Enough already!

On the 11th of July some of us may be bored enough to know it's World Population Day (yet another pointless day of remembering, honouring and thinking about something. You choose, if you care enough). I opt to deviate from my habitual ambivalence and will actually develop a morsel of interest in this particular day. Why? I'm glad you did(n't) ask.
Driving to work, amid the mess of traffic on a daily basis it has been frequently occurring to me of late: It doesn't matter whether you driving on the heaving asphalt that is the M1 in Johannesburg or a tumbleweed-strewn piece of tar like Poeg-en-poel Rd in Vokallfontein; there are just too many people abound these days, clogging up our lives in so many ways.
In SA we are looking at over 50-million of us, in the world there are now over 7-billion homo-sapiens scouring one of the smallest planets in the galaxy for anything and everything. Food, jobs, potential mating partners, people to talk to, people to kill, maim, bore or please, or just simply a bit of space to call their own. Many simply search for other peoples' spaces and the belongings thereon, to steal or, shall we euphemise, 'surreptiously claim' as their own. Too many of use means too many problems.
Borderline agoraphobes like me don't need a lot of space. I can do with a few square meters of anything really (to be picky in my desperate case would be absurd). I only need a corner or a square or a circle of this floundering earth to call my own, I will occupy it happily... in the absence of others around me. Dream on. The hordes of conglomerated bodies heaped up on each other in tin coffins-cum-homes in places like Diepsloot or Khayelitsha often can't choose their habitat. I can live happily by myself amid 50-million other people, many of them, in my useless opinion, equally as moronic and futile in function as I. But only if it's just that - amid - not necessarily always 'among' others. I encounter stupidity on a daily basis. Firstly, when I wake up and look in the mirror. Secondly, when I have to extract myself from my little piece of lonely heaven/hell to face the outside. I am forced - not by myself, but by necessity and circumstance - to squeeze into daily life, to find my niche in a neck of some other twat. Along with my car, in the maw that is traffic I must endure the idiocy that is a typical South African driver. I observe my fellow-humans, themselves visibly caught in the mechanical, exponential growth of society and humankind. In taxis, they are sardines, breathing, coughing and talking on each other. In the streets, pedestrians in their droves navigate through the desultory queues of non-drivers and not just on the sidewalks. They spill over into the road, partly because of a lack of space on the aforementioned pavement. The space on pavements, like the streets and roads, never enough for the ever-growing foot traffic of people, clamouring over each onward towards... well, who cares.
People, people, people, everywhere, every time, all the time. And the space? It can't grow, unless we cast our eyes skywards. Yes. That's our future - the sky - which does have a limit (as many of us are mundanely reminded by the more cheerful and optimistic among us). Unless we look to space, the Moon, maybe even Mars, where we can continue to breed, consume and behave as humans are expected to - greedily.
Those of use fortunate enough to have employment can 'escape'... not each other, unfortunately. We can take sojourns to other parts of the diminishing space we call earth for holidays where, once we arrive... we will encounter tens of thousands of other other people also vacationing away from their realities.
Speaking of jobs, maybe you have one or two to offer to the hordes of less fortunate, the 'currently and possibly forever disadvantaged', lugubriously standing sentinel at traffic light intersections, 'guarding' our vehicles, mashed into shebeens drowning their sorrows, queuing outside social welfare offices - many of them clutching little humans or bearing the signs of future denizens of the world in their bellies.
It's an unstoppable train, this population of the globe. We, every single last one of us, will be reminded until we shuffle off this mortal coil (to make way for another thousand newborns) to 'change our ways' or we will have to endure equally brain dead cliches, 'make the world a better place for all'. I get it, okay! The growing millions, tens of millions, hundreds of millions, billions and so forth pushing and shoving their way into the world since the nucleus of time have been screwing it all up for too long. But maybe, there are those among us (and I know there are many, many, many of them) who should be thinking (or trying to learn to think) twice, thrice and then a few more times thereafter, before procreating and adding to the 7-billion. I single out no nationality, no race, no culture. I address every-single-person (sad enough to be reading this) to stop with the baby-making, for just a bit, and create some space to breathe, live, to find some common sense and sustain what little of this beleaguered planet (and our sanity) that is left.

A Touch of Pink to the Blue

In less than a decade we have yet another National Police Commissioner. Indulge me as I go down the list of so-called top cops who’ve been allowed to wear (and tear up) the blue uniform. We had Jackie Selebi who, at first, seemed to bring a renewed urgency to crime-fighting, but gradually became mired in his own brand of crime. We were willing to overlook the glaring fact that he wasn’t, in anyway, a career cop, capable of operationally guiding the real foot-soldiers of the police service. He lumbered on in his position, even becoming INTERPOL President and, granted, making small strides in making South Africa safer (-ish). Tim Williams then served as the acting commissioner, while Selebi drifted in and out of courts and controversy. Williams, was for the most part, invisible; possibly because he was trying to do some overwhelming damage control in the wake of Selebi. Years passed. Levels of crime vacillated between stable and disturbingly high. Then came the new sheriff in town, Bheki Cele - he of the Stetsons, John Wayne swagger and machine gun-mouth. Again, he was not a career officer, but yet another political deployee, who, in the end, proved completely inept in his handling of the day-to-day administration of the SAPS. I believe he did, in small ways, build up some morale among the men and women in blue. But his macho, oafish way of doing the job helped sully his and the police’s image even. His detractors would argue, he imbued many officers with a dangerous bravado (much like his own), leading some to shoot, beat, kick and bully their way to a brutal form of crime-fighting. The next acting commissioner, Nhlanhla Mwkwanazi, while only in his position a few short months, seemed to do all he can to mitigate the cluster bombs flying around the service. At the same he had the uneviably task of having to defend the abortions of arrogance and power left by Cele. Richard Mdluli, the flagrant abuse of power, corruption, Cele’s ongoing woes; They came fast and furious, and this true career policeman, who seemed capable, just couldn’t manage the skulduggery.

Cele’s dismissal is now official. Mkwanazi, well, he was always just serving in an acting capacity, clearly and sadly failed to impress President Jacob Zuma to any degree of convincing the him a rank-and-file officer is needed to run the SAPS. All the above-mentioned personalities had one visible thing in common – they are men, imbued with testosterone-machismo and host of other male traits, including the refusal to admit it when they are are wrong. We yet again have a new commissioner who has no experience in the field of dealing with crime. The new ‘Top Cop’, yet another deployee of President Jacob Zuma (ultimately the ANC), Riah Phiyega, does however, have an impressive CV, at least taken at face value. We can only wait and see if she can return some dignity to the battered SAPS. Selebi and Cele have left the service looking like a joke; and at this stage the public is left saying ‘Anyone must be better than those two!’

While I view Phiyega in a cynical light (purely based on her not having served in the SAPS and worked her way through the ranks to the top), I do harbour some optimism. She’s a woman (and no, I won’t launch into some feminist praise-singing about how females should be given the chance to prove themselves in all spheres of life, despite their gender. I’ve always believed that anyway). A woman at the head of the police service may just, at this stage, given the mess left by the men who preceded her, be able to bring a much needed woman’s touch to the organisation. By this, I mean, a true sense of organisation and management, which most women innately seem to possess. As a member of the fairer sex, she’s unlikely to be cavalier and may dispense with the reckless machismo, 'mine-is-bigger-than-yours' attitude displayed by her predecessors. This ‘boys don’t cry’ adage which permeates the service, has done very little in creating competent officers. Sensitivity among most law enforcement officials is sorely lacking. Almost weekly we read with horror of victims of rape, particularly of a sexual nature, becoming ' secondary victims' at the hands of officers. In this regard, a lady at the helm could use her position to remind cops, a well-rounded officer needs is both a competent and sensitive one (by sensitive I don't mean in the limp-wristed, flower-arranging sense). Phiyega could/should be open to taking advice (unlike most men who won't even ask for directions), such as perhaps not making any mention of shooting to kill or other moronic quotable quotes. As a woman, perhaps she can bring a true human touch, one which many women have, in instilling dignity back to SAPS members, instead of only urging them just to fight crime, but also to deal with the consequences. For too long the old SAPS adage and mentality of ‘Skiet, skop en donner’ has been enforced and permeated, often leaving victims forgotten and adding to the scourge we label crime.

The Global Futility Index

As we South Africans gaze into our navels contemplating how unhappy we seem to be regarded by yet another pointless study/survey, we now appear to have one more thing to ponder - the country doesn't seem to be as peaceful as it was in the past. SA is ranked 127th on what's called a Global Peace Index, drawn up by some grouping called the Institute for Economics and (cue: drum roll) Peace. If the organisation is to be believed and taken seriously, the nation has dropped 29 places from 98 in 2007. Yet this same 'study' reckons regions such as the Middle East have shown improvements in 'levels of overall peacefulness'. By 'overall' I can only assume this refers to a general, gross and possibly naive glossing over of the facts and events of the past 2-years in a region gripped by immovable dictators, fundamentalist terrorisim and swept up into the now cliched Arab Spring. Certain areas of the Middle East, which have been paralysed into a catatonic state of upheaval for decades, remain exactly that, frozen into historical submission, arrested by violence and numbed into helplessness; to a pint where I doubt studies into peace would have any equal standing next to levels of fear and anxiety . You needn't think too hard of examples like Israel, the West Bank and Gaza, to counter the findings of an index which has for years claimed to 'gauge' peace. An ordinary Syrian, marooned in war-ravaged Homs, would have to summon up a guffaw out f his/her war-weary countenance if presented with the findings of this index and its claim that the very same region the study believes is now 'generally more peaceful' is the same one gripped by carnage on par with any conflict seen over the past decade. Should the GPI be declared null and void from the outset? Or should its authors simply be pinched back to reality? It makes for a morbidly amusing read, at the very least, along with the likes of a Global Happiness study. It could prompt some other haphazardly thrown together organisation to start working on the something like the Worldwide Nosepicking Index or a Global Coughing Study. I recall a research labelled the 'Look Alike Study' conducted among married couples to see if they start to resemble each other over time. Then there was the  Curvy Hips study which attempted to gauge the intelligence of women by their waist measurements. All 'scientific' researches, carried out to... well, I can only assume to give people in white coats some respite trying to find a cure for cancer. I propose the Global Futility Index, which can study, gauge, research and ponder the uselessness of studies which seem to mock intelligence and common sense; an index which could take into account how much time is wasted by navel-gazers and pretend-intellectuals who seem to have too much time on their hands and too little tolerance for reality.

　

A Sigh for the Times

A sigh - a type of paralinguistic respiration in the form of a deep and usually audible exhalation of air, at least that's how Wikipedia defines this every day, banal act of the mouth. I’ve heard it being called ‘breath venting’’ and while I can’t be sure who termed it that, I’ve settled on it as a far more apt and colloquial definition. We sigh everyday of our life, often without any thought being given to this prosaic escape of breath. A sigh is usually formed as an expression of relief, but is certainly not limited to this. It's an expression of grief and yearning in some cases. For me, in most instances it's a distinct and passive act of anger and frustration, a substitute, of sorts, for physical displays of aggression. The amount of times I've been told to breathe, close my eyes and count to 10 when confronted with aggression (both from myself and from others) cannot be counted. I opt instead to audibly sigh, giving voice to the internal rage fermenting inside... let's just say I sigh too much these days in moments of ill temper. I sigh in concert with a roll of my eyes skywards (a brain scan, as my parents have come to call it). I find I need to give as much expression to my daily displeasure with so many aspects of reality so as to give life and catharsis to my temper. My sighs seem to escalate at around 7pm every evening when a summary of the country and worlds news is visually broadcast to the nation. These everyday subtle, soft explosions of air come in quick succession as the daily updates on the ANC, that now obligatory function of our domestic journalism, muscles its way into the news agenda. Deep breaths follow as I brace myself for an onslaught of mindlessness political rhetoric from ANC apparatchiks. Most recently this was provided by those party faithful in that almost forgotten province of the Free State. As Ace Magashule, re-elected as commissar of the ANC in the province, assaulted the greater intelligence of those watching the news with his 'victory' speech, the sighs kept coming, erupting now into an almost staccato of respiratory attacks. I scanned to the competing local TV news channel only to find an even more dumbed down version of the coverage. Fists wave, threats exploding, rhetoric belching, songs oozing... my sighs bleeding from my lungs along with my eyes, somersaulting in my head. I tried to find focus, steeling myself for what may come next. And then Jacob Zuma made an appearance. He did little to re-instill any logic in these now drawn out news inserts. The sighs now arrested themselves in my mouth and lungs, queuing to escape through my pursed lips. I awaited any sign of (brain)life in the piffle he delivered. All I could discern was a slight air of desperation around him, not all that visible, unless you take into account how he seems to have aged quite deliberately and suddenly (at least to my observations) of late. He too must've sent a few thousand sighs into the ether in recent months, what with Julius Malema, a cabinet reshuffle and the axing of Bheki Cele. Sighs of yearning for a simpler life, perhaps? Sighs of relief? Not necessarily given the ever increasing calls for his head. The above-mentioned news broadcasts eventually proceeded to actual news of worth and purpose, be it sullen and disappointing (the very nature of South African current affairs). Schools in Limpopo not receiving textbooks would have to do. Visuals of warehouses bursting with undelivered learning material underscored the reporters’ voices. My sighs now developed a slight retching reflex. As Basic Education minister, Angie Motshekga, blunders through this latest scandal I detected a taste of bile in my sighs, now clearly audible amid my concern. Of course no news broadcast would be complete without some nattering on the ANCYL. My eyes glazed over with a soothing numbness. Cue the sigh... of (that any news on the League only enters bulletins as an almost 'Meanwhile, in other news...)? Is it a sigh of grief? Of course not! A sigh of yearning for the League to rediscover some intellect and logic? Never! It seems forever lost in the wake of Malema. I could only conclude this latest volley of signs could be a sign of growing indifference in a country caught up in the banality of the ANC's self-centeredness. I sigh exhaustively these as almost every conversation I enter into lands up choosing some aspect of the party's woes and/or ineptitude as the topic. I exhale to sigh to find patience in having to deal with these issues, created mostly through the party’s own devices, but never fully acknowledged as its own doing. Sigh with me now (those of you sad enough to be reading this rant) in grief, relief and yearning as we try to move on to something more worthy - possibly an alcoholic beverage, pharmaceutical product even - to deal with the last half of 2012, which will be littered and

Dear South Africa

Dear South Africa,

I wish I could say I left your motherly arms with a heavy heart… but I can’t. As I sit, more than 14 000 kms away from you, awash in a foreign culture so strange and peculiar I should be flailing and wailing for a Black Label (which I do miss) the only emotion I can seek out from this maze of weird is relief.

Okay, let me not be a total twat for fear of being labelled a turncoat whingy whitey. I miss your abundant natural wonder, your myriad of cultures and wondrous diversity. I miss the pap and vleis, braais, beer quarts, red wine, sunshine, surfing, koekssusters, rugby, soccer. If I even had to hear the satanic blare of a vuvuzela I’d probably hunt the source down and hug him/her, that’s the extent of my nostalgia for you, as my home nation, the origin of me. But my beloved SA, when we parted you seemed tired, weary, haggard and disillusioned. That twinkle in your eyes seemed a fatigued flicker that spring in your step was more like a limp, you smiled, but I detected a grimace. You waved, then turned and hobbled off when you thought I wasn’t watching. I know why and feel, share and understand your pain, even as I sprint across the globe away from your motherland warmth seeking, not even the proverbial ‘greener pastures’, but a momentary escape from the stifling web of madness, stupidity, gluttony and desperation gripping your throat and those of your other kids.

I miss you, I really do! But I don’t miss your government – that array of buffoons (well, not all of them) that seem helpless in growing your beauty and potential effectively enough for you to be taken seriously by your mates abroad. At family dinners most pretend to love you. They stretch their arms to hug you, knives concealed in their sleeves and give you those European kiss-kisses, artificial and irritatingly upper-crust. Most of them say they love you, yet in the same breath they hurry out of the dining room to answer their iPhones, concocting and plotting vague deals to line their pockets and stomachs. They’ll insist they have your interests in mind, ‘Always trying to make you proud, Mama’. Well if pride is stealing, lying, back-stabbing then their style of love looks to me like politics, with all the garish trimmings.

I don’t miss your president, he of the many wives, children and dance moves. If only he could use his brain as well as he does his genitalia, maybe then you could be his true, one-and-only queen, the one worthy of his attention. Instead Mama Africa, you must take second… umm, third, no wait, four… nope, fifth best. I’m actually not sure anymore. But what I do know is that your best interests don’t seem to top his growing list of phoney beneficiaries and dubious pals all queuing for a piece of YOUR pie.

I don’t miss that strange, confused political movement which actually runs your home – the ANC. It’s become a mess, a complete mutant of what is used to be. It’s turned into this meat-eating monster that is cannibalising itself and scoffing down the rest of your kids for deserts. And it doesn’t even bother with chewing on the good bits first, like the arms and head. It seems to have gotten somewhat lost in its carnivorous avarice, consuming its anus first, eating with long teeth through the rectum and icky, pooey bits, where it has gotten stuck amid indigestion and tummy aches. Ag shame Ma, what a gastronomic malaise to endure.

I certainly don’t yearn for that once-was a warrior comrade, Julius Malema. In fact, let me stand and applaud the ruling partytjie for booting him into touch, at least for now. When I departed your bosom, Mom, I hoped the rest of my brethren could move on from that fattened, petulant moron. But alas, I took a furtive glimpse of a newspaper on the plane to my faraway self-inflicted destination of exile. And lo and behold, there his mug was, with his beret perched on his gleaming noggin, a Colgate smile and glam aviators finishing off his now trademark image of arrogance, wannabe-dictator-ness and quiet revenge.

Before you further label me a cowardly racist, Moeder (many a time I know in our mother/son spats you have uttered that, but I understand) let me assure I also won’t miss that strange grouping of obdurate twits who share my skin pigmentation. They don themselves in khaki, veldskoene, fly arcane-looking Nazi-ish symbols and bleat and belch our declarations of adulation and of loyalty to backward-thinking, mindless hate mongers, now departed, but not forgotten. Their insistence on a volkstaat’, their inability to think beyond 1994, their undying hatred of everything not like them leaves me, well, it leaves me chuckling, actually, as I comically pity these types.

Speaking of ‘these types’ before I fled your arms that former staatspresident of yours, FW De Klerk, also induced a mild retching reflex as I packed my bags. His clumsy defence of separate development (I believe you once called it Apartheid) on an international TV news network, almost made me find God again in a moment of disbelief. Oh, how I will never miss ‘these types’, who once dragged you into being a pariah and outcast.

God dank I’m leaving behind these poephols, the whole lot of them, black, white, coloured, orange, maroon, grey… the entire bunch who seem hell bent on slowly murdering you, Mom, killing your natural wealth, your self-grown beauty. If struck by faith again while holed up in this foreign land, I will kneel, clasp my hands together and quietly, reverently utter a prayer for you, only you, none of the above, who are quite possibly lost forever amid their greed, narrow-mindedness and power-gluttony.

I know I leave you in quite a state, Mammie, and I apologise for not staying by your side. But you’ve been in such predicaments before and have quite successfully weathered them, minus me. I join a growing ‘club’ of embittered, lost souls. Emphasis on ‘lost’. I will always come back. I will always call your arms, bosom, smile and spirit home. But I leave amid this quiet, surreptitious calamity choking you blue and beating your black, for fear of losing my mind.

Yours dearly and most sincerely
R

The Other, Other K-Word

The k-word. Reviled, feared, misunderstood (?). Don't get me wrong, I shudder and cringe when I hear the word. And being a whitey, I do still hear it being used liberally in pale-skinned circles... and among other shades of our fading rainbow nation. As a country which will still grapple with prejudices for generations to come, it's highly unlikely we will ever be able to effectively eradicate the k-word from our lexicon once and for all. We can pontificate, navel-gaze, debate, rage, spit, moan and threaten until our jaws ache over the sadly over-utilisation of this insult. The word will always weasel its way back into someone's mouth, no matter which decade or generation. From national rugby coaches to dim-witted models, it's just the brainless 'go-to word' for those unable to insult (if you really, really have to) others. So, let me lend my 10 cents to this never-ending discussion on the k-word.
While it's not going to disappear (along with the hundreds of  years of oppression, repression and suppression which have brought South Africa to where it is today) maybe we can start training our minds to subtly substitute the k-word, as we know it, with another k-word, compliments of the Afrikaner nation. To me, it only makes sense that the one national grouping of our country which, for all intents and purposes, 'popularised' the use of the word 'kaffir', attaching immense hatred and stigma to it throughout Apartheid (and beyond), tries in a very small way to help usher it out of our national psyches.
The Afrikaans language has a very effective way of summing up ideas, expressing things and emotions, often employing humour and at times passion. There's an Afrikaans colloquialism, also beginning with a 'k', which is so often used, I believe it should be inducted into that ever-growing dictionary-cum-crucible of South African linguistics and language. 'Moenie kakpraat nie!' my Mom would often exclaim as I'd try to talk my way out of a sticky situation as an adolescent prone to, shall we say (or, shall I euphemise), making mistakes. Just say it out aloud - 'Kakpraat'. Your tongue seems to either descend to the bottom of your mouth or curl up as that sharp 'k' effortlessly shoots into the rest of the word. It's harsh on the ear, but not too entirely rude (depending on the context), unlike the proverbial, almost unspeakable k-word. in Fact, in my own personal use of 'kakpraat' I've only ever meant it in a joking way. I've yet to see a fist-fight erupt over the use of 'kakpraat'. Okay, granted some kakpraat could lead to fisty-cuffs, it's by far more diplomatic than belching out the word 'kaffir' in a moment of blind, moronic rage.
I have little doubt 'kakpraat' is a common word, which surely must be known across the colour lines. 'Kakpraat is lekker praat' my late Ouma would sometimes proclaim. Meaning, talking crap can often be enjoyable. Relatives of my Afrikaans wife speak of a 'kakpraat vuur', which directly translated means 'crap-talk fire'. This usually refers to a braai and the socialising and jovial conversation around the flames. Even the web site, Braai.com (I kid you not) makes a fleeting reference to this word and it's application to socialising and simply 'shooting the breeze'.
Not to say if we all spoke kak it would be so lekker. We have many unofficial poets of kakpraat (in the negative sense) in this country. Just look at parliamentarians. They talk kak all day and get nowhere.
But can I suggest to my Black compatriots, if/when confronted with those who belch out the dreaded k-word at them, be the better person (please don't think me blase), and simply retort 'Stop talking kak and rather kakpraat with me.' I'd understand if you may want to add a few choice curse words, but then you'd only be party to a mindless exchange of rage. It's better to praat the kak than to be part of the kak.

Stuck in a Moment

It's like a really bad hangover. That fuzzy feeling, compounded by a shrunken, dehydrated brain, parched mouth, bad mood, beer breath and crusty eyes after a long, over-indulgent evening of imbibing. And here I'm only referring to how the remnants of the current ANCYL NEC, which is now a shivering, waning shadow of it's former arrogant self, must be feeling, almost on a daily basis. If most of them haven't starting hitting the bottle to cope with the league's seemingly never-ending woes, then I'd suggest they make a mad dash to the nearest shebeen for a dop or 12.
The Juju hangover seems to have been with us for months now. And it's not going away. As much as us sane folk may yearn for delirium tremens, the ANC's kindergarten class seems to be something which will unfortunately be with us for a while longer or until at least Luthuli House blinks. Don't hold your breath.
This obdurate insistence on keeping Chief Malema at the helm, even after his suspension, expulsion, sacking - call it what you want - stinks of desperation and lack of real political maturity.
 The surviving league leaders (who themselves have started cannibalising each other. Ask Pule Mabe his opinion on this) can't seem to see past their egos and that of Malema. They keep insisting he's still in charge. The April 30th edition of the Cape Times read 'League Defies ANC'. More recently another headline was only slightly tweaked. 'Malema is still out boss - defiant ANCYL' it balked. I picture the newspaper sub-editor who penned the latter headline staring blankly at his/her computer, drool inching from the mouth, that glazed look of abject boredom in the eyes as a slow news day relented to yet another ANCYL story, which smelled, appeared, and sounded exactly like previous ones, except, of course with more sensational language and asinine details. Can league NEC members, those who haven't been purged or suspended, not find another president? Is it that difficult for them to see past the weighty (read:overweight) shadow cast by Malema? It's clearly a dire time for them. Their little minds can't search the ranks of the body for a replacement. There must surely be someone out there. The cult of Juju is so immense, stubborn and torpid it's left them so brainwashed and drained, I'd risk arguing, they've lost the steam to even try and move on. Like a weepy, wistful, love-lorn teenager, the NEC doodles Malema's name over and over in their textbooks, silly hearts and cupids abound as they muddle through memories of the good times with Jules at the helm. Like the time he waddled for 'economic freedom' or that now infamous 'bloody agent' occasion, when the firebrand was at the height of his notoriety. It's all gone now.
Is there even a thought of a rebound relationship? Could they flirt with a new leader? Court and woo someone, away from the glare of the Great Expelled One? The answer, at least at this stage, is sadly quite obvious - no. Given the effort plowed into fighting for his survival (and his vaingloriousness) they can't move on. Add to this the fact an elective conference looms, I predict even more mundane headlines shouting, mumbling and moaning about how the league will continue to battle it out, all in the name of Julius, as the organisation tries to stick it to the ANC.