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.