yes, we really loved her, what a tragedy.
I believe in free speech, but it is often shameful what we do with that freedom.
Robert Mugabe Joke Day
Talk about thin-skinned! A 52-year-old man in Zimbabwe has to stand trial for telling a joke about despotic prez Robert Mugabe, News24 reports.
So in solidarity with office clowns across Africa, I hereby declare today ‘Mad Bob Bad Joke Day’, and to kick it off here’s one my dad told me back when he still walked this bizarre mudball we call home (I mean Earth, not South Africa).
Poor Bob Mugabe dies and the bus drops him off, suitcases in hand, outside the Pearly Gates of Heaven. He steps through the Gates and when he approaches Saint Peter looks down the long guest list, “I’m sorry, Mr Mugabe, but your name’s not here.”
Peter picks up the phone and calls the front desk at Hell. He’s on that list, and Satan says he’ll send two demons to pick him up.
Bob arrives in Hell to a warm reception. “Mr Mugabe,” says an elated Lucifer, “we’ve got your room ready. Just grab your bags and follow me.”
But, oops, Bob’s gone and forgotten his suitcases.
“No worries,” says Lu, “I’ll send some cronies to get them.” He clicks his fingers and two little demons appear, “Go get Mr Mugabe’s bags, will you.”
The demons salute and rush off back to the Pearly Gates. But when they get there the Gates are locked tight. They peer in and see Bob’s bags on the other side.
“Oh shit,” says the first demon, “what are we gonna do now?”
The second demon has a plan. He lifts his colleague onto his shoulders and tells him to climb on top of the wall. Then the first demon pulls the second up and they jump down to get the bags.
Meanwhile, Peter and the Archangel Gabriel are on their lunch hour having tea and sandwiches in the Peter’s office.
Saint Peter looks out the window and sees two demons standing next to a pair of suitcases. “For fudge’s sake!” exclaims Peter angrily.
“What’s up?” asks Gabriel.
Peter slams his teacup down and says, “That bloody Mugabe hasn’t been in Hell for five minutes and already we’ve got refugees!”
Drum roll, please. Thanks folks, I’ll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress.
So in solidarity with office clowns across Africa, I hereby declare today ‘Mad Bob Bad Joke Day’, and to kick it off here’s one my dad told me back when he still walked this bizarre mudball we call home (I mean Earth, not South Africa).
Poor Bob Mugabe dies and the bus drops him off, suitcases in hand, outside the Pearly Gates of Heaven. He steps through the Gates and when he approaches Saint Peter looks down the long guest list, “I’m sorry, Mr Mugabe, but your name’s not here.”
Peter picks up the phone and calls the front desk at Hell. He’s on that list, and Satan says he’ll send two demons to pick him up.
Bob arrives in Hell to a warm reception. “Mr Mugabe,” says an elated Lucifer, “we’ve got your room ready. Just grab your bags and follow me.”
But, oops, Bob’s gone and forgotten his suitcases.
“No worries,” says Lu, “I’ll send some cronies to get them.” He clicks his fingers and two little demons appear, “Go get Mr Mugabe’s bags, will you.”
The demons salute and rush off back to the Pearly Gates. But when they get there the Gates are locked tight. They peer in and see Bob’s bags on the other side.
“Oh shit,” says the first demon, “what are we gonna do now?”
The second demon has a plan. He lifts his colleague onto his shoulders and tells him to climb on top of the wall. Then the first demon pulls the second up and they jump down to get the bags.
Meanwhile, Peter and the Archangel Gabriel are on their lunch hour having tea and sandwiches in the Peter’s office.
Saint Peter looks out the window and sees two demons standing next to a pair of suitcases. “For fudge’s sake!” exclaims Peter angrily.
“What’s up?” asks Gabriel.
Peter slams his teacup down and says, “That bloody Mugabe hasn’t been in Hell for five minutes and already we’ve got refugees!”
Drum roll, please. Thanks folks, I’ll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress.
Next Comes a Stetson & Some Six-Shooters
Growing up, I always looked upon Clint Eastwood as the measure of all that was manly.
Clint didn’t bother with moisturiser or hairstyles. He maybe bathed once a month and the only reason Dirty Harry didn’t sport a grizzly was because he had a job that required he shave.
As a cowboy he could wear a dress and if anyone took the piss he’d bust a bullet through their brains.
His eyes were squinty (in a way, I believe, women found sexy) and his voice was gruff and intimidating. The dangerous eyes and gravel-throat was in no small part due to the massive amounts of tobacco the Man With No Name imbibed, but the threat of lung cancer is meaningless when Lee Van Cleef is gunning for you.
I always aspired to be as masculine as Mr Eastwood, and this morning – for the first time in history – I managed to hand-roll a decent cigarette!
Yes, it’s a big thing. To paraphrase Pinocchio, “I’m a real cowboy now!”
As much as the Marlboro Man might disagree, a pack a smokes is for pussies. Real cowboys smoke rollies.
And until this morning my attempts had been mostly bad and downright ugly, but today Lucy remarked that I’d gotten “pretty good”.
The humble rollie lost some of its coolness due to the general retardedness of stoners – who mumbled and fumbled it away from the gunslinger – but now it’s back in the hands of… well… guys too broke to buy Dunhill from the pub’s cigarette machine.
But the image of the rollie-smoker is set to change from ‘a bit dodgy’ to ‘modern day vaquero’.
The other day while practicing in a pub – a hair’s breadth from perfecting my skill – a little lady leaned over and asked, “Ooh, could you roll me one of those?”
I obliged, and I’m sure the look of disappointment on her face was because when I handed it to her she clocked my wedding band and knew that a Real Cowboy was always faithful to his woman.
Now all that’s left is to buy a pair of shitkickers and learn to ride a horse.
Yeeha!
Clint didn’t bother with moisturiser or hairstyles. He maybe bathed once a month and the only reason Dirty Harry didn’t sport a grizzly was because he had a job that required he shave.
As a cowboy he could wear a dress and if anyone took the piss he’d bust a bullet through their brains.
His eyes were squinty (in a way, I believe, women found sexy) and his voice was gruff and intimidating. The dangerous eyes and gravel-throat was in no small part due to the massive amounts of tobacco the Man With No Name imbibed, but the threat of lung cancer is meaningless when Lee Van Cleef is gunning for you.
I always aspired to be as masculine as Mr Eastwood, and this morning – for the first time in history – I managed to hand-roll a decent cigarette!
Yes, it’s a big thing. To paraphrase Pinocchio, “I’m a real cowboy now!”
As much as the Marlboro Man might disagree, a pack a smokes is for pussies. Real cowboys smoke rollies.
And until this morning my attempts had been mostly bad and downright ugly, but today Lucy remarked that I’d gotten “pretty good”.
The humble rollie lost some of its coolness due to the general retardedness of stoners – who mumbled and fumbled it away from the gunslinger – but now it’s back in the hands of… well… guys too broke to buy Dunhill from the pub’s cigarette machine.
But the image of the rollie-smoker is set to change from ‘a bit dodgy’ to ‘modern day vaquero’.
The other day while practicing in a pub – a hair’s breadth from perfecting my skill – a little lady leaned over and asked, “Ooh, could you roll me one of those?”
I obliged, and I’m sure the look of disappointment on her face was because when I handed it to her she clocked my wedding band and knew that a Real Cowboy was always faithful to his woman.
Now all that’s left is to buy a pair of shitkickers and learn to ride a horse.
Yeeha!
I'd love to Poke you, but I'm Married
Whenever I log on to Facebook it tells me I’ve been poked by someone, but I have no idea if it’s recent or if it was in 2008.
I’m always unsure what to do. I don’t want to poke them back – what if poking isn’t cool anymore? But I also don’t want to appear rude and ignore their virtual prod.
This is just one of the reasons we need an online manual of Facebook etiquette.
In such a manual we would learn that updating your status during a date is akin to rearranging your man-junk (what a friend likes to call a cabinet reshuffle) for all to see, even if it is to say ‘Nathan just told a funny joke’ (which, if I’m honest, would be breaking news… but even so).
This guide could also go a long way to stopping those cryptic ‘I’m so sad :(’ statuses followed by an ‘I don’t want to talk about it…’ when long-face-enquiries come forth – because, if you’re glum, no one wants to then reply ‘Well, why the fuck did you tell us then?’
There is nothing more despicable than the attention-seeking status update.
In some ways Facebook is a game –SimPersonality, if you like.
Remember when you first joined and felt a right loser coz you only had five friends. So you searched your friend’s friends list and if you vaguely recognised the person it was a like lovers reunited in a field of daisies.
Hell, even the postman would be there liking your liking of ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’.
A friend of mine created a personality by thinking of the most normal name he could and finding a picture online of an unremarkable face – he’s got loads of friends and he doesn’t exist.
I reckon an eighth of the profiles are just people’s pornstar names (that’s your first pet’s name plus your mother’s maiden name).
But in some respects it is more real than reality.
Just think of the last time you discovered that someone had unfriended you. It’s kind of the final word on that relationship, and brings new meaning to the dumper’s cliché, “We can still be friends”.
One of the first things I learnt in school was how to answer the phone politely; maybe my kids will learn that when becoming FB friends for the first time you should post a nice message on their wall enquiring about their wellbeing.
I’m always unsure what to do. I don’t want to poke them back – what if poking isn’t cool anymore? But I also don’t want to appear rude and ignore their virtual prod.
This is just one of the reasons we need an online manual of Facebook etiquette.
In such a manual we would learn that updating your status during a date is akin to rearranging your man-junk (what a friend likes to call a cabinet reshuffle) for all to see, even if it is to say ‘Nathan just told a funny joke’ (which, if I’m honest, would be breaking news… but even so).
This guide could also go a long way to stopping those cryptic ‘I’m so sad :(’ statuses followed by an ‘I don’t want to talk about it…’ when long-face-enquiries come forth – because, if you’re glum, no one wants to then reply ‘Well, why the fuck did you tell us then?’
There is nothing more despicable than the attention-seeking status update.
In some ways Facebook is a game –SimPersonality, if you like.
Remember when you first joined and felt a right loser coz you only had five friends. So you searched your friend’s friends list and if you vaguely recognised the person it was a like lovers reunited in a field of daisies.
Hell, even the postman would be there liking your liking of ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’.
A friend of mine created a personality by thinking of the most normal name he could and finding a picture online of an unremarkable face – he’s got loads of friends and he doesn’t exist.
I reckon an eighth of the profiles are just people’s pornstar names (that’s your first pet’s name plus your mother’s maiden name).
But in some respects it is more real than reality.
Just think of the last time you discovered that someone had unfriended you. It’s kind of the final word on that relationship, and brings new meaning to the dumper’s cliché, “We can still be friends”.
One of the first things I learnt in school was how to answer the phone politely; maybe my kids will learn that when becoming FB friends for the first time you should post a nice message on their wall enquiring about their wellbeing.
I mean, how big was Goliath really?
When it comes to anecdotes, size matters.
Most male conversation has nothing to do with getting to know each other, but rather a verbal Ping-Pong game of one-upmanship.
Or maybe not Ping-Pong, as this game is best played standing around an open flame arranging boerewors and burgers on a grid (male conversation, I mean, not Ping-Pong).
Maybe it’s more like passing a rugby ball around during practice, the ball managing to get bigger and more complex as it travels…that’s if we’re sticking with the sports metaphor.
In fact, gross embellishment is such a given when shooting the shit with friends that any denomination has to be blown up in order not to sound pathetically insignificant. If you really did drink twelve beers before vomiting on the rollercoaster you’ve got to at least double it or the twelve will be automatically reduced to maybe four in the listener’s mind.
This expectation of exaggeration is involuntary; and this doubt is a defence mechanism. We’ve all heard the telling of events that we were present for, and heard the variables involved grow exponentially in outrageousity, that we can’t help mentally shrinking a big fish into a tadpole.
However, anecdotes that can almost always be taken at face value will involve the teller’s reminiscence of a restaurant they once worked at.
There is nothing too disgusting, bizarre or unbelievable that couldn’t have happened in a place where people eat food and get drunk.
One of my favourite involves a manager at an Irish pub getting a blowjob in the storeroom from a waitress, then walking through the establishment greeting and chatting to regulars. After making his way through the tables he got to the bar and the barman pointed out that his fly was open and his cock was hanging out.
100% true.
Another all-time best involves a couple having a post-bender breakfast. One has to assume they’d not returned home and were still blatted on whatever substances they’d consumed.
After ordering bacon and eggs the girl disappeared into the toilet for a long time. When the manageress started getting a bit worried at the length of her absence, and banging on the door elicited no response, they busted in to find the girl fallen off the throne with her pants around her ankles.
But it doesn’t end there. She’d been up-chucking in the dustin as she passed out, and the floor and her chin were covered in it.
Also, along with vomiting, the poor girl was in the process of… how can I put this? Dropping anchor? Laying some cable? Releasing a chocolate frog into the wild?
It was a mess.
And then after they’d cleaned it all up and the couple had left, the guy returned later in an attempt to book a table for later that evening; presumably with his girlfriend.
Needless to say, he was politely told to fuck off.
There are some stories that don’t need any embellishment, but if you’re a guy you probably wouldn’t believe them.
I forgive you. It’s not your fault.
Most male conversation has nothing to do with getting to know each other, but rather a verbal Ping-Pong game of one-upmanship.
Or maybe not Ping-Pong, as this game is best played standing around an open flame arranging boerewors and burgers on a grid (male conversation, I mean, not Ping-Pong).
Maybe it’s more like passing a rugby ball around during practice, the ball managing to get bigger and more complex as it travels…that’s if we’re sticking with the sports metaphor.
In fact, gross embellishment is such a given when shooting the shit with friends that any denomination has to be blown up in order not to sound pathetically insignificant. If you really did drink twelve beers before vomiting on the rollercoaster you’ve got to at least double it or the twelve will be automatically reduced to maybe four in the listener’s mind.
This expectation of exaggeration is involuntary; and this doubt is a defence mechanism. We’ve all heard the telling of events that we were present for, and heard the variables involved grow exponentially in outrageousity, that we can’t help mentally shrinking a big fish into a tadpole.
However, anecdotes that can almost always be taken at face value will involve the teller’s reminiscence of a restaurant they once worked at.
There is nothing too disgusting, bizarre or unbelievable that couldn’t have happened in a place where people eat food and get drunk.
One of my favourite involves a manager at an Irish pub getting a blowjob in the storeroom from a waitress, then walking through the establishment greeting and chatting to regulars. After making his way through the tables he got to the bar and the barman pointed out that his fly was open and his cock was hanging out.
100% true.
Another all-time best involves a couple having a post-bender breakfast. One has to assume they’d not returned home and were still blatted on whatever substances they’d consumed.
After ordering bacon and eggs the girl disappeared into the toilet for a long time. When the manageress started getting a bit worried at the length of her absence, and banging on the door elicited no response, they busted in to find the girl fallen off the throne with her pants around her ankles.
But it doesn’t end there. She’d been up-chucking in the dustin as she passed out, and the floor and her chin were covered in it.
Also, along with vomiting, the poor girl was in the process of… how can I put this? Dropping anchor? Laying some cable? Releasing a chocolate frog into the wild?
It was a mess.
And then after they’d cleaned it all up and the couple had left, the guy returned later in an attempt to book a table for later that evening; presumably with his girlfriend.
Needless to say, he was politely told to fuck off.
There are some stories that don’t need any embellishment, but if you’re a guy you probably wouldn’t believe them.
I forgive you. It’s not your fault.
The Quotable Malema
If it was put to a vote, I’d bet that the majority of South Africans would ditch the proposed ‘African Union’ for the cooler sounding ‘United States of Africa’. Not because of any conceptual conflict, but just coz here in SA we’re kind of obsessed with anything American.
They’ve got bimbo Paris Hilton – we’ve got Khanyi Mbau. They’ve got floppy haired, reality show rich guy Donald Trump – we’ve got BEE wannabe Tokyo Sexwale.
And do I even need to mention Chuck Norris and Steve Hofmeyer?
Most of the time the Yanks top us, but when it comes to embarrassing politicians a hundred Bushes and Palins couldn’t reach the wading-in-his-own-bullshit ankles of our own Julius Malema.
I’ve picked ten of my fave quotes from Sir Juju on a number of topics, but there are hundreds more.
Here goes:
1. On the ANC’s chances of a two-thirds majority: “Two-third majority? Our aim is a three-thirds majority!” (My guess is that his maths is as bad as his woodwork.)
2. On rape: “When a woman didn’t enjoy it, she leaves early in the morning. Those who had a nice time will wait until the sun comes out, request breakfast and ask for taxi money.” (That's why, guys, it's safer for your confidence levels if you get a flat near a taxi rank.)
3. In response to his 14 traffic fines (over five grand): "I only know revolution, I don’t know anything about driving.” (Sounds like most of the taxi drivers.)
4. To a BBC journalist: “Rubbish is what you have covered in that trousers!” (The journo obviously forgot to comb his pubes that morning.)
5. On Zuma (in 2009): “If Zuma is corrupt, then we want him with all his corruption. We want him with all his weaknesses. If he is uneducated, then we want him as our uneducated president.” (Luckily for Zuma, SA women have such low standards as well.)
6. In a Third Degree interview with Debra Patta, asked if he would kill himself after failing Matric: “Kill myself? I would rather commit suicide!” (Well, what can you say to that?)
7. On the Caster Semenya scandal: “Hermaphrodite, what is that? Somebody tell me, what is hermaphrodite in Pedi? There's no such thing... hermaphrodite... in Pedi. So don't impose your hermaphrodite concepts on us.” (Actually, there is a word for 'hermaphrodite' in Pedi - it's 'Kgalamatona'.
8. After a complaint about noise from a party at his house: ““Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do? Who the fuck are you?” (As far as catchphrases go, that's gotta be up there.)
9. On why he doesn’t read the newspaper: "When I want to know about a certain country I will make a research about it and go through the relevant material. I don't just read everything that is going to mislead me." (That's just what I said to the guy handing out free copies of The New Age.)
10. And the famous: "We are prepared to die for Zuma! We are prepared to take up arms and kill for Zuma!” (After the uproar he explained that the word 'kill' was used to show 'love and compassion'... he then asked for taxi money.)
We can look forward to even more when we elect Juju as our 'President for Life' in 2019 or around there.
So proud!
They’ve got bimbo Paris Hilton – we’ve got Khanyi Mbau. They’ve got floppy haired, reality show rich guy Donald Trump – we’ve got BEE wannabe Tokyo Sexwale.
And do I even need to mention Chuck Norris and Steve Hofmeyer?
Most of the time the Yanks top us, but when it comes to embarrassing politicians a hundred Bushes and Palins couldn’t reach the wading-in-his-own-bullshit ankles of our own Julius Malema.
I’ve picked ten of my fave quotes from Sir Juju on a number of topics, but there are hundreds more.
Here goes:
1. On the ANC’s chances of a two-thirds majority: “Two-third majority? Our aim is a three-thirds majority!” (My guess is that his maths is as bad as his woodwork.)
2. On rape: “When a woman didn’t enjoy it, she leaves early in the morning. Those who had a nice time will wait until the sun comes out, request breakfast and ask for taxi money.” (That's why, guys, it's safer for your confidence levels if you get a flat near a taxi rank.)
3. In response to his 14 traffic fines (over five grand): "I only know revolution, I don’t know anything about driving.” (Sounds like most of the taxi drivers.)
4. To a BBC journalist: “Rubbish is what you have covered in that trousers!” (The journo obviously forgot to comb his pubes that morning.)
5. On Zuma (in 2009): “If Zuma is corrupt, then we want him with all his corruption. We want him with all his weaknesses. If he is uneducated, then we want him as our uneducated president.” (Luckily for Zuma, SA women have such low standards as well.)
6. In a Third Degree interview with Debra Patta, asked if he would kill himself after failing Matric: “Kill myself? I would rather commit suicide!” (Well, what can you say to that?)
7. On the Caster Semenya scandal: “Hermaphrodite, what is that? Somebody tell me, what is hermaphrodite in Pedi? There's no such thing... hermaphrodite... in Pedi. So don't impose your hermaphrodite concepts on us.” (Actually, there is a word for 'hermaphrodite' in Pedi - it's 'Kgalamatona'.
8. After a complaint about noise from a party at his house: ““Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do? Who the fuck are you?” (As far as catchphrases go, that's gotta be up there.)
9. On why he doesn’t read the newspaper: "When I want to know about a certain country I will make a research about it and go through the relevant material. I don't just read everything that is going to mislead me." (That's just what I said to the guy handing out free copies of The New Age.)
10. And the famous: "We are prepared to die for Zuma! We are prepared to take up arms and kill for Zuma!” (After the uproar he explained that the word 'kill' was used to show 'love and compassion'... he then asked for taxi money.)
We can look forward to even more when we elect Juju as our 'President for Life' in 2019 or around there.
So proud!
Floyd Shivambu should Remove his Foot & Wash his Mouth out with Soap!
I was always under the impression that a spokesperson was a sort of PR person for a company, celebrity or political party – there to make their employer look intelligent, thoughtful and concerned about whatever issues they wanted to appear concerned about.
But it seems to work a bit differently in South Africa, where ANCYL spokesman Floyd Shivambu seems to think the term ‘Rainbow Nation’ refers to the use of politicians’ colourful language.
On YouTube we can listen to the recorded telephone call from News24 reporter Jacques Domisse to Shivambu, in which the rather dim-witted sounding Shiv tells Domisse: “…you cannot force yourself to speak to people if they do not speak to you.” and then proceeds to tell the probably-rubbing-his-hands-with-glee journo to “fuck off”.
Then, a few days later, in lieu of an apology, he said that the report’s aim was to “divert attention” from the League’s national conference resolutions, and that reporters wanted to "engage in disgustingly provocative methods and means of engagement".
The “provocative” engagement on Domisse’s part was to ask for Julius Malema’s comments on the R78 000 His Jujuness spent at the Royal Malewane lodge, seeing as the Youth League prez likes to punt himself as a “champion of the poor”.
Baleka Mbete, the ANC’s chairperson, condemned the behaviour as being “unacceptable” – of course, in ANC-speak this means we’ll wait for it to blow over and forget about it.
It’s easy to write this off as arrogance or stupidity, but I think Shivambo is ahead of his peers when it comes to media relations.
He knows that when the Secrecy Bill kicks off they’ll be able to dispense with the tired response of “No comment!” and simply tell nosy media pigs to just “Fuck off!”
But it seems to work a bit differently in South Africa, where ANCYL spokesman Floyd Shivambu seems to think the term ‘Rainbow Nation’ refers to the use of politicians’ colourful language.
On YouTube we can listen to the recorded telephone call from News24 reporter Jacques Domisse to Shivambu, in which the rather dim-witted sounding Shiv tells Domisse: “…you cannot force yourself to speak to people if they do not speak to you.” and then proceeds to tell the probably-rubbing-his-hands-with-glee journo to “fuck off”.
Then, a few days later, in lieu of an apology, he said that the report’s aim was to “divert attention” from the League’s national conference resolutions, and that reporters wanted to "engage in disgustingly provocative methods and means of engagement".
The “provocative” engagement on Domisse’s part was to ask for Julius Malema’s comments on the R78 000 His Jujuness spent at the Royal Malewane lodge, seeing as the Youth League prez likes to punt himself as a “champion of the poor”.
Baleka Mbete, the ANC’s chairperson, condemned the behaviour as being “unacceptable” – of course, in ANC-speak this means we’ll wait for it to blow over and forget about it.
It’s easy to write this off as arrogance or stupidity, but I think Shivambo is ahead of his peers when it comes to media relations.
He knows that when the Secrecy Bill kicks off they’ll be able to dispense with the tired response of “No comment!” and simply tell nosy media pigs to just “Fuck off!”
My Favourite Scary Movie Is 'An Inconvenient Truth'
A conclusion I’ve come to recently is that the only movies worth going to the cinema for are horror films.
It used to be ‘big screen extravaganzas’ that did it for me – Matrix, Armageddon, Avatar if you’d been previously lobotomised – but the last couple of effects-driven flicks I’ve graced with my spilled Coke and popcorn crumbs have been complete shite; the worst being the walked-out of Battleground: LA.
And if the point of the bioscope is to watch a movie rather than a social experience, what’s the point in seeing a comedy or drama?
But scary movies are different – especially on a Friday night in a packed theatre.
This idea started many moons ago when I went to see Halloween H20; not a great movie, but an entertaining audience.
Whenever Michael Myers appeared on-screen a section of the punters screamed. This caught on and soon the everyone was in on it. He’d jump out and there’d be shrieks, the camera would move to the virgin running away and when it moved back to Myers we’d all scream again… it was the best cinema experience I’d had without a blowjob in a long time.
And you’d make friends too. In the middle of a packed viewing of The Grudge, after a bone-rattling fright, the girl next to me turned and said, “God, I don’t know why I’m doing this!”
We ended up having a drink with her a bunch of her friends afterwards.
In my experience, the only movies these days with any audience participation are horror pics, and with Blu-Ray and gigantic tellies at home the big screen experience can be enjoyed with comfy couches and bog breaks – so the moviehouse needs something else to get my weeks wages for popcorn.
Maybe it’s different in England, because the first movie Lucy and I went to together (Drag Me To Hell) she asked, “Why is everyone laughing?”
It’s not because us South Africans laugh in the face of blood and gore, I told her, it’s because this is so close to Real Life in SA that we’re just relieved it’s not happening to us.
The only problem is that ninety-nine percent of horror movies are unoriginal, badly acted and cheesy enough to be stuck on a mousetrap – but maybe one day studios will cotton on and pump some money into decent scripts and directors.
But there’s more chance of being attacked by a chainsaw-wielding Saint Bernard wearing a Linda Blair mask than that happening so...
It used to be ‘big screen extravaganzas’ that did it for me – Matrix, Armageddon, Avatar if you’d been previously lobotomised – but the last couple of effects-driven flicks I’ve graced with my spilled Coke and popcorn crumbs have been complete shite; the worst being the walked-out of Battleground: LA.
And if the point of the bioscope is to watch a movie rather than a social experience, what’s the point in seeing a comedy or drama?
But scary movies are different – especially on a Friday night in a packed theatre.
This idea started many moons ago when I went to see Halloween H20; not a great movie, but an entertaining audience.
Whenever Michael Myers appeared on-screen a section of the punters screamed. This caught on and soon the everyone was in on it. He’d jump out and there’d be shrieks, the camera would move to the virgin running away and when it moved back to Myers we’d all scream again… it was the best cinema experience I’d had without a blowjob in a long time.
And you’d make friends too. In the middle of a packed viewing of The Grudge, after a bone-rattling fright, the girl next to me turned and said, “God, I don’t know why I’m doing this!”
We ended up having a drink with her a bunch of her friends afterwards.
In my experience, the only movies these days with any audience participation are horror pics, and with Blu-Ray and gigantic tellies at home the big screen experience can be enjoyed with comfy couches and bog breaks – so the moviehouse needs something else to get my weeks wages for popcorn.
Maybe it’s different in England, because the first movie Lucy and I went to together (Drag Me To Hell) she asked, “Why is everyone laughing?”
It’s not because us South Africans laugh in the face of blood and gore, I told her, it’s because this is so close to Real Life in SA that we’re just relieved it’s not happening to us.
The only problem is that ninety-nine percent of horror movies are unoriginal, badly acted and cheesy enough to be stuck on a mousetrap – but maybe one day studios will cotton on and pump some money into decent scripts and directors.
But there’s more chance of being attacked by a chainsaw-wielding Saint Bernard wearing a Linda Blair mask than that happening so...
Travel in Style on MetroVuil
For a mere R19 one can experience all the excitement, culture and almost-identifiable odours our fair city and fermenting seaside have to offer.
‘Fair’ because, as we all know, the Mother City not only has an “overconcentration of coloureds” but a hefty surplus of whiteys as well; and ‘fermenting’ because, after a few days of Winter sunshine, the washed-up seaweed and bloated seagull carcasses start to smell a bit poofy.
So, in spite of Capeys calling it 'MetroVuil', with relish I did pay my pony and receive a return ticket on the prestigious Metrorail transport service, ready for all the glamour and garbage that lay in the near future.
Our trains have a reputation among those from the Southern Suburbs as not much more than piss- and blood-stained germ receptacles. German and English tourists might find their journey "picturesque", but locals believe the only souvenir you’re likely to pick up is a scarily scratchy skin scab or a belly-bursting B-boy’s blade.
As the vibrant city, suburbs and seaside passed by the window I shoved my nose in a paperback – this was partly because I enjoy reading, but mainly because the windows had been either spraypainted by mildly inventive taggers, or ignored by wildly indifferent cleaners.
Looking at the state of the carriage, I quite easily imagined being dragged in a rusty beer can tied to the bumper attached to a pair of newlywed cousins’ camper van; the soundtrack to this mini mental motion picture courtesy of the young gentleman behind me with a taste for tasteless kwaito, but not an ear for earphones.
I’m not sure if it was my gentle face – never betraying the cold-hearted bastard beneath – that made the manky petrol-sniffer sit across from me and attempt to strike up a chat, or if it was because I was reading Jonny Steinberg’s ‘The Number’ and she thought I maybe had an affinity for Cape Flats crack whores.
When I looked up and told her, “I don’t want to talk to you. I just want to read my book,” a look of disgust crossed her bruised-fruit tik-face.
“Tjy,” she exclaimed, “what kind of a rude uncle are you?” and moved off to bother someone else who chose to find another seat.
At my journey’s end in Fish Hoek I strolled along the beach licking a vanilla soft-serve, hoping to see some hotties in bikinis or maybe a shark attack.
Alas…
But the lack of babes or bloodshed didn’t disillusion me one bit. There’s still the journey back to the city, I thought, more than enough time to rubberneck a violent mugging or train track suicide.
‘Fair’ because, as we all know, the Mother City not only has an “overconcentration of coloureds” but a hefty surplus of whiteys as well; and ‘fermenting’ because, after a few days of Winter sunshine, the washed-up seaweed and bloated seagull carcasses start to smell a bit poofy.
So, in spite of Capeys calling it 'MetroVuil', with relish I did pay my pony and receive a return ticket on the prestigious Metrorail transport service, ready for all the glamour and garbage that lay in the near future.
Our trains have a reputation among those from the Southern Suburbs as not much more than piss- and blood-stained germ receptacles. German and English tourists might find their journey "picturesque", but locals believe the only souvenir you’re likely to pick up is a scarily scratchy skin scab or a belly-bursting B-boy’s blade.
As the vibrant city, suburbs and seaside passed by the window I shoved my nose in a paperback – this was partly because I enjoy reading, but mainly because the windows had been either spraypainted by mildly inventive taggers, or ignored by wildly indifferent cleaners.
Looking at the state of the carriage, I quite easily imagined being dragged in a rusty beer can tied to the bumper attached to a pair of newlywed cousins’ camper van; the soundtrack to this mini mental motion picture courtesy of the young gentleman behind me with a taste for tasteless kwaito, but not an ear for earphones.
I’m not sure if it was my gentle face – never betraying the cold-hearted bastard beneath – that made the manky petrol-sniffer sit across from me and attempt to strike up a chat, or if it was because I was reading Jonny Steinberg’s ‘The Number’ and she thought I maybe had an affinity for Cape Flats crack whores.
When I looked up and told her, “I don’t want to talk to you. I just want to read my book,” a look of disgust crossed her bruised-fruit tik-face.
“Tjy,” she exclaimed, “what kind of a rude uncle are you?” and moved off to bother someone else who chose to find another seat.
At my journey’s end in Fish Hoek I strolled along the beach licking a vanilla soft-serve, hoping to see some hotties in bikinis or maybe a shark attack.
Alas…
But the lack of babes or bloodshed didn’t disillusion me one bit. There’s still the journey back to the city, I thought, more than enough time to rubberneck a violent mugging or train track suicide.
Close Encounters of the Absurd Kind
I’m having one of those days when I look like a Long Street tik addict.
You know what I mean – hair a bit greasy and unkempt, chunky jumper that looks two days overdue on a wash, and the obligatory backpack - like I’m bouncing from hostel to park bench to Senator Park crack dorm.
I always wonder what they carry in those backpacks. One’s mind stereotypically runs to maybe a few pairs stolen underpants, a sentimental Mandrax pipe, and a honey-stained copy of ‘The Tao of Pooh’.
They also all seem to have a starry glow in their eyes. Not a bright and bushy kind of starry, but an eerie shimmer round the edges – what a ‘His People’ churchgoer would call either “Demonic!” or “Filled with the Glory of our Lord!!!”, depending on what kind of mood they were in.
It’s easy to write off those types as drug-addled losers, but Lucy and I had an experience one night that forced contemplation.
In our favourite nightclub, Deco-Dance, while dancing badly to the cheesy 80s pop, we noticed that there was an unusual surplus of people who just didn’t look quite right.
Now I know that faces aren’t ever perfectly symmetrical, but these punters’ mugs resembled a Mr Potatohead built by a brain damaged, wannabe-Picasso’s clenched butt-cheeks - not ugly in the classic sense, just assembled wrong.
Discussing it with the barlady, I posited my theory that they were demons from Hell, probably here to recruit the souls of inebriated sinners.
“Ridiculous,” she said, “there’s no such thing as demons… they must be aliens in flesh-suits; here to observe before a forthcoming invasion.”
That makes sense, I thought, and I warned Lucy to stay close in case one of them fancied her and radioed for an emergency beam-up.
Now whenever I come into contact with one of them on Long Street I imagine that their backpacks contain not undies and hallucinogenic paraphernalia, but a ray gun, one-piece silver tracksuit, and a Lonely Planet Guide to… well, a rather overpopulated planet.
You know what I mean – hair a bit greasy and unkempt, chunky jumper that looks two days overdue on a wash, and the obligatory backpack - like I’m bouncing from hostel to park bench to Senator Park crack dorm.
I always wonder what they carry in those backpacks. One’s mind stereotypically runs to maybe a few pairs stolen underpants, a sentimental Mandrax pipe, and a honey-stained copy of ‘The Tao of Pooh’.
They also all seem to have a starry glow in their eyes. Not a bright and bushy kind of starry, but an eerie shimmer round the edges – what a ‘His People’ churchgoer would call either “Demonic!” or “Filled with the Glory of our Lord!!!”, depending on what kind of mood they were in.
It’s easy to write off those types as drug-addled losers, but Lucy and I had an experience one night that forced contemplation.
In our favourite nightclub, Deco-Dance, while dancing badly to the cheesy 80s pop, we noticed that there was an unusual surplus of people who just didn’t look quite right.
Now I know that faces aren’t ever perfectly symmetrical, but these punters’ mugs resembled a Mr Potatohead built by a brain damaged, wannabe-Picasso’s clenched butt-cheeks - not ugly in the classic sense, just assembled wrong.
Discussing it with the barlady, I posited my theory that they were demons from Hell, probably here to recruit the souls of inebriated sinners.
“Ridiculous,” she said, “there’s no such thing as demons… they must be aliens in flesh-suits; here to observe before a forthcoming invasion.”
That makes sense, I thought, and I warned Lucy to stay close in case one of them fancied her and radioed for an emergency beam-up.
Now whenever I come into contact with one of them on Long Street I imagine that their backpacks contain not undies and hallucinogenic paraphernalia, but a ray gun, one-piece silver tracksuit, and a Lonely Planet Guide to… well, a rather overpopulated planet.
Big Brother is Listening
On the telephone pole outside the wife’s work is an old poster for that ANC rag, The New Age, advertising the headline: RICA CHAOS REIGNS!
The headline conjured images of burning buildings and frothy-mouthed citizens running around fornicating and screaming – a bit like a Rick Astley concert – but for once in South Africa the truth was not stranger than my mind’s fiction.
RICA is, in a nutshell, the Regulation of Interception of Communications and Provision of Communication-related Information Act. It requires anyone with a mobile phone in SA to register their name, number, and address with the government.
This is supposedly not so they can listen in to your phone calls to see if you voted for Helen Zille, but to monitor despicable acts like trafficking child pornography or buying anything from Verimark.
I eagerly await the first court case featuring a parent who’s little rascal has been filming his mates shagging and sending it around, and the phone’s been registered to the mother because the kid didn’t have an electricity bill in his name.
But that is surely still to come, the alleged “chaos” that TNA (that’s what they’re trying to call it) writes about had nothing to do with RICA at all, but was an unknown fault in the Vodacom and MTN network.
RICA, for over two million cellphone users, caused what couldn’t be called more than an annoyance as their phones were cut off and they had to trudge down to their service provider with a bank statement and ID papers.
By TNA’s standards of verb usage, it seems, the act of looking down to notice that one’s shoelace is untied would be classified as “chaos”.
The irony is that this grotesquely sensationalist headline comes from the mouthpiece for the very government that’s about to stuff a muttoncloth down our throats and wrap duct tape around our heads in the form of the Protection of Information Bill.
TNA’s slogan is “One Country. One Paper.” – hopefully this is not a vision of the future from the ANC’s propaganda arm.
And by then I’d have had to RICA this blog… who will I complain to then?
The headline conjured images of burning buildings and frothy-mouthed citizens running around fornicating and screaming – a bit like a Rick Astley concert – but for once in South Africa the truth was not stranger than my mind’s fiction.
RICA is, in a nutshell, the Regulation of Interception of Communications and Provision of Communication-related Information Act. It requires anyone with a mobile phone in SA to register their name, number, and address with the government.
This is supposedly not so they can listen in to your phone calls to see if you voted for Helen Zille, but to monitor despicable acts like trafficking child pornography or buying anything from Verimark.
I eagerly await the first court case featuring a parent who’s little rascal has been filming his mates shagging and sending it around, and the phone’s been registered to the mother because the kid didn’t have an electricity bill in his name.
But that is surely still to come, the alleged “chaos” that TNA (that’s what they’re trying to call it) writes about had nothing to do with RICA at all, but was an unknown fault in the Vodacom and MTN network.
RICA, for over two million cellphone users, caused what couldn’t be called more than an annoyance as their phones were cut off and they had to trudge down to their service provider with a bank statement and ID papers.
By TNA’s standards of verb usage, it seems, the act of looking down to notice that one’s shoelace is untied would be classified as “chaos”.
The irony is that this grotesquely sensationalist headline comes from the mouthpiece for the very government that’s about to stuff a muttoncloth down our throats and wrap duct tape around our heads in the form of the Protection of Information Bill.
TNA’s slogan is “One Country. One Paper.” – hopefully this is not a vision of the future from the ANC’s propaganda arm.
And by then I’d have had to RICA this blog… who will I complain to then?
A Trailer, Packing Boxes, Whiskey and Prozac
They say that, aside from the death or serious injury of a loved one, moving house is the most stressful thing you can do.
I’ve never been entirely sure who ‘they’ are supposed to be – government, the Mob, or that Illuminati that Tom Hanks chases after – but my guess would be if moving is so stressful for ‘them’ then they must lead pretty dull lives.
Try telling James Bond that packing your belongings into boxes and getting some hairy guys to move the telly was more jarring on your nerves than having a laser beam pointed at your balls, getting chomped by metal teeth, or whacking your willy in Grace Jones.
I’m sure he’d disagree.
My guess is that the more nice stuff you have, the more you worry.
We’ve all the seen the Stuttaford’s Van Lines ad, with the sad country song and everything falling out the truck, and one can only envision the twenty grand flatscreen smashing to bits along the highway.
But, as usual, there’s more to it. It’s not just the imminent destruction of all we possess that makes our hair go grey.
I know a lot of hoarders – people who can’t bring themselves to even throw away a cardboard bogroll holder, let alone that yellow, dog-eared copy of Green Lantern 50 – and the thought of having to dump a lot of that useless shit they’ve accumulated over the years leaves them petrified with grief.
Also, it doesn’t take a fancy couch and frilly pillows to make a comfort zone. Leaving behind space that has become so personal can well a nostalgic tear up in the old wailing ducts.
Settling in a new place takes time. You need to get used to traffic noise (or lack thereof), find out where the local KFC is situated, and draw a mental map of the place to avoid cracking your ankle on a chair or walking into a wall in the middle of the night.
Moving house is generally a pain in the arse, and my guess is that James Bond – cool in the face of Oddjob’s flying hats and bollock burning laser beams – would rather get Pickford’s in than hitch a trailer on the back of his Aston Martin.
I’ve never been entirely sure who ‘they’ are supposed to be – government, the Mob, or that Illuminati that Tom Hanks chases after – but my guess would be if moving is so stressful for ‘them’ then they must lead pretty dull lives.
Try telling James Bond that packing your belongings into boxes and getting some hairy guys to move the telly was more jarring on your nerves than having a laser beam pointed at your balls, getting chomped by metal teeth, or whacking your willy in Grace Jones.
I’m sure he’d disagree.
My guess is that the more nice stuff you have, the more you worry.
We’ve all the seen the Stuttaford’s Van Lines ad, with the sad country song and everything falling out the truck, and one can only envision the twenty grand flatscreen smashing to bits along the highway.
But, as usual, there’s more to it. It’s not just the imminent destruction of all we possess that makes our hair go grey.
I know a lot of hoarders – people who can’t bring themselves to even throw away a cardboard bogroll holder, let alone that yellow, dog-eared copy of Green Lantern 50 – and the thought of having to dump a lot of that useless shit they’ve accumulated over the years leaves them petrified with grief.
Also, it doesn’t take a fancy couch and frilly pillows to make a comfort zone. Leaving behind space that has become so personal can well a nostalgic tear up in the old wailing ducts.
Settling in a new place takes time. You need to get used to traffic noise (or lack thereof), find out where the local KFC is situated, and draw a mental map of the place to avoid cracking your ankle on a chair or walking into a wall in the middle of the night.
Moving house is generally a pain in the arse, and my guess is that James Bond – cool in the face of Oddjob’s flying hats and bollock burning laser beams – would rather get Pickford’s in than hitch a trailer on the back of his Aston Martin.
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