Queues are a modern day creation of the devil and the western imperialist forces of the counter-revolutionary capitalist pigs. They are inevitable, yes, but that doesn't make them any less irritating, annoying, laborious or testing. They are also the perfect example of narrow mindedness. How many times have you turned up at, lets say a Computicket outlet, where, let's say Kurt Darren is performing in Brackenfell. You should already know before leaving home that if it's a Computciket in Bellville, Boksburg or any Afrikaner (or Kurt Darren fan) stronghold, the queue is going to snake on for miles, comprising hordes of mullet-sporting, Subaru-driving, Klipdrift-swilling, Mr Price clothes-wearing fans. So, in short the queue's going to be a balls up. Nothing new here, that's the norm.But you arrive at the tail end of these evil, spirit killing lines not quite certain if this is the correct line. Yet you still join it, hopeful it's the right one, like a sheep joining a line to get slaughtered all because, well, it's a sheep and that's what they do - follow other sheep. You queue for potentially hours, only to learn it's not the queue for Computicket, but the one for the Annual Grand National Potjiekos Competition. You kick yourself, swear at the heavens and the devil in equal amounts and proceed to fantasize about bloodshed. The other scenario involves technology conspiring with queues to ruin your mood. Computers crashing in times of seemingly never-ending queues are grounds for a declaration of war. The unbearably long queues of desperate Zimbabweans outside many Home Affairs offices last December led to me almost finding religion again, as I collapsed to my knees in a display of gratefulness that I wasn't one of them. I didn't laugh or tease at these poor souls for the fear of karma biting me in the rear. I knew full well I had an appointment with a bank and we all know about bank queues. They are usually riddled with 3 types of people: very, very old people, those who can't seem to speak any of our national languages and those who relish picking fights with bank tellers. The geriatrics are usually hard of hearing. Couple this with them trying to communicate with a teller from the other side of those bulletproof, missile repellent windows and you have nothing short of a screaming match. The debacles which result from foreigners (or those who just can't speak properly) in a line at a bank could equate a so-called international situation. Bank managers become the UN and intense negotiations sometimes ensue as they deal with annoyed foreigners who thought they were waiting in line for the toilet.
Then you have the fight-pickers. They love arguments, they can't get enough of them. From hapless supermarket cashiers to petrol pump attendants, they can't resist starting a fight, often for no reason at all. So in the context of a bank, there you stand waiting for the only tell on duty to calm down such a belligerent fool before serving you. Waiting in ques as busy restaurants make no sense at all. Unless you're in a line outside a UN feeding station in Sudan and haven't eaten in days, waiting to be fed in a queue at apopular eatery is just plain stupid.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Unwishful thinking
The haze of the silly season should've lifted by now, or at least momentarily retreated to a nearby corner in your mind, ready to make an emergency appearance in the first days of 2011 should the stress of it all get too much. Oh how I crave that haze. We'll all soon miss the bliss it brings once the first New Years resolutions are broken, the despondency will soon set in as the grind takes its toll
Yes, indeed, the start of a new year is a stressful period. Going back to work is about as pleasant as a prostate exam minus the lubrication. Around this time as well, the cliche, the more things change, the more they stay the same may occur to a few, amid the the usual host of laboured new years mantras. Banal greetings are interspersed with the obligatory and usual insincere 'Compliments of the season'. This serves as a reminder of how new years rarely change or mark a difference to previous years for many. If we don't make empty resolutions, we draw up wish lists of sorts as to what we like to achieve or see change with the advent of another 12 months.
It's an election year. Yippee. More empty promises, baby-kissing, door-to-door campaigns, horse-trading, backstabbing and plotting await as the electioneering machine for the municipal polls creak back into action. Whatever you do, don't hold your breath for any amazing to come from the usual back alley antics of our political parties.
Wouldn't it be nice to see the end of bully politics in 2011? What are the chances Julius Malema will just shut up or at least try to make some sense? Wishful thinking, I guess.
If one more person asks me 'Are you on Facebook?' I fear the response will be a sift punch to the nose. I know I'm part of dying and some will say misguided breed who hate Facebook and Twitter, but I'm putting myself out there on this wish for 2011 - a return to the lost art of face-to-face conversation. Ridicule me all you want, but a Facebook-free communication style or at the very least an attempt to utilise you tongue (for speaking purposes) is 2011 is a dream, I know. But is it too much to ask that people just pick up a phone to ask me how I'm doing rather than poke me via the Internet.if one more person asks me 'Are you on Facebook?' I fear the response
I have to pinch myself to check if I'm dreaming while watching developments in the Ivory Coast. I know tantrums and petulance are an integral part of being a politician, but Laurent Gbagbo's taken it to a new level... of stupidity. How is it in the 21st Century we still have such tyrants running entire countries. These re people who believe by holding their breath and sulking when things don't go their way? Zimbabwe's own little dictator, Robert Mugabe, is also unlikely to go anywhere this year.
As is Justin Bieber. A glaze of happiness floats over my face when I think of radio stations free of this boy and the legions of bubblegum pop stars whose careers will be launched on Bieber's coat tails. I shudder to think of the consequences. His angel face and oh-so-squeaky-clean image, not to mention that pathetic hair style, don't fool me. He has horns growing under that mop. He's another talentless product of mindless music marketing, which only further signals how dire and vapid the entertainment industry will remain this year.
The Soccer World Cup was amazing. It's one of the highlights (if not THE highlight)of 2010 for South Africa. It's now a thing of the past, though. So please will everyone just stop trying to rekindle the mood it ignited. Enough with the corny references to the World Cup in endless marketing campaigns. Enough with this arrogance many display following what was overall a truly successful event.It's a new year, we've had more than 6-months to dwell on the successes and failures of the World Cup. Let's move on already.
Yes, indeed, the start of a new year is a stressful period. Going back to work is about as pleasant as a prostate exam minus the lubrication. Around this time as well, the cliche, the more things change, the more they stay the same may occur to a few, amid the the usual host of laboured new years mantras. Banal greetings are interspersed with the obligatory and usual insincere 'Compliments of the season'. This serves as a reminder of how new years rarely change or mark a difference to previous years for many. If we don't make empty resolutions, we draw up wish lists of sorts as to what we like to achieve or see change with the advent of another 12 months.
It's an election year. Yippee. More empty promises, baby-kissing, door-to-door campaigns, horse-trading, backstabbing and plotting await as the electioneering machine for the municipal polls creak back into action. Whatever you do, don't hold your breath for any amazing to come from the usual back alley antics of our political parties.
Wouldn't it be nice to see the end of bully politics in 2011? What are the chances Julius Malema will just shut up or at least try to make some sense? Wishful thinking, I guess.
If one more person asks me 'Are you on Facebook?' I fear the response will be a sift punch to the nose. I know I'm part of dying and some will say misguided breed who hate Facebook and Twitter, but I'm putting myself out there on this wish for 2011 - a return to the lost art of face-to-face conversation. Ridicule me all you want, but a Facebook-free communication style or at the very least an attempt to utilise you tongue (for speaking purposes) is 2011 is a dream, I know. But is it too much to ask that people just pick up a phone to ask me how I'm doing rather than poke me via the Internet.if one more person asks me 'Are you on Facebook?' I fear the response
I have to pinch myself to check if I'm dreaming while watching developments in the Ivory Coast. I know tantrums and petulance are an integral part of being a politician, but Laurent Gbagbo's taken it to a new level... of stupidity. How is it in the 21st Century we still have such tyrants running entire countries. These re people who believe by holding their breath and sulking when things don't go their way? Zimbabwe's own little dictator, Robert Mugabe, is also unlikely to go anywhere this year.
As is Justin Bieber. A glaze of happiness floats over my face when I think of radio stations free of this boy and the legions of bubblegum pop stars whose careers will be launched on Bieber's coat tails. I shudder to think of the consequences. His angel face and oh-so-squeaky-clean image, not to mention that pathetic hair style, don't fool me. He has horns growing under that mop. He's another talentless product of mindless music marketing, which only further signals how dire and vapid the entertainment industry will remain this year.
The Soccer World Cup was amazing. It's one of the highlights (if not THE highlight)of 2010 for South Africa. It's now a thing of the past, though. So please will everyone just stop trying to rekindle the mood it ignited. Enough with the corny references to the World Cup in endless marketing campaigns. Enough with this arrogance many display following what was overall a truly successful event.It's a new year, we've had more than 6-months to dwell on the successes and failures of the World Cup. Let's move on already.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Another round of whining
Party, jol, opskop. We're a country which loves to party at the best and even the worst of times (drowning our sorrows should become a national past time).
I like a drink as much as the next person, granted they aren't Mormon. I can't resist what I like to call my 'calm-me-down dop' at the end of most days (almost everyday these days), a much-needed glass of wine to help me unwind. It often serves as a cheaper alternative to my R700 an hour head shrink. It's fluid therapy... up to a point, of course. But even though I enjoy a bit of a drink, I have to side with the stiff, starched, teetotallers when it comes to the furore over Cape Town's new liquor by-laws. When it was first mooted about 2 years ago, nightclubs, bars restaurants started huffing and puffing in anger. The usual protests sprung up, 'It'll kill my business' they lamented. Yes, the new prescribed times during which they can sell alcohol are shorter and could dent them financially. dent, not destroy, though. So, yes kick up a fuss, that's your right. But even as a someone who drinks alcohol (and has been known to enjoy it maybe too much at times) I can't understand how these business-owners can't see the bigger picture. Forget the whole of South Africa, Cape Town has for decades been burdened will all manner of social evils, almost all of them related to alcohol abuse. Go into any of the city's informal settlements and you'll see the evidence of just how destructive booze is on the poor. I don't want to preach. I hate hearing radio sound bytes of City of Cape Town spokespeople preaching about the evils of booze. It's not only pathetically self-righteous, but it makes absolutely no difference. Bu there's no denying - in many of these areas, speak to community leaders and they'll tell you booze and drugs are behind most of their woes. It's the tangible laws which will have an impact, to a degree. It obviously won't make a bar owner happy, but just maybe it will make an inkling of a difference to a family living in a shack, where the sole breadwinner blows his/her meagre earnings on a bottle of cheap wine, instead of buying food or paying school fees. He/she then drinks it up in two gulps (in can be done. I've seen it!), goes on to pick a fight, ends up killing someone in a drunken rage or even worse, abuses his/her children. It's a laboured lecture heard time and time again, complete with the clumsy conclusion 'booze lowers our inhibitions and prompts anti-social behaviour' and so the sound byte is regurgitated over the airwaves. Illegal shebeens sprout up almost monthly in Cape Town and the Western Cape. They may help drown out the reality of abject poverty, even provide employment. But they still fuel the very misery in which squatters exist.
The more moderate tipplers will also chime in, taking the middle road. They''l argue the laws are needed, but they are just too restrictive. I'm sorry, that argument also falls flat in the face of the reality of things. In this day and age when authorities have to stop short of wiping our own backsides because we can't seem to do the most basic of things by ourselves like drive responsibly, maybe these restrictive, nnay-type laws are necessary.
As a country we've become to accustomed to jumping up and protesting against everything and anything, even if it just may be in our best interests.
So what if we have less time to drink ourselves stupid at clubs or pubs? So what if liquor traders will lose a few hundred rand because they have to close earlier? So what if we can't party and drink until 5am anymore? These are the real reasons so many people are up in arms - it could put the brakes on many social lives. What a travesty? Surely these reasons pale in comparison to the weekly sound bytes from police on stabbings, child rapes, murders and road accidents fatalities - most of them fuelled by liquor.
I like a drink as much as the next person, granted they aren't Mormon. I can't resist what I like to call my 'calm-me-down dop' at the end of most days (almost everyday these days), a much-needed glass of wine to help me unwind. It often serves as a cheaper alternative to my R700 an hour head shrink. It's fluid therapy... up to a point, of course. But even though I enjoy a bit of a drink, I have to side with the stiff, starched, teetotallers when it comes to the furore over Cape Town's new liquor by-laws. When it was first mooted about 2 years ago, nightclubs, bars restaurants started huffing and puffing in anger. The usual protests sprung up, 'It'll kill my business' they lamented. Yes, the new prescribed times during which they can sell alcohol are shorter and could dent them financially. dent, not destroy, though. So, yes kick up a fuss, that's your right. But even as a someone who drinks alcohol (and has been known to enjoy it maybe too much at times) I can't understand how these business-owners can't see the bigger picture. Forget the whole of South Africa, Cape Town has for decades been burdened will all manner of social evils, almost all of them related to alcohol abuse. Go into any of the city's informal settlements and you'll see the evidence of just how destructive booze is on the poor. I don't want to preach. I hate hearing radio sound bytes of City of Cape Town spokespeople preaching about the evils of booze. It's not only pathetically self-righteous, but it makes absolutely no difference. Bu there's no denying - in many of these areas, speak to community leaders and they'll tell you booze and drugs are behind most of their woes. It's the tangible laws which will have an impact, to a degree. It obviously won't make a bar owner happy, but just maybe it will make an inkling of a difference to a family living in a shack, where the sole breadwinner blows his/her meagre earnings on a bottle of cheap wine, instead of buying food or paying school fees. He/she then drinks it up in two gulps (in can be done. I've seen it!), goes on to pick a fight, ends up killing someone in a drunken rage or even worse, abuses his/her children. It's a laboured lecture heard time and time again, complete with the clumsy conclusion 'booze lowers our inhibitions and prompts anti-social behaviour' and so the sound byte is regurgitated over the airwaves. Illegal shebeens sprout up almost monthly in Cape Town and the Western Cape. They may help drown out the reality of abject poverty, even provide employment. But they still fuel the very misery in which squatters exist.
The more moderate tipplers will also chime in, taking the middle road. They''l argue the laws are needed, but they are just too restrictive. I'm sorry, that argument also falls flat in the face of the reality of things. In this day and age when authorities have to stop short of wiping our own backsides because we can't seem to do the most basic of things by ourselves like drive responsibly, maybe these restrictive, nnay-type laws are necessary.
As a country we've become to accustomed to jumping up and protesting against everything and anything, even if it just may be in our best interests.
So what if we have less time to drink ourselves stupid at clubs or pubs? So what if liquor traders will lose a few hundred rand because they have to close earlier? So what if we can't party and drink until 5am anymore? These are the real reasons so many people are up in arms - it could put the brakes on many social lives. What a travesty? Surely these reasons pale in comparison to the weekly sound bytes from police on stabbings, child rapes, murders and road accidents fatalities - most of them fuelled by liquor.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
'Dop' Philosophy
'If it weren't for the bloody Poms, we'd be goosestepping with the Nazi Jerry up and down the Parade' belched an old toppie, in the midst of his regular afternoon 'liquid relief period' as he lurched over a bar counter and his boep. The philosophy of the lush can astound, irritate and perplex one in equal amounts...depending on the amount of liquor consumed while formulating these home-brewed logic. Don't knock these sage-like oompies, they share their 'wisdom' for free and are satisfied if it's only the walls who listen.
From the size of men's willies to musings on life, politics, the state of society and tips on how best to marinade braai chops, bars are unofficial depositories, even assembly lines of cockeyed knowledge. 'If the bubbles in a beer float to the top quickly' lectured a sozzled geriatric one barmy afternoon in a George pub, 'then it's rich in barley and the real thing.' His tone developed into an almost stentorian pronouncement towards the end of his sentence. In his time-savaged mind this was important logic being dispensed... and it's free! His mate couldn't help himself and waded (stumbled, more like it) into the conversation with his addition: 'The amounts of barley also determines the colour of beer. The more bubbles, the more pissed you get.' Chuckle, back slap, snort.
These bar-schooled students of inebriation have got all kinds of postulations to offer to anyone bored, desperate or even genuinely interested enough to care. One toppie, his nose pocked with craters (a sure sign of his entry into the beer hall of fame) reckons there’s a dramatic difference between the amount of bubble in various beers. With a smoke cradled in his fingers he holds his glass up to the sun for me to inspect his beverage., Castle apparently has more bubbles than Amstel.
Politics is a hotbed of rage among this lot. Bloody Zuma this and damn Malema that are about as far as their political theories venture. A youngish woman enters the pub and all talking stops. Now the time to unleash the ballsy philosophies, intended to impress the fairer sex. Unfortuntanely for the chick most bars are breeidng grounds for sexism and lurid jokes. 'What do you do if a bird shits on your car?' asked one beer-stweded senior citizen. The woman moves around uncomfotably in her pumps as she reluctantly listens for the punchline. 'You simple don't take her out on another date again' explodes the oom into peels of laughter. He's famous! His pals join him. The bird orders her drink (wine spritzers are frowned upon in most 'manne' pubs. She settles for a vodka and tonic).
From the size of men's willies to musings on life, politics, the state of society and tips on how best to marinade braai chops, bars are unofficial depositories, even assembly lines of cockeyed knowledge. 'If the bubbles in a beer float to the top quickly' lectured a sozzled geriatric one barmy afternoon in a George pub, 'then it's rich in barley and the real thing.' His tone developed into an almost stentorian pronouncement towards the end of his sentence. In his time-savaged mind this was important logic being dispensed... and it's free! His mate couldn't help himself and waded (stumbled, more like it) into the conversation with his addition: 'The amounts of barley also determines the colour of beer. The more bubbles, the more pissed you get.' Chuckle, back slap, snort.
These bar-schooled students of inebriation have got all kinds of postulations to offer to anyone bored, desperate or even genuinely interested enough to care. One toppie, his nose pocked with craters (a sure sign of his entry into the beer hall of fame) reckons there’s a dramatic difference between the amount of bubble in various beers. With a smoke cradled in his fingers he holds his glass up to the sun for me to inspect his beverage., Castle apparently has more bubbles than Amstel.
Politics is a hotbed of rage among this lot. Bloody Zuma this and damn Malema that are about as far as their political theories venture. A youngish woman enters the pub and all talking stops. Now the time to unleash the ballsy philosophies, intended to impress the fairer sex. Unfortuntanely for the chick most bars are breeidng grounds for sexism and lurid jokes. 'What do you do if a bird shits on your car?' asked one beer-stweded senior citizen. The woman moves around uncomfotably in her pumps as she reluctantly listens for the punchline. 'You simple don't take her out on another date again' explodes the oom into peels of laughter. He's famous! His pals join him. The bird orders her drink (wine spritzers are frowned upon in most 'manne' pubs. She settles for a vodka and tonic).
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Idiots Guide to (Idiot) Cape Town Drivers
I love Cape Town. I love the weather (save for the devil winds), which compliment the city's numerous "Blue Flag" beaches. I love the oceans, the fact there's a beach around almost every corner. I love the pace of life. The laid back-ness of it all can be jarring, especially that liberally employed by the hordes of hippies who occupy the City of the Mother. But most forgive the lackadaisical attitude of most Capetonians. They know not what they do (because they are too lazy). I love the fact driving to and from work doesn't involve 2 hours in the car each way. I love that everything is within walking distance and impossible traffic jams, while still in existence in this backward outpost of ours, they are not half as kak as Joburg's.
I especially love Cape Town drivers. I love the way they swerve in front of you, straddle lanes, allow their children to roam the car freely while in transit and pretty much forget to think while on the road. I love how flickers have become foreign concepts to most of the Mother City's motorists. I love those who drive 40 kms/hour in the 'fast' lane of highways, blissfully unaware of the growing train of maddened drivers stuck. Hooting is always effective for some catharsis, but in Cape Town, a hoot could mean any number of things. When a mini-bus taxi hoots at pedestrians along Somerset road in Greenpoint, its to alert possible commuters. Hooting is still utilised as a form of greeting others in the fairest of the Kaap (I hear in Joburg, hooting can get you killed). However, hooting at someone who almost caused an accident in traffic due to his/her natural born ineptitude won't get you anywhere in Slaapstad. I love the arrogance most Capetonians seem to cherish when they drive. Everyone here suffers from entitlement complexes, where driving is owned by the driver (duh!), where the personal act of motoring should be defended at all costs, even if it means utilising stupidity and carelessness. "Chill out, pal, don't rush me," Dylan the Muizenberg surfer will tell you when he shoots in front of you on a busy road without indicating or even really checking for oncoming traffic. Carol the part-time receptionist at a Seapoint dentist simply won't even notice you as you hurl abuse, hoot, fire off flares and chuck tomatoes at her car when she backs into you in a parking lot. "Oh dear, I didn't see you. Gosh darn it" she'll whisper in a moment of what I like to call 'Cape Town shock', that's to say, she was about as shocked as a erpson in a coma. As for the geriatric motorists, where do I begin? I love how they trundle down highways in the right-hand lane, completely and totally ignorant of the rage they are sowing among others on the road. "You know, in my day, my boy, we didn't have drive 120 kms/hour... waffle waffle' says Grandpa Walter from Plumstead. That's there were no cars in the 1800, my snail-like friend. Moegamat the taxi driver is my best. Like taxi drivers throughout the country arrogance, the Cape Town species also come with a distinct lack of education, a healthy sized chip on the shoulder and a complete disdain for the law. Whizzing and weaving down some of the city's narrowest roads-cum-alleys is a glorious past time to them and a nightmare for us regular drivers. Apart from my deep love for Capetonian motorists, I adore their weapons of mass destruction, or vehilecs to you, even more. I love the rust savaged chic of their vehicles. These vehicles are haphazardly thrown together with chewing gum, sticky tape, wire and a health belief in a higher power. The put-put down the N1 (always in the right hand lane) amid a a perpetual cloud of exhaust fumes. Their owners are equally as chaotic in their appearance and supremely more moronic in their response to the few of us who can drive as we pass them (on the left hand side of the highway), biting down on our bottom lips, stifling the rage of the rage begging to be unleashed on this special breed of Capetonian. When you eventually pass them, please note and dusty hair, the lack of a t-shirt (men and women alike have been known to go bare chested behind the wheel. It's the hippie way).
I especially love Cape Town drivers. I love the way they swerve in front of you, straddle lanes, allow their children to roam the car freely while in transit and pretty much forget to think while on the road. I love how flickers have become foreign concepts to most of the Mother City's motorists. I love those who drive 40 kms/hour in the 'fast' lane of highways, blissfully unaware of the growing train of maddened drivers stuck. Hooting is always effective for some catharsis, but in Cape Town, a hoot could mean any number of things. When a mini-bus taxi hoots at pedestrians along Somerset road in Greenpoint, its to alert possible commuters. Hooting is still utilised as a form of greeting others in the fairest of the Kaap (I hear in Joburg, hooting can get you killed). However, hooting at someone who almost caused an accident in traffic due to his/her natural born ineptitude won't get you anywhere in Slaapstad. I love the arrogance most Capetonians seem to cherish when they drive. Everyone here suffers from entitlement complexes, where driving is owned by the driver (duh!), where the personal act of motoring should be defended at all costs, even if it means utilising stupidity and carelessness. "Chill out, pal, don't rush me," Dylan the Muizenberg surfer will tell you when he shoots in front of you on a busy road without indicating or even really checking for oncoming traffic. Carol the part-time receptionist at a Seapoint dentist simply won't even notice you as you hurl abuse, hoot, fire off flares and chuck tomatoes at her car when she backs into you in a parking lot. "Oh dear, I didn't see you. Gosh darn it" she'll whisper in a moment of what I like to call 'Cape Town shock', that's to say, she was about as shocked as a erpson in a coma. As for the geriatric motorists, where do I begin? I love how they trundle down highways in the right-hand lane, completely and totally ignorant of the rage they are sowing among others on the road. "You know, in my day, my boy, we didn't have drive 120 kms/hour... waffle waffle' says Grandpa Walter from Plumstead. That's there were no cars in the 1800, my snail-like friend. Moegamat the taxi driver is my best. Like taxi drivers throughout the country arrogance, the Cape Town species also come with a distinct lack of education, a healthy sized chip on the shoulder and a complete disdain for the law. Whizzing and weaving down some of the city's narrowest roads-cum-alleys is a glorious past time to them and a nightmare for us regular drivers. Apart from my deep love for Capetonian motorists, I adore their weapons of mass destruction, or vehilecs to you, even more. I love the rust savaged chic of their vehicles. These vehicles are haphazardly thrown together with chewing gum, sticky tape, wire and a health belief in a higher power. The put-put down the N1 (always in the right hand lane) amid a a perpetual cloud of exhaust fumes. Their owners are equally as chaotic in their appearance and supremely more moronic in their response to the few of us who can drive as we pass them (on the left hand side of the highway), biting down on our bottom lips, stifling the rage of the rage begging to be unleashed on this special breed of Capetonian. When you eventually pass them, please note and dusty hair, the lack of a t-shirt (men and women alike have been known to go bare chested behind the wheel. It's the hippie way).
Monday, December 13, 2010
A Festival of Fluff
Quick, don't think! Let's play a word association game. When I say 'The National Youth Development Agency', what are the first words or phrases that come to mind? Youth unemployment, education, empowerment, poverty alleviation, AIDS, teenage sex. Burning issues, I hope you'd agree, which pertain to the youth of the day and affect their ever day lives. I get goose pimples brought on by an acute attack of nerves when I think about important and destructive these issues are on current and future generations. But if you had to ask the top brass from the National Youth development Agency what they'd want to raise at the upcoming World Festival of Youth and Students, to be held in South Africa, the answers would probably range from clumsily crafted rhetoric to awkward and vague explanations, devoid any of comprehension and logic. Yes, I've already written off this 'festival' as a complete waste of time and money. It's starting to resemble ANCYL conferences, where chaos and stupidity are the order of the agenda. With the National Lotteries Board deciding to give the Agency R40-million to host the event already justifies my premature conclusion. Surely this money could best be used to fulfill one of the Lotteries Board's main objectives - helping out charities. Instead a bunch of officious lackey layabouts will have their coffers topped up with cash (which will probably never be properly accounted for in future audits. watch this space), while it could be spent on, I don't know, maybe feeding a few hungry children, building another few schools, you know, the real issues plaguing the youth of today. And let's not forget the NYDA originally want hundreds of millions more for their little Christmas party. At least sanity prevailed and the budget was slashed, much to the chagrin of Agency bigwigs who were probably hoping for an extra Christmas box this year compliments of the Lotteries Board.
'Everything is above board', bluster various officials as they childishly defend their decision to fund seemingly pointless gatherings. Obtuse political jargon follows as the they insist the event is of 'national and international importance'. And children receiving their education under trees, minors being sold into slavery and staggering levesl fo unemployment among youth aren't of national and international significance? Surely R40-million could rather be spent on doctoring these pressing issues. Nope, the festival has insteda been anochronostically themed - Let's defeat imperialims. Good to know the reall issues swill be tackled.
Personalities who'll be addressing the festival include those models of ethics and intelligence, Jackie Selebi and of course Julius Malema. The latter will no doubt use the ocassion to attack... well, everyone. Zimbabwe's Zanu-PF Youth League will also be (dis)gracing the event with their presence as will the youngsters from the ever democratic Workers Party of North Korea. So, in other words this World Festival of Youth and students is starting to look more like a spectacular meeting of minds of some of the most undemocratic, lawless, authoritarian groupings in the world all keen on a free holiday in sunny South Africa.
'Everything is above board', bluster various officials as they childishly defend their decision to fund seemingly pointless gatherings. Obtuse political jargon follows as the they insist the event is of 'national and international importance'. And children receiving their education under trees, minors being sold into slavery and staggering levesl fo unemployment among youth aren't of national and international significance? Surely R40-million could rather be spent on doctoring these pressing issues. Nope, the festival has insteda been anochronostically themed - Let's defeat imperialims. Good to know the reall issues swill be tackled.
Personalities who'll be addressing the festival include those models of ethics and intelligence, Jackie Selebi and of course Julius Malema. The latter will no doubt use the ocassion to attack... well, everyone. Zimbabwe's Zanu-PF Youth League will also be (dis)gracing the event with their presence as will the youngsters from the ever democratic Workers Party of North Korea. So, in other words this World Festival of Youth and students is starting to look more like a spectacular meeting of minds of some of the most undemocratic, lawless, authoritarian groupings in the world all keen on a free holiday in sunny South Africa.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Relax, everything is getting nicely out of control.
A distant acquaintance recently advised me to relax. She proceeded to spin for me a a web of justification for this supposed simple ability, much of which involved a m,angle litany of hippie bull twang. I won't bore you (as i was) with the details, but it basically boiled down to letting go of the long-held rage that has fermented in me for as long as I can remember. before disdainfully deleting her e-mail of advise, baulking at it with froth spluttering from my mouth and stomping on my partners head, I actually paused to offer a semblance of thought to this apparently futile advice. Relax. How are we expected to relax in December?
let me firstly state, I'd love nothing more but to tune out. It's December. The end of yet another year, a time to reflect, ponder and find peace, a time to calm yourself and.. ummm, to actually completely lose your mind! RELAX!!! That's a foreign word, no, wait, a swear word at this time of year.
Are we really supposed let our hair down when Christmas shopping looms large and ugly. Those of you with children start experiencing night terrors aroundt his time of year. Waking up in a pool of sweat screaming, "It's the last PS3 in stock in the country. Oh God, why have you forsaken me?!" Don't worry, relax, say the treehuggers.
Where will we find time to chill out as we anxiously await the road death toll scoreboard to start clocking over? I negotiate Cape Town's roads with fear embedded in my heart throughout the year, never mind over the December holidays when traffic volumes peak. If you've ever had the misfortune of driving in the Mother City, you'll know what I'm talking about. Be afraid, super-afraid. Relaxing is an option, of course, but try it while stuck in 34 degrees heat, queuing in a car of becah-anxious children, in a traffic jam.
I can't honestly say I'll be able to even allow my perennial rage and anger to subside at the beach. Here's some life maths for you to ponder: add 4 million Capetonian drivers, with a further 9 million tourists, subtract their intelligence, multiply that by a thousand, then cram the stupidity and lack of logic onto a stretch of road only about 2 kilometers long that leads to a handful of beaches where space is just as limuted. What do you get? A massive cock up, which will in turn subtract all of your patience and give you zero to relax about.
"Go on holiday abroad" the shrink will tell you for a R1000 an hour. Look abraod for freedom, but only if you are a katrillionaire (that's a hundred thosuand trillions). For us regular (read: poor) schmucks, a festive season holiday abroad starts to resemble a dirty, lascivious fantasy, that's how much we desire it, but can't have it.
Chilling out over a sun downer on a Friday afternoon must surely be the key to eternal relaxation? Not eternal, but very fleeting, maybe, after you get the bill. Always remember, there are two separate menus here in the fair Cape: one for the locals and one for the 'Uitlanders'.
So, if you prepared to deal with throngs of idiotic motorists, packed beaches, exorbitant prices, traversing the sad and demented gauntlets of consumerism, coupled with pointless advise on how to relax, then... relax and good luck.
let me firstly state, I'd love nothing more but to tune out. It's December. The end of yet another year, a time to reflect, ponder and find peace, a time to calm yourself and.. ummm, to actually completely lose your mind! RELAX!!! That's a foreign word, no, wait, a swear word at this time of year.
Are we really supposed let our hair down when Christmas shopping looms large and ugly. Those of you with children start experiencing night terrors aroundt his time of year. Waking up in a pool of sweat screaming, "It's the last PS3 in stock in the country. Oh God, why have you forsaken me?!" Don't worry, relax, say the treehuggers.
Where will we find time to chill out as we anxiously await the road death toll scoreboard to start clocking over? I negotiate Cape Town's roads with fear embedded in my heart throughout the year, never mind over the December holidays when traffic volumes peak. If you've ever had the misfortune of driving in the Mother City, you'll know what I'm talking about. Be afraid, super-afraid. Relaxing is an option, of course, but try it while stuck in 34 degrees heat, queuing in a car of becah-anxious children, in a traffic jam.
I can't honestly say I'll be able to even allow my perennial rage and anger to subside at the beach. Here's some life maths for you to ponder: add 4 million Capetonian drivers, with a further 9 million tourists, subtract their intelligence, multiply that by a thousand, then cram the stupidity and lack of logic onto a stretch of road only about 2 kilometers long that leads to a handful of beaches where space is just as limuted. What do you get? A massive cock up, which will in turn subtract all of your patience and give you zero to relax about.
"Go on holiday abroad" the shrink will tell you for a R1000 an hour. Look abraod for freedom, but only if you are a katrillionaire (that's a hundred thosuand trillions). For us regular (read: poor) schmucks, a festive season holiday abroad starts to resemble a dirty, lascivious fantasy, that's how much we desire it, but can't have it.
Chilling out over a sun downer on a Friday afternoon must surely be the key to eternal relaxation? Not eternal, but very fleeting, maybe, after you get the bill. Always remember, there are two separate menus here in the fair Cape: one for the locals and one for the 'Uitlanders'.
So, if you prepared to deal with throngs of idiotic motorists, packed beaches, exorbitant prices, traversing the sad and demented gauntlets of consumerism, coupled with pointless advise on how to relax, then... relax and good luck.
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