Another round of whining

Party, jol, opskop. We're a country which loves to party at the best and even the worst of times (drowning our sorrows should become a national past time).
I like a drink as much as the next person, granted they aren't Mormon. I can't resist what I like to call my 'calm-me-down dop' at the end of most days (almost everyday these days), a much-needed glass of wine to help me unwind. It often serves as a cheaper alternative to my R700 an hour head shrink. It's fluid therapy... up to a point, of course. But even though I enjoy a bit of a drink, I have to side with the stiff, starched, teetotallers when it comes to the furore over Cape Town's new liquor by-laws. When it was first mooted about 2 years ago, nightclubs, bars restaurants started huffing and puffing in anger. The usual protests sprung up, 'It'll kill my business' they lamented. Yes, the new prescribed times during which they can sell alcohol are shorter and could dent them financially. dent, not destroy, though. So, yes kick up a fuss, that's your right. But even as a someone who drinks alcohol (and has been known to enjoy it maybe too much at times) I can't understand how these business-owners can't see the bigger picture. Forget the whole of South Africa, Cape Town has for decades been burdened will all manner of social evils, almost all of them related to alcohol abuse. Go into any of the city's informal settlements and you'll see the evidence of just how destructive booze is on the poor. I don't want to preach. I hate hearing radio sound bytes of City of Cape Town spokespeople preaching about the evils of booze. It's not only pathetically self-righteous, but it makes absolutely no difference. Bu there's no denying - in many of these areas, speak to community leaders and they'll tell you booze and drugs are behind most of their woes. It's the tangible laws which will have an impact, to a degree. It obviously won't make a bar owner happy, but just maybe it will make an inkling of a difference to a family living in a shack, where the sole breadwinner blows his/her meagre earnings on a bottle of cheap wine, instead of buying food or paying school fees. He/she then drinks it up in two gulps (in can be done. I've seen it!), goes on to pick a fight, ends up killing someone in a drunken rage or even worse, abuses his/her children. It's a laboured lecture heard time and time again, complete with the clumsy conclusion 'booze lowers our inhibitions and prompts anti-social behaviour' and so the sound byte is regurgitated over the airwaves. Illegal shebeens sprout up almost monthly in Cape Town and the Western Cape. They may help drown out the reality of abject poverty, even provide employment. But they still fuel the very misery in which squatters exist.
The more moderate tipplers will also chime in, taking the middle road. They''l argue the laws are needed, but they are just too restrictive. I'm sorry, that argument also falls flat in the face of the reality of things. In this day and age when authorities have to stop short of wiping our own backsides because we can't seem to do the most basic of things by ourselves like drive responsibly, maybe these restrictive, nnay-type laws are necessary.
As a country we've become to accustomed to jumping up and protesting against everything and anything, even if it just may be in our best interests.
So what if we have less time to drink ourselves stupid at clubs or pubs? So what if liquor traders will lose a few hundred rand because they have to close earlier? So what if we can't party and drink until 5am anymore? These are the real reasons so many people are up in arms - it could put the brakes on many social lives. What a travesty? Surely these reasons pale in comparison to the weekly sound bytes from police on stabbings, child rapes, murders and road accidents fatalities - most of them fuelled by liquor.

'Dop' Philosophy

'If it weren't for the bloody Poms, we'd be goosestepping with the Nazi Jerry up and down the Parade' belched an old toppie, in the midst of his regular afternoon 'liquid relief period' as he lurched over a bar counter and his boep. The philosophy of the lush can astound, irritate and perplex one in equal amounts...depending on the amount of liquor consumed while formulating these home-brewed logic. Don't knock these sage-like oompies, they share their 'wisdom' for free and are satisfied if it's only the walls who listen.
From the size of men's willies to musings on life, politics, the state of society and tips on how best to marinade braai chops, bars are unofficial depositories, even assembly lines of cockeyed knowledge. 'If the bubbles in a beer float to the top quickly' lectured a sozzled geriatric one barmy afternoon in a George pub, 'then it's rich in barley and the real thing.' His tone developed into an almost stentorian pronouncement towards the end of his sentence. In his time-savaged mind this was important logic being dispensed... and it's free! His mate couldn't help himself and waded (stumbled, more like it) into the conversation with his addition: 'The amounts of barley also determines the colour of beer. The more bubbles, the more pissed you get.' Chuckle, back slap, snort.
These bar-schooled students of inebriation have got all kinds of postulations to offer to anyone bored, desperate or even genuinely interested enough to care. One toppie, his nose pocked with craters (a sure sign of his entry into the beer hall of fame) reckons there’s a dramatic difference between the amount of bubble in various beers. With a smoke cradled in his fingers he holds his glass up to the sun for me to inspect his beverage., Castle apparently has more bubbles than Amstel.
Politics is a hotbed of rage among this lot. Bloody Zuma this and damn Malema that are about as far as their political theories venture. A youngish woman enters the pub and all talking stops. Now the time to unleash the ballsy philosophies, intended to impress the fairer sex. Unfortuntanely for the chick most bars are breeidng grounds for sexism and lurid jokes. 'What do you do if a bird shits on your car?' asked one beer-stweded senior citizen. The woman moves around uncomfotably in her pumps as she reluctantly listens for the punchline. 'You simple don't take her out on another date again' explodes the oom into peels of laughter. He's famous! His pals join him. The bird orders her drink (wine spritzers are frowned upon in most 'manne' pubs. She settles for a vodka and tonic).

The Idiots Guide to (Idiot) Cape Town Drivers

I love Cape Town. I love the weather (save for the devil winds), which compliment the city's numerous "Blue Flag" beaches. I love the oceans, the fact there's a beach around almost every corner. I love the pace of life. The laid back-ness of it all can be jarring, especially that liberally employed by the hordes of hippies who occupy the City of the Mother. But most forgive the lackadaisical attitude of most Capetonians. They know not what they do (because they are too lazy). I love the fact driving to and from work doesn't involve 2 hours in the car each way. I love that everything is within walking distance and impossible traffic jams, while still in existence in this backward outpost of ours, they are not half as kak as Joburg's.
I especially love Cape Town drivers. I love the way they swerve in front of you, straddle lanes, allow their children to roam the car freely while in transit and pretty much forget to think while on the road. I love how flickers have become foreign concepts to most of the Mother City's motorists. I love those who drive 40 kms/hour in the 'fast' lane of highways, blissfully unaware of the growing train of maddened drivers stuck. Hooting is always effective for some catharsis, but in Cape Town, a hoot could mean any number of things. When a mini-bus taxi hoots at pedestrians along Somerset road in Greenpoint, its to alert possible commuters. Hooting is still utilised as a form of greeting others in the fairest of the Kaap (I hear in Joburg, hooting can get you killed). However, hooting at someone who almost caused an accident in traffic due to his/her natural born ineptitude won't get you anywhere in Slaapstad. I love the arrogance most Capetonians seem to cherish when they drive. Everyone here suffers from entitlement complexes, where driving is owned by the driver (duh!), where the personal act of motoring should be defended at all costs, even if it means utilising stupidity and carelessness. "Chill out, pal, don't rush me," Dylan the Muizenberg surfer will tell you when he shoots in front of you on a busy road without indicating or even really checking for oncoming traffic. Carol the part-time receptionist at a Seapoint dentist simply won't even notice you as you hurl abuse, hoot, fire off flares and chuck tomatoes at her car when she backs into you in a parking lot. "Oh dear, I didn't see you. Gosh darn it" she'll whisper in a moment of what I like to call 'Cape Town shock', that's to say, she was about as shocked as a erpson in a coma. As for the geriatric motorists, where do I begin? I love how they trundle down highways in the right-hand lane, completely and totally ignorant of the rage they are sowing among others on the road. "You know, in my day, my boy, we didn't have drive 120 kms/hour... waffle waffle' says Grandpa Walter from Plumstead. That's there were no cars in the 1800, my snail-like friend. Moegamat the taxi driver is my best. Like taxi drivers throughout the country arrogance, the Cape Town species also come with a distinct lack of education, a healthy sized chip on the shoulder and a complete disdain for the law. Whizzing and weaving down some of the city's narrowest roads-cum-alleys is a glorious past time to them and a nightmare for us regular drivers. Apart from my deep love for Capetonian motorists, I adore their weapons of mass destruction, or vehilecs to you, even more. I love the rust savaged chic of their vehicles. These vehicles are haphazardly thrown together with chewing gum, sticky tape, wire and a health belief in a higher power. The put-put down the N1 (always in the right hand lane) amid a a perpetual cloud of exhaust fumes. Their owners are equally as chaotic in their appearance and supremely more moronic in their response to the few of us who can drive as we pass them (on the left hand side of the highway), biting down on our bottom lips, stifling the rage of the rage begging to be unleashed on this special breed of Capetonian. When you eventually pass them, please note and dusty hair, the lack of a t-shirt (men and women alike have been known to go bare chested behind the wheel. It's the hippie way).

A Festival of Fluff

Quick, don't think! Let's play a word association game. When I say 'The National Youth Development Agency', what are the first words or phrases that come to mind? Youth unemployment, education, empowerment, poverty alleviation, AIDS, teenage sex. Burning issues, I hope you'd agree, which pertain to the youth of the day and affect their ever day lives. I get goose pimples brought on by an acute attack of nerves when I think about important and destructive these issues are on current and future generations. But if you had to ask the top brass from the National Youth development Agency what they'd want to raise at the upcoming World Festival of Youth and Students, to be held in South Africa, the answers would probably range from clumsily crafted rhetoric to awkward and vague explanations, devoid any of comprehension and logic. Yes, I've already written off this 'festival' as a complete waste of time and money. It's starting to resemble ANCYL conferences, where chaos and stupidity are the order of the agenda. With the National Lotteries Board deciding to give the Agency R40-million to host the event already justifies my premature conclusion. Surely this money could best be used to fulfill one of the Lotteries Board's main objectives - helping out charities. Instead a bunch of officious lackey layabouts will have their coffers topped up with cash (which will probably never be properly accounted for in future audits. watch this space), while it could be spent on, I don't know, maybe feeding a few hungry children, building another few schools, you know, the real issues plaguing the youth of today. And let's not forget the NYDA originally want hundreds of millions more for their little Christmas party. At least sanity prevailed and the budget was slashed, much to the chagrin of Agency bigwigs who were probably hoping for an extra Christmas box this year compliments of the Lotteries Board.
'Everything is above board', bluster various officials as they childishly defend their decision to fund seemingly pointless gatherings. Obtuse political jargon follows as the they insist the event is of 'national and international importance'. And children receiving their education under trees, minors being sold into slavery and staggering levesl fo unemployment among youth aren't of national and international significance? Surely R40-million could rather be spent on doctoring these pressing issues. Nope, the festival has insteda been anochronostically themed - Let's defeat imperialims. Good to know the reall issues swill be tackled.
Personalities who'll be addressing the festival include those models of ethics and intelligence, Jackie Selebi and of course Julius Malema. The latter will no doubt use the ocassion to attack... well, everyone. Zimbabwe's Zanu-PF Youth League will also be (dis)gracing the event with their presence as will the youngsters from the ever democratic Workers Party of North Korea. So, in other words this World Festival of Youth and students is starting to look more like a spectacular meeting of minds of some of the most undemocratic, lawless, authoritarian groupings in the world all keen on a free holiday in sunny South Africa.

Relax, everything is getting nicely out of control.

A distant acquaintance recently advised me to relax. She proceeded to spin for me a a web of justification for this supposed simple ability, much of which involved a m,angle litany of hippie bull twang. I won't bore you (as i was) with the details, but it basically boiled down to letting go of the long-held rage that has fermented in me for as long as I can remember. before disdainfully deleting her e-mail of advise, baulking at it with froth spluttering from my mouth and stomping on my partners head, I actually paused to offer a semblance of thought to this apparently futile advice. Relax. How are we expected to relax in December?
let me firstly state, I'd love nothing more but to tune out. It's December. The end of yet another year, a time to reflect, ponder and find peace, a time to calm yourself and.. ummm, to actually completely lose your mind! RELAX!!! That's a foreign word, no, wait, a swear word at this time of year.
Are we really supposed let our hair down when Christmas shopping looms large and ugly. Those of you with children start experiencing night terrors aroundt his time of year. Waking up in a pool of sweat screaming, "It's the last PS3 in stock in the country. Oh God, why have you forsaken me?!" Don't worry, relax, say the treehuggers.
Where will we find time to chill out as we anxiously await the road death toll scoreboard to start clocking over? I negotiate Cape Town's roads with fear embedded in my heart throughout the year, never mind over the December holidays when traffic volumes peak. If you've ever had the misfortune of driving in the Mother City, you'll know what I'm talking about. Be afraid, super-afraid. Relaxing is an option, of course, but try it while stuck in 34 degrees heat, queuing in a car of becah-anxious children, in a traffic jam.
I can't honestly say I'll be able to even allow my perennial rage and anger to subside at the beach. Here's some life maths for you to ponder: add 4 million Capetonian drivers, with a further 9 million tourists, subtract their intelligence, multiply that by a thousand, then cram the stupidity and lack of logic onto a stretch of road only about 2 kilometers long that leads to a handful of beaches where space is just as limuted. What do you get? A massive cock up, which will in turn subtract all of your patience and give you zero to relax about.
"Go on holiday abroad" the shrink will tell you for a R1000 an hour. Look abraod for freedom, but only if you are a katrillionaire (that's a hundred thosuand trillions). For us regular (read: poor) schmucks, a festive season holiday abroad starts to resemble a dirty, lascivious fantasy, that's how much we desire it, but can't have it.
Chilling out over a sun downer on a Friday afternoon must surely be the key to eternal relaxation? Not eternal, but very fleeting, maybe, after you get the bill. Always remember, there are two separate menus here in the fair Cape: one for the locals and one for the 'Uitlanders'.
So, if you prepared to deal with throngs of idiotic motorists, packed beaches, exorbitant prices, traversing the sad and demented gauntlets of consumerism, coupled with pointless advise on how to relax, then... relax and good luck.

The Honeymoon is Over

I've had to endure this subdued headache for the past couple of weeks. It first emerged on an unsuspecting Sunday morning while reading about the murder of foreigner, Anni Dewani, in an apparent hijacking in Guguletu. Obviously the story soon developed racing horse legs and galloped off around a dizzying track of speculation. It wasn't long before the "Who dunnit?" question was transmogrified into a sensational "He could've dunnit" referring to Anni's husband, Shrien. And so the story galloped on and on, off the beaten track into the wilderness of rumours. Sure the incident had all the trademarks of a juicy story. The couple was on their honeymoon, they'd only been married a few weeks, etc. Then the uncomfortable questions - why wasn't Shrien harmed? What were they doing in a township at night in the first place?! The headache threatens to become a migraine.
Arrests followed, informal media blackouts put in place followed by journalists' favourite quote, "No comment" and further arid, mindless statements from the police as they awkwardly tried to dispell the rumours. They have failed dismally in this regard.
But amid all this, as a reporter also covering the story, I noticed a glaring lack of coverage of just how such an incident impacts on Joe Public. Of course Dewani's murder was a tragedy and the rumours doing the rounds must only add to the trauma her family is feeling. But what of the impact this single incident has had on the people of Guguletu, namely tour operators, informal vendors and other businesses. They rely almost solely on tourist money and in one fell swoop , either through the actions of common criminals or other more sinister motives, their livelihoods are in for a rather tough (tougher than usual) festive season.
We can formulate all the elaborate conspiracy theories we want, unleash our ire on intolerably high levels of crime, damn law enforcement authorities for not doing enough, but have we been asking just how big a dent into the daily livelihoods of township tour businesspeople this one case has made? I visited Guguletu in the days after Dewani's murder and was met with grim stories from tour guides on visitors cancelling their "township tours" en masse. The dollars, pounds and euros wafted off into the horizon. The hopeful ones I met kept smiles on their faces as they shrugged their shoulders saying things will and must get better.
Instead the spotlight stays trained on Shrien Dewani, a millionaire who has employed the services of one of Britain's most expensive PR agents to deal with us pesky journalists. I wonder, if all of Guguletu's tourist fraternity had to pool their resources together, would they even be able to pay one months salary of Dewani's fancy-pants "PR guru" to issue flowery statements from a cushy firts world office abroad. I doubt it. Shrien Dewani is innocent until proven guilty, that's the old adage one attach's to such matters, but he's not even a suspect at this stage.
However, if he ever were to be arrested I'd expect rage among township tour guides. One B and B owner in Guguletu spat venom after reading a newspaper report about the speculation around the businessman and the murder of his wife perhaps being a hit. "The bastard" she shouted, not taking into account the fact the story she was reading was based almost solely on unconfirmed details from the proverbial source.
Whether this was just another case of 'in the wrong place at the wrong time' or a hit, this woman had every right to be angry - not just because it could be yet another brutal example of South Africa's crime situation, but also because two tourists, either through their own naivety or through more untoward circumstances, Guguletu and almost all townships again have to endure the label of being crime havens.

Taxi Drivers - The Last Great Anarchists

In a country which exists quite comfortably amid anarchy, it's only natural the most anarchic among us are also the most needed. Talk about irony. You see them on the roads, on residential streets, highways, on gravel roads, pavements and on lawns, hanging from bidges, in waterbodies and sometimes even lodged in homes. They have absolutely no regard for others, selfishness is ingrained in their very genetic make-up. They wear their disregard for laws and the most basic of rules quite proudly. 'Hoot, it won't help' read one message on on of their vehicles (a glorified death trap with really posh mags) commandeered by these masses of self-styled anarchists. 'Boeta is jou man' read another opaque reference to the 'commander' of one of these vehicles of mass destruction. Have you guessed who I'm referring to yet? taxi drivers, of course, those masters of road fear and sources of road rage. Those road law heretics.
The majority of us seem to tolerate them. We have to, we have very little choice. They ferry around 60 percent of the country's workforce to and from their places of employment. They are unfortunately the lifeblood of our very backward public transport system and in some cok-eyed way, our economy. In yet another exampleof tragic irony, they are also the cause of so much needless bloodletting on the roads.
When they strike, at the drop of a hat these days, the country feels the pinch... no, make that a kick to the groin, remebre this, it comes from a virtually completely lawless industry which runs parallel to some of the most dangerous, lucrative organised crime syndicates in the country. It's not unfair to liken them to criminals. If any law enforcement body in this country had the guts to really investigate the taxi industry they'd more than likely find a thriving network of crime, breeding like an infection, which speeds through our society, destroying, maiming and not ever really caring. But of course the moment a politician or lawmakers makes any kind of bold condemnation of these taxi syndicatesor followed by concrete recourse, drivers drop their keys in yet another strike and life almost screeches to a halt. Who has the real power?
Authorities do try the occasional crackdown, which results in nothing more but figures (press releases filled with numbers of taxi drivers arrested, how many vehicles have been impounded, the faults which were found with their taxis, which makes for some alarming reading). Traffic officials pat themselves on the back, of course, because they are doing their job. But rarely do we see these operations actually result in meaningful changes among the bosses, the Mafiosos who have the real keys to the industry. A bribe here (and everywhere?), a complete disdain for road laws and the consequences of their actions, warnings, threats and claims of drivers being unfairly targeted follow. Before long, the next taxi accident, claiming multiple lives (usually never the taxi driver's) makes the news, usually only the tailender of a news bulletin or the corner of a newspaper.
Taxi drivers are maybe the last real anarchists of our time. Them and their bosses act with impunity towards the rest of the world. They know no laws and scoff at threats from our powers(less)-that-be. They speed, jump red traffic lights, drive in emergency lanes, flout most vehicle roadworthy regulations and do so almost with arrogant smiles on their faces. Who's really in the driver's seat?All we can do is sit in the slow lane, amid traffic jams and general chaos, all the while fuming with hatred. Is road the rage the solution?Of course it's not. But sometimes, just sometimes I wish I could just inflict as much inconvenience on taxi drivers as they do on me. Even then, I doubt it would make a difference. As anarchists they are immune to just about everything... especially behaving cordially on the roads.

Home is where the hate is

Home is where the heart. It seems as a society many of us have forgotten this cliched, yet pertinent adage. But what happens when the heart stops beating at home? Is the very moral fabric of home life being torn shreds? In the face of 5 children dying in the space of just under a month across the country, most of them at the hands of their parents, it seems the cynical belief and dark, misguided aphorism that child abuse is South Africa's top hobby, rings true to a degree.
In just under two weeks 4 babies were found dumped in Cape Town and Johannesburg. I emphasise - DUMPED - like garbage in drains and manholes.
When they're not being abandoned, their mothers allegedly poison them, as with the case of a 14-month old child and her 8-year-old sister. The sibling's mother, apparently distraught and at her wits end at not being paid maintenance by the children's father poisoned them. I imagine her explanation, clouded with tones of helplessness, to the relevant authorities would be "They're in a better place now". The 8-year-old survived. Her sister didn't. Her better place, which should've been in the safety of her home, became her mortuary.
The award for the father/beast of the month goes to a Western Cape man who's accused of flinging his 2-year-old daughter against a wall during an argument with her mother. It's apparently not the first time he's done this to her. Again, like garbage, the child is nothing but a thing, it's dignity and right to safety abused, not by some evil, violent stranger, but by her father.
I could spend the rest of this article analysing all the circumstances and issues behind this level of child abuse (read:hatred). But the severity of the issue may become lost in academia and statistics. Sure, with babies being abandoned we must take into account the desperate state of mind a mother must be in to resort to such heinous measures. Poverty, unwanted pregnancies, negligent parents, substance abuse, cultural taboos - these are all driving this scourge. But what's driving (or not driving) common sense and morality? In some corner of their minds they must have thought of other alternatives before simply callously dumping an infant in a drain. Unfortunately, the most desperate of measures seems to be the easiest and most convenient for these people, who themselves become victims anyway of their own actions.
We're often told by experts, in many ways the home is far more dangerous for children than the proverbial big, bad world. We've become a society either so desensitised by horrifying levels of child violence or many of us are losing the plot in ensuring homes get heart transplants so as to be restored as safe havens for youngsters. The heart at home has flat lined.

Hell hath no fury a believer's reading material scorned

What happens when business and religion collide? No, you certainly don't get a big bang. Nope, you don't get Ray McCauley in a designer suit. You get an unholy crucifixion of all things secular and independent-minded business.
A bunch of Christians, no doubt fundamentalist, put their scripture exercises aside to draft up a consumer boycott of Woolworths. The retail giant had decided to stop stocking Christian magazines (I was even aware there were any). Unlike most business decisions Woolies felt it should make this policy public. Sound the buzzer. bad move. You're out for being stupid. Instead of quietly enforcing what the retail chain claims was a long standing policy, it went and blurted it out in the media (they'll say it was leaked). The Bible-crunchers, seething and imbued with the courage of some thing called God, didn't hesitate. The threats, almost papal in tone, warned of protests, boycotts, which translate in religious language to a good old smiting and marathon prayer sessions to save the soul of our satanic consumerism. Woolworths hadn't only committed a PR boo boo, it incurred the wrath of omniscient powers,, according to these religious zealots.
Within hours the company capitulated and on the 8th day there were christian magazines once again gracing (disgracing?) it's shelves. Since when does big business kow-tow to fundamentalists? Since when would a retail giant not put up a fight. The fear of treading into the minefield of political incorrectness was taken to an embarrassing level by Woolworths. The company can sell booze all it wants, but God forbid it stop selling religious literature.No negotiations, no reasoning, no grandiose posturing so often employed by arrogant businesses. Nothing. It folded like a wet piece of paper and gave into to what probably amounts to a handful of Christians (given the fragmented nature of the religions denominations). Apparently magazine sales at account for less than a percent of Woolworths overall profits. So why then did it feel the need to buckle? Going up against the big G and his/her misguided masses is just clearly too brave a move, even for Woolworths to take.

Woof, nag, blah, zap, yelp!

The National Treehuggers and Vegan Association (hippies to the rest of you) spewed lentils recently in reaction to a consignment of electric dog collars being seized. No, these devices don't automatically take the animals for walks and clean up their excrement. They're electric because they shock nuisance dogs every time they bark. Shock, horror, the dread locked, shoeless masses gasped. Not being an overly zealous dog lover, I for one couldn't share in this horrified astonishment. If it means keeping those constant yappers quiet, then I'm all for it. Sure it may be seen as cruel, but they are effective in training animals. But there are animals out there among us, of the the two-legged homo-sapien persuasion, who I'd pay a lot of money to have fitted with these nifty little weapons of discipline and torture. Julius Malema is the obvious first test guinea pig (It's a no-brainer, I know, but come on, what fun it would be). 'Get out you bloody agent with your white tenden... (zzzzzzttt, zap!)HEITA EINA!' The collar strikes back, sending a few volts of electricity surgingthrough Jules' body starting with his tongue. Any further outbursts of a brainless, unnecessary nature will no doubt be diminished. Jules could even have a Breitling collar to match his R250 000 watch. Malema may need two kinds of collars, actually. One to shock him when his mouth runs away, the other will have leash attached to it. This may rein him in when he goes on one of his fact-finding field trips to nationalisaiton-loving countries.
Calling Blade Nzimande, we're ready for your collar fitting now. The Uber commie's recent attack on the media (apparently the print media is a threat to democracy) is oh so deserving of a shock collar. Where were these devilish devices when Nzimande did his best to justify his ministerial handbook-protected million rand Mercedes-Benz, compliments of us tax payers. A quick jolt of electricty may have sent a rush of real Marxism to his head to remind him of just what a contradiction he is. He could even have a custom made collar complete with a hammer and sickle. In fact, maybe all those in the ANC backing the media appeals tribunal should also get a collar. I read somewhere electricity can spark up brainpowers and possibly even lead to thinking, in the case of our ruling comrades
Speaking of animal cruelty, convicted rhino poachers should be given collars. Nothing says justice quite like a few thousand volts of electricity.
Those fat cats at Eskom responsible for the country's power woes could use a few electric collars. During each period of load shedding they'd receive sustained shocks. Oh, the beauty of irony.
Finally, parliamentarians should also have collars attached to them. As a grand form of civil oversight, all citizens would be able to control the collars with a remote. Each asinine utterance, the mindless heckling, waffling, blustering and abuse of languages and our rights could be met with glorious shocks from a bored, frustrated nation. Think about it, 'Honourable speaker, I'd like to... (zzzt, zap!)YELP!' Followed by silence. Now that's a point of order. The Parliamentary channel on DSTV would finally be worth watching.

The circus is in back in town

The ANC's travelling circus a.k.a. the Umwhini Wave or as it's members dubbed it, National General Council, has returned to Durban, the scene of it's leader, Her Zuma's monumental vindication (remember those pesky corruption and fraud charges?). The party means business, oh yes it does. In beamers, bullet-proof Hummers, Porches and a bus (or fifteen. The revolution hasn't been as kind to others as they have to the Tender Procurement League of the ruling party). They danced, cheered and shuffled there hefty bodies into meetings to conspire, delegate, cheat, gossip, lie, pretend, oh, and they also, may manage to actually get some business done (that's what the press releases will say). Then the man himself addressed the masses. he slammed the kindergarten league's bully boss (although not directly. God forbid this happen!) for his tantrums and general petulance. He then called for 'revolutionary discipline' whatever that means. He embarked on his usual arid, monosyllabic warnings against corruption, infighting and inbreeding (no cross-pollination with anyone resembling a white female Premier, thank you). El Presidente also dismissed claims (for the billionth time) the hallowed tripartite alliance is divided, against a backdrop of stifled giggles from COSATU and SACP leaders. If he keeps telling himself that, then maybe it'll come true on Planet ANC, that paralell world where the party is allowed to run riot... oh, wait, that's South Africa. Okay, my bad. Anyway, Comrade Zuma apparently got a rather muted welcome on the first day of the National General Council. What, no welcome choir complete with revolutionary hymns, such as that all time number one favourite Umshini wami? No bombastic roars for the prez? What has come of the party? Maybe we shouldn't read too much into that. Politics is a fickle harlot and the ANC has been known to shift allegiances to leaders almost as often as Patrica De Lille cheats political death. So, the grouping of fairweather comrades is mapping out the country's future... yet again. Nationalisation of mines, media regulation, combatting corruption, will all come up for debate or ridicule. These are only some of the issues which will be discussed (or simply mentioned in passing) and eventually glossed over and forgotten while steps are taken to implement the real ANC policies. In other words, Jules Malema will probably be allowed to pick and choose which mining house he wants to loot first. A sepcial caucus will be set up to construct a sepcialise muzzle for the media. A lot of networking will be done during 'policy meetings'. By networking, read, number swopping, tender contracts being signed and forlorn fashion tips being given out how about those specilaise designed ANC shoes?).Gwede Mantashe will be the one really shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Which caps will he wear more often? Will he be able to look around his trade unionist roots and his SACP chairmanship so as to adequately iron out the omniperesent tripartite problems? The quiet comrade and reluctant head-of-state, Kgalema Motlanthe, will nod furiously and contemplatively at everything being said. Will he say anything? Of course he will. Someone has to ask the tough questions Zuma can't or won't deal with. Will he be heard? Well, he is the second in charge, so maybe a few notes will be jotted down in the minutes. Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, the mother of the nation(and Jules' surrogate mama) is also in attendance, although that's really just for show. The other usual faces you can expect in the 'Who's Who/gossip pages' following the NGC are Tony 'luxury 4x4' Yengeni and Mr. Commie 2010 himself, Bladed Nzimande, who will rant and rave about the left being left out in the cold.
As for the comrade in exile, Thabo Mbeki, well, I actually don't know if he's bothered attending or if he's even been invited. I don't think COPE's top brass gave him permission to go. Plus, not even his VIP security detail can beat back the hordes of his fans in the party who'd swamp him. All two of them also probaly won't bother pitching up anyway.
I wait not-so-anxiously for the outcomes of this ANC pow-wow. Past experience has shown they are usually only good for two things - feeding us journos with stories during slow news periods and to keep the country and electorate guessing as to what actually the party and government are doing for them, apart from plot how to expand members bank balances.

Paris - Up in smoke

The smog of cigarette smoke which greeted me outside a terminal at Charles De Gaulle International Airport was always to be expected. I'd heard how the French love their smoking. These areas at airports have been claimed by smokers desperate to in some way enforce their right to defile their bodies and the atmosphere around them. But once I'd arrived in Paris proper, the national stereotype of the French and their long-held relationship with these cancer inducing products (or as a not-so-beloved character from Guy Ritchie classic 'Rock 'n Rolla' called them, 'These little bastards'.) I can safely confirm, its more than just a stereotype. The French seem to invest as much passion into smoking as they do into being arrogant and refusing to speak English. The streets of the French capital are veritable gauntlets of cigarette smoke and butt. From early in the morning these little bastards (the cigarettes, not the people) can be seen dangling from lips and clutched between fingers. The habit doesn't keep office hours and I suspect, is even indulged inside the office. Anti-smoking laws, so eagerly embraced by other European countries, don't seem to be gaining any ground in France. It's almost as if, in true French arrogance, they are pulling the bird (with a cigarette firmly between their fingers) at the world, exclaiming amid hacking coughs and clouds of smoke, 'Screw you fascist pigs. We smoke 'coz we must' or something like that. Bars and restaurants are like minefields for zealous anti-smokers. I dare you to ask for the non-smoking area in a restaurant. They do exist, but to enquire about them is tantamount to asking Frenchman if you can sleep with his sister. Paris's cafe culture helped nurture and breed this delight in smoking. The city's pavements are lined with such cafes, populated with all kinds of tobacco-users. I watched two elderly ladies, enjoying a bottle of wine in Montmartre, their cigarette packets and lighters never too far from their gnarled hands. These two old birds gesticulated, laughed, coughed, smoked and quaffed wine as if that day was their last. Next to them your typical fashionable yuppie couple, deep in conversation, the smoking pouring from their mouths. Not far from them was a group of boisterous teenagers and, yes, most of them were revelling in the liberty of smoking. There's no time to execute the proper blow after inhaling in the city that never sleeps (or stops to properly extinguish cigarettes. Glimmering cigarette butts dot the pavements alongside dog poo. Anti-smoking legislation introduced in 2007 appears to be flagrantly ignored, as is the trend in other countries among tobacco-lovers, I suppose. The laws were met with outrage. Some believed they would be taking something away from that alluring national image of the chain-smoking French intellectual. 'Those were good times' remarked one French columnist.
But the laws, like they are here, are simply for show. I'm sure the lawmakers themselves slipped out for a quick smoke while putting the finishing touches to the legislation.
My snobby nostrils have never really taken to the noxious stench of smoking. Call me a twit, but I get annoyed at the very sight of someone smoking in an open place. I believe they are, in some way, robbing me of my right to 'clean' air. That's a desperate and rather weak argument, I know, but I'm sticking to it. While taking in the historical wonders of Paris, I'd rather not have someone puff a cancer stick next to me. It's annoying and rude. Then again, so are the French. While marvelling at the Eiffel Tower, a policeman standing near me lit up, his complete disinterest in his job and the hordes of tourists, as evident as the excited bewilderment which grips many seeing the tower for the first time.
The Metro (Paris's underground public transport system) is not even safe from the ubiquitous second hand smoke. Commuters puff away, possibly to stave off the boredom of their daily travelling.
So, my linger disenchantment with cigarette smoking followed me on holiday. Habits are hard to break. My time in Paris was as amazing, regardless. I'm not that petty that I'd allowed as how many cancer sticks one Parisian can get through in one sitting at a cafe.
As I entered Charles De Gaulle Airport to fly back home, I finally escaped the cloak of smoke. While sitting waiting to board a plane, I heard something which seemed almost foreign to me - Afrikaans. We're not in Kansas anymore. Fellow countrymen had now also converged, a not-so-nostalgic reminder of home. It wasn't the fact I was hearing one of our national languages again after many strictly English-free days. It was the words being uttered. A cantankerous, pot-bellied oaf bellowed in Afrikaans at a stewardess, "Praat a bietjie Afrikaans. Ons is siek van jou taal'. This pathetic, embaressing attempt at humour was met with giggles from fellow oafs. It was at that very moment my hatred for smoking diminished somewhat. It was replaced by a hatred for backward, myopic, intolerant and intolerable morons such as Frikkie (that's what I named him) who serve to remind travellers, like me, just how wonderful it is to briefly escape the likes of him, an unfortunate South African stereotype, much like the chain-smoking Frenchman.

How are you?

I just don't want to be polite anymore. It's exhausting and often nonreciprocal anyway, so why bother? If one more person asks me how I am, that complete indifference dripping from every word being uttered, I'm going to punch them, followed by a cheerful reply of 'Much better now, thanks'.
The other day I tested the futility of these empty pleasantries. A cashier at a supermarket check-out dared to enquire about my well being, again, with no real interest in my state of mind (or her job). 'I'm actually not so well at the moment. I just lost my job. My girlfriend is leaving me and I have scabies. Oh, I forgot to mention, my dad is serving a time in jail and I have halitosis. But thanks for asking, love, it means a lot'. A reply like this would/should be met with genuine concern, be it perfunctory. But my new found cashier friend didn't so much as bat an eyelid or even take her enquiry any further (Damn. And here I was thinking we could become firm confidantes). You want to know why? She couldn't give a flying hoot about how I am, just like I couldn't care about her. All I want is to get away from the supermarket, her and the possibilty of others wanting to fake probing into the inner-depths of my life. So why ask? It's an ice-breaker, an opener to thawing out that iceberg between customers and service provider so as to ensure a smooth transaction. That's the only reasoning I can think of.
But this pointless social gesture extends to all human interactions. Work colleagues will ask day after day how you are. I was fine the previous day you asked the very same thing and the thousand weeks before that. They may choose colloquial derivatives to appear as if they are matey with you. Words and phrases are created like hiya, how you doing? Howzit? And my favourite, What's up? or Wazzup? (you can choose how many Z's you want to add depending on how super-cool, awesome you think you are). A recent survey (Oh, how I love surveys) conducted in the UK revealed common conversational pleasantries like 'Thank you' are dying out and being replaced by words like 'Ta' or 'Cheers'. How how I wish 'How are you?' could be substituted with more the more honest 'I don't know you and therefore don't care about how you are. So let's just get on with whatever we intend doing'. Short, sharp, maybe a bit rude, but it gets the day moving on and allows us to avoid the bullsh*t of human dynamics.
Some people do seem to care... briefly. With a seemingly genuine tone of concern they'll employ those three words (How are you? Not, I love you) in conversation thinking they are doing their civil duty and are being good humans (If there is such a thing). The danger here is, the person being addressed could just pounce on this enquiry with a verbal thesis on their lives, thinking you actually give a damn. This should/could be met with your eyes rolling back into your head, a frothing mouth full of foam and terrifying facial tics. That should secure a quick escape from these mind-numbing, unnecessary moments.

The Colour of Sport

Race, race race, we're obsessed with race (not the of the Comrades marathon persuasion, but more that of skin pigmentation). It's understandable it's a thorny issue which remains at the forefront of many South Africans minds, considering the country's ugly history of racial discrimination. and hatred. But I rarely hear whinging and complaining about racial matters from the mouths of real South Africans. Sure, they could be thinkig it and just not voicing their gripes, for whatever reason. In a rare moment of optimism, I choose to think maybe the great majority of this country's population are simply staying silent so as to promote a quiet reconciliation or subtle nation-building (you choose whatever catchphrase is popular this hour). Maybe we are looking inward to try and find answers to difficult questions regarding race, instead of shooting our mouths off and saying regrettably stupid things.
Speaking of stupid things, that great proponent of asinine racial comments, Butana Komphela, seems obsesssed with perpetuating racism. While some of his utterances are cringeworthy, they usually only amount to a good laugh at his expense. But what is worrying is the fact he's a relatively prominent (read: media-hungry) politician (more specifically, he's the chairperson of the sports portfolio committee in Parliament). Komphela can't seem to resist injecting racial hints into almost every aspect of sport. I realise sports isn't immune to everday debates on racial matters, but this man can turn anything on it's head to resemble an ugly, at times terrifying, spat regarding skin colouring. In arecent tirade in Parliament Komphela not only drew out his trusty race card (you see, he thinks everyone is playing poker. Little does he know, we're actually playing solitaire) he also added insult to injury by questioning why Leonard Chuene, he of the Caster Semenya gender testing lie fame, was suspended following that saga. The stupidity only started there. As he blustered his way through his verbal attack, he just had to add, 'The whole thing has become a racial issue' and the room went silent. If he's not trying to kill off that piece of living biltong which grazes over the national rugby team's jersey, he's using the dreaded k-word in driving home mindless messages on transformation in sport. Yet we see precious transformation in the mind of Komphela. Komphela sees colour where others see actual issues. He will superimpose race onto just about anything. Nothing is safe from his ignorant analysis. He'd ask if jukskei, that formerly hallowed sport of I believe they were called Boere games, has truly embraced transformation? What would he make of this strange activity made popular during them dark days of Apartheid by a bunch of narrow-minded, sexually repressed Calvinists. This sport is challenged in its absurdity by curling as one of the more, shall we say, pointless sports in recent history. Wherever brooms are involved with ice, this unholy union should be viewed with great suspicion. What would the little sporting watchdog tyrant say of this bizarre 'activity for pleasure' (I got that out of a thesaurus)? He'd probably find issue with the ice being too white and the players too pale. He'd accuse the founders of the game of being colonialist, imperialist, Westerners hell bent on imposing their dominance on an unsuspecting public. He'd find issue with the use of brooms. He'd probably say they are tools of the working class and their use in such a frenetic manner on ice symbolises oppression.... or something. Would he demand a parliamentary debate on the transformation in jukskei? Of course he would! He's been elected to provoke and annoy the public. In other words - needless make headlines, and test our patience. Much like another dimwitted agitator who's names sounds like - Hulius Dalema.

(Office) workers of the world unite!

From plush offices they dish out orders via e-mail (so as to avoid moving their fat arses), on occasion they'll verbalise their instructions in a new-found language I have the honour (maybe more like the dishonour) of coining a phrase for - Corporatish. It's the starting point for a new ideology and dogma. 'Tyranny begins with the abuse of language' George Orwell once remarked. The language is made up of heady mix of pop psychology and quasi-intellectual corporate-speak, designed to confuse and contradict around every cubicle partition. Those powers-that-be are paid to disseminate this puzzling lexicon, enforce it and obviously tow the line. The bottom feeders (that's pretty much anyone who hasn't got an office, parking place or personalised coffee mug) are paid to swallow the spoon fed Corporatish and then, in the words of one prominent 'business consultant' mould it into action. WTF? The last time I moulded anything was a freshly picked booger. I was 3 at the time. Anyway, whether or not you can in fact 'mould' the garbage so liberally espoused by these 'consultants' is irrelevant to the boss. As long as you follow the orders, smile politely, scribble down notes during 'workshops' ask questions and appear as if you really care, the bottom line is - you have to just nod and smile, or at least pretend to do so.
This flimsy language is often dreamt up by the above mentioned 'business consultants'. Let's unpack the meaning of this job description. Indeed such individuals do consult in businesses. But consult can also translate into regurgitate or lecture (a word plagued by patronising connotations). They swoop in, upon the request of managers, they shuffle off into offices in gaggles to strategetise, plan, brainstorm, their followers never missing a beat as they clamour over each other to impress this new demigod, this individual who will make everything alright again. Consultants are usually brought in at times of crisis. But that's not necessarily a prerequisite for their insidious presence. Sometimes companies just have spare cash floating around and want to blow it on seemingly important things, which appear shiny and professional on the outside, but are actually staid and cliched. From the desks of the meagre office workers they are watched with suspicion druing these meetings. What do they talk about? Their Apple Macs and Blackberries are at the ready, fingers hovering over keyboards, eyes scouring the roof for ideas. Rarely smiles appear on their poker faces. This is serious stuff. But for all we know they're deciding on lunch. 'Sushi or a power shake? I simply can't decide.' Once the lunch code is cracked it's on to more important matters, like what colour whiteboard pen to use to jot down those all crucial ideas. It's corporate conspiring, I tell you. Theories of every kind are formulated to ' increase profits (of the managers) improve on productivity (to increase the profits for the managers), expand the business (make their offices larger). Like I said, all crucial matters.
Then comes the workshops. Those never-ending sessions of pain and boredom. Please note, they're usually held on weekends, when those trusty consultants can probably charge some good overtime. there you sit, amid the waffling on psycho-social-workplace habits, where they attempt to analyse your very being. The pop-psychology is belched out. 'Are you a magician, a hero, a scholar or a warrior?' Asks the this corporate Deity at 8-30 on a Saturday morning at yet another workshop. Those of us awake manage to murmur something (usually curses). His stentorian voice aims to stimulate and motivate. All we want to do is escape or maim this person for using such big words. Can you say 'brainwashing'?
E-mails have become the carries of orders, instructions, decrees and warnings. Bosses, schooled in the new office language, careful construct their messages to motivate. "we have it within us to raise the bar and be better' they cheer. During dark times they threaten, 'It's come to my attention that we have not been functioning optimally'. Yes master. Whatever you say master. The e-mails can become sad attempts by the managers at becoming buddies with their now firmly alienated workforce. Such occasions call for more informal language, 'Hey guys! You've all worked so hard, let's have some fun this weekend and go play some miniature golf (insert smiley face).' Awesome, can't wait boss! Yippee.
Electronic dissemination of company propaganda is sometimes put to the side and substitute for the good old-fashioned poster. Hectares of trees are felled in the name of glossy wastes of paper. Corporatish is glossed up, with the use of out-of-work models smiling at desks, with motivational slogans splashed all of them. 'We can make a difference' or 'Come on, you can do it!' scream these posters. Even while in the bathroom, that last bastion of solitude, the posters are stuck up behind toilet doors where you are reminded, while doing you most personal business, of the company's motivational efforts.
Once a year employees are subjected to what's called appraisals or assessments. Face-to-face with you boss you're expected to 'open up' or 'speak up'. Instead these chats turn into quasi-interrogations, where these minions of the proverbial 'Man' try to extract subversive thoughts via convoluted languages (see 'Corporatish'). 'What are you able to bring to the company?' they ask. It's now your turn to huddle in an office, an Apple Mac poised to take notes on what you say. Your eyes scan the roof for ans wesr which you hope won't offend. 'I'm punctual' you blurt out, the silence becoming far too oppressive, much like the expectation from your interrogator for a favourable response. What you wish you could say is, 'I'd like to bring a high-powered automatic rifle to work one day...' you get where that sentence is going.

Stop, in the name of the law

The South African Police Service (or is it, force? I can never tell these days) seems to have warmly and enthusiastically embraced it's boss, Bheki Cele's rather hard line approach to law enforcement. Cele, never one to shy away from shooting his mouth off, has brought back that old macho approach to policing, which was taken to all kinds of lows and extremes during Apartheid. If officers aren't beating people to death, they're shooting anything that moves. In their spare time they... well, they assault and shoot. To a degree I support the new aggressive policing we are seeing. It's not an easy job being a cop. You're often derided and criticised. You are an easy target for liberals, criminals and whingers alike. You get paid a pittance for working long hours, under dangerous conditions. But that's what you sign up for. Without getting tangled up in the debate over cops abusing their shoot-to-kill dogma, so often preached by Cele, I'd like to steer my criticism onto how this gung-ho-ness appears to have been transplanted into almost every aspect Of SAPS's new 'ideology' of law enforcement.
When Hawks officials start bull dozing their ways into newsrooms, arresting journalists, there s most certainly cause for concern. I'm, of course, referring to the arrest of Sunday Time's scribe, Mzilikazi wa Afrika. Police spin doctors offered up the explanation that he was arrested in his capacity as a private citizen, not as a journalist. If wa Afrika did do something wrong, then the Hawks were doing their job. We can only wait and see what details emerge from this saga to determine if the Hawks were simply being what Cele expects them to be - uncompromising and firm - or if they took their mandate too far. But is it a coincidence the arrest came as media bosses debate press freedom and new legislation being mooted to 'regulate' (read: muzzle)journalists? On top of this, wa Afrika's arrest is apparently linked to stories he did on Mpumalanga Premier David Mabuza, who was quick to react to the debacle. In other words, is this a knew jerk reaction to protect senior ANC officials as has become a hallmark of the ruling party. This stinks to high heaven.
Cele, in his small way in comparison to this whole debate, and his motormouth, coupled with his macho posturing (he's never scared to have pictures taken of him posing with automatic assault rifles and loves fashioning his wardrobe on that of Al Capone and Glen Agliotti) has given the green light for his minions to do as they please or as he eloquentlyAt the same time, he's dragged law enforcement back to circa 1960, 1976, 1985, 3-years which stand out in Apartheid history due to how they were characterised by the brutality of the police and other security agencies of the time.
As I watched footage of wa Africa' being taken into custody, surrounded by burly men-in-black, hands reaching to cover cameras amid heated arguments and threats, I had to pinch myself. Is this really South Africa 2010? Am I really watching security agents, apparently drunk on power, virtually storm the offices of a prominent media house to affect an arrest?
I'm pinching myself really hard as I write this and I'm not dreaming. This has happened and I fear will repeat itself. If this is how our men and women in blue are now doing their jobs, can we then expect people, such as journalists, to start 'jumping' from the 10-floor of John Voster Square... oops, my bad, I mean Johannesburg Central police station during interrogation? detention without trial, even? farfethced, you'll ask. So Is a state-run media tribunal .

What now?

There’s nothing like an event such as the World Cup to rip open a country’s potential, breathe some life into it and see visible results. The tournament has come and gone. That could just be the post-World Cup depression. I attribute this, in part, to how well it went. It was almost flawless, save for a few hundred crimes, some peeved fans who couldn’t attend that now infamous Durban game and of course the never-ending ticket scam sagas. I shrugged off my cynicism for a change, replacing it with, shall we call it, momentary patriotism (which, in my defence, never extended to buying rearview window socks) and I backed South Africa’s ability to actually pull off the event. And in a rare show of unity and competence, the country did exactly that, against many odds. Well done, pat on the back, whoo hoo. But what it also proved was that with enough pressure, attention and, of course money, the powers-that-be are able to set egos aside, stop bickering, relegate party-politics and shift into gear to do something. How could they not? The world was expecting failure.
So why can’t the government keep this up with day-to-day service delivery? They’ve built a host of a multi-billion rand white elephant (you may know them as stadiums) and got public transport, such as Cape Town’s IRT system on the right track (although it could become an exercise in futility). Impressive indeed. But now I’m referring to working taps, flushing, fully-enclosed toilets, a few more homes and maybe even a school here- -and-there, can they fuel up delivery in these crucial areas? Sure, the spin doctors and their wizards-of-words will explain there are such programmes, initiatives, projects (or whatever the latest government catchphrase is of the moment) in place. So maybe the likes of the N2 gateway project is providing homes or the extended public works programme is seeing things like new roads being laid (where? I’m not to sure). But they’ve only been able to churn up a trickle of promised end-products over a number of years. And they’ve been plagued by needless controversies. Why can’t this delivery-on-steroids be transplanted into government’s chest, a functioning, heart, with peoples’ needs prioritized and not those of MPs and their lust for mansions, luxury cars, World Cup tickets and designer attire? I have some answers to this, but can’t find it in myself to verbalise or write them in a civil, non-violent way. Maybe we should just brace ourselves for the same lame government spin, excuses and futile debates on the snail-pace service delivery which all too many South Africans have become accustomed to from those in charge.

Damn the machine

It’s officially a stand off. I’m staring it in the ‘eyes’, man to… umm, machine, ready for battle. Then suddenly, the monitor shuts off. As easy as that the damned machine scuttles away into the techno-ether. I’d like to think it’s fearful of my humanly wrath (I’m reaching for a heavy object, ready to start reducing this damned device to a pile of chips, screws, glass and plastic). But it’s only hiding to further hone plot against me. I hate you computer, I hate your very existence in my life. You shut down when you please, no fair warning or explanation is given (one that a moron like me can understand at least). With a brief flash of a ’window’ explaining the data from my thing-majg can’t load onto my doo hicky and so the file can’t attach to a proxy-something-or-another and the whachamacallit is dysfunctional due to a virus, imported via the, blah, blah, etc, yawn, snore. That’s my lay person (some would say idiot) interpretation of this satanic machine and its legions of devilish binary brothers language.

I curse my PC and it’s minefield of a playground, the Internet, on a daily basis. The two are comfortable bed fellows or should I say, an axis of evil. But in this comfort comes an unseen malificence, brewed up in the bowels of their elaborate mechanisms. They were created for a myriad of reasons (both positive and negative). But with all their technological brilliance, they also bring with them scourges of every kind, designed to endlessly frustrated, befuddle and demean humankind. The PC whirs in anger at my indignance. Note to self: type quieter. So I’m a technophobe, there, I said it, so what?! It still doesn’t change the fact my PC still takes 10 minutes to start up (so much for the breakneck speed of technological progress).
Let’s start with the most basic of a computers accessories. Printing is not so much a headache as it is a tumour. No matter how many times technicians and IT ‘experts’ come into to ‘fix’ the printer, it develops its own brain, printing anything it wants in whatever font or size its deem necessary to upset my day.
To the machine’s playground – the Internet. Even just the name leaves humans in awe. The Internet comes with a few billion users (abusers?) who use this damned thing to sell, preach, lecture, guide, harass, monitor, stalk, teach abuse… like I said, malificence.

And they can detect the hatred and frustration. They sense it via some obtuse, sinister means, shared only among machines for the purposes of plotting some kind of revenge on the human race. Here I was thinking this relationship between humankind and technology was a one-sided affair, with us humanly thingies fully in charge. I fear this could be the start of a Terminator-like, Space Oddyssey: 2001-esque machine-takeover. I foresee a terrifying future for our unhealthy reliance on the Net (Technophobe’s log, star date 2043: I think my computer can understand this human tongue language of ours. The monitor just went off for no reason. Note to self: maybe use less coarse language in the presence of the damned… I mean, awesomely impressive machine).
But this contraption’s never-ending trouble-making is surpassed by the innumerable techno-cliques of criminals, geeks and salespeople, to name but a few, who employ this unholy alliance to further their misguided agendas.
If you not trying avoid falling victim to a Nigerian called Walter, who promises to let you in on a multi-trillion dollar deal he’s about to clinch, granted you pay one beeelllliiiooon dollars into his bank account (usually offshore, mostly Swiss and never above board).

Salespeople are themselves corporate criminals, only, they have a better (only marginally so) grasp of the English language”. Click here and your penis will instantly inflate to, not twice, not thrice, but four times its normal size” screams one advertisement as it pops up out of the binary ether. It then never goes away (the ad, that is. If you were dumb enough to buy the penis enlargement machine made in Kazakhstan, then you deserve the pain which accompanies dubious lenis enlargement).

E-mail, while necessary in this day and age if you wish to avoid hermit-dom and wish stay in reluctant contact with the world and your mother is a minefield. Opening your e-mail is like defusing an I.E.D. The scamsters, sales rapists and pointless company newsletters pounce on you begging, demanding, ordering, and convincing their way to your stomach, where the gurgling of intolerance simmers. One of the best examples of time-wasting and tempter-testing are those “Pass this e-mail on and you’ll get 7 wishes” messages. Ummmm, am I 7? Do they think I’m mentally-challenged and so will believe in wishes, unicorns and non-melting ice cream? Spam is the devils work, a construct from the hell.

Look, don’t get me wrong. I have my moments of admiration for computers and their I.T. entourage. A click of a rodent (get it? A mouse. Hahahahaha) Voila! A universe of information pops up. That’s just one of many examples of it’s brilliance (usually offered up by the multi-billion dollar I.T. industry in the way of infinite marketing).It’s a necessary good, which often transmogrifies itself into evil (especially to techno-morons such as myself). I hate to love the Internet and computers. I love to hate those who have so embraced cyber-world. Of all the functions these amazing inventions of our time have to offer, it’s the delete button on my keyboard I adore the most and the hammer I keep next to my PC’s hard drive – a not-so-subtle warning of it’s fate and who really controls it.

Blow it out of your a**

If one had to ask me, for whatever reason, what smells I associate with Cape Town and Johannesburg, a brief moment of pondering would lead to the conclusion: cigarette smoke!
Walking down the Mother city’s streets has become a hazy gauntlet of noxious cigarette smog. This coupled with the cacophonous hacking coughs of these chronic indulgers of cancer gathered outside buildings makes a simple stroll a hazard of sorts. Sure, those of the non-smoking persuasion, such as me, have the shopping malls, hospitals, aeroplanes, morgues, our ‘antiseptic’ fortresses away from the eye-stinging ciggie smoke. Why then do smokers have the environment, the rest of the world to indulge their habits? You’ll note, I didn’t mention restaurants among these newly created ‘Smoke-free zones’ Hahahahahaha, what a joke? Too often a dinner out will be interrupted by that all too ubiquitous smell. And setting up so-called ‘Smoking Areas’, does that really help? Does smoke not know how to creep and contort its way through any crack so it can hone in on your eyes and nostrils and clothes? I often stare at these ‘cages’ they euphemistically label ‘smoking sections’ (more like wannabe cancer wards) and wonder just how pleasant can it be sitting amid an atmosphere of smoke, sipping wine, having a meal? I suppose seasoned smokers are accustomed to it, but surely the penny (or cigarette butt) has to drop at some time, where they realise ‘Yuck, I smell offensive. My teeth are yellow, my fingers pong. Heck, even my underwear stinks (of smoke that is)’. But personal hygiene aside, for me, it’s more the virtually omnipotent intrusiveness of the smell and the arrogance of most smokers. Sitting in my car the other day at a red traffic light a man in a Mercedes behind me, lazily smoked his cigarette. Like a heat seeking missile, the smoke sought me out in my car as if it could detect I was one of those – an anti-smoker. Before I knew it, Mercedes man was inadvertently sharing his habit with me. He’d smoked just half of it before flicking it onto the road (at more than R20 a box, I would have thought he’d at least smoke it to the end. It’s like burning cash). Don’t Mercedes vehicles come equipped with ashtrays? Why couldn’t this guy just stub it out into the apposite instrument – the ASHTRAY? Stompies are now a regular sight on beaches across the country. Like little landmines, they surround you. They’re by no means dangerous, but most certainly offensive. Yet another billboard advertising the arrogance of nicotine lovers. All too often I find I have to negotiate a wall of smoke while walking, smoke which comes from another person’s possibly disease-infested mouth. How would they like stopped, turned my head to them and coughed furiously over them? If they were normal functioning humans they’d scowl and curse, much like what I do when they exhale their fumes and promptly flick their butt wherever they want to.

Post-traumatic World Cup Disorder

As Spanish mid-fielder Andres Iniesta slotted a goal into the back of the net at the Football World Cup final it effectively signalled the end of the tournament, much to the relief of many an alienated wife, girlfriend or rugby fan and to the chagrin of tens of millions of football fans and men desperate to escape mundane conversations with significant others on what colour bathroom tiles they should get for the house. The void grows virtually by the minute as the madness that was the Football World Cup abates towards South America (where it's now Brazil's turn to cough up billions to pay for FIFA Fuhrer Sepp Blatter's new expatriat empire). I stare at the TV expecting a build-up debate among soccer experts, the singing of national anthems, visuals of maddened, over-zealous fans, there faces painted, their flags draped over their pot bellies. But now there's nothing. Only remnants of what was. Empty stadia, mountains of wasted paraphanalia and super hangovers. The void grows as does our boredom and post-World Cup despair. What now? What are we meant to do? Work? Come on, that's just silly! Must we now revert back our reality? I choose to stew in this depression (which has nothing to do with South Africa being knocked of the tournament before, well, before the team could even prove anything of note). I choose to drink more (screw Cosmo's "10 great diets for after the World Cup"). I choose excess and prolonged derangement. I crave the public viewing areas, the throngs of people intoxicated on football jingoism and overpriced Budweiser (can that piss really be called beer?). I need the fervour and even, dare I say it, miss the drone of a trillion vuvuzelas. Yes, you heard right, I miss that satanic, ear-drilling instrument of mass (sanity) destruction. Okay, maybe I won't miss it for too long, but I do sorely long for the vibe, the atmosphere, the chaos, the enraged reactions from anti-vuvuzela-ites, which accompanied that damned trumpet. This was our reality for a month. I'll also miss the random acts of drinking. When else will we be able to use the excuse "It's the World Cup, come on man, I had to have a drink before church". When stumbling back into the office or into a beetroot-faced gilrfriend, from an alcohol binge, the World Cup was the staple excuse. That was the World Cup! Emphasis on the word 'was'. It's a thing of the past and, as my therapirst tells me on a weekly basis at an inflated fee, we just have to move on. But where do we go from here? To the pub, of course, the haven of sports replays, the platform of plebeian sports academia, where we can postulate, pontificate and imbibe until the feeling of despair, loss and boredom passes - much like Budweiser through our suffering livers.