As I chew on my miniature tree-shaped cooking-chocolate from the fifth window of my advent calendar I have to ask myself, “So just what does Captain America have to do with Christmas, anyway?”
Is it maybe because Santa – or at least the image of Father Christmas we have today – was apparently invented by the American Coca-Cola Company?
Or possibly because the Jolly Fat Man’s red and white suit, combined with the blue of his freezing cold Northern Polish skin colour, is the same as the Yankee flag?
Or is it, as so many of those unhappy Occupy Wall Street campers would no doubt rant, because Christmas and all it stands for has been hijacked by the heinous marketing department henchman working for the bastard capitalist bosses?
I don’t care, really, but is it too much to ask for an actual yuletide-themed advent calendar?
Unless you’re willing to pay top-Pound for one punted as ‘traditional’ and ‘authentic’ and therefore an extra three quid or such, the answer is ‘no’ and you’ll have to be happy with Batman or Barbie or Snoop Dogg.
At the end of the day, though, the chocolate is pretty much the same cheap processed muck regardless of the picture on the front, but I’m not unhappy with that. Another Marvel-inspired ad-cal I had the displeasure of purchasing a few years back was NOT filled with elf-turds, but rather disgusting chewy gummy-type things.
Very disappointing!
But maybe comic book campness is appropriate after all, as I had to perform numerous death-defying heroics just to get the absurdly massive Christmas tree down from the loft. If I’d known it was going to be such a business I’d have dressed in spandex and got Lucy to film and post it on Yoohoo-Tube.
Wobbly ladder + (tumble-down-stairs/broken bannister) x 1 000 000 hits = a season to remember!
To add to the effect I’d have my mum-in-law at the foot of the stairs, splinters of wood raining down, mad as hell and looking like the Red Skull.
In the next few weeks I’ve got to brave it all again to retrieve the Santa outfit, so with the right planning I’ll get my shot at fleeting glory yet.
I’m not sure what’ll be more challenging: trying to find said suit in the overstuffed loft, or attempting to convince my niece and nephew that Father Christmas smells of biltong and says “howzit” and “just now” in a funny accent.
Mild-mannered blogger by night! Fat, drunk, laughing man with a sack full of half-price puzzles and board games by day!
And next year they can put my face on a calendar.
Hypochondriaphobia
It’s all Health & Safety’s fault!
My mum-in-law has a bad cold. She’s sneezing and coughing… and touching things! Wherever her hands go they leave blue stains.
On every cup of tea. On the door handles. All over the cat’s fur as she pats him on the head.
At first I think she’s had a bum pen and it’s leaked ink all over her hands. I ask Lucy if she’s not worried about the ink on her favourite blouse.
My wife pops the cap on my pill bottle. Apparently, it’s only me who can see the infection being plastered all over the show.
You see, starting a new job ‘n all (and being just another Third World immigrant) it was necessary for me to watch the standard Health & Safety dvd teaching me how to wash my hands and informing me that things like rubber bands and product packaging should not be cooked along with the veg.
To send the message home, they get some guy to touch a pair of pork chops and then a lettuce head, and then shine a UV light onto all of it to show you where all the germs have spread.
I watched the movie, signed the form, and discussed my favourite bits with colleagues.
I didn’t expect, one week later, to be seeing Smurf-cum everywhere.
I know it’s all in my head. And I know that, to be washing my hands every ten minutes, is maybe a bit OCD and maybe a bit hypochondriacal. But I’m not scared of getting sick as much as I’m afraid of being afraid of getting sick.
In school some of my classmates often accused me of being “hypo-active”. I knew what they meant and never corrected them because, well, I figured I read more books in a year than they probably would their entire lives. The problem with being surrounded by idiots is they don’t know they’re idiots… and they all stick together.
The thing is, I never really did think I was sick. I just hated school so much I’d pretend to be ill to get some time off.
But now, thanks to Health & Safety, there is a part of my brain that IS turning me into a hypochondriac! And if thinking you’re sick all the time is hypochondria, what’s the word for thinking you’re being a hypochondriac?
And if Frankie Roosevelt is right and “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself” then I’m more frightened than ever!
And it’s all Health & Safety’s fault.
My mum-in-law has a bad cold. She’s sneezing and coughing… and touching things! Wherever her hands go they leave blue stains.
On every cup of tea. On the door handles. All over the cat’s fur as she pats him on the head.
At first I think she’s had a bum pen and it’s leaked ink all over her hands. I ask Lucy if she’s not worried about the ink on her favourite blouse.
My wife pops the cap on my pill bottle. Apparently, it’s only me who can see the infection being plastered all over the show.
You see, starting a new job ‘n all (and being just another Third World immigrant) it was necessary for me to watch the standard Health & Safety dvd teaching me how to wash my hands and informing me that things like rubber bands and product packaging should not be cooked along with the veg.
To send the message home, they get some guy to touch a pair of pork chops and then a lettuce head, and then shine a UV light onto all of it to show you where all the germs have spread.
I watched the movie, signed the form, and discussed my favourite bits with colleagues.
I didn’t expect, one week later, to be seeing Smurf-cum everywhere.
I know it’s all in my head. And I know that, to be washing my hands every ten minutes, is maybe a bit OCD and maybe a bit hypochondriacal. But I’m not scared of getting sick as much as I’m afraid of being afraid of getting sick.
In school some of my classmates often accused me of being “hypo-active”. I knew what they meant and never corrected them because, well, I figured I read more books in a year than they probably would their entire lives. The problem with being surrounded by idiots is they don’t know they’re idiots… and they all stick together.
The thing is, I never really did think I was sick. I just hated school so much I’d pretend to be ill to get some time off.
But now, thanks to Health & Safety, there is a part of my brain that IS turning me into a hypochondriac! And if thinking you’re sick all the time is hypochondria, what’s the word for thinking you’re being a hypochondriac?
And if Frankie Roosevelt is right and “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself” then I’m more frightened than ever!
And it’s all Health & Safety’s fault.
A S'Efrican's Culture Surprise
After a while you stop noticing the accents… and then you realise that you’re the one with the funny accent when a punter at the place you work smiles in that awkward way because they didn’t understand a word you just said but are politely humouring you.
Another barfly, after arguing vehemently that England have a better Rugby World Cup track record, change from aggravated to jolly when they realise that you’re actually not from New Zealand but South Africa.
Then they ask if you’re a “kaffir lover”.
You frown and tell them (as though you’re talking to a naughty child) how derogatory that word is, and about how much the Apartheid government fucked up your country, and most of the time they apologise or at least look incredibly sheepish.
I don’t think it’s a racist thing when they say it. Or at least not in any vindictive, aggressive way. It’s more like them trying to find some kind of connection. I can only imagine – because of the terrible attempt at an Afrikaans accent – that they watched Lethal Weapon 2 a few too many times and it’s all they really know about us.
What I’ve learned about people is that no matter how good they’ve got it they’ll find something to moan about. If it’s not the weather or the busses, it’s (believe it or not, fellow Saffers) taxi drivers.
Like the “poverty stricken” rioters in London (who organised their hijinks via Blackberry!!!) people just don’t know how great they’ve got it. It’s all well and good to show starving African orphans on a tellybox Oxfam ad, but unless you’ve seen dishevelled streetkids and landmine-crippled beggars firsthand I don’t think you can appreciate the luck you’ve been saddled with.
For me Plymouth seems like Cape Town in the Winter, but minus not only the crime but also the underlying aggression that seems to sit just beneath the surface of everyone’s consciousness.
Of course, it’s only a bit wet and windy now (much milder than good ‘ol CT) and I’m sure when Winter really gets going I’ll eventually get annoyed with the kids in the park throwing snowballs at me when I’m walking the cat.
But up until then, it’s been less of a culture shock and more of a… well, let’s call it a pleasant ‘culture surprise’.
Another barfly, after arguing vehemently that England have a better Rugby World Cup track record, change from aggravated to jolly when they realise that you’re actually not from New Zealand but South Africa.
Then they ask if you’re a “kaffir lover”.
You frown and tell them (as though you’re talking to a naughty child) how derogatory that word is, and about how much the Apartheid government fucked up your country, and most of the time they apologise or at least look incredibly sheepish.
I don’t think it’s a racist thing when they say it. Or at least not in any vindictive, aggressive way. It’s more like them trying to find some kind of connection. I can only imagine – because of the terrible attempt at an Afrikaans accent – that they watched Lethal Weapon 2 a few too many times and it’s all they really know about us.
What I’ve learned about people is that no matter how good they’ve got it they’ll find something to moan about. If it’s not the weather or the busses, it’s (believe it or not, fellow Saffers) taxi drivers.
Like the “poverty stricken” rioters in London (who organised their hijinks via Blackberry!!!) people just don’t know how great they’ve got it. It’s all well and good to show starving African orphans on a tellybox Oxfam ad, but unless you’ve seen dishevelled streetkids and landmine-crippled beggars firsthand I don’t think you can appreciate the luck you’ve been saddled with.
For me Plymouth seems like Cape Town in the Winter, but minus not only the crime but also the underlying aggression that seems to sit just beneath the surface of everyone’s consciousness.
Of course, it’s only a bit wet and windy now (much milder than good ‘ol CT) and I’m sure when Winter really gets going I’ll eventually get annoyed with the kids in the park throwing snowballs at me when I’m walking the cat.
But up until then, it’s been less of a culture shock and more of a… well, let’s call it a pleasant ‘culture surprise’.
No More Stormers
I’ve always felt lucky that, by pure accident of birth, I’ve had decent sport’s teams to support. Western Province and Stormers rugby. Cape Cobras cricket.
Even Cape Town Ajax is quite good – not that I really follow football, but anyway.
It’s always seemed bizarre to me when people from South Africa stoically support a team like Chelsea or Manchester United; and even more bizarre when someone from the UK supports a team from another city or county.
I could never support the Sharks, because I wasn’t born in Durban. And now residing in Plymouth I feel if I’m to follow any team it’d have to be a one from my newly adopted city.
Doing a bit of research on the Plymouth Albion rugby website in a stopover at Abu Dhabi, I read that their weekend home game was played to “a crowd of almost 3000 people” – smaller in scale than, say, Newlands rugby ground that often hosts around fifty thousand fans.
And it appears they’re not so hot when it comes to the game either, being third from the bottom of the Championship log the last time I checked. Although this was possibly because two of their players had been away playing for the Canadian squad sent to the World Cup.
If I were so inclined I could imagine myself as the newest member of this team. And I might be convinced to firmly believe that it’s not just tries and penalties that win rugby games, but screaming and shouting and flag waving too.
If not, I could at least believe that the more bums on stadium seats means more money to buy (or rent, really) better players, thereby improving performance.
It was a bit of a culture shock when I posited to Lucy that maybe we could pop down to our local and watch the next Albion game on the tellybox. She smiled warmly at my naïveté and said, “They don’t televise Albion matches.”
In South Africa they put even schoolboy games on Supersport.
So it seems I’ll have to burst my comfort bubble and venture into the wild. Go there, do that, get the t-shirt.
But with a Plymouth Albion jersey at a whopping fifty quid I’ll just have to make do with reports in the Herald.
Even Cape Town Ajax is quite good – not that I really follow football, but anyway.
It’s always seemed bizarre to me when people from South Africa stoically support a team like Chelsea or Manchester United; and even more bizarre when someone from the UK supports a team from another city or county.
I could never support the Sharks, because I wasn’t born in Durban. And now residing in Plymouth I feel if I’m to follow any team it’d have to be a one from my newly adopted city.
Doing a bit of research on the Plymouth Albion rugby website in a stopover at Abu Dhabi, I read that their weekend home game was played to “a crowd of almost 3000 people” – smaller in scale than, say, Newlands rugby ground that often hosts around fifty thousand fans.
And it appears they’re not so hot when it comes to the game either, being third from the bottom of the Championship log the last time I checked. Although this was possibly because two of their players had been away playing for the Canadian squad sent to the World Cup.
If I were so inclined I could imagine myself as the newest member of this team. And I might be convinced to firmly believe that it’s not just tries and penalties that win rugby games, but screaming and shouting and flag waving too.
If not, I could at least believe that the more bums on stadium seats means more money to buy (or rent, really) better players, thereby improving performance.
It was a bit of a culture shock when I posited to Lucy that maybe we could pop down to our local and watch the next Albion game on the tellybox. She smiled warmly at my naïveté and said, “They don’t televise Albion matches.”
In South Africa they put even schoolboy games on Supersport.
So it seems I’ll have to burst my comfort bubble and venture into the wild. Go there, do that, get the t-shirt.
But with a Plymouth Albion jersey at a whopping fifty quid I’ll just have to make do with reports in the Herald.
Endorphinatics
Breakfast choices aren’t tough when the options are All Bran Flakes, Honey Nut Cornflakes, and Crunchy Cookie Crisp Cereal, but it does cause some mild cognitive dissonance.
You see, whenever I hear the word ‘bran’ I can’t help thinking of an old lady’s toenails, and I couldn’t bring myself to eat fancy Cornflakes unless I was wearing a tie and rushing off to a board meeting – it just seems like too much of a responsible choice.
So it’s the one with the purple-nosed cartoonwolf on the front and spot-the-difference on the back.
Even if the box does boast ‘Whole Grain Guaranteed’ and ‘ With Added Vitamins’, I know a cereal made to look like little chocolate chip cookies that tastes like a bowl of refined white sugar can’t be good for me. And I’m fine with that, I just wish Chip the Wolf wouldn’t keep trying to tell me what a healthy start I’m getting.
Because I’ve been down that road, and it can only end in sorrow.
FROM THE JAWS OF TRAGEDY
According to Patrick Holford, who even Jesus would call a goody-goody, you should only eat fruit and Jungle Oats for breakfast otherwise you might be dead by Thursday. Reading his weighty tome, The Optimum Nutrition Bible, scared me so much I once stopped drinking milk and ran down the street screaming if anyone even mentioned white bread or deep-fried chips.
For a year I survived on water, green tea, low GI sawdust and anxiety. Not a drop of alcohol passed my lips and I gave smokers that look I was so used to getting from reborn Christians.
And I’ll admit I felt better than I ever had.
I used to think that sluggish mornings and mood swings and near-suicidal depression was just the way it felt to be alive. I got my arse to the gym, joined yoga classes, and started worshipping at the altar of fat-free me.
And inevitably, like any newborn religious-type person, I became incredibly judgemental of everyone else.
At the supermarket I’d look in other people’s trolleys and shake my head, tutting loudly. I watched barroom drunks and wondered if they knew the long-term repercussions of all that salt they consumed with tequila.
Soon enough I was climbing into bed at nine on a Friday so I could be up early enough to beat the crowds to the Virgin Active step machine, ordering a burger with no bun and salad instead of chips if I felt ‘naughty’, and telling people that an apple would wake you up in the morning faster than a cup of coffee.
I became the guy you didn’t invite to a Saturday braai because my non-drinking made drinkers feel uncomfortable. I cut the fat off lamb chops and brought no-mayo potato salad.
But I didn’t care about losing friends. I was an endorphin addict; a feel good junkie. And like all junkies the only thing I could think of was my next high.
Then I was waking up at 4am so I could get a run in before gym before work. On my lunch break I’d sneak off to the bathroom to do meditative breathing exercises. I’d always offer to make the tea so I could sneak in a bag of rooibos chai without anyone knowing.
If it wasn’t for the intervention I don’t know where I’d be today.
I arrived home to find my family and close friends in the front room. My secret stash of Ryvita and unsalted cashews piled embarrassingly on the coffee table next to multivitamins and a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo dvd.
I was ashamed.
With teary consent I allowed them to lock me in a dark room, away from any access to filtered water and fat-free cottage cheese. Working in shifts they sat with me through sleepless nights when all I wanted was just one push-up, and held my hand as, trembling, I took my first bite of a KFC Zinger.
ONE DAY AT A TIME
Now I’m back on track. Taking it one day at a time. I’ll often see someone with a yoga mat under their arm buying rice cakes and want to stop them, tell them that they’re making a big mistake.
It’s not worth it, I’d plead, you’ll only hurt the ones you love.
You might think you’re in control, I’d say, but that exercise bike is riding you.
You see, whenever I hear the word ‘bran’ I can’t help thinking of an old lady’s toenails, and I couldn’t bring myself to eat fancy Cornflakes unless I was wearing a tie and rushing off to a board meeting – it just seems like too much of a responsible choice.
So it’s the one with the purple-nosed cartoonwolf on the front and spot-the-difference on the back.
Even if the box does boast ‘Whole Grain Guaranteed’ and ‘ With Added Vitamins’, I know a cereal made to look like little chocolate chip cookies that tastes like a bowl of refined white sugar can’t be good for me. And I’m fine with that, I just wish Chip the Wolf wouldn’t keep trying to tell me what a healthy start I’m getting.
Because I’ve been down that road, and it can only end in sorrow.
FROM THE JAWS OF TRAGEDY
According to Patrick Holford, who even Jesus would call a goody-goody, you should only eat fruit and Jungle Oats for breakfast otherwise you might be dead by Thursday. Reading his weighty tome, The Optimum Nutrition Bible, scared me so much I once stopped drinking milk and ran down the street screaming if anyone even mentioned white bread or deep-fried chips.
For a year I survived on water, green tea, low GI sawdust and anxiety. Not a drop of alcohol passed my lips and I gave smokers that look I was so used to getting from reborn Christians.
And I’ll admit I felt better than I ever had.
I used to think that sluggish mornings and mood swings and near-suicidal depression was just the way it felt to be alive. I got my arse to the gym, joined yoga classes, and started worshipping at the altar of fat-free me.
And inevitably, like any newborn religious-type person, I became incredibly judgemental of everyone else.
At the supermarket I’d look in other people’s trolleys and shake my head, tutting loudly. I watched barroom drunks and wondered if they knew the long-term repercussions of all that salt they consumed with tequila.
Soon enough I was climbing into bed at nine on a Friday so I could be up early enough to beat the crowds to the Virgin Active step machine, ordering a burger with no bun and salad instead of chips if I felt ‘naughty’, and telling people that an apple would wake you up in the morning faster than a cup of coffee.
I became the guy you didn’t invite to a Saturday braai because my non-drinking made drinkers feel uncomfortable. I cut the fat off lamb chops and brought no-mayo potato salad.
But I didn’t care about losing friends. I was an endorphin addict; a feel good junkie. And like all junkies the only thing I could think of was my next high.
Then I was waking up at 4am so I could get a run in before gym before work. On my lunch break I’d sneak off to the bathroom to do meditative breathing exercises. I’d always offer to make the tea so I could sneak in a bag of rooibos chai without anyone knowing.
If it wasn’t for the intervention I don’t know where I’d be today.
I arrived home to find my family and close friends in the front room. My secret stash of Ryvita and unsalted cashews piled embarrassingly on the coffee table next to multivitamins and a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo dvd.
I was ashamed.
With teary consent I allowed them to lock me in a dark room, away from any access to filtered water and fat-free cottage cheese. Working in shifts they sat with me through sleepless nights when all I wanted was just one push-up, and held my hand as, trembling, I took my first bite of a KFC Zinger.
ONE DAY AT A TIME
Now I’m back on track. Taking it one day at a time. I’ll often see someone with a yoga mat under their arm buying rice cakes and want to stop them, tell them that they’re making a big mistake.
It’s not worth it, I’d plead, you’ll only hurt the ones you love.
You might think you’re in control, I’d say, but that exercise bike is riding you.
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