Like all young boys in the act of purchasing contraceptive thingies for the first time, I was acutely embarrassed.
Mingling in the shop a while, I picked up a pack of Niknaks crisps, a chocolate bar and a litre of milk. Joining the back of the queue and then leaving it when an old lady got behind me.
Eventually, when the store was deserted again, I attempted to casually rush to the counter.
As the lady rang up my items I looked over her shoulder and asked for a pack of Peter Stuyvesant Filter, a box of matches… and a 3-pack of Rough Riders, please – which I immediately hid underneath the cheese-flavoured Niknaks when yet another elderly lady walked in and stood behind me.
It was New Year’s Eve, 1991, and I was fourteen.
Before you get any ideas, the condoms weren’t for me but an older friend who imagined he was getting lucky that night. To spare his own embarrassment I’d agreed to make the purchase for him.
A few years later, when the opportunity of getting jiggy with a lady was at least a possibility in my universe, I felt the same nervous guilt when sliding a pack of ‘Wet ‘n Wild’ across the counter – always attempting to hide it amongst some other unnecessary items in case God saw and ejected a bolt of lightning from his index finger through the top of my head.
Well, not really, as I’ve never believed in a stuffy, fundamentalist God. If anything, it was probably because I imagined the till jockey would take one look at awkward me and think, “Who’d have sex with you?”
Only later in life did I come to the realisation that if the cashier was a woman she should commend me for being safe and respecting the other party’s right not to suffer a surprise pregnancy; and if the shop assistant was a guy he should give me a thumbs up as if to say, “Right on, brother.”
My brother’s art teacher must have known this and had the right idea when every Friday he’d put a big jar of Family Planning condoms out so the boys could be safe over the weekend without the mortification of actually having to ask for them.
Another friend of mine’s dad always kept the house well stocked with what he called “dong-bags”; however, I’m not sure if they were for the use of his son or rather for the couple to make sure they didn’t have another naughty little shit.
I suppose some parents might think that keeping one’s children in a steady supply of rubber sheaths would amount to encouraging promiscuity, but I’m also pretty sure those same parents would be too conservative to have that much-dreaded ‘sex talk’ with said offspring.
Sex was taboo for so long, and now with AIDS and all that keeping oneself protected has needed to come out in the open. Maybe if society just agreed that it’s the one thing we all have in common it would make it easier to talk about it. And it would certainly make it easier for the poor, clammy-palmed teenager on the other side of the counter.
The only foreseeable problem would be a downturn in the sales of Niknaks.
Showing posts with label Cape Town. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cape Town. Show all posts
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.
Apocalypse Party Hits
For a split second I imagine a post-Armageddon, nuclear-fallout-influenced, cyberpunk world.
In front of the kitchen pass, behind an untidy cable-orgy, stands a crusty poster boy for decades-long abuse of fake tan, chain smoking, staring at his laptop screen and then at the flatscreen on the wall, waiting for the song to end.
To his far right a woman drunkenly sways, shrieking like a mutated, diseased Whitney Houston, “And ay-ee-ay-ee-ay will always luv yoo-oo-oo-oo…”
The fake-tan-man’s dead eyes move across to her, ash drooping impotently from the butt between his lips, to stare unimpressed at her efforts.
After a particularly bad night I’d thought watching people act like tits at the weekly Wednesday karaoke sessions down Long Street Café would make me feel better. At first I’d thought the available table right up front was a boon.
One song into it and I was reminded of God’s sick sense of humour.
As I sip my drink I wonder if maybe a radiation ravaged planet might be an improvement, or at the very least the booming explosion could soothe the ears a bit.
With no service to speak of I shuffle over to the bar, praying that in my absence the table will be snatched up and I’ll have an excuse to leave.
But no, it awaits my return, and like a rubbernecker at an accident scene I sit back down in twisted anticipation for the next corpse to be pulled from the mangled wreck.
My eyes follow theirs to the flatscreen. And as they belt it out I sing along in my head the badly translated words to Robbie Williams’ Feel – “Just can’t understand… this rope I’ve been given…”
The background images on the screen could be the boring bits of early Nineties soft porn, until someone stands up to sing something from Bob Marley and a bunch of girls on the screen in firemen’s outfits get their baps out.
This distracts the wailing punter and he fucks up the words.
The table behind me, a large group of fifteen or so, are choosing songs for each other. Soon enough the guys are up there, clammy hands fumbling the microphone, stuttering Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys into the giggling crowd.
An underage couple, possibly on a first date, sing the inevitable Grease Medley to each other. She’s clearly more into it than him, and she grins through shiny braces as he mumbles the Travolta bits.
All the while the crinkly, crispy controller smokes at least two packs of Texan Plain.
I don’t sing, but in the wake of all the care-free abandon and lack of self-consciousness surrounding me I think maybe I could.
Karaoke takes either balls or alcohol, and I imagine getting up there and making an arse out of oneself must be kind of liberating.
It seems most people only face their fears when it makes them look cool – bungi jumping or jumping in the ocean with sharks – but standing in front of a crowd knowing you sound like a couple of bulldogs porking and serenading no one in particular is about as extreme and scary as it comes.
Intentionally making a fool of yourself in public shows true courage.
Maybe when the world ends we’ll all just think, fuck it, and sing.
In front of the kitchen pass, behind an untidy cable-orgy, stands a crusty poster boy for decades-long abuse of fake tan, chain smoking, staring at his laptop screen and then at the flatscreen on the wall, waiting for the song to end.
To his far right a woman drunkenly sways, shrieking like a mutated, diseased Whitney Houston, “And ay-ee-ay-ee-ay will always luv yoo-oo-oo-oo…”
The fake-tan-man’s dead eyes move across to her, ash drooping impotently from the butt between his lips, to stare unimpressed at her efforts.
After a particularly bad night I’d thought watching people act like tits at the weekly Wednesday karaoke sessions down Long Street Café would make me feel better. At first I’d thought the available table right up front was a boon.
One song into it and I was reminded of God’s sick sense of humour.
As I sip my drink I wonder if maybe a radiation ravaged planet might be an improvement, or at the very least the booming explosion could soothe the ears a bit.
With no service to speak of I shuffle over to the bar, praying that in my absence the table will be snatched up and I’ll have an excuse to leave.
But no, it awaits my return, and like a rubbernecker at an accident scene I sit back down in twisted anticipation for the next corpse to be pulled from the mangled wreck.
My eyes follow theirs to the flatscreen. And as they belt it out I sing along in my head the badly translated words to Robbie Williams’ Feel – “Just can’t understand… this rope I’ve been given…”
The background images on the screen could be the boring bits of early Nineties soft porn, until someone stands up to sing something from Bob Marley and a bunch of girls on the screen in firemen’s outfits get their baps out.
This distracts the wailing punter and he fucks up the words.
The table behind me, a large group of fifteen or so, are choosing songs for each other. Soon enough the guys are up there, clammy hands fumbling the microphone, stuttering Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys into the giggling crowd.
An underage couple, possibly on a first date, sing the inevitable Grease Medley to each other. She’s clearly more into it than him, and she grins through shiny braces as he mumbles the Travolta bits.
All the while the crinkly, crispy controller smokes at least two packs of Texan Plain.
I don’t sing, but in the wake of all the care-free abandon and lack of self-consciousness surrounding me I think maybe I could.
Karaoke takes either balls or alcohol, and I imagine getting up there and making an arse out of oneself must be kind of liberating.
It seems most people only face their fears when it makes them look cool – bungi jumping or jumping in the ocean with sharks – but standing in front of a crowd knowing you sound like a couple of bulldogs porking and serenading no one in particular is about as extreme and scary as it comes.
Intentionally making a fool of yourself in public shows true courage.
Maybe when the world ends we’ll all just think, fuck it, and sing.
SA Police Not Afraid To Show Musical Taste
Upon reading that the Locnville boys had been pepper-sprayed and beaten up by the police, my thoughts immediately ran to spaghetti bolognaise.
If my mum had a signature dish, it would without a doubt be ‘spagbol’. She’d make it for us at least once a week, and in such large quantity there were two days’ worth of lunchtime leftovers.
By the time I left home I must have eaten easily more than a thousand plates of tomato-ey mincemeat on top of Fatti’s & Moni’s pasta.
When I first started getting irritated by seeing the Locnville girly-boys every week in the esteemed Heat magazine (SA’s only weekly glossy!), I reminded myself that just because they were young, popular and airbrushed didn’t mean their music was plastic trash headed for the dustbin faster than a soiled Durex.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I thought, and YouTube a couple of their hits.
The first one I came across I’d heard before on a Supersport commercial. It was fairly catchy, and had on occasion unconsciously flared up in my head like a mild case of Athlete’s Testicle.
The next few songs I uploaded were much the same as mum’s consistent cuisine – the same old recipe, but warmed up in the microwave and slopped on a plate.
But unlike Locnville, mum’s bolognaise wasn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan – enjoyed today and stinking up the bathroom tomorrow – but a regular performer in the gastronomic playlist of our youth.
Unfortunately no one filmed the Loc/SAPS mash-up, so those particular hits won’t wind up on YouTube, but with the twins’ popularity possibly waning and their following of fans (groin-achingly named ‘villens’) growing up and moving along to real music, one has to imagine that it all might be a publicity stunt.
It’s marketing brilliance, really.
Locnville’s fanbase must have aged and now be old enough to stay up past eight and watch the evening news, therefore being exposed to current issues like xenophobia and police brutality. And what better way for the boys to get in on their fans’ newfound social awareness by getting punched in the face by cops.
The fact that it got on the front page of the respected Cape Argus shows just how far the paper has sunk in terms of sensationalism and spectacle, and I’m afraid that upon receiving my next subscription form I will have to go for the lifetime renewal.
If my mum had a signature dish, it would without a doubt be ‘spagbol’. She’d make it for us at least once a week, and in such large quantity there were two days’ worth of lunchtime leftovers.
By the time I left home I must have eaten easily more than a thousand plates of tomato-ey mincemeat on top of Fatti’s & Moni’s pasta.
When I first started getting irritated by seeing the Locnville girly-boys every week in the esteemed Heat magazine (SA’s only weekly glossy!), I reminded myself that just because they were young, popular and airbrushed didn’t mean their music was plastic trash headed for the dustbin faster than a soiled Durex.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I thought, and YouTube a couple of their hits.
The first one I came across I’d heard before on a Supersport commercial. It was fairly catchy, and had on occasion unconsciously flared up in my head like a mild case of Athlete’s Testicle.
The next few songs I uploaded were much the same as mum’s consistent cuisine – the same old recipe, but warmed up in the microwave and slopped on a plate.
But unlike Locnville, mum’s bolognaise wasn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan – enjoyed today and stinking up the bathroom tomorrow – but a regular performer in the gastronomic playlist of our youth.
Unfortunately no one filmed the Loc/SAPS mash-up, so those particular hits won’t wind up on YouTube, but with the twins’ popularity possibly waning and their following of fans (groin-achingly named ‘villens’) growing up and moving along to real music, one has to imagine that it all might be a publicity stunt.
It’s marketing brilliance, really.
Locnville’s fanbase must have aged and now be old enough to stay up past eight and watch the evening news, therefore being exposed to current issues like xenophobia and police brutality. And what better way for the boys to get in on their fans’ newfound social awareness by getting punched in the face by cops.
The fact that it got on the front page of the respected Cape Argus shows just how far the paper has sunk in terms of sensationalism and spectacle, and I’m afraid that upon receiving my next subscription form I will have to go for the lifetime renewal.
Little White Lies Are Okay If They're Little and You're White!
It’s about time we heard more about how racist and sexist Cape Town is.
We need to stop hiding the fact that Western Cape wives spend their days with a toothbrush scrubbing the kitchen floor while their husbands beat their black slaves in the back garden.
“Apartheid social engineering is far more expressed in [the Western Cape] with heightened fears within the white community, the insecurity among coloured compatriots and the frustrated aspirations of the African community,” said ANC WC secretary Songezo Mjongile.
Damn straight! The whites are terrified the MK Veterans and ANC Youth League are going to make good on their threat to make the Western Cape ungovernable, the coloureds are worried they’ll be redistributed due to their “overconcentration”, and the Africans nervous that if we go back to ANC rule the service delivery roll out will dry up forever.
Fears like these are ridiculous. And it’s about time those of us at the continent’s tip just accepted the facts.
Comrades Julius Malema and Jimmy Manyi have made it clear that social engineering is just another Apartheid tactic the ANC is keen to adopt – much like the Protection of Information bill; better known as the Secrecy Bill; and soon to be known as the How-We-Became-Zimbabwe Bill.
“Under the guise of good governance and a better service delivery record,” Mjongile continues, “a coded vocabulary of racism and sexism is rearing its ugly head…”
There is nothing more despicable than hiding your contempt for the Other behind competence and honesty.
Much better to wear your bigotry on your sleeve, as Juju, Manyi and our Ugandan ambassador Jon Qwelane are infamous for. Rather live in squalor knowing how those you put in power really feel.
But having strength in your convictions doesn’t just mean a cushy government job after a short spell in prison for corruption. Even our esteemed president Jacob Zuma, with his sordid sexual antics and comments about punching out gays in his youth, shows how committed our leaders are to backpedalling our freedoms.
What nerve the DA’s Theuns Botha has to tell our leaders to “stop stealing, stop corruption, stop infighting… Stop the bad practices the ANC is renowned for.”
Doesn’t he know that this is how dictatorships are built.
Seriously, Botha should just grow up and admit that the whites have had enough of this democracy lark and want to revert back to the way it was. Then we could all be on the same page and let the people decide what colour they want their oppressor to be.
We need to stop hiding the fact that Western Cape wives spend their days with a toothbrush scrubbing the kitchen floor while their husbands beat their black slaves in the back garden.
“Apartheid social engineering is far more expressed in [the Western Cape] with heightened fears within the white community, the insecurity among coloured compatriots and the frustrated aspirations of the African community,” said ANC WC secretary Songezo Mjongile.
Damn straight! The whites are terrified the MK Veterans and ANC Youth League are going to make good on their threat to make the Western Cape ungovernable, the coloureds are worried they’ll be redistributed due to their “overconcentration”, and the Africans nervous that if we go back to ANC rule the service delivery roll out will dry up forever.
Fears like these are ridiculous. And it’s about time those of us at the continent’s tip just accepted the facts.
Comrades Julius Malema and Jimmy Manyi have made it clear that social engineering is just another Apartheid tactic the ANC is keen to adopt – much like the Protection of Information bill; better known as the Secrecy Bill; and soon to be known as the How-We-Became-Zimbabwe Bill.
“Under the guise of good governance and a better service delivery record,” Mjongile continues, “a coded vocabulary of racism and sexism is rearing its ugly head…”
There is nothing more despicable than hiding your contempt for the Other behind competence and honesty.
Much better to wear your bigotry on your sleeve, as Juju, Manyi and our Ugandan ambassador Jon Qwelane are infamous for. Rather live in squalor knowing how those you put in power really feel.
But having strength in your convictions doesn’t just mean a cushy government job after a short spell in prison for corruption. Even our esteemed president Jacob Zuma, with his sordid sexual antics and comments about punching out gays in his youth, shows how committed our leaders are to backpedalling our freedoms.
What nerve the DA’s Theuns Botha has to tell our leaders to “stop stealing, stop corruption, stop infighting… Stop the bad practices the ANC is renowned for.”
Doesn’t he know that this is how dictatorships are built.
Seriously, Botha should just grow up and admit that the whites have had enough of this democracy lark and want to revert back to the way it was. Then we could all be on the same page and let the people decide what colour they want their oppressor to be.
Bond in the Bo-Kaap
As far as counter-revolutionaries go, James Bond must be right at the top of Julius Malema’s shitlist – Bond is the supreme mlungu.
The latest Bond novel, Carte Blanche by Jeffrey Deaver, has the MI6 assassin travelling to Cape Town’s Bo-Kaap, “eat[ing] bobotie” and “drink[ing] Zulu beer” – possibly because the waiter thought caviar was a brand of running shoe, and there’s no way he’d find a decent martini in Long Street.
One can only imagine Bond emptying his Walther into an attacker in a curious neon-yellow bib, completely unaware that it was just the car guard about to demand a “Five Rand” for his efforts.
I wonder if Her Majesty’s most famous spy, his mind on more important matters such as saving the world, would bother to find a bin for all the nightclub pamphlets stuffed behind his windscreen wiper or if he’d just throw them in the gutter?
“The Mother City features in more than half of the book and next time you walk through the streets of Cape Town, you may just look at it through different eyes,” writes Claire of Jonathan Ball Publishers.
What? We might imagine the streets of Cape Town rife with gunfire and intimidation? Violence and murder?
Not a stretch, I’ll be honest.
What does require an elasticity of the imagination is Bond teaming up with “a feisty police inspector in the SAPS” – all the coppers I’ve come across are more rotund than ripped, and about as feisty as the wife before her morning tea.
Bond villains have always been eccentric, and the everyday Capey with no front teeth, cap balancing precariously on his head and pants around his knees must have made JB paranoid beyond belief.
Was it intentional to name the book after MNET’s most famous investigative journalism show from the telly? Maybe he gets to meet Derek Watts – who’d definitely remind him of Jaws – or, Heaven forbid, he shags presenter Ruda Landman!
Malema, of course, would assume the British beefcake’s inherent racism as the reason he only visited the Mother City, but really they have a lot in common.
Both like to wear fancy watches, imbibe only the most expensive alcohol, and James and Juju know the importance of smart suits and automatic weapons. They also have the same views when it comes to a “nice time” without any future responsibilities.
Maybe in the next novel they’ll team up to nationalise the mines.
The latest Bond novel, Carte Blanche by Jeffrey Deaver, has the MI6 assassin travelling to Cape Town’s Bo-Kaap, “eat[ing] bobotie” and “drink[ing] Zulu beer” – possibly because the waiter thought caviar was a brand of running shoe, and there’s no way he’d find a decent martini in Long Street.
One can only imagine Bond emptying his Walther into an attacker in a curious neon-yellow bib, completely unaware that it was just the car guard about to demand a “Five Rand” for his efforts.
I wonder if Her Majesty’s most famous spy, his mind on more important matters such as saving the world, would bother to find a bin for all the nightclub pamphlets stuffed behind his windscreen wiper or if he’d just throw them in the gutter?
“The Mother City features in more than half of the book and next time you walk through the streets of Cape Town, you may just look at it through different eyes,” writes Claire of Jonathan Ball Publishers.
What? We might imagine the streets of Cape Town rife with gunfire and intimidation? Violence and murder?
Not a stretch, I’ll be honest.
What does require an elasticity of the imagination is Bond teaming up with “a feisty police inspector in the SAPS” – all the coppers I’ve come across are more rotund than ripped, and about as feisty as the wife before her morning tea.
Bond villains have always been eccentric, and the everyday Capey with no front teeth, cap balancing precariously on his head and pants around his knees must have made JB paranoid beyond belief.
Was it intentional to name the book after MNET’s most famous investigative journalism show from the telly? Maybe he gets to meet Derek Watts – who’d definitely remind him of Jaws – or, Heaven forbid, he shags presenter Ruda Landman!
Malema, of course, would assume the British beefcake’s inherent racism as the reason he only visited the Mother City, but really they have a lot in common.
Both like to wear fancy watches, imbibe only the most expensive alcohol, and James and Juju know the importance of smart suits and automatic weapons. They also have the same views when it comes to a “nice time” without any future responsibilities.
Maybe in the next novel they’ll team up to nationalise the mines.
The Tea Girl's Beautiful Brew
More prone to racist slurs and incitant songs, it’s not surprising that Julius Malema refused to debate Lindiwe Mazibuko, referring to her as the “tea girl of the madam”.
“I’m not debating the service of the madam,” Malema moaned.
Helen Zille – leader of the Democratic Alliance, Premier of the Western Cape and Juju’s least favourite “madam” – said it was more likely that Malema was “terrified” and (being the sexist buffoon he is) didn’t want to lose to a woman.
Now we all know Julius couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag, but after seeing Mazibuko’s impressive performance on e-TV where she even managed to shut Debra Patta up I don’t really blame him for running.
It would be like bringing a Ping-Pong paddle to a gunfight; the plastic balls bouncing off a bulletproof Mazibuko as Malema was mowed down with articulate ammunition.
Malema is a kapokkie in revolutionary clothing. Like abig cock rooster he puffs up his chest and struts around like he’s important… but really just makes a lot of noise.
Lindiwe Mazibuko, on the other hand, is well-spoken and knowledgeable. She has been elected to Parliament and is the DA’s National Spokesperson and Shadow Deputy Minister of Communications.
Malema is not much more than a bad stand-up comedian; a raffish rabble-rouser getting grunting guffaws from his asinine audience.
In a unique strategy, the DA has produced a politician who actually answers questions in a way that makes sense and refrains from adopting the clichéd public officials’ trait of ‘talking for a very long time but not saying anything’.
Julius Malema, so fond of pocketing people according to colour, fails to see the yellow glow emanating from his bloated belly.
But the jaundiced Juju should know that his cowardice will not go unnoticed by all, and soon the chickens will come home to roost... and take him along with them.
“I’m not debating the service of the madam,” Malema moaned.
Helen Zille – leader of the Democratic Alliance, Premier of the Western Cape and Juju’s least favourite “madam” – said it was more likely that Malema was “terrified” and (being the sexist buffoon he is) didn’t want to lose to a woman.
Now we all know Julius couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag, but after seeing Mazibuko’s impressive performance on e-TV where she even managed to shut Debra Patta up I don’t really blame him for running.
It would be like bringing a Ping-Pong paddle to a gunfight; the plastic balls bouncing off a bulletproof Mazibuko as Malema was mowed down with articulate ammunition.
Malema is a kapokkie in revolutionary clothing. Like a
Lindiwe Mazibuko, on the other hand, is well-spoken and knowledgeable. She has been elected to Parliament and is the DA’s National Spokesperson and Shadow Deputy Minister of Communications.
Malema is not much more than a bad stand-up comedian; a raffish rabble-rouser getting grunting guffaws from his asinine audience.
In a unique strategy, the DA has produced a politician who actually answers questions in a way that makes sense and refrains from adopting the clichéd public officials’ trait of ‘talking for a very long time but not saying anything’.
Julius Malema, so fond of pocketing people according to colour, fails to see the yellow glow emanating from his bloated belly.
But the jaundiced Juju should know that his cowardice will not go unnoticed by all, and soon the chickens will come home to roost... and take him along with them.
Asleep At The Wheel
OAPs will tell you a mug of warm milk does the trick.
Hippies swear by meditation and thinking of the colour purple.
But I’ve found the most effective cure for insomnia is Formula 1 racing.
Aside from the repetitive round-and-round-we-go, listening to enthusiasts telling you it’s not the racing but the individual racers that are exciting – or something as nonsensical as that – should get you to pop off in no time.
It’s kind of like watching traffic except all the cars look the same and there’s no hooting or rude hand gestures. But these guys have got nothing on Cape Town drivers when it comes to speeding and dangerous overtaking.
Much hullabaloo was made of CT’s bid for our very own F1 track through the Waterfront and Greenpoint, but I think we could do better on our own.
Rather get minibus taxis involved. With gogos climbing on and off with their grocery bags, loud kwaito and toothless sidekicks shouting from the windows it’d be much more colourful and entertaining.
A separate division that ran at the same time could include emo art students on Vespa scooters overtaking on the left and stopping to buy a banky of ganja.
Add to all of that the guys selling Funny Money and bergies collecting coins for their bottle store fund standing in the middle of the road and I reckon we’d have a hit.
Of course, McLaren and Ferrari would have to start making kombis, but if Porsche can build a 4X4 then I don’t see the problem.
I wouldn’t mind the noise if it ran past my house. In fact, it’d make a change from the police sirens every morning. And the whiny engines would bring back memories of last year’s Fifa World Cup vuvuzela craze.
Even though the races would be as boring as ever, I think we could do with having some of the gees back in the city… and I could do with the beauty sleep.
Hippies swear by meditation and thinking of the colour purple.
But I’ve found the most effective cure for insomnia is Formula 1 racing.
Aside from the repetitive round-and-round-we-go, listening to enthusiasts telling you it’s not the racing but the individual racers that are exciting – or something as nonsensical as that – should get you to pop off in no time.
It’s kind of like watching traffic except all the cars look the same and there’s no hooting or rude hand gestures. But these guys have got nothing on Cape Town drivers when it comes to speeding and dangerous overtaking.
Much hullabaloo was made of CT’s bid for our very own F1 track through the Waterfront and Greenpoint, but I think we could do better on our own.
Rather get minibus taxis involved. With gogos climbing on and off with their grocery bags, loud kwaito and toothless sidekicks shouting from the windows it’d be much more colourful and entertaining.
A separate division that ran at the same time could include emo art students on Vespa scooters overtaking on the left and stopping to buy a banky of ganja.
Add to all of that the guys selling Funny Money and bergies collecting coins for their bottle store fund standing in the middle of the road and I reckon we’d have a hit.
Of course, McLaren and Ferrari would have to start making kombis, but if Porsche can build a 4X4 then I don’t see the problem.
I wouldn’t mind the noise if it ran past my house. In fact, it’d make a change from the police sirens every morning. And the whiny engines would bring back memories of last year’s Fifa World Cup vuvuzela craze.
Even though the races would be as boring as ever, I think we could do with having some of the gees back in the city… and I could do with the beauty sleep.
Finding Diamonds in Dogshit
Saturday night, Long Street. Lucy and I – among the sober minority for a change – fight our way through the crowd of piss-heads and prostitutes dancing to the atrocious covers of Bryan Adams and Robbie Williams, and up the stairs of the Dubliner.
God knows where they find that band, but their aural assault is well worth the light at the end of the terrible tunnel.
It is something akin to digging through dogshit to find a shining diamond; but if you can manage getting stepped on by inebriated tourists and the accompanying market of meat with their bovine eyes on all the Dollars and Pounds, you will meet the Piano Man.
His name is Dave. Cooler than a Tarantino movie, he drinks Southern Comfort on the rocks and has a voice like an icy glass of blended honey, angel wings and gravel. An odd combination, but much like stopping along a country dirt road for lunch, staring at the majestic mountains and thinking of God as a given.
If you can grab a seat at the glass-topped piano you’ll have a front row vision of his nimble fingers banging out everything from Neil Diamond to Coldplay and, of course, a large helping of Billy Joel.
His fans shout out requests and cheer like punters at an underground kung-fu death match – and more often than not someone from the industry passes by, gives Dave a kiss and a drink, and lends their voice to his soulful magic.
Now if they could only build a bridge over the dodgy, downstairs dancefloor, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to get an icecream.
God knows where they find that band, but their aural assault is well worth the light at the end of the terrible tunnel.
It is something akin to digging through dogshit to find a shining diamond; but if you can manage getting stepped on by inebriated tourists and the accompanying market of meat with their bovine eyes on all the Dollars and Pounds, you will meet the Piano Man.
His name is Dave. Cooler than a Tarantino movie, he drinks Southern Comfort on the rocks and has a voice like an icy glass of blended honey, angel wings and gravel. An odd combination, but much like stopping along a country dirt road for lunch, staring at the majestic mountains and thinking of God as a given.
If you can grab a seat at the glass-topped piano you’ll have a front row vision of his nimble fingers banging out everything from Neil Diamond to Coldplay and, of course, a large helping of Billy Joel.
His fans shout out requests and cheer like punters at an underground kung-fu death match – and more often than not someone from the industry passes by, gives Dave a kiss and a drink, and lends their voice to his soulful magic.
Now if they could only build a bridge over the dodgy, downstairs dancefloor, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to get an icecream.
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.
Earth Hour Activities
With Eskom warning of more rolling blackouts for the next three years, Earth Hour seems a bit redundant.
If the rest of the world followed South Africa’s example it wouldn’t be altruism that saved the environment, it would be general incompetence. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t latched onto this tree-hugger trend and marketed their fuck ups as intended eco-friendliness.
Maybe that guy in 2006 who threw the wrench into the big machine thingee that lights our bulbs and boils our tea wasn’t a saboteur after all, merely a concerned citizen. Just like those scallywags who sliced the tyres on my gas-guzzler last year, forcing me to walk around for at least a day.
But with the telly off and no portable radio, I’m at a bit of a loss for something to do. Here are some ideas I had for those in the same predicament:
1. Get some mates round and have a braai.
That’s a barbeque for those not from around here. Although throwing mammal-meat on an open flame might take away from the ‘save the planet’/let’s-all-be-hippies vibe.
2. Tell scary stories.
A blanky on the front room floor, a torch, and that one about the snogging couple in the car and the guy with the hook-hand could be fun.
3. Organise a sing-a-along.
Go to scoutorama.com for all the campfire favourites.
4. Have sex.
This one doesn’t necessarily require a group of friends, but it’s not entirely out of the question.
5. Get an early night.
Perfectly suited to those with no significant other and even less friends; and just think of how refreshed you’ll be on Sunday.
On the other hand, you could get out of the house and down your local. With Capetonians generally finding any excuse for a piss-up you definitely won’t be alone.
Just remember to turn the lights out when you leave.
If the rest of the world followed South Africa’s example it wouldn’t be altruism that saved the environment, it would be general incompetence. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t latched onto this tree-hugger trend and marketed their fuck ups as intended eco-friendliness.
Maybe that guy in 2006 who threw the wrench into the big machine thingee that lights our bulbs and boils our tea wasn’t a saboteur after all, merely a concerned citizen. Just like those scallywags who sliced the tyres on my gas-guzzler last year, forcing me to walk around for at least a day.
But with the telly off and no portable radio, I’m at a bit of a loss for something to do. Here are some ideas I had for those in the same predicament:
1. Get some mates round and have a braai.
That’s a barbeque for those not from around here. Although throwing mammal-meat on an open flame might take away from the ‘save the planet’/let’s-all-be-hippies vibe.
2. Tell scary stories.
A blanky on the front room floor, a torch, and that one about the snogging couple in the car and the guy with the hook-hand could be fun.
3. Organise a sing-a-along.
Go to scoutorama.com for all the campfire favourites.
4. Have sex.
This one doesn’t necessarily require a group of friends, but it’s not entirely out of the question.
5. Get an early night.
Perfectly suited to those with no significant other and even less friends; and just think of how refreshed you’ll be on Sunday.
On the other hand, you could get out of the house and down your local. With Capetonians generally finding any excuse for a piss-up you definitely won’t be alone.
Just remember to turn the lights out when you leave.
Too Many Capeys in Cape Town?
What? You mean Juju Malema is NOT the only racist in the African National Congress? Colour me ‘not fucking surprised at all’.
Way back in 2010, Jimmy Manyi – chief ANC spokesman – told a television talk show audience that the Western Cape had an “over-concentration of coloureds” and that they should “spread in the rest of the country”.
For non-South African readers, a ‘coloured’ is a person defined by the previous Apartheid regime as too dark to be ‘white’ and too light to be ‘black’.
Instead of ‘coffee’ or ‘caramel’, they unimaginatively labelled them ‘coloured’ - kind of the in-betweeners; South Africa’s middle-children.
Mad Manyi continues: “So they must stop this over-concentration situation because they are in over-supply where they are, so you must look into the country and see where you can meet the supply.” – this is how our government’s head mouthpiece actually speaks.
As is the case with many ‘comrades’, a translation is in order.
What Jimmy Manyi seems to be implying is that we need a new kind of Group Areas Act in order to redistribute the much-loved ‘Capey’. Move them somewhere else so there’s more room for the darker-toned ANC supporters. It’s not just a war on whites that some in the ruling party want to wage, but a war on anyone deemed ‘not African enough’.
The real reason, no matter what the spin doctors in the ANC might tell us in the coming days, is because the ‘coloureds’ of the Western Cape just don’t seem to be voting the right way. They prefer the no nonsense, no corruption, no jobs-for-pals way the Democratic Alliance and partners run things.
Room on the dangerously creaking bandwagon is in short supply. Just about every opposition partygoer has flipped their taxpayer-purchased wigs, but these comments haven’t just pissed off non-blacks in general, even ones in the ruling party itself.
Trevor Manuel, former Minister of Finance but now just plain old Minister in the Presidency and one of the few respected members of ANC hierarchy, in an open letter, accused Manyi of being “a racist in the mould of HF Verwoerd” - ouch!
Independent Democrats parliamentary leader, Joe Mcgluwa, stated that the ANC “continue to be guided by a policy of narrow racial nationalism, and are even now trying to engage in social engineering that would push millions of coloured people out of the Western Cape,”
Western Cape Premier and head honchette of the DA, Helen Zille, has called for Manyi’s “immediate dismissal”, but the truth is she’s probably praying they keep him on – like wrapping votes in Quality Street paper and chucking them in a pram.
Gwede Mantashe, ANC secretary-general currently holding the reins of the bulging-eyed, frothy-mouthed, nostril-flaring steed that is South Africa, when approached for comment by Cape Argus reporters, curtly told them: “It’s none of your business.”
In other words, “Fuck off and stop interfering with our diabolical schemes.”
Way back in 2010, Jimmy Manyi – chief ANC spokesman – told a television talk show audience that the Western Cape had an “over-concentration of coloureds” and that they should “spread in the rest of the country”.
For non-South African readers, a ‘coloured’ is a person defined by the previous Apartheid regime as too dark to be ‘white’ and too light to be ‘black’.
Instead of ‘coffee’ or ‘caramel’, they unimaginatively labelled them ‘coloured’ - kind of the in-betweeners; South Africa’s middle-children.
Mad Manyi continues: “So they must stop this over-concentration situation because they are in over-supply where they are, so you must look into the country and see where you can meet the supply.” – this is how our government’s head mouthpiece actually speaks.
As is the case with many ‘comrades’, a translation is in order.
What Jimmy Manyi seems to be implying is that we need a new kind of Group Areas Act in order to redistribute the much-loved ‘Capey’. Move them somewhere else so there’s more room for the darker-toned ANC supporters. It’s not just a war on whites that some in the ruling party want to wage, but a war on anyone deemed ‘not African enough’.
The real reason, no matter what the spin doctors in the ANC might tell us in the coming days, is because the ‘coloureds’ of the Western Cape just don’t seem to be voting the right way. They prefer the no nonsense, no corruption, no jobs-for-pals way the Democratic Alliance and partners run things.
Room on the dangerously creaking bandwagon is in short supply. Just about every opposition partygoer has flipped their taxpayer-purchased wigs, but these comments haven’t just pissed off non-blacks in general, even ones in the ruling party itself.
Trevor Manuel, former Minister of Finance but now just plain old Minister in the Presidency and one of the few respected members of ANC hierarchy, in an open letter, accused Manyi of being “a racist in the mould of HF Verwoerd” - ouch!
Independent Democrats parliamentary leader, Joe Mcgluwa, stated that the ANC “continue to be guided by a policy of narrow racial nationalism, and are even now trying to engage in social engineering that would push millions of coloured people out of the Western Cape,”
Western Cape Premier and head honchette of the DA, Helen Zille, has called for Manyi’s “immediate dismissal”, but the truth is she’s probably praying they keep him on – like wrapping votes in Quality Street paper and chucking them in a pram.
Gwede Mantashe, ANC secretary-general currently holding the reins of the bulging-eyed, frothy-mouthed, nostril-flaring steed that is South Africa, when approached for comment by Cape Argus reporters, curtly told them: “It’s none of your business.”
In other words, “Fuck off and stop interfering with our diabolical schemes.”
Patch Adams for my Prostate Check
Every Monday Zula Bar in Long Street has an open mic comedy show. It’s great because it gives aspiring comedians the opportunity to test their jokes on non-family members and suffer the realities of a pissed, often abusive audience.
Sometimes though, it’s a bit like getting your prostate checked. Not because, when an unfunny guy tanks and you’ve paid thirty bucks at the door, you feel like you’ve been fucked with a fat finger, but because when a nervous twenty-something fails to inspire even a titter, it churns an awkward discomfort in your gut.
It’s an embarrassing feeling – like walking out of a public toilet and realising there’s a tiny wet circle on the front of your shorts – and even though it’s not you up there dodging insults and beer bottles, that hole opens up in the pit of your stomach and you wish you could stuff yourself into it and disappear.
You can blame nerves or stage fright for things like this, but the real culprits are the creators of the TV show Friends.
Because Friends had a cast of characters that we could all relate to on some level, and because witty one-liners were fired fast, we all wanted to be like them.
Art imitated life, and improved on it to such an extent that we strived in our lives to imitate what could loosely be called art. And even though Friends is long gone, we still constantly and unconsciously grasp for snappy comebacks.
It’s as though we suddenly only had three options: Joey, Ross or Chandler for boys, and Rachel, Monica or Phoebe for girls. What we didn’t realise was that, in reality, the parts of them we wanted were all the same.
I wonder if our grandparents’ generation suffered something like this; or if people were just funny or not, and didn’t try to be what they weren’t. Without an oversaturation of sitcoms, I suspect they just made do with whatever personality their parents’ genes gave them.
A mate of mine has a quick acid test to tell if you’re hilarious or hopeless. He reckons that if you have to tell other people’s jokes to be funny, you’re not. Maybe if more people reflected on this we wouldn’t have to excuse ourselves to the balcony to avoid getting caught up in a lynching.
Lynchings are common on a Monday night at Zula. The crowd ruthlessly separates the Weet-Bix from the Cornflakes; recognises the comedy of substance and heckles the recycled, stolen jokes.
The regulars take their laughs seriously.
Reality TV has shown us that for anything to have worth, it must be documented on the goggle-box. So after packing in the beers and a couple puffs of spliff, one leaves vowing to write the SABC and demand a Pop Idols-style comedy show.
The idea inebriatedly snowballs down a mental hill: the judges could be the comedic pioneers of our South African age – Marc Lottering, Kurt Schoonrad, and Julius Malema; the money from the phone-in votes could be used to teach jokes to township children; the winner could bring out a Christmas DVD and star in the next Nandos advert; we’d call it Joke Idol and soon it would be syndicated and imitated worldwide!
But the next morning, with an alcoholic’s headache and a stoner’s hangover, you realise that watching lame stand-up isn’t as entertaining as witnessing an atrocious singer’s comeuppance. Your once globe-rocking idea is discarded on the same pile as laminated books for the bath, and ironing board covers with Jacob Zuma’s face on them.
You slouch back a week later to Zula Comedy Night with a pocketful of soft tomatoes, hoping for a rare gem in amongst the mud and donkey shit, wondering if this world has a place for the deluded comic.
Surely their bravery should be rewarded somehow, so they can move on with their head held high to something they’re good at?
Sometimes though, it’s a bit like getting your prostate checked. Not because, when an unfunny guy tanks and you’ve paid thirty bucks at the door, you feel like you’ve been fucked with a fat finger, but because when a nervous twenty-something fails to inspire even a titter, it churns an awkward discomfort in your gut.
It’s an embarrassing feeling – like walking out of a public toilet and realising there’s a tiny wet circle on the front of your shorts – and even though it’s not you up there dodging insults and beer bottles, that hole opens up in the pit of your stomach and you wish you could stuff yourself into it and disappear.
You can blame nerves or stage fright for things like this, but the real culprits are the creators of the TV show Friends.
Because Friends had a cast of characters that we could all relate to on some level, and because witty one-liners were fired fast, we all wanted to be like them.
Art imitated life, and improved on it to such an extent that we strived in our lives to imitate what could loosely be called art. And even though Friends is long gone, we still constantly and unconsciously grasp for snappy comebacks.
It’s as though we suddenly only had three options: Joey, Ross or Chandler for boys, and Rachel, Monica or Phoebe for girls. What we didn’t realise was that, in reality, the parts of them we wanted were all the same.
I wonder if our grandparents’ generation suffered something like this; or if people were just funny or not, and didn’t try to be what they weren’t. Without an oversaturation of sitcoms, I suspect they just made do with whatever personality their parents’ genes gave them.
A mate of mine has a quick acid test to tell if you’re hilarious or hopeless. He reckons that if you have to tell other people’s jokes to be funny, you’re not. Maybe if more people reflected on this we wouldn’t have to excuse ourselves to the balcony to avoid getting caught up in a lynching.
Lynchings are common on a Monday night at Zula. The crowd ruthlessly separates the Weet-Bix from the Cornflakes; recognises the comedy of substance and heckles the recycled, stolen jokes.
The regulars take their laughs seriously.
Reality TV has shown us that for anything to have worth, it must be documented on the goggle-box. So after packing in the beers and a couple puffs of spliff, one leaves vowing to write the SABC and demand a Pop Idols-style comedy show.
The idea inebriatedly snowballs down a mental hill: the judges could be the comedic pioneers of our South African age – Marc Lottering, Kurt Schoonrad, and Julius Malema; the money from the phone-in votes could be used to teach jokes to township children; the winner could bring out a Christmas DVD and star in the next Nandos advert; we’d call it Joke Idol and soon it would be syndicated and imitated worldwide!
But the next morning, with an alcoholic’s headache and a stoner’s hangover, you realise that watching lame stand-up isn’t as entertaining as witnessing an atrocious singer’s comeuppance. Your once globe-rocking idea is discarded on the same pile as laminated books for the bath, and ironing board covers with Jacob Zuma’s face on them.
You slouch back a week later to Zula Comedy Night with a pocketful of soft tomatoes, hoping for a rare gem in amongst the mud and donkey shit, wondering if this world has a place for the deluded comic.
Surely their bravery should be rewarded somehow, so they can move on with their head held high to something they’re good at?
The Ghosts of Long Street
There is no inspiration in isolation.
In the Summer, Long Street is one of the most inspirational places in Cape Town.
Most of the time just sitting in its atmosphere lets words pour from my pen. I sit and look at the faces of passers-by and it’s almost as though I can read their thoughts.
Drunk tourists and drug-addled streetkids. Brainless Barbies and baby-weilding beggars. Falsely confident jocks on a night out from the suburbs. Blasé locals who’ve seen all the weirdness Town can throw at them.
Their energies wrap around each other – an invisible, omnipotent mist – and make the Street more than the sum of its different, often conflicting parts.
If one sits quietly and listens, the Street will speak to you.
It will tell you all the desires of those that have walked it. It will tell you stories of glory and triumph. It will tell you stories of desperation and recklessness.
If you allow your soul to open and truly listen you will learn more than any book or sage could relate about the human condition.
Our suffering and fleeting jubilation. Our struggles and sins and selfishness.
But also our honour and charity. Our loving kindness. Our empathy and compassion.
The Street will tell you tales. Fables of reflection that, once heard, will let you choose the person that you want to be. And leave behind the person that you are.
But most of all, Long Street will show you that you are not alone. Everyone is searching for the same things in life – companionship, trust, self-respect and happiness however brief. You are not alone.
This Street is the face of mankind’s soul.
In the Summer, Long Street is one of the most inspirational places in Cape Town.
Most of the time just sitting in its atmosphere lets words pour from my pen. I sit and look at the faces of passers-by and it’s almost as though I can read their thoughts.
Drunk tourists and drug-addled streetkids. Brainless Barbies and baby-weilding beggars. Falsely confident jocks on a night out from the suburbs. Blasé locals who’ve seen all the weirdness Town can throw at them.
Their energies wrap around each other – an invisible, omnipotent mist – and make the Street more than the sum of its different, often conflicting parts.
If one sits quietly and listens, the Street will speak to you.
It will tell you all the desires of those that have walked it. It will tell you stories of glory and triumph. It will tell you stories of desperation and recklessness.
If you allow your soul to open and truly listen you will learn more than any book or sage could relate about the human condition.
Our suffering and fleeting jubilation. Our struggles and sins and selfishness.
But also our honour and charity. Our loving kindness. Our empathy and compassion.
The Street will tell you tales. Fables of reflection that, once heard, will let you choose the person that you want to be. And leave behind the person that you are.
But most of all, Long Street will show you that you are not alone. Everyone is searching for the same things in life – companionship, trust, self-respect and happiness however brief. You are not alone.
This Street is the face of mankind’s soul.
HEATWAVE 2011
The City Bowl feels like a suburb of Hell.
As though our feigned ignorance and blind eyes turned have angered God, and all the whores and politicians have pulled us with them into the hungry Abyss.
On the other hand, it takes about half the time to bake a cake.
The sun and I have never really been good mates. I blame the Irish blood for my fair complexion – I go the colour of cheap Wimpy ketchup in twenty minutes and by nightfall I’m peeling like Goldmember.
On Wednesday the temperature supposedly hit around 40 Celsius, but it always feels much worse, doesn’t it?
At least that’s what the hamsters think – they’re monged out in their cages licking and then sleeping against the ice blocks we put in for them; too soporific to run on their wheels, let alone ride little bicycles through flaming hoops like they usually do when they want to be fed. I think this heat might actually kill Julius!
All the Pomms and Saffers in Queen’s Country, after regarding our half-melted Facebook updates, say something along the lines of, “Don’t complain about it; it’s minus five here!”
Maybe we should trade?
It’s fine if you’re on holiday and can lounge by the pool all day, occasionally flopping into the water when your tongue turns to biltong, but it’s not all shits and giggles if you’re stuck in an office.
Deodorant is useless – even anti-perspirant. You leave the house for two minutes and you’re dripping like an Emo’s eyeball and smelling like a monitor lizard.
There’s so much rage on the road that grannies are giving you the finger as they cut you off to get to the icecream bicycle man.
Even your hair and fingernails are sweating.
You’d think respite would come when the sun went to sleep, but it almost seems to get worse!
Cuddling is out of the question – body heat, hello? And when you wake up soaked in warm liquid… well, it reminds me of the last time I drank ouzo.
Plus, this heat always gives me terrifying nightmares – snakes devouring teddy bears, Buddha falling into a thornbush, or Gary the Tooth Fairy’s Variety Show!
I’m one night away from sleeping in the garden with the sprinkler on.
But as soon as the oceans have evaporated we can be sure torrential rains will follow. And at the rate 2010 passed by you know the Winter will be here sooner than you can toast a marshmallow on your steering wheel.
And then, in true Capetonian style, we’ll all be complaining about the cold.
As though our feigned ignorance and blind eyes turned have angered God, and all the whores and politicians have pulled us with them into the hungry Abyss.
On the other hand, it takes about half the time to bake a cake.
The sun and I have never really been good mates. I blame the Irish blood for my fair complexion – I go the colour of cheap Wimpy ketchup in twenty minutes and by nightfall I’m peeling like Goldmember.
On Wednesday the temperature supposedly hit around 40 Celsius, but it always feels much worse, doesn’t it?
At least that’s what the hamsters think – they’re monged out in their cages licking and then sleeping against the ice blocks we put in for them; too soporific to run on their wheels, let alone ride little bicycles through flaming hoops like they usually do when they want to be fed. I think this heat might actually kill Julius!
All the Pomms and Saffers in Queen’s Country, after regarding our half-melted Facebook updates, say something along the lines of, “Don’t complain about it; it’s minus five here!”
Maybe we should trade?
It’s fine if you’re on holiday and can lounge by the pool all day, occasionally flopping into the water when your tongue turns to biltong, but it’s not all shits and giggles if you’re stuck in an office.
Deodorant is useless – even anti-perspirant. You leave the house for two minutes and you’re dripping like an Emo’s eyeball and smelling like a monitor lizard.
There’s so much rage on the road that grannies are giving you the finger as they cut you off to get to the icecream bicycle man.
Even your hair and fingernails are sweating.
You’d think respite would come when the sun went to sleep, but it almost seems to get worse!
Cuddling is out of the question – body heat, hello? And when you wake up soaked in warm liquid… well, it reminds me of the last time I drank ouzo.
Plus, this heat always gives me terrifying nightmares – snakes devouring teddy bears, Buddha falling into a thornbush, or Gary the Tooth Fairy’s Variety Show!
I’m one night away from sleeping in the garden with the sprinkler on.
But as soon as the oceans have evaporated we can be sure torrential rains will follow. And at the rate 2010 passed by you know the Winter will be here sooner than you can toast a marshmallow on your steering wheel.
And then, in true Capetonian style, we’ll all be complaining about the cold.
Is there a Doom spray for Litterbugs?
Is it okay to excuse someone’s behaviour, give them the benefit of the doubt, because they’re of a certain race?
I’m wondering because the other day while driving we saw the car in front of us throw an empty plastic bottle out their car window and into the street. Lucy, being English, was shocked; I just kind of shrugged and didn’t make too much of it, not because I am apathetic towards littering, but because the car was full of black people.
I assumed they were from an historically disadvantaged area that was probably rubbish-strewn. I assumed they had not such a great education and weren’t exposed to the Zeebi adverts I was as a kid telling us not to litter.
I assumed that they just didn’t know any better.
I sometimes struggle with my attitudes towards other races. Often I see behaviour that makes me sigh – getting offered “nice Charlie” every five steps by Nigerians in Long Street; being cut off by a taxi only to have it slam on the brakes in front of me – I sometimes think things that I know are wrong.
For every dodgy black person I’ve met, I know twenty that are good, honest people. And living in Cape Town I’ve met more than my fair share of dodgy whites.
But then I pick up the paper and read about Julius Malema’s latest racist rant and my mind boggles at the massive support he has, or my fiancée gets treated like dirt at work because she’s white and British and dealing with young South African blacks.
Witnessing the simple act of littering out a car window made me sigh.
I wondered if it was because they came from a township with Pick ‘n Pay packets flapping from every fence. But surely that would make them more aware of how horrible it is to have rubbish just dumped in the street? They were adults; surely their minds could make that connection.
Maybe it was an act of spite? Or defiance of some kind?
Maybe not-littering is something one needs to learn from an early age?
I think it is human nature to box people. Not punch them in the face, but to compartmentalise. Think about it next time you’re in a bad mood in traffic:
Old person driving too slow – fucking grannies should have to do their driving test again when they hit eighty!
Twenty-year-old sits on your arse when you’re doing 120 – fucking young prick should learn how to drive!
Taxi almost kills you – fucking guy probably bought his license!
Psychologists tell us that racists only see the stereotypical behaviour and not the actions that go against the prejudicial beliefs. The hard part is being honest enough with ourselves to know when we are letting the cliché feed racist thoughts.
So what does my reaction to the plastic bottle out the car window tell me about myself? Am I racist for justifying the action? Am I apathetic when it comes to certain races because I think that’s just the way they behave?
In school they told us that when we saw someone littering we should point and shout, “Litterbug! Litterbug!” loudly until the offender picked their rubbish up and deposited it in the bin.
Maybe I should just start doing that again.
I’m wondering because the other day while driving we saw the car in front of us throw an empty plastic bottle out their car window and into the street. Lucy, being English, was shocked; I just kind of shrugged and didn’t make too much of it, not because I am apathetic towards littering, but because the car was full of black people.
I assumed they were from an historically disadvantaged area that was probably rubbish-strewn. I assumed they had not such a great education and weren’t exposed to the Zeebi adverts I was as a kid telling us not to litter.
I assumed that they just didn’t know any better.
I sometimes struggle with my attitudes towards other races. Often I see behaviour that makes me sigh – getting offered “nice Charlie” every five steps by Nigerians in Long Street; being cut off by a taxi only to have it slam on the brakes in front of me – I sometimes think things that I know are wrong.
For every dodgy black person I’ve met, I know twenty that are good, honest people. And living in Cape Town I’ve met more than my fair share of dodgy whites.
But then I pick up the paper and read about Julius Malema’s latest racist rant and my mind boggles at the massive support he has, or my fiancée gets treated like dirt at work because she’s white and British and dealing with young South African blacks.
Witnessing the simple act of littering out a car window made me sigh.
I wondered if it was because they came from a township with Pick ‘n Pay packets flapping from every fence. But surely that would make them more aware of how horrible it is to have rubbish just dumped in the street? They were adults; surely their minds could make that connection.
Maybe it was an act of spite? Or defiance of some kind?
Maybe not-littering is something one needs to learn from an early age?
I think it is human nature to box people. Not punch them in the face, but to compartmentalise. Think about it next time you’re in a bad mood in traffic:
Old person driving too slow – fucking grannies should have to do their driving test again when they hit eighty!
Twenty-year-old sits on your arse when you’re doing 120 – fucking young prick should learn how to drive!
Taxi almost kills you – fucking guy probably bought his license!
Psychologists tell us that racists only see the stereotypical behaviour and not the actions that go against the prejudicial beliefs. The hard part is being honest enough with ourselves to know when we are letting the cliché feed racist thoughts.
So what does my reaction to the plastic bottle out the car window tell me about myself? Am I racist for justifying the action? Am I apathetic when it comes to certain races because I think that’s just the way they behave?
In school they told us that when we saw someone littering we should point and shout, “Litterbug! Litterbug!” loudly until the offender picked their rubbish up and deposited it in the bin.
Maybe I should just start doing that again.
Is Bad News My Inspiration?
My mother-in-law loves tea! She more often than not makes an entrance into a room with the words, “Anyone fancy a nice cup of tea?”
Having just returned from snowy, old England I can understand it. The temperature hit -5 while we were there and in Scotland the snow made it impossible to get anywhere.
It warmed my heart when, back in Cape Town, someone said they’d had nothing interesting to read since I’d been away and had missed my rantings.
“I haven’t read much SA news on holiday,” I told him, “so not much to complain about.”
It was kind of odd to watch the English news and have the majority of “Top Stories” feature the weather, but I must admit it made a nice change to Zuma’s infidelity, Malema’s racist rantings, and post-Fifa depression.
I think about ninety-five percent of conversation in England centres around the weather. Not even the student riots featured, and they’ve been smashing up buildings and throwing fire extinguishers around.
Pink Floyd guitarist Dave Gilmour’s son was arrested for his antics – always nice to see a rich kid looking out for his hard-earned Trust Fund. Apparently he was photographed trying to set a fire outside the Supreme Court, and “causing damage to the Union flag on the Cenotaph in Whitehall”.
If only attention-seeking was a crime…
Despite all the violence, Home Secretary Theresa May ruled out the use of water cannons.
I could only imagine our cops strapping on the riot gear and pumping them full of rubber bullets. It probably wasn’t physical injury she was so concerned about, but sympathy for the poor soaked students getting the sniffles from the cold.
I didn’t get the sniffles! My healthy, sun-drenched South African genes kept my immune system from throwing in the towel.
I did, however, get fat… or should I say fatter.
Not my fault. My mother-in-law is what is commonly called a “feeder”.
One day, after a gigantic slice of bacon and egg pie followed by enough cottage pie to house a family of six with a garage and braai area, I got a serious case of stomach cramps and dodgy tummy syndrome.
“He’s from Africa,” Lucy lambasted her, “that’s more food than they see in a year!”
The food in England is cheap, not as expensive as we poor South Africans think. In fact the only things that seemed more expensive were houses and cigarettes. All of the pubs we had lunch in charged 5.50 for a meal and a pint.
But I suspect it’s maybe just Cape Town that’s expensive. Over here in the tourist capital of SA it’s all priced for pommies and yanks, leaving us insignificant mountain-dwellers to hunt our own food – not so easy considering city wildlife pretty much only includes rats, pigeons and Long Street locals.
I have to admit in a strange way it’s nice to be back in SA and pick up the papers and see all the violence and corruption. It follows that Chinese curse we all know from the movies: “May you live in interesting times.”
If anything, we live in an ‘interesting’ country. I’m sure I’ll have something to complain about soon enough.
Having just returned from snowy, old England I can understand it. The temperature hit -5 while we were there and in Scotland the snow made it impossible to get anywhere.
It warmed my heart when, back in Cape Town, someone said they’d had nothing interesting to read since I’d been away and had missed my rantings.
“I haven’t read much SA news on holiday,” I told him, “so not much to complain about.”
It was kind of odd to watch the English news and have the majority of “Top Stories” feature the weather, but I must admit it made a nice change to Zuma’s infidelity, Malema’s racist rantings, and post-Fifa depression.
I think about ninety-five percent of conversation in England centres around the weather. Not even the student riots featured, and they’ve been smashing up buildings and throwing fire extinguishers around.
Pink Floyd guitarist Dave Gilmour’s son was arrested for his antics – always nice to see a rich kid looking out for his hard-earned Trust Fund. Apparently he was photographed trying to set a fire outside the Supreme Court, and “causing damage to the Union flag on the Cenotaph in Whitehall”.
If only attention-seeking was a crime…
Despite all the violence, Home Secretary Theresa May ruled out the use of water cannons.
I could only imagine our cops strapping on the riot gear and pumping them full of rubber bullets. It probably wasn’t physical injury she was so concerned about, but sympathy for the poor soaked students getting the sniffles from the cold.
I didn’t get the sniffles! My healthy, sun-drenched South African genes kept my immune system from throwing in the towel.
I did, however, get fat… or should I say fatter.
Not my fault. My mother-in-law is what is commonly called a “feeder”.
One day, after a gigantic slice of bacon and egg pie followed by enough cottage pie to house a family of six with a garage and braai area, I got a serious case of stomach cramps and dodgy tummy syndrome.
“He’s from Africa,” Lucy lambasted her, “that’s more food than they see in a year!”
The food in England is cheap, not as expensive as we poor South Africans think. In fact the only things that seemed more expensive were houses and cigarettes. All of the pubs we had lunch in charged 5.50 for a meal and a pint.
But I suspect it’s maybe just Cape Town that’s expensive. Over here in the tourist capital of SA it’s all priced for pommies and yanks, leaving us insignificant mountain-dwellers to hunt our own food – not so easy considering city wildlife pretty much only includes rats, pigeons and Long Street locals.
I have to admit in a strange way it’s nice to be back in SA and pick up the papers and see all the violence and corruption. It follows that Chinese curse we all know from the movies: “May you live in interesting times.”
If anything, we live in an ‘interesting’ country. I’m sure I’ll have something to complain about soon enough.
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