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.