Where is my Xmas?

Where to begin? Let's start at the end. December 2011, sitting at my work desk, that barbell around my neck, the din of that last minute/hour/second until the 'festive season' is meant to dawn. Festive my poephol. I sluch further into my chair. A colleague groans int he distance. I attempt it myself, a groan, a moan, a whinge. Computer says NO, NEIN, NEE. And I slouch further, deeper. Okay, so I turn to booze, my liquid mate of merriment and potential idiocy. By mid-December, my liver bit me. Eina. My brain, addled by an array of substances, clicks, clanks, churns and stops short of... well, stopping. Food, yes, binge-eating, that be the answer. Who cooks then? eat out, the merry morons urge. With what money? No bonus, no 13th check, no profit share, fuck all. My fiance eyes me like Ali over her fists. I swear to Jah, I'll fight her over cooking duties. Klap, bam, slap! With blue eyes and batter ego, the realisation dawns on me - the woman cooks food. I cook kak. I reach deep into my abyss, searching for hope to drag me into 2012, minus hang ups, arsehoels and further injuries. The abyss says NO, NEIN, NIKS. Where to from here? Hopelessness and boredom pervade me and I have a sore throat. Who cares any more, apart from parents desperate to keep the little ones from moaning over tether ball, socks and shoes for Xmas. Merry Xmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Yeeha Kwanzaa.

Boo hoo, where's the booze?!

Okay, so it's it's the silly season, which means, well, we can become all go out of minds with madness and joy, no matter how misguided this sense of happiness may be over this period. Some of us (me) may probably take the silliness a step further. Who'd blame us? I'm thinking outright derangement, a complete loss of the usual functions of my brain. Mix jolly with some silly and you get Christmas. Now, I wanted to spend the next few paragraph happily attacking the (evil) spirit and spirits of Christmas. But then the news came to my rescue, more specifically Government. Apparently Social Development minister, Bathabile Dlamini, has urged her colleagues and other government officials to have alcohol-free end-of-the-year functions. Pause, scratch head. Fall to the ground crying with laughter. That's like asking a tik addict to, well, kick the habit in a day. I thought the only way you get into government is if you are drunk. Inebriation may also be necessary to cope with the levels of incompetence seen in our corridors of power It certainly seems when government ministry's HR departments are recruiting, they do so pissed out of their skulls thanks to them having to adhere to Employment Equity policies so turgid and obtuse they make trigonometry seem easy. Surely one also needs to be intoxicated to be able to swallow the poo and drivel that comes out of most minister's mouths. Look at President Jacob Zuma's "communications advisor", Zizi Kodwa, and his recent brush with the drunk driving police. Of course he insists he hasn't had a drink in years. Yet admits in the same breath he only has a drink on special occasions, such as end of the month, when he gets his salary check. I'd also smile heartily with a Johnny Walker Blue label and a straw poised near my lips if I was cashing in from the JZ gravy train.
To ban booze at government parties, would be like banning blue light convoys. I can just see the grimaces, the looks of despair, lips being molded into crevices of disgust at the mere suggestion of taking away precious liquor from the mouths of government staffers! For many, the only reason they got into government was for the freebies, which include all the free finger food you can stuff into a pot belly. Not to mention all the dodgy tenders fund swirling around government offices. Yummy, money! I, for one, would never ban alcohol at my end-of-the year parties. Never! It's all I have at the end of a year, apart from a broken soul and some tattered sanity It's one of the few things I can count on to get me threw the festive period without going postal. Can you imagine a whole month of sober government officials?! Things may just start working as they should. At the very least, they'd become more bearable to deal with.

A farewell to Arms, Comrades and insanity

Warm greetings to you Comrade Jules. Hope you are well, in spite of yourself and those pesky 'Elders' in that pesky party called the ANC. Shame, Comrade, seriously, shame, does it still hurt, that sting of defeat, that burn that accompanies humiliation? I wonder if it hurt as much for the hundreds and thousands of people you've smacked, punched, beaten (figuratively, of course. can you throw a punch? Takes quite some effort, especially with a boep like yours) in your years at the helm of the Youth League.
To be honest, Comrade, I didn't take joy in your unceremonious suspension from the ANC. I try my best not to seek enjoyment out of other people's misery, and boy the spanking Daddy (His Excellency, JZ) gave you must of been miserable and eina. I held my head in my hands as Derek Hanekom (another pesky White man, no doubt entrenched in that White monopoly you so liberally speak of) read you and your goons the riot act... on an iPad nogal (oh how far the ruling part has come).I don't use the phrase 'riot act' ironically or even with a pinch of humor. That's exactly what your sheep did outside Daddy's house (Luthuli House) when the disciplinary hearing against you and your top brass kicked off - they acting riotously, throwing tantrums the likes of which were rarely seen since 2001 when a protest march under the banner of COSAS turned violent in Joburg. Wait a minute, you were the architect of that 2001 tumult, weren't you? I just saw your face splashed across a newspaper, a trip down memory lane, when you wore the cape of COSAS president. Put on a few pounds since then, grown emboldened by that fickle cup of power? Drinking while driving (an organisation) doesn't work. Ask Jackson Mthembu and Zizi 'I-don't-drink-anymore' Kodwa. Oh, Comrade, never down, just sip from that cup. Don't you ever listen! Ag, don't stress too much, buddy, all will be well. I doubt you'll be in the cold for too long. Look at some of your partners-in-crime from the past. Comrade Yengeni got nailed and he was nothing short of lionized after serving some 'jail time', not that I'm saying you are a criminal... not yet, at least. You also have Winnie in your corner to mother and wipe your nose. Tokyo is also backing you, I hear. Friends are abundant for you these uncertain times... at least they say so now.
Yet the radio in the background here says you are losing support. Lonely, are you? How about turning to Internet dating or Facebook for some friends? It almost worked for me. I hear some residents in your home town, Seshego, threw party after hearing of spanking. With friends like those...
Oh, Comrade, cheer up. You still have your family trust, plethora of 'business contacts' and your ever-growing waistline to keep you buoyant.

Entitlement - The New Economic Crisis

Pinch, slap, kick me awake, PLEASE! Am I dreaming when I read headlines like: 'R170m Zuma home revamp'? Can it be true that amid never-ending reminders of a credit crunch, a financial crisis, another slump in the markets, economic dire straits, pick one any one, that our esteemed president sees it fit to blow OUR money on a new sauna and steam room for one his official residences? Such rhetorical questions would be wasted on the powers that run and ruin the country. They'd shrug and smile, all the while thinking up clumsy sound bytes and awkward prevarications as they reach deep into their expense accounts. Many believe Zuma is entitled to such lavishness... along with his numerous wives, children and sycophants. Funny thing about this heavy air of self-entitlement polluting the country, how it keeps cropping up more often SA politics, it seems to be the sole reason, more often than not, government can't keep with even the most basic service delivery targets.
JZ's spokesperson played the politics game perfectly when she explained it wasn't him who authorised hundreds of millions of OUR money be used to upgrade and refurbish his official residences and a parliamentary village. 'No, the president never gets involved in renovations' Zanele Mngadi blustered in justifying the expenditure. Of course he wouldn't get involved! Is tiling, replastering and woodwork mentioned anywhere in his CV? So, the obvious solution to explaining away how and why OUR cash is plowed back into ensuring JZ can now go for a sauna and his many wives have their own bathrooms, the buck is passed to Public Works Minister (cue drum roll and bated breath) who is none other than Gwen Mahlangu-Nkabinde, she of the impeccable track record when it comes to spending on headquarters, homes and other assorted dwellings (except RDP homes. That pesky government initiative is left to Tokyo Sexwale). Her spokesperson wasn't on hand to explain the R400 million price tag for revamping the president's homes. No surprises there.
God forbid our leaders stay in normal homes. It's unthinkable to even ponder them having to rough it in a middle-class neighbourhood, in a single-storey home, stripped of saunas and pools.
I hear there's now mention of a new plane which may need to be bought to ferry JZ and his deputy around the world. I know Kgalema Motlanthe's has a rather unlucky run when it comes to air travel of late, but can't he and the retinues of self-entitled government lackeys settle for travelling using airlines? Motlanthe did it once and even survived the airline food. 'Preposterous!' I already hear the powers-that-be saying among themselves at such outlandish suggestions. If they had to scrimp and save like the rest of us, what would become of their hallowed and ever-mysterious Ministerial Handbook, that Bible of blundering justifications, that idiot's guide to burning money and never caring. It would be pure lunacy to think politicians are just like us.

My first live concert

Good news for purveyors of laboured commercial pop. Coldplay have landed safely and are ready to unleash their own blend of formulaic, banal pop on South Africa. Not that I hate the band’s music. I simply disregard it and at the very worst I relate their songs to the fodder middle-aged 5FM worshipping squares, desperate trying to stay and in-touch with their departing youth. Hey, at least it’s not the return of Bryan Adams… AGAIN! But I digress. The band’s arrival here takes me back a billion years to my youth. My first ever concert was Depeche Mode. I know, readers, y’all getting green with envy? If not, you should, dammit! Oh vok, there I digress again.
I was 16 and a few hours old. My birthday present to myself was a ticket to see my most favourite band in the world (at that time): Depeche Mode. From a wee age I’d learnt to love them and depending on the stage of adolescence I found myself trapped in, I deified them to a degree (Hey, I was a virgin. What else was I going to do?) I knew nothing else but Depeche Mode and didn’t care much for anything else. I was young, dumb and full of a trenchant lack of musical diversity). So, in 1994 when I read in Top 40 magazine (who can remember that classic read?) DM planned to do the unthinkable and tour the Third World, I exploded with joy. With magazine in hand I sprinted to my folks. I fell to my knees and started that well-practiced chore of begging for something I wanted. The thing is I had a little something in my corner to back up my argument as to why the well-being of my youthful life (and my street cred and possibility of finally scoring with girls and not my hands) depended solely on seeing this band in the flesh. It was my 16th birthday that year and to refuse me this would be tantamount to child abuse. With the bomb-question dropped, my Mother stared at my Father, the awkward spouse dance soon ensued. 'It's your call. Can your back handle the trip to Joburg? What about school on Monday?' The reality of having to cave in to their adolescent son’s pleas started dawning on them. My Dad, having failed to avoid apportioning responsibility to his wife, had little option really but to agree. With adult/child negotiations done, it was time to start preparing for what would be the equivalent of my Woodstock pilgrimage, even though it was just a backseat trip in my parents battered car to that cesspool of kak - Johannesburg.
I paid for the ticket myself, a feat (and it was nothing short of that at the fresh that age) that seemed to impress my recently disgruntled parentals. ‘Where did you get the cash?’ my Dad half-heartedly enquired. ‘I stole it from you, naturally’ was my mental response. I’d actually saved it up from the 15 previous birthdays. Like I said, I was a sad, sad youngster.
On a Friday afternoon in February 1994 we headed off for the big smoke from Kimberley. Me, my Dad and Mom and all of Depeche Mode’s back catalogue. I'dspent weeks rubbing the noses of friends, acquaintances, homeless people and pretty much anyone who’d listen to me in the fact that I, little old me, skinny legs, acne skin and no sporting ability whatsoever,was going to see one of the most influential bands of our time(any arguments here?) live in concert.
Needless to say the trip to Shitsville… umm, Joburg, was a blur. My tiny mind was focused on only one thing – beholding Depeche Mode live.
Fast forward to the night of the show. My fretful Mother, baptised by fire by having to ensure her teenage son wasn’t going to be lured into slavery by the hordes of ‘miscreants’ looming around the Standard bank arena in the maw of Joburg, did her best to equip me for this alien experience as she tried to usher me through the throngs of people. ‘Don’t smoke the drugs. Don’t’ drink anything anyone gives you. Don’t leave your seat during the concert. Don’t’ make eye contact with anyone!’ The list was a veritable decree of parental neuroses.
Filing in to the stadium with the masses, my stomach curled into a knot. The sounds and smells (my first whiff of dagga), tempted me, but never quite secured my fleeting mind from the task at hand. I sought out my seat, taking in the mix of people. For what must have been a first in our newborn nation, Goths, sat cheek- to- jowl with bomber jacket-donning Afrikaners (hey, DM’s appeal is wide and vast). Preppy ‘Northern suburbs’ prissies, dared to mingle with so-called Grungeheads. This was the height of Grunge, remember. The arena filled up fast, another testament to not just how desperate and thankful South Africans were for a quality musical act following decades of cultural isolation. The opening act, the Outsiders, were simply a formality. Cheers of ‘Just can’t get enough ' made it very clear to the openers as they lumbered through their set that it was time.
The roars grew into… ummm, louder roars, the anticipation reached breaking point. Within seconds, a life time of waiting, 16-years of devoted listening climaxed into Dave Gahan launching himself onto South Africa’s first ever live taste of Depeche Mode. The rest, as they say, is hysteria. Much sweat was shed. Over-sized Doc Martens were well broken into. Baggy jeans flayed clumsily through manic attempts at quasi-moshing. It was my baptism minus strange dogmas and uncomfortable rituals.
I’ve been to many more concerts since then. I’ve witnessed U2 twice... live. I endured Jamiroquias (don’t ask). I saw Skunk Anansie in their hey day In Port Elizabeth (?) and have survived numerous Cokefests. I've even caught a live Fever Ray gig in Paris. But nothing to date has been able to trounce the thrill of seeing a band so embedded in my psyche in concert, surviving the mania, the elation of my induction into live music. For me even trying to recapture those 2 hours I spent in an alien city, by myself in a packed arena, surrounded by an assortment of freaks will be nearly impossible.

A breath of dead air

Not surprisingly I have an ever-growing list of pet hates. Depending on my mood, I shuffle my hatred for queues and dog-lovers, with my disdain for traffic police and taxi drivers, adding new found dislikes, such as spitting in public, to this burgeoning list of splenetic fury. But this week I have a brand new pet hate - bad breath. Why is it people with smelly breath are always those types who have no sense of personal space? It's almost as it they are forcing their death breath on you, sharing their own bit of misery with you. I've found the great majority of stinky breathers have no idea of their personal malaise. Why? Well, because it's one of those things many people find they can't broach with halitosis-sufferers. It's not polite to tell someone they have bad breath, didn't you know? Instead we smile politely, occasionally wrinkling our noses, wiping away tears of pain as we engage halitosis-spreaders. That's the stock standard approach many of us follow. And so I guess we just have to suffer in silence under the dictatorship of foul breath. As a radio journalist I have to interview people in person daily. Let me tell you, I've interviewed some important people and I'm overjoyed to say even those who think their poo smells like roses, have exceptionally bad breath. I won't mention names, but it is strangely, maybe even cruelly satisfying to know even these personalities live with this common personal hygiene problem. I recall doing an interview with a prominent trade unionist some time back. I've encountered some bad halitosis in my day, but this guy had me almost retching. I even had to move ever so slightly, out of range of his oral weapon of massive stinkiness for fear of sharing whatever I'd eaten that day with him.
Then you get smokers breath and in worse case scenarios halitosis compounded by this dirty habit. Such types never seem to think their habit is filthy and so they'll invade your space, stinking of stale smoke and a healthy dose of halitosis. Yummy.
Surely we'd be doing them a favour by informing them their breath is doing them more harm than good? No? Or should we just put on brave faces and deal with the stench? If I won't even let my girlfriend kiss me in the morning because of my morning breath, then surely we can summon up some courage and do the right thing - inform those with bad breath they ain't making no friends in a hurry. I believe it's the right thing to do.

The World Cup of Kak

There are no such things as allies in competitive sport, I bravely argue. Bugger team work, everyone who is paid to play a sport couldn't actually give a toss about their team mates. It's about the me and the "I" in team is really there - you just have to read between the letters. T-E-A-M, scramble the letters and you get ME. In true sports metaphors, you can explain away the T and the A by saying they were put on the bench, while M and E are played extensively, come rain, snow or injury.
That one vein in my head (I shall name it Greg) pounds like a death metal drummer when a sports star appears on TV, trying to foist on me shampoo, insurance or burgers. That's fine, it's all about the cash and the egos. But what point is there in a sporting schleb "endorsing" a charity? My heart almost beats custard at the sight of the hottest rugby star signing a ball for a child with some crinically depressing and deadly disease, then whizzing off to a photo shoot where his vanity is stroked and air-brushed. Ag shame se moer. lLt's just drop the act and move on. It reminds me of politicians swanning about a newly built children's ward in Bospisskraal in the middle of Vokken-ver-genoer, a fake smile plastered on their face. We all now in those cases, it's probably the free finger snacks and business class ticket which was the main attraction for the politican's attendance. Kissing babies and patting backs it's all in a days work for a politician.
With the Rugby World Cup gripping the nation I'm reminded of how fickle we are. We soon forget how pointless sports stars are as we cheer and roar at a TV screen. Our minds are sidetracked by strange looking balls, booze, hormones and a sudden onset of window-dressing patriotism. Suddenly, we couldn't care if a Springbok player is promoting pimple cream. As long as they are scoring tries and saving rain forests. It's now about national pride, patriotism and biltong. Back to the paralells with politicains and again we easily forget their futility. Some of them get a few minutes every so often to grandstand in Parliament, that not-so verdant sports field. The only balls needed for their game are brass ones, not necessarily exclusively attached to men. The only colours they see are party colours. Green, black, gold, blue, white, take your pick. And you don't need a contract to hold them accountable. Just the ability to lie with a smile on your face and so signs of an itching conscience will secure you a spot in the opening line-up.
At least with sports people, there every move is monitored, on the playing field. Try to cheat and you do so at your own peril. Politicians games are held behind closed doors or in the "locker room", usualy their office or expensive eating spots, where the only stretching ahead of the game is that of their imaginations and wallets.
In a few short weeks the RWC will be over. Wives and girfriends will rejoice at the return of their partners attention. Sporting jingoism will retreat and our miserable existences will drag on... as will those of politicians. Therr lying, cheating and other assorted skullduggery is never restricted to sporting events.

Weighing in

I've been held up before at gun point. I've been mugged 4 times. I've encountered angry protesters, been stoned (with rocks not weed), my life threatened and a gun put to my head. I've been lucky/unlucky enough to have travelled to some of the worst parts of the world (Zimbabwe included). Yet in the face of these dodgy situations, there is no bigger danger than the question: 'Does my bum look big in these jeans?' being asked by a woman, girlfriend or wife. Even typing the question sends a shiver down my spine. When confronted with this question, my mind races, sweat beds down my brow, language escapes me and I usually fumble with the stock answer 'Of course not! Ridiculous' followed by a swift exit. I'm usually not lying. I couldn't give a damn about what bums look like in jeans. I'm just interested in what they look like outside of clothing. Hey, I'm a man, what did you expect?
I've come to dread and hate this question in equal measures. I could launch into a dithering diatribe about feminism, the objectification of the fairer sex and the importance of women's rights. In South Africa you are never allowed to forget how we must be all simunye with the ladies, how we must love, protect and respect them. Duh, that's a given. But I guess in a country like ours where misogyny is regarded as a national past time and our president collects wives like stamps, we need regular reminders.
Then you have the added strain of comments like 'I feel fat!' or 'I look hidous in this dress!' screeching from a woman's mouth, which make the minefield of gender relations even more treacherous. There's the shiver again, brrrr. If it weren't a social taboo (and if my fear of hugging wasn't so rampant and debilitating) I'd go onto the streets and hug every curvy, voluptuous, slightly weighty woman, before looking them in the eye with a firm assurance 'You are beautiful as you are.' Cue the soppy music. But I know this won't work. I'd either be punched and accused of being sardonic and sarcatsi or the assurance would be short-lived as the reality of how women perceive themselves would soon return. Cosmopolitan repeatedly does its bit for the 'Sisters doing it for themselves' campaign with articles insisting 'Curves are back!'. Turn the page, a skinny woman flaunting her bones (because that's usually all there is to these models) is ghalring at you, hunger probably eveident in her eyes. So, 'women's magazines' do little to reinforce what should be the norm - all woman have curves and those who don't are actually the exception. I've never dated a traditionally skinny woman. I don't even know what constitutes skinny anymore. Kate Moss? I was lucky to discover early in my adulthood that I prefer curvy females. In fact, I love them. There are few things more off -putting to me than a super-skinny woman (I'm not talking about anorexics). I'm left cold by their lack of weight, the absence of curves, bones sticking out, often unnaturally. Their lack of wieght is usually accompanied by a 'Sexier than thou' attitude.No thanks. Give me a woman with with a tummy, even those with the much derided muffin tops are supremely sexier than a stick insect sucking on her twentieth cigarette (for appetite suppression), nibbling on a whole packet of lo-GI, no-weight, flavourless no added anything rice cakes,who thinks her shrunken rear end, with it's distinct lack of shape, is the epitome of an attractive woman. Gluteus maximus to such types should be no-gluteus minimus.
Europeans have long embraced voluptuousness. The women flaunt their curves. They don't do so out of bravery. It's almost the norm to them... ALMOST. In Africa, there are cultures which openly embrace curves on the ladies. Sadly, hypocrisy intervenes, with many men regarding women as nothing but commodities and objects.
I've run out of words and have even considered taking up another language so as to emphasise the point to the women in my life that curvaceous is the new sexy. No, wait, it's always been sexy! I'm not enlightened or even a feminist by saying this (and I'm not looking for a Noddy badge). I believe I'm just pointing out what should be a very normal and obvious point - a bit of weight on a woman is gorgeous and should NEVER be derided. However, communicating this and ensuring it sticks in the ehads of the great majority of women is another battle in a long-standing war.

F*#$ you and you and you and you...

I actually hate writing about the ANC Youth League and its merry men (and some women) of morons. Even thinking about the ANCYL leaves me slightly nauseous. As a journalist, every week I make an internal pact with myself to steer clear, as far as possible, of having to cover anything to do with the ANCYL or to even mention that name that shan't be uttered (Julius Malema). Like Harry Potter's Valdemort, who's name also can never be uttered (but always is in the movies) Malema consistently crops up in the media. h
This leads many to believe we, as journos, are Malema-obsessed. Usually when Youth League events are covered in the media, you'll find it's a slow news day or week. But, sadly, we have to, from to time , indulge this grouping of grown up kindergartners, by giving them coverage. However, I could resist writing about the League and more specifically Floyd Shivambu, that ever-articulate spin sangoma of the league, this time round. I'm sorry, but I have a good reason.

I listened with a mix of shock and delight at a soundbyte of Shivambu telling a Media 24 journalist to f-off. The byte was recorded and is, as I type, being broadcast across the airwaves. At first, I exploded into peels of laughter at an irate Shivambu repeatedly telling the reporter to f-off. Jacques Dommisse somehow managed to keep his cool and strung Shivambu on for a few more seconds, before another salvo of curses flew out of his mouth. In the medium of radio, even a few seconds of a soundbyte is all you need to hit a story home effectively. I hope Dommisse himself was laughing hysterically as he was being told off by this self-styled spokesperson. Shivambu can rarely be taken seriously. I've heard him mangle up the ANCYL's dimwitted policies and viewpoints on numerous occasions. Even when he pretends to know what he's talking about, I can't help but smile. It's also not the first time he's sworn at a journalist. In fact, it seems to be ANCYL policy these days to curse the imperialist, colonialist, capitalist media of South Africa. When his short fuse burns up and his temper gallops away, my smiles turn to open guffaws, followed by air-punches. It means we, as the media fraternity, have won, in a sense. By getting Shivambu to show his true colours, it gives us ammunition to demonstrate, intelligently, just how rogue the League has become under Malema and Jacob Zuma's watch. A Media Tribunal for us errant, naughty journalists? How about a tribunal for Shivambu?

Like a stand up comedian recently told an audience in Cape Town, 'I don't know why people, especially Whites, take Malema and ANCYL so seriously. They are a joke.' Bravo, well put. Perhaps Shivambu should consider expanding his limited talents to the arena of stand up comedy where he can tear into all and sundry, without even having to have a knack for doing comedy. He's a walking, breathing joke all by himself.
His shows would be pre-empted with disclaimers 'Nothing coming out of Floyd's mouth should be viewed in a serious context.' He could belch and bluster about nationalisation, how White people are devils and how his boss, Jules, cares about the poor by going on extravagant safari holidays and building mansions for himself. Instead of taking the bait, we could just sit back and giggle, knowing full well, Shivambu and Co. are doing a fine job by themselves of making a mockery of their organisation.

Playing the game of Communism

I'm not by any stretch of the imagination an expert on communism, Marxism, socialism or pretty much any -ism for that matter. Too many letters, too many concepts and, boy oh boy is 'Das Kapital' not just the furthest thing from an interesting read? Basically, it's just too much of too many things, coming too quickly amid an ever-changing political climate sweeping the globe.
It's too dense and anachronistic an ideology for the 21st Century to take seriously as it's written my Marx. The past millennium took communism too seriously, often with little choice in the matter, resulting in millions of people dying, entire economies crumbling and, more importantly, it gave rise to way too many dangerous personalities, many of them eventually turned out mad and deluded. The likes of Lenin, Castro and Pol Pot mangled the concept of communism into terrifying doctrines, punctuated by fear, megalomania, arrogance and megadeath. A select few of our own did emerge from the struggle as heroes cloaked in liberation struggle glory. But they soon realised, applying socialism in South Africa was never going to work as easily as they may have thought and hoped.
In 2011 communism and its cousin socialism are still very much alive. There's nothing wrong with this. Something is needed to try and counter the devastating impact capitalism can have. But politics and economic theories, like almost everything in life and the natural world, must constantly change and transmogrify. How else would they survive? But what happens when political parties and left-leaning governments (such as South Africa's) become, shall we say, frustrated with the slow pace at which socialism is being realised and is actually being left behind in this never-ending race of ideologies? The likes of so-called socialists/communists, like Julius Malema and (a deep, brave breath) Blade Nzimande (yup, the 'King of the Left') don't seem to understand the the idiom of practice what you preach. The little Commissar of the SACP relishes any chance to mangle 'The Communist Manifesto'. His speeches are almost always littered with Communism-isms. Terms like 'vanguard', 'class consciousness', 'class alienation', 'permanent revolution' do find their way, somehow, into his speeches, depending on the setting. yet this is the cabinet minister who thinks there's noticing wrong with being ushered around in a million rand Merc. It may be the only visible sign of hypocrisy in Nzimande's case, but it's one too many considering he's the guy leading the country's reds. Of course, his viewpoints on another crucial aspect of communism, nationalisation, strangely veers off into the distance. Comrade Julius is left to hammer this home. And boy is he making a noise. The problem is, Jules doesn't seem to have a cooking clue about nationalisation or real communism. His speeches, while firey, are very basic and dumbed-down, lacking in substance. That's probably because he himself hasn't bothered to to do his homework. yet he wants to toy with an entire country's economic health.
If him and Blade were true reds, they'd sell their mansions, their flashy vehicles, expensive watches and give up Johnny Walker Gold and their iPhones. All this money (they repeatedly insist they don't earn) should then technically be redistributed to the masses, as it clearly states in the 'The Communist Manifesto'. Socialism for dummies, indeed. They apply the theory as they want to.
The only class consciousness in Malema's mind is how conscious he was not to attend proper classes at school. A 'vanguard' to him may be interpreted as someone who guards vans. Nzimande, as erudite as he likes to present himself, also seems to selectively interpret the basic tenets of communism as he pleases. Redistribution of wealth to him and his fellow cadres at the top of the SACP food chain, means ensuring the money is channeled straight back to the tripartite alliance and no further. This is a middle-finger to the poor.
But there is no better example of the glaring ignorance of communism than a strike and a protest march in modern day South Africa. Every unionist with a microphone will gladly bellow out commie slogans.'Comrades, capitalism is evil. It must be killed' belched a pot-bellied NUMSA official at a recent demonstration in Cape Town. Yet that very same comrade was wearing expensive leather shoes, complete with designer jeans. Oh, and he was spotted making notes on an iPad. How very 'grassroots' of him?
Pretence is the backbone to all forms of politics. As are lying, greed and stupidity.

Taking the wheel back

Yet again mini-bus taxi commuters have become victims. Those thugs who run the taxi industry have struck again. Like petulant toddlers, they were instructed to hold their breath, pout and throw tantrums. In the taxi world this means, completely disregarding the rights of others, behaving like criminals and holding the public to ransom, all because they feel they don't get their way. Boo hoo. Good luck in finding even an inkling of sympathy.This week another strike among taxi operators was held, this time in Soweto.
It only takes a handful of drivers to down their keys and cause enough chaos to ruin anyone's day. And it's not just taxi commuters who are affected. It's a domino effect of note. With taxis off the roads (as idyllic as it sounds, it's actually not) more pressure is put on buses and trains. people are forced to use private vehicles. Already congested highways become impossible to navigate. Nerves are frayed, frustrations reach fever pitch. Soon the grey hairs start sprouting, that unsightly vein in your neck pulses like a male porn stars member and often road rage is the only way to vent. Hooters become weapons and our language descends into the doldrums of cursing. I think I can safely say the majority of us dislike taxi drivers (forgive the euphemism, hate is acceptable in certain contexts). But why should we allow ourselves to be even further victimised by this ramshackle, recalcitrant, backward industry? I'm not alone in using this description. deputy-Transport minister, Jeremy Cronin, often criticises taxi bosses using similar language.
Here's an idea. What would happen if tomorrow all commuters, regardless of race, culture and economic standing, just boycotted the use of mini-bus taxis? Those of us(un)lucky enough to have our transport to embark on solidarity industrial action. It's a long shot, I know, but what if we all just summoned up the guts to do it? We'd bring this mafia-like industry to it's knees. It's actually easy when money is involved. We'd deprive them of money which only serves to beef up the bosses bank accounts. The drivers get very little and are themselves victims of their employers. I've yet to meet a happy-go-lucky taxi driver. There's a reason they drive and behave the way they do. Yes, half of them don't have drivers licences and their vehicles are nothing short of death traps. But they are victims of their bosses arrogance and greed.
So, why can't taxi commuters make their own stand? Why can't other road-users send out a clear message, not just in limp-wristed, yet strongly-worded statements, but through trenchant action? Instead of being the one's who queue for hours, shove and force their ways onto bulging buses and trains during taxi strikes, why don't they just take a stand and for one or two days completely sideline taxis? As with the converse of such situations, where taxi drivers feel misguidedlyemboldened by behaving like animals, we may just be able to take some power back and hit them them back. It's simple economics. With no money coming in, they'd have to resort to their own contingency plans, much like government and municipalities who are lefts scrambling in dealing with crippling strikes. My guess is, they have no plan and owuld have little choice but to at least partly abandon their rogue attitude and actually employ some common sense. Maybe the bosses will be force out of their dungeons to face the reality of what of normal road-users and their drivers go through daily.

Snacks-Apartheid

We are often reminded of how important Parliament is in our democracy. I've personally heard it described by some MPs as a 'hallowed house', even a church of sorts (thanks to the ACDP). But it seems Parliament's food is as holy as any bill, debate or committee meeting which makes its way through the National Assembly. ANC MP, Cecil Burgess's recent admonishment of non-parliamentarians who dared to tuck into snacks laid out at at a portfolio committee meeting serves to further reinforce the reputation of MPs as loafers and spongers. For 10 minutes he lectured us plebs, with perennially bored fellow-MPs in attendance, on how the food is actually meant for them. In an arrogant drawl he explained how the committee's budget is limited and so spending on snacks is tight. He concluded, however, that once MPs are done scoffing up soggy sandwiches and rock hard muffins, us nobodies are more than welcome to have the leftovers. Mmmm, tasty leftovers all for us?! Oh, Cecil, your heart beats custard. Amid stifled grumbles from fellow-plebs, I noted what seemed to be embarrassed looks on some of Burgess's colleagues faces (at least I hope they were embarrassed). Could it be they were in silent agreement with me that Burgess had maybe gone too far on a seemingly mundane matter? Burgess is known to be a strong character. Opposition parties call him arrogant. I respect his intellect and political deftness. But since him unofficially passing the new Parliamentary Food Act, I'm inclined to relegate him to that growing hall of shame for government bigwigs who think their excrement smells like roses.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't we, as taxpayers, technically paying for their snacks? Is that not our money they are shovelling into their ever-burgeoning stomachs? Mr. Burgess, surely you can do with one or two less sandwiches and scones? Where's the love? We pay your salary, yet you can't share some food with us. Not very Ubuntu of you.
The National Assembly has no gym, as far as I know, and despite Health minister, Aaron Motsoaledi's repeated calls for his fellow cabinet members and government officials to lead by example in living health lives, the boeps on the majority of parliamentarians are showing little sign of retreating. Nor do their salaries, may I add. So, maybe we could do them a favour by helping eat their oh-so-sacred snacks. It's snack-Apartheidf, I tell you!
If ordinary people aren't allowed to have even a stale croissant in Parliament, will we soon be barred for using the toilets there or even having a drink of water? Thanks to Burgess, the much touted phrase 'The Peoples Parliament' is an oxymoron. According to him and his ridiculous policy on snacks it's 'Only Certain People's Parliament'. Had he asked us nicely not to eat the snacks, refraining from the use of condescension, I may find it in my heart not to call him arrogant and petty. But knowing the chronic sense of entitlement many members of parliament adopt, I'll stand by my initial believe that they are truly the embodiment of government fat cats.

A Prayer for Elections

Praying for peaceful elections is much like waging war to secure peace (see Iraq, Afghanistan). By their very nature elections are like min-wars. Vitriol, propaganda and insults (see Helen Zille dancing) are launched like missiles between warring political groupings. You may even find some leaders resorting to war dances (see helen Zille). In some cases, party members and supporters,their fair weather foot soldiers, take the whole idea of contesting elections to a dangerously literal level. Hit lists start emerging, competing councillors get into punch ups, ugly verbal exchanges take over at debates and intimidation become the order of the day. Cease fires are called, but hardly ever take hold. There are battle plans (see election manifestos) which give blue prints on strategies, yet are rarely based in reality. Pretty soon, the real purpose of elections are sullied and forgotten. Compare this to a real war scenario, the similarities are very evident, be it on a much smaller scale. Human rights are trampled on, election regulations and laws are shoved to one side and even the odd dead body crops up (see Andries Tatane, himself an indirect victim of political incompetence and the resulting anger thereof). There are always casualties of some kind and they are usually the voters.So, when religious leaders congregate to pray for peaceful elections, I laugh out aloud. They are usually joined by politicians (many of whom believe their parties will rule until that ever-elusive Jesus returns). They'll hold hands, close their eyes and be struck by piety. But when the reverend or Imam isn't looking, they're at each others throats. Many of these are the very same people who are quick to find faith over elections time, as they desperately employ every electioneering tactic they know to drum up support. There are parties who base their politics almost solely on religion(see the the likes of the Christian Democratic Party). While this may seem genuine and almost honourable, we all know how dangerous it can be if fundamentalism creeps into the political arena (see Iran, Afghanistan under the Taliban). So, by all means pray for peaceful elections, we need anything and everything to keep politicians in line. However, don't for a second believe sound religious principles can stand up to political opportunism and greed amid elections.

Happy Whatever Day!

Who is really free these days? Wasn't it some French philosopher who drone on about us being free, yet in chains everywhere? While my Std. 7 history escapes me, my common sense is very much still intact. And it tells me public holidays are as pointless as royal weddings are. Sure, we get to lie in a bit, an expected unexpected mini-holiday of sorts, which breaks the grinding monotony of work. So, why then am I writing this column from my desk at work on Freedom Day! Where did I buy my cappuccino this morning and who will fill my fuel tank later when I eventually leave work - Us schmucks to whom a public holiday is very much a dream. I'm generally not bitter about having to work on public holidays. I like my routine and having these pesky days off in the middle of a working week are as inconvenient as having to wake up 6am to go to work on a public holiday. Hang on, I've gone cross-eyed!
If it's freedom you crave or human rights you need, never fear, South Africa's calendar never strays too far away from an issue or historical event to celebrate. Of course, we don't necessarily celebrate Youth Day. June 16th 1976 is a day which remains rightly hallowed in our history books due to it's violent origins. So, we commemorate the day... in theory. The ANC Youth League has been known to throw some cracking parties on Youth Day, complete with really sombre gestures like musical entertainment, dancing and free food parcels. No one knows the history of this country better than kindergartners.
While we mark significant events in our country's history with public holidays (an excuse to stick it to the boss and the economy) I propose we introduce even more! How about Dubula Ibunu Day (or even week). Here's how the first rally will play out. Julius Malema will be escorted into FNB Stadium in a cavalcade of SUVs. His 18 para-military bodyguards, equipped with rocket launchers and Ray Bans with beat a path for him to his throne. Of course a rally just wouldn't be a rally if Jules didn't bluster forth an attack on imperialism, White people, capitalism, 2-ply toilet paper and the state of the Gulf of Mexico. This would be followed by his latest rendition of the 'Shoot the Boer' song 'Loot the poor. Hey, it rhymes! Another poignant moment in the country's history could be declared a public loaf day - Polokwane Day. We'll lie in our beds and reminisce about how uncomfortable old T-Boz looked as he awkwardly embraced his arch rival comrade, Jacob Zuma on stage after it his demise was officially announced in 2007 to a hostile and welcoming crowd of ANC delegates. We also like to focus on our national past times. There's an unofficial 'holiday' called Braai Day, which falls on Heritage Day.
Government would do well to introduce Corruption Day. An entire 24-hours can be devoted to looting and pillaging. Now, I'm not talking about our other national hobby, armed robbery. On Corruption Day, we plot and conspire against each other to steal surreptitiously and to stab each other in the back. I'm talking about the wholesale signing of dodgy tenders, re-routing social welfare funds to be deposited into your personal bank account (you of course don't even qualify for a grant).

The Cape for free... I mean, free the Cape!

Election manifestos are pretty much wish lists. Some political parties thumb suck theirs, dressing them up with what they regard as promises, liberally wrapped in fancy words, like eradicate and moratorium. Parties who've done this whole election thing before will have saved their manifestos on flash drives, so expect rushed cut and paste jobs this year, where language is only slightly tweaked and political objectives are made to sound even more orotund, abstruse and, let's never forget, unobtainable. Poetic licence is tested when political jargon is mashed and mangled with theatrics. How many times have we heard 'Pushing back the frontiers of poverty' at rallies.
Of course elections have nothing to do with morals and ethics, otherwise Truman Prince would've been laid to rest in the cemetery of politics and Julius Malema would've had his jaw wired shut. Nope, it's all about lofty ideals and laughable promises. Honesty has never lived in the same neighbourhood as politics so that's never an issue. We're expected to join politicians and take leave of our senses and intelligence over this period.
But you got to love it when a party flagrantly abandons reality. I'm not even talking about the DA's persistent dreams of seeing Helen Zille delivering a State of the Nation (instead of Province) address. I'm talking about stripped down to the bone madness.
It's treacherous driving in Cape Town at the best of times. But try maintain your composure behind the wheel if you happen to come across one of the Cape Party's election posters. I still erupt into laughter each time I read them. 'Declare the Cape independent' scream their posters to unsuspecting motorists. Here's a political grouping (read: 2 guys and a fax machine) which has almost solely based it's entire existence on one ideal (and for the sake of my credibility I daren't call it anything else but that)on one bold, if not misguided manifesto point. Firstly, let me salute this party for being, well, for want of a better word, brave. I know parties are known to embellish and dress the truth up. But the Cape Party hasn't only abandoned is credibility, it's lost touch with reality.
Okay, so it's not exactly the strongest of issues to base a manifesto on. Neither is poverty eradication. At least the party's being honest, albeit amid peels of raucous laughter and derision at those nauseating televised roundtable debates. I've witnessed this with my own eyes. At one such debate the Party's, Jack Miller, courageously stated, without a hint of sarcasm, the time for the Cape to secede from the rest of the country is now. That's was in 2009. Now, I know it feels sometimes as if Cape Town is another planet compared to it's slick, arrogant, obnoxious distant neighbour, Johannesburg, but it's still very much part of the rest of the country, despite Zille's best efforts.
It seems the Cape Party hasn't even tried to reword it's manifesto for the 2011 local government polls. What's to reword, it's one sentence, really. Maybe 'declare' could've been substituted with 'demand' (the ANC has many a time demanded an end to corruption, as if that makes sense). There a bunch of synonyms for 'independent'. Maybe their party election budget didn't extend to a thesaurus.
The banner greeting you as you enter the party's web site says 'Free the Cape'. Even more bombastic. I love it! Maybe they are not so far from the paradox of politics as I thought. Perhaps they've hit the nail on the head. Politics is all about distant ideals and a detachment from reality. Spend just a day in Parliament, that greenhouse of lies and absurdity. It may be that the Cape Party is simply doing what most parties are thinking - being outrageously and ultimately hopelessly misguided.

Hullo Gary

Dear Gary, Firstly, damn you, damn you to Pofadder and back. How dare you emigrate without checking with me first! Here I thought you were an educated whitey with a slight (must be very slight) liberal bent, keen on helping build our democr...(hack, cough, splutter). Apologies. I'm back. I had milk coming out of my nose. Couldn't finish that sentence with a straight face. Laughter is not necessarily the best medicine. No, seriously. Screw you. One day you were mowing your lawn, hurling abuse at your domestic worker. Now you laying down tiles in Perth. Where did this sudden exodus-urge come from? Anyway, no worries. I'll forward all your post to Abu Dhabi and inform State Security of your departure. You left just in time, actually. Local government elections are here and you know what that means... A PUBLIC HOLIDAY! You're envious, I can feel it in my left testicle. You're regretting the big move, aren't you? You really wanted to stick it out for the municipal elections, come on, be honest. Nothing gets your juices flowing quite like those televised political debates on SABC over election times and brain dead politicians droning about the importance of voting. Voting schmoting. I'm braaing a snoek, getting pissed and walking around my place in my underpants on the 18th of May. How much of Julius are you guys hearing about down under? Do you even care? I can assure you he doesn't. I e-mailed his mate, Floyd, the other day informing him of your patriotic treachery. He actually responded (it must be election time when the ANCYL shows an interest in anything). Do you want to know what he said? I've transcribed part of his response. "Comrade, thank you for informing us of yet another turn coat. But if your comrade is white, it should come as no surprise. Good riddance to that imperialist friend of yours. His tendencies are best served to a white dominated, western (?) power such Australia. I trust you reporting this backward, unthinking (?) behaviour of our citizens, means we will be getting your vote...".Well, you get the idea. I'd started swallowing part of my tongue by that stage of the e-mail. Have you had a DA twit call you yet at 4am to ask if they can be sure of your vote? They should've called you. I've mailed 83 different people at the DA sending them your new contact details in Oz. They still hungry (read: desperate) for any lilly-white vote they can get, no matter how far. Didn't you vote for COPE in 2009? Don't be embarrassed to admit this. Lekota and Shilowa don't seem to be too embarrassed by themselves. Yup, they still at each others throats. You could always say one of the reasons you left was out of disgust with COPE's ongoing inner-rivalry. You couldn't COPE anymore. ROTFWL, LOL, OMG, or something like that. Moving on. Shell plans to unearth the whole of the Karoo! Have you heard? Shock, horror and some spittle to go with it. Every tree-hugger and dog is up in arms. I recall you once failed to wear shoes for a whole week. I thought perhaps maybe you'd gone green and thrown your lot in with the hippies and turned to Mother Earth for answers. Apparently Shell wants to do 'fracking' in the Karoo. With alarm in my eyes I looked fracking up. I suspect one web site (www.frackme.com) may be a bit off the mark with it';s understanding of fracking. I doubt it involves cucumbers and lubrication. Fracking. I just like saying it. Gary, do you still drive down under? Have they allowed you behind a car wheel? You mos know how they are, all weird and paranoid about driving what with their being things like road laws in that strange country with the outback, barrie reef and kangaroos here road laws have been diminished to mere guidelines. Who can afford to drive here , anyway. Another fuel price hike, another month. I threatened a petrol pump attendant (you may not have them where you are. Not enough people of colour that side to man petrol pumps, I suppose) the other day. He did nothing wrong. hH simply asked if he could fill it up. Fill it up! Are you mad?! Thta's like insulting my Mother. It costs the better part of my salary (the other half goes to my f@$*ing iPhone. That's a mail for another day) to fill up with fuel. I apologised to the petrol dude. He said something in an African language or French, I never know these days who's Congolese and who is a genuine South African. I think he was upset. Anyway, Gary, I'd sign off by saying I miss you... but I don't. LOL. Have fun in Oz. Don't chip a tooth trying to be too God fearing and law abiding. Remember, it's in your South African blood to drive drunk, disrespect women and not trust anyone who isn't of your own skin colour. Kindest regards R P.S. Thanks for never returning my hammer, you lent 6-years ago. What will I use now to scare away the beggars and Jehovah's Witnesses on Sunday mornings.

Bring me my machine gun

If you think the heckling of Patricia De Lille at a Human Rights Day rally in Cape Town is preposterous, outrageous and uncalled for, think again. It's par for the course as we enter election time once again. This means we're all expected to lose our minds (those of us who hadn't already lost them)."This kind of behaviour doesn't promote tolerance of any other persons idea," half-heartedly droned an ANC MP in the national assembly in reaction to the incident. We know, buddy, politics is all about hugging trees, making nice with everyone and clapping hands cheerfully as if we were all at a scripture union camp. What the brain says, the hand doesn't necessarily do. So, if Luthuli House, that great national think tank of the ruling party, says make love not war, then of course it would be safe to say, this could be interpreted as, beat the crap out of anyone not wearing yellow, green and black. And that's what the ANC seems to relish in doing when confronted with elections. Except, it's beating itself up, instead. The rise of independent candidates from within it's own ranks is all the evidence you need that the party's arrogance is it's own worst enemy. Forget opposition parties. This time round, COSATU boss, Zwelinzima Vavi, even remarked "They are showing the ANC the middle finger". Careful. That kind of behaviour towards the ANC is could land you up in the back seat of a luxury, black SUV, commandeered by black suited goons, with silly little wires connected to their ears. A political ouma like Patty De Lille, knows the drill when confronted by heckling - just ignore it, because it gets worse. It's one of the few times where adults (supposed adults, at that,because going into politics is about as childish as eating snot) will abandon their adulthood. being able to tie your own shoelaces and count to 10 means nothing in the world of politics. Wait for it. When the rallies, community meetings, door-to-door campaign go into warp speed those political loafers and morons who drain our coffers, waffle all day but rarely make sense, those characters who are meant to run our country, will exchange their Gucci suits and Jimmy Choos for party t-shirts as they try to convince us we should waste... I mean, cast our votes for them. They'll dance and sing as they promise and deride each other. They'll fling mud in all directions except of course at themselves. They'll scorn, deplore, praise and tease each other. hey, it's every parties unspoken election manifesto - skulduggery, pettiness and stupidity. All eyes on Julius over this period, that King of bluster has already demonstrated his wily ability at being an idiot. Helen Zille was a cockroach last time round. Now she's a monkey. Shame, she'd din't get the memo - whitey's should never, ever dance. I have no idea how COPE will try to campaign. Lekota on a donkey cart with a loudhailer, might be above the party's budget. If donkey carts and megaphones are being dished out to his comrade, Shilowa may have to settle for a bicycle, one placard and a whistle simply to draw what little attention there is for COPE to him. Good luck pal. Come what may for COPE, one things for sure, they won't need to canvass against opposition parties. They seem quite happy at contesting their own make-believe elections among themselves.

The Battle of the Colours

There's a war in my pocket and it's bursting to get out. I can hear the agonising screams of the casualties (those who couldn't keep their mouths shut), the staccato of machine gunfire (their asinine comments), the rumbling of artillery fire (counter-comments and even more stupidity).The front line is drawing ever closer. Our 'Battle of the Bulge', with the enemy before us, behind us, everywhere! Derision and insults whizz by. Duck! Take cover! That was yet another close call!
No, friends, I'm not writing this from Libya or the Ivory Coast. I'm not hunkered down in a hotel room in Iraq, nor am I 'embedded' with allied forces in Afghanistan. The banal 'bunker' setting of my desk is where I'm waiting for the the 'enemy'. The problem is, much like the ironic paranoia sketched by J.M. Coetzee in 'Waiting for the Barbarians', I'm not too sure who the enemy actually is. I still haven't decided if it's even the traditional kind of foe.
Kuli Roberts marched out onto the battlefield, possibly still drunk from a previous victory (or party, more like it). She opened her mouth, stupid things were discharged like cannon shells and they exploded in glorious fashion. Roberts, ever the headline-junkie, inadvertently declared war on on an entire race, Coloured people, following on from a separate conflict sparked by the new lieutenant in charge of government miscommunication, Jimmy Manyi. His 'Oversupply of Coloureds in the Western Cape' was a quasi-diplomatic gaffe of note, one which would ensure peace talks between Black people and Coloured people remain strained in the Cape. Behind the Manyi debacle is a lilly-white, centre-right trade union, Solidarity. The organisation could easily be labelled an agitator for war, along with Manyi and Roberts. But my cynicism tells me it was simply a cheap publicity ploy. It was Solidarity which alerted all and sundry to Manyi's infamous comments. So, in my extended war metaphor, the union could be seen as Italy during WW2 - a nowhere little nation, keen to get in on a major conflict so as to raise it's profile. We all know how that worked out for Italy in the end. Everyone from Trevor Manuel, the ANCYL, DA and the ice cream seller on Clifton beach is now firing off their weapon-cum-mouths, more to make a noise and a nuisance of themselves than to actually hurt anyone. And this low-level, theoretical 'Race War' is playing itself out minus the likes of the maddened influence of a crazy Whitey like Eugene Terre'Blanche! Bizarre. Who needs the right, when the left, is becoming right? All the while us ordinary mlungus stand on the outskirts of the battlefield, perplexed, worried and confused. You mean we aren't to blame for this furore? You mean know one has tried to pin theisbitterly ugly racial spat on us? Even more bizarre. From our trenches, us Whitey's nervously peer over the edge, scouring this dirty landscape of non-sequiturs, racial innuendoes and hilariously unfunny stereotypes.
Is it a coincidence this watered-down war is taking place amid an election year? Is it a coincidence the stage for this mindless conflict is the Cape, where the DA is still struggling to win the hearts and minds of black voters, and where the so-called 'Coloured vote' is as sought after as as a cushy government job (uhum, paging Mr. Manyi)? All I know is that this White boy ain't coming up from his bunker just yet.

Here in the Independent (almost, but not quite) Homeland Of Zillestan we love our weather. In fact, we are obessessed with it. We analyse it from couches, exmaninign every nuance of forecasts on the Weather Channel. But Capetonian's only want to know one thing: How strong will the wind be the next day? Note, I posed this question with the assumption the wind will by default be strong or any derirvative of this. You only get two types of wind down south -wannabe-almost-but not quite-yet-still leaves-you-unbalanced strong and beatdown-brutal-don't stop until you cry strong. Bugger the news at 7, fast forward to 7:25 when the weather people, complete with carefully constructed hair, jarring American accents and shady smiles, take control. They euphemise 36 degrees in Spingbok For 5 minutes we citizens of this bold new state are their slaves, entranced by their hand movements which sweep over the country. The rest of the nation is not important to us Zille-ites at all. We only care if the sun will rise on the empire again the next day. Much like yanks many Capetonians couldn't tell you where Boshoff or Los Angeles is.
Entire weeks can be spoiled by this meterological phnomoment of satanic proportions. The Cape Doctor they call it. The only medcial practitioner I can liken the effects of ths devli wind to is Josef Mengele. Evil, cruel and gusty.

Goddamned wind! 400kms winds are the only downside of living in the capital of Zillestan, cape Town. Our obsession with the climate does partly stem from Al Gore's brilliant job of scaring the crap out of us. Climate change se moer. We have hurricanes of winds this side of the nation. winds a powerful as parliament (where intellignce goes to die and power thrives amid madness, corruption and greed). I cry a bit every time I emerge form the outdoors on a windy day in Slaapstad. I feel violated and need to be hugged. No problem there. Everyone loves to hug in this place. ray Bans, cut off jeans, styled hair and a good does of doos-ness accompanies this need to hug and be simunye with all in this gran city of wind, excess and pinkness. The Pink cash helps fuel Zillestand, don't you know? They offer incentives for gay people to settle this side. eever since Politiburo of Zumaville subconsiously started plotting the "Pink Solution" homosexuals have been seeking refuge under the mountain. And boy are we glad they chose Zillestan. Greenpoint has never been the same.

On the 4 days a year cape twon is being sodmised by the wind, we flock to the many beaches of this great capital of ours. We rush int he direction of sea salt on Vespas, in 4 x4s, Mini Coopers and skateboards hey clog up the already impossibly narrow roads tyo Clifton, Camps Bay, Llandudno, and so on. Buses of the less fortnate converge on Mnwabisi beach. This remnant of Apartheid beach segregation sees enough actiojn in a december weekend than a Seapoin brothel. Sharks, drownings, swimming in underpants, poo pullution, and dangerious deragned seagulls make it tough going for poor beachgoers. But at least the water isn't -22 degrees. Can a beach be a proper beach if you can't swim? capetonians don't care. It's really all about showing off abs and boobs. Who cares about the sea?

In Zillestan we speak differently. Not beign a lingust I can't adequately explaim in words how a capetonian accent sounds. I'll try though. Round your vowels and make generous use of words like Wow, serious and bru. Gestilculating helps as well. It's more about what capetonians choose to speak about. fashions, gym, how much money they don't have or do have. Down the drag on the N2 the sun is as bright, the wind as powerful, but the money, very rare.

Licence to make me Ill

Many of you will have probably been harassed by the SABC over the past few weeks. It's time to pay our TV licences. Our troubled Public Broadcaster is never shy to come asking for more cash Yet the quality of public TV these days, complete with mind numbing news, bottom-of-the-barrel variety shows, ancient series and movies so bad they were more than likely donated to the SABC out of sympathy. So with a hypothetical virtual swagger and beaming arrogance via threatening smses, e-mail spam and brainless advertising campaigns redolent of Gestapo PR ploys ('You have nussing to vorry about. Ve are only vatching you') the broadcaster has come to collect 'what is rightfully ours' they argue. They'll do almost anything to force you to pay that R250. I've already been threatened with credit blacklisting. Through clenched teeth I paid over what is rightfully mine and carried on channelling hopping through DSTV. I'm very lucky to have that option of avoiding SABC programing. But many people out there have no choice.
We're led to believe our adherence to the law of the Corporation is closely policed with surreptitious vans, tinted windows, fitted with aerials, TV dishes and flickering lights lurk our streets, desperate to bust one of us... watching TV without a licence! Alarms will howl in the streets. We will be rounded up, curfews will be imposed and we'll be made to march in lines towards camps, where the latest CEO will set the thought police on our brains. Torture could follow. But there's no need for that. It's already torturous watching SABC TV. Sounds really weird when you say it. You need a licence to enjoy the stagnant pedestrianism and sub-standard television foisetd on us. They should be paying us to watch the drivel we see on telly. Anyway. So, the 800th text has bleeped to life on your mobile. You've had to open a whole new folder on your desktop to store the foreboding e-mails ('You will be blacklisted and then no one will like you you, and you'll died alone, with only the company of Rian Cruywagen' these mails should read).The SABC is calling on us to do the right thing. Pay up your R250. Is it really the right thing to do? Yes, maybe to pay for the right to our money being used properly: to inform in the absence of enforced bias; to entertain with good quality movies; to educate with the wealth of resources available to it, which it seems is the only thing the the SABC is managing to do, in all fairness. That's all the average viewer really wants - just a bit of quality in the programming and an end to ongoing drama at the corporation so that our money is not squandered yet againI doubt it's the right thing for Solly Mokoetle to have just been allowed to scurry off in the wake of the gravy train into the horizon of the fat, all because of a sweaty golden (more like bloody) handshake aimed at palming him off. Our Public Broadcaster has dished out, seemingly with little question as to it's real agenda, more than R17 million rand in settling the messy affairs of two Group CEOs in less than 3-years. Apart from burning taxpayers money, the SABC must generate a helluva cell phone bill haranguing us for our R250 each to keep the SABC afloat. That's a lot of R250s which will be deposited into the company's dirty bank account. I bet anybody R250, this time next year, our TV licence moola will be in its moer, stuffed into a cushy off shore account by yet another useless CEO. If I'm wrong, I give the 'TV Licence Enforcement Squad' permission to come and confiscate my television.