You could set your watch by my small intestine.
Seriously, my bladder is as regular as a racist remark from Julius Malema’s mouth. Although the quality of Juju’s utterances have somewhat less substance, they are often much more putrid.
There’s nothing worse than popping into the bog for the long haul and then realising you’ve got nothing to read. I tend to keep a broad spectrum of literature on top of the cistern – anything from Julian Baggini’s modern philosophy to Zapiro’s political sketchings to SA’s only weekly glossy.
There’s nothing better than browsing a Heat magazine when you’re releasing a chocolate frog into the wild – it stimulates the emission.
Usually I buy Heat and pretend it’s a gift for Lucy, then have to exercise Herculean restraint in waiting for her to finish perusing before I get my greasy paws on it.
Most movie stars and musicians try to avoid the paps, but us Saffers just love having our picture taken. Some of them even email their holiday snaps to the editor!
The definition of the South African celebrity is something I can’t seem to conjure in my befuddled brain.
We must be the one of the few nations who consider continuity announcers as ‘famous', and I often scratch my head wondering, “Who the fuck is Kanyi Mbau?”
There are pics of her all over the tabloids. If I had to guess I’d say she was one of the lesser-known, more’r-brainless Kardashian sisters. But she’s not even a reality tv ‘star’ – from what I can tell, all she’s done is shag a few rich blokes and toddled off with their cashdollar.
Listing ‘socialite’ on your CV is kind of like considering ‘piss-head’ as a vocation.
Unlike America, where you have to be moderately good-looking to get to the top of the tabloid totem-pole, in SA you can be a fat slob and ugly as a government edifice.
This must be a source of comfort to the average vox pop on the street; to know that no matter how uninformed your opinion or inadequate your abilities, you could still punt Dixie Cola if only you could get on Survivor.
But lately, there are two slightly androgynous twins with a penchant for lipstick and vacant expressions that are seriously affecting my bowels. The last couple of times I’ve had trouble dropping off the Cosbys because the sight of these South African ladyboys makes my tummy twist and constipation set in.
The matching set of mangina-munchers are none other than the local Locnville.
My unconscious ability to retain information about these pretty choirboys makes me think that in my last life I must have been a peado priest – and no matter how much I smack my head with the toilet brush, I just can’t get it out of there.
Even though the idea that their groupies call themselves ‘villens’ causes bile to jump up and high-five the back of my tongue, I thought, maybe I’m a fan and I don’t even know it!
I theorised on the possibility of a memory travelling back in time, a future destiny backwashed from a greasy quantum mechanic’s throat during his lunch-break, and against my better judgement, I YouTube’d a couple of their vids.
Most kids, their balls drop around the age of thirteen. Listening to Locnville’s voices, an analogy involving one of those meteors that plummet and cause tidal waves ping-ponged around my skull.
They're okay, I thought.
But a couple more tunes and it all sounded the same and just got annoying – like Goldfish for gaylords – throwaway, plastic Christmas cracker crap that will unfortunately be recycled over and over and sold in some or other pristine packet.
In short, nothing special.
And as much as I feel sympathy for the celebs that Heat lambasts, I get even more annoyed with the ones they fawn over purely because they’re South African.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Heat (SA's Only Weekly Glossy)
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