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.