Did you know South Africa has it's very own royal family? No! Wait! Make that families! That trusty online encyclopedia, Wikipedia, informs me we have no less than 14 royal groupings of relations, that's excluding Queen Elizabeth and her kin and extended inbreeds. There's the more publicised (usually for all the wrong reasons) Zulu monarchy. His Royal Highness, the Wearer of Dead Animals and the Regent Waster of Money, King Goodwill Zwelithini, is probably better known in Kwazulu-Natal than the Windsors. To the rest of the country his and his family's reputation is characterised by their opulent and flagrant squandering of money. I guffawed at a recent news story where a spokesperson of the Royal Zulu family, Prince Something or other, referred to his boss as 'His Majesty'. I suppose if we speaking royalese he's sticking to the rules. But should the rest of us follow suit and even give a crap that there's this pointless family, perpetually intoxicated by an anachronistic insistence by government to entertain and kow-tow to these so called regal buffoons and their planet-sized egos? Should we then start dishing out state funds to the Mahlangu dynasty or the Bafokeng monarchs and every tiny Khoisan clan with delusions of grandeur.
What about the MaKhwinde Dynasty or the AmaDlomo and amaHala Dynasties? I once worked with a woman who insisted she was a real life traditional Xhosa princess. Apart from her penchant for expensive cars, an irritatingly over-inflated ego and neck which she seemed to have been trained so as to guiding her eyes down on all whom she spoke to. I could never quite understand her verbose explanations at how she was of the blue blood type. For all I know she was exploiting my white tendencies and ignorance. Let's not forget how, like the royal families of Europe, regal bloodlines across the length and breadth of time, are s deeply entrenched in inbreeding, incest, blood lust, war, greed, corruption and arrogance, they've lost touch with reality. When some jump to protect the Royal Zulus of South Africa, they conveniently forget, these are the same people who don't find anything wrong with selling off teenage girls, under the guise of arranged marriages (a concept so far removed from modern thinking it belongs along side state-sanctioned public executions). It's these royals who don't seem to understand the concept of working for a living. They're quite happy to live off state-sponsored budgets set aside for them, while millions starve and rot amid unemployment and poverty.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Nevermind the Bollocks... where's the bravery?
With musical culture showing little sign of rejuvenation in 2012, the alternatively-starved cast their microscopes deeper into the crevices of an emaciated 'movement'. Yup, I said it, movement. It's time we got up off the daisies of hippie folk festivals, out of the drying ponds of desperately (un)cool music festivals, creep out of the rave/trance/house dance floors and find our alternative tentacles again.
A recent viewing of laudable documentary 'Punk in Africa' left me in two minds. How is it the sub-culture of safety pins, torn skinnies, skuffed Chuck Taylors, spray painted quasi-anarchism of the late '70s and '80s when South Africa thrive against a backdrop of bloody conservatism. Originality and freedom was being choked to death by humourless, God-terrified, myopic old Afrikaans. Yet life lines were emerging everywhere in those days. Secondly, where have all the punks gone? That generation of musos have long greyed, yes, but surely the inspiration they created must be lurking somewhere? The likes of National Wake, Dog Detachment, Wild Youth and James Phillips framed the madness of the time perfectly, punctuating it with much-needed aggression, cynicism and rebellion. What do we have in the 21st Century. The Parlotones, Zebra and Giraffe and Bobby Jordaan. Even Arno Carstens, who once started a unique, promising fire with the Springbok Nude Girls, has settled comfortably into 5FM and KFM's play lists. Sold out. Bellville for a while was our Seattle and London. Fokofpolisiekar gave voice to the newly disenchanted. They were no longer angry black youths, but middle-class, frustrated Afrikaners. In 2012 Fokof still thrive and the various members have done well in expanding their horizons. I say, screw the English scene. Don't turn away from the Crunchies. Fokof gave birth to Van Coke Kartel, Die Heuwels Fantasties and aKing. They paved a road, which made it possible for even us die-hard alternatives to partly accept hip-hop in the form of Jack Parow, who himself paints pictures of Afrikaans/White disillusionment. He's joined in this at-times dubious genre by Die Antwoord, who, well, present the other lob sided view of the continuum - a world where mal, peeved Boere/honkies have lost their minds amid kwaito, R 'n B, Julius Malema and Steve Hofmeyer.
Let's not forget Blk Jks and 90's funk-punkers Nine who remind us rock is actually black, complete with dreadlocks and a comfortable marriage of skinny jeans and black skins.
I see little sign in 2012 (okay, so it's only January, but I'm an impatient person) of this crunchified, pale-faced, easily-sunburnt, pissed off, brave wave reaching another crest this year. The ANC government, in a sense, with the Protection of State Information Bill reminds us conservatism, paranoia and distrust are alive and swelling at a rate of knots in South Africa. Hell, many in our country can't even stomach a few porno channels on TV, where the mere suggestion that sex is something else apart from holding hands and coy kisses between separating-sheets.
Screw carefully crafted hair cuts. Fuck One Small Seed-reading/Kloof Street- parading, Tweeting twats. Damn the Khanyi Mbau/Kyknet-obsessed set. Bury the Bible and Q'ran for a few days and open up Rolling Stone SA. Look, instead to MK, the dark corners of forgotten neighbourhoods in Micthell's Plain and garages hidden in Kimberley. Take a few tips from a small set of very courageous Muslims in the US who have grown mohawks, torn their jeans, picked up guitars to learnt 3 chords to make up a burgeoning sub-culture, labelled Taqwacore. Let's search for and try to create our own 'punk' in 2012.
A recent viewing of laudable documentary 'Punk in Africa' left me in two minds. How is it the sub-culture of safety pins, torn skinnies, skuffed Chuck Taylors, spray painted quasi-anarchism of the late '70s and '80s when South Africa thrive against a backdrop of bloody conservatism. Originality and freedom was being choked to death by humourless, God-terrified, myopic old Afrikaans. Yet life lines were emerging everywhere in those days. Secondly, where have all the punks gone? That generation of musos have long greyed, yes, but surely the inspiration they created must be lurking somewhere? The likes of National Wake, Dog Detachment, Wild Youth and James Phillips framed the madness of the time perfectly, punctuating it with much-needed aggression, cynicism and rebellion. What do we have in the 21st Century. The Parlotones, Zebra and Giraffe and Bobby Jordaan. Even Arno Carstens, who once started a unique, promising fire with the Springbok Nude Girls, has settled comfortably into 5FM and KFM's play lists. Sold out. Bellville for a while was our Seattle and London. Fokofpolisiekar gave voice to the newly disenchanted. They were no longer angry black youths, but middle-class, frustrated Afrikaners. In 2012 Fokof still thrive and the various members have done well in expanding their horizons. I say, screw the English scene. Don't turn away from the Crunchies. Fokof gave birth to Van Coke Kartel, Die Heuwels Fantasties and aKing. They paved a road, which made it possible for even us die-hard alternatives to partly accept hip-hop in the form of Jack Parow, who himself paints pictures of Afrikaans/White disillusionment. He's joined in this at-times dubious genre by Die Antwoord, who, well, present the other lob sided view of the continuum - a world where mal, peeved Boere/honkies have lost their minds amid kwaito, R 'n B, Julius Malema and Steve Hofmeyer.
Let's not forget Blk Jks and 90's funk-punkers Nine who remind us rock is actually black, complete with dreadlocks and a comfortable marriage of skinny jeans and black skins.
I see little sign in 2012 (okay, so it's only January, but I'm an impatient person) of this crunchified, pale-faced, easily-sunburnt, pissed off, brave wave reaching another crest this year. The ANC government, in a sense, with the Protection of State Information Bill reminds us conservatism, paranoia and distrust are alive and swelling at a rate of knots in South Africa. Hell, many in our country can't even stomach a few porno channels on TV, where the mere suggestion that sex is something else apart from holding hands and coy kisses between separating-sheets.
Screw carefully crafted hair cuts. Fuck One Small Seed-reading/Kloof Street- parading, Tweeting twats. Damn the Khanyi Mbau/Kyknet-obsessed set. Bury the Bible and Q'ran for a few days and open up Rolling Stone SA. Look, instead to MK, the dark corners of forgotten neighbourhoods in Micthell's Plain and garages hidden in Kimberley. Take a few tips from a small set of very courageous Muslims in the US who have grown mohawks, torn their jeans, picked up guitars to learnt 3 chords to make up a burgeoning sub-culture, labelled Taqwacore. Let's search for and try to create our own 'punk' in 2012.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Tickin' suckin' fired of 2012?
Can you smell that? Malodorous and rotting, mundane and futile... and it's only been a few days. The head of 2012 had only started crowning and, to me at least, the new year has shape-shifted in record time, taking on the form of the beast of 2011. If one more person tries to convince me it's a new year packed with promise and rejuvenation, bilious rage will ensue. 'What's your new year's resolution?' enquired one person the other day. 'Not to commit murder,' I spewed before cracking my knuckles. I swear I'll perpetrated savagery of African proportions in the face of such banal questions and bumper-sticker like optimism. Let's take stock of the last few days of this year so far.
Yet another country descends into tumult. Nigeria, while not entirely a contender to the Arab Spring: The Sequel, has erupted in the face of a yet another government desperate to save money, for what real reason, we don't know. Government lackeys will say they need more cash to help improve Africa's most populous country for the greater good. Spluttering into my teeth with stifled laughter I'll nod in mock agreement. Corruption, self-enrichment and a complete disregard for the truth is how I interpret such mundane justifications. I do harbour an inkling of sympathy for Nigeria, though. yet another maddened, bloodthirsty Islamic radical group has emerged out of the wood work in that country. Boko Haram has started wreaking havoc on jihad proportions. And so religion once again rears it's troubled, schizophrenic head. With madness and religious zeal being exported so successfully across the world, who needs dictators.
The Arab Spring seems to have become a winter. Tunisia, the unofficial Godfather of North African dissent marked its one year anniversary since it shrugged off the yoke of authoritarian suffocation. I think a handful of us recognised this, in between new year's diet fads and apathy. Syria's national bloodshed shows absolutely no sign of abating. Same same, shame shame.
What would a new year be without a disaster of some kind. Thankfully Ma Nature has spared us of earthquakes, etc. Human stupidity, though, delivered us an early tragedy in the form of the Costa Concordia, coupled with that good old Italian bravery - the ill-fated cruise liner, captain Francesco Schettino, who jumped ship as passengers drowned and welcomed in 2012 with healthy doses of shock and horror.
The ANC turned a 100. Congratulations, back slaps, hand shakes and fake smiles. While it took a century for the ANC to morph from an admirable struggle movement to ruling party, it may take another 100 years for it's leaders and voters to come to their senses and realise all is certainly not well in South Africa.
Yet another country descends into tumult. Nigeria, while not entirely a contender to the Arab Spring: The Sequel, has erupted in the face of a yet another government desperate to save money, for what real reason, we don't know. Government lackeys will say they need more cash to help improve Africa's most populous country for the greater good. Spluttering into my teeth with stifled laughter I'll nod in mock agreement. Corruption, self-enrichment and a complete disregard for the truth is how I interpret such mundane justifications. I do harbour an inkling of sympathy for Nigeria, though. yet another maddened, bloodthirsty Islamic radical group has emerged out of the wood work in that country. Boko Haram has started wreaking havoc on jihad proportions. And so religion once again rears it's troubled, schizophrenic head. With madness and religious zeal being exported so successfully across the world, who needs dictators.
The Arab Spring seems to have become a winter. Tunisia, the unofficial Godfather of North African dissent marked its one year anniversary since it shrugged off the yoke of authoritarian suffocation. I think a handful of us recognised this, in between new year's diet fads and apathy. Syria's national bloodshed shows absolutely no sign of abating. Same same, shame shame.
What would a new year be without a disaster of some kind. Thankfully Ma Nature has spared us of earthquakes, etc. Human stupidity, though, delivered us an early tragedy in the form of the Costa Concordia, coupled with that good old Italian bravery - the ill-fated cruise liner, captain Francesco Schettino, who jumped ship as passengers drowned and welcomed in 2012 with healthy doses of shock and horror.
The ANC turned a 100. Congratulations, back slaps, hand shakes and fake smiles. While it took a century for the ANC to morph from an admirable struggle movement to ruling party, it may take another 100 years for it's leaders and voters to come to their senses and realise all is certainly not well in South Africa.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Happy Nowhere Year!
Your year appears to hold much luck and happiness, read my horoscope, the first of 2012. I searched the ceiling, my little piece of 'heaven' for clarity to shine down upon this ambiguous and cock-eyed prediction, compliments of some whack job astrologer called the Doctor of the Stars (read: Poephol with a pony tail). I pondered a more African approach to predicting what a new year holds in store for me. The feeling passed, much like urine through my bladder or a mini-bus taxi through a stop street. The throwing of bones, shivering and speaking in tongues got me thinking... what would Jesus do? Realising the mind wanders even in the face of spooky sangomas and incomprehensible languages, I turned to the east. The Chinese say its the year of the dragon. Apparently much luck lies ahead. 365, no wait, it's a leap year, so one extra day to endure perilous reality and barrages of bulltwang.
Seeing into the future, boy if only I could! But here I lay, my head under the guillotine, awaiting the chop, should my lay person predictions for 2012 not come to fruition. Crystal ball, speak to me, buddy. Poof, a flash, some smoke, I see a vision... the words are becoming clearer - SHAZAM! Economic downturn. Yup, We know little to nothing of what lies ahead... except, the world won't have enough money... AGAIN! And so, while death and taxes are as certain as aging and grass growing, a firm and safe prediction for the new year lies in the state of the world's finances. Expect further hell-and-brimstone headlines; 'Economic crunch lingers' or 'Where'd our money go?' Shock and awe, except, it's not really all that shocking anymore. Same same, as Thai would lament.
Speaking of money going missing, another sure thing for 2012 is the ANC government's unending spending spree. Excuse me while I close my eyes and enter my trance state. Mumble, groan, shiver, salivate, scream and convulse. Another vision appears. I see mansions, blue light convoys, dodgy tenders, luxury vehicles and a complete disregard for the rest of the country. Smells much like 2011, doesn't it? Another certainty comes to me in a vision - Another bride for Jacob Zuma. I see his gut wobble as he prances, resplendent in dead animal hides and feathers, wooing a semi-naked female, herself scantily clad in a bra and beads, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. The dance of love. I've lost count how many Zuma's we as taxpayers are bank-rolling. What's a few more in 2012. But put your money on it, JZ will remain on the prowl this year, not just for prospective brides, but also for more cash and ignorance to keep his party running and his pals in plum jobs. Note, I said party and not country.
What's that in the crevice of my third eye, another apparition-like prediction - Julius Malema, Bloemfontein, succession battle... the vision coruscates into a prophecy or at least a mental e-mail of sorts. Much gnashing of teeth, shaking of hands (laden with cheques and other costly goodies) empty promises, skulduggery, betrayal and much resentment will appear at the ANC's national conference in December. Yes, the future of the party (and the country) will again be pondered and steamrolled into an uncertain reality. My minds suddenly goes blank (I fully expect the same at the conference). Darkness, momentary despair. Depression sets in at the thought of what the ANC has in store for us.
Pure horror occurs to me as I think of Nelson Mandela, what will become of our icon this year? I shudder. Let's not even talk about it. Okay, let's just mention it then. Should we brace ourselves for further rumours of his death (Thanks Bob Mabena. Thanks very much!)
On the technology front, we'll still be Tweeting until our fingers bleed and our brains turn to mush. Twats and tweets and twits and twirps, there's plenty to go around this year. Now the nausea sets in.
Here I was thinking we could shape a new year to, well, look new and different compared to 2011. I may not be an astrologer or Nostradamus's long lost cousin, 18 times removed. But I think I know enough of our history and the recalcitrance of the winds of change, which rarely seem to blow over South Africa these days, to firmly say, with little fear of being grossly inaccurate - Don't hold your breath and expect the powers that be to try too hard to make a change for the better. We, the nobodies, the Joe Publics and Jane Somethings, it's up to us to make changes (be it small), free of government, the ANC, politics and economics. In other words, independent of money-grabbing, power-obesessed, horrifically incompetent morons, who believe they are the centers of real change.
Seeing into the future, boy if only I could! But here I lay, my head under the guillotine, awaiting the chop, should my lay person predictions for 2012 not come to fruition. Crystal ball, speak to me, buddy. Poof, a flash, some smoke, I see a vision... the words are becoming clearer - SHAZAM! Economic downturn. Yup, We know little to nothing of what lies ahead... except, the world won't have enough money... AGAIN! And so, while death and taxes are as certain as aging and grass growing, a firm and safe prediction for the new year lies in the state of the world's finances. Expect further hell-and-brimstone headlines; 'Economic crunch lingers' or 'Where'd our money go?' Shock and awe, except, it's not really all that shocking anymore. Same same, as Thai would lament.
Speaking of money going missing, another sure thing for 2012 is the ANC government's unending spending spree. Excuse me while I close my eyes and enter my trance state. Mumble, groan, shiver, salivate, scream and convulse. Another vision appears. I see mansions, blue light convoys, dodgy tenders, luxury vehicles and a complete disregard for the rest of the country. Smells much like 2011, doesn't it? Another certainty comes to me in a vision - Another bride for Jacob Zuma. I see his gut wobble as he prances, resplendent in dead animal hides and feathers, wooing a semi-naked female, herself scantily clad in a bra and beads, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. The dance of love. I've lost count how many Zuma's we as taxpayers are bank-rolling. What's a few more in 2012. But put your money on it, JZ will remain on the prowl this year, not just for prospective brides, but also for more cash and ignorance to keep his party running and his pals in plum jobs. Note, I said party and not country.
What's that in the crevice of my third eye, another apparition-like prediction - Julius Malema, Bloemfontein, succession battle... the vision coruscates into a prophecy or at least a mental e-mail of sorts. Much gnashing of teeth, shaking of hands (laden with cheques and other costly goodies) empty promises, skulduggery, betrayal and much resentment will appear at the ANC's national conference in December. Yes, the future of the party (and the country) will again be pondered and steamrolled into an uncertain reality. My minds suddenly goes blank (I fully expect the same at the conference). Darkness, momentary despair. Depression sets in at the thought of what the ANC has in store for us.
Pure horror occurs to me as I think of Nelson Mandela, what will become of our icon this year? I shudder. Let's not even talk about it. Okay, let's just mention it then. Should we brace ourselves for further rumours of his death (Thanks Bob Mabena. Thanks very much!)
On the technology front, we'll still be Tweeting until our fingers bleed and our brains turn to mush. Twats and tweets and twits and twirps, there's plenty to go around this year. Now the nausea sets in.
Here I was thinking we could shape a new year to, well, look new and different compared to 2011. I may not be an astrologer or Nostradamus's long lost cousin, 18 times removed. But I think I know enough of our history and the recalcitrance of the winds of change, which rarely seem to blow over South Africa these days, to firmly say, with little fear of being grossly inaccurate - Don't hold your breath and expect the powers that be to try too hard to make a change for the better. We, the nobodies, the Joe Publics and Jane Somethings, it's up to us to make changes (be it small), free of government, the ANC, politics and economics. In other words, independent of money-grabbing, power-obesessed, horrifically incompetent morons, who believe they are the centers of real change.
Friday, December 23, 2011
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.
Monday, December 5, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
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.
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.
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