Pinch, slap, kick me awake, PLEASE! Am I dreaming when I read headlines like: 'R170m Zuma home revamp'? Can it be true that amid never-ending reminders of a credit crunch, a financial crisis, another slump in the markets, economic dire straits, pick one any one, that our esteemed president sees it fit to blow OUR money on a new sauna and steam room for one his official residences? Such rhetorical questions would be wasted on the powers that run and ruin the country. They'd shrug and smile, all the while thinking up clumsy sound bytes and awkward prevarications as they reach deep into their expense accounts. Many believe Zuma is entitled to such lavishness... along with his numerous wives, children and sycophants. Funny thing about this heavy air of self-entitlement polluting the country, how it keeps cropping up more often SA politics, it seems to be the sole reason, more often than not, government can't keep with even the most basic service delivery targets.
JZ's spokesperson played the politics game perfectly when she explained it wasn't him who authorised hundreds of millions of OUR money be used to upgrade and refurbish his official residences and a parliamentary village. 'No, the president never gets involved in renovations' Zanele Mngadi blustered in justifying the expenditure. Of course he wouldn't get involved! Is tiling, replastering and woodwork mentioned anywhere in his CV? So, the obvious solution to explaining away how and why OUR cash is plowed back into ensuring JZ can now go for a sauna and his many wives have their own bathrooms, the buck is passed to Public Works Minister (cue drum roll and bated breath) who is none other than Gwen Mahlangu-Nkabinde, she of the impeccable track record when it comes to spending on headquarters, homes and other assorted dwellings (except RDP homes. That pesky government initiative is left to Tokyo Sexwale). Her spokesperson wasn't on hand to explain the R400 million price tag for revamping the president's homes. No surprises there.
God forbid our leaders stay in normal homes. It's unthinkable to even ponder them having to rough it in a middle-class neighbourhood, in a single-storey home, stripped of saunas and pools.
I hear there's now mention of a new plane which may need to be bought to ferry JZ and his deputy around the world. I know Kgalema Motlanthe's has a rather unlucky run when it comes to air travel of late, but can't he and the retinues of self-entitled government lackeys settle for travelling using airlines? Motlanthe did it once and even survived the airline food. 'Preposterous!' I already hear the powers-that-be saying among themselves at such outlandish suggestions. If they had to scrimp and save like the rest of us, what would become of their hallowed and ever-mysterious Ministerial Handbook, that Bible of blundering justifications, that idiot's guide to burning money and never caring. It would be pure lunacy to think politicians are just like us.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
My first live concert
Good news for purveyors of laboured commercial pop. Coldplay have landed safely and are ready to unleash their own blend of formulaic, banal pop on South Africa. Not that I hate the band’s music. I simply disregard it and at the very worst I relate their songs to the fodder middle-aged 5FM worshipping squares, desperate trying to stay and in-touch with their departing youth. Hey, at least it’s not the return of Bryan Adams… AGAIN! But I digress. The band’s arrival here takes me back a billion years to my youth. My first ever concert was Depeche Mode. I know, readers, y’all getting green with envy? If not, you should, dammit! Oh vok, there I digress again.
I was 16 and a few hours old. My birthday present to myself was a ticket to see my most favourite band in the world (at that time): Depeche Mode. From a wee age I’d learnt to love them and depending on the stage of adolescence I found myself trapped in, I deified them to a degree (Hey, I was a virgin. What else was I going to do?) I knew nothing else but Depeche Mode and didn’t care much for anything else. I was young, dumb and full of a trenchant lack of musical diversity). So, in 1994 when I read in Top 40 magazine (who can remember that classic read?) DM planned to do the unthinkable and tour the Third World, I exploded with joy. With magazine in hand I sprinted to my folks. I fell to my knees and started that well-practiced chore of begging for something I wanted. The thing is I had a little something in my corner to back up my argument as to why the well-being of my youthful life (and my street cred and possibility of finally scoring with girls and not my hands) depended solely on seeing this band in the flesh. It was my 16th birthday that year and to refuse me this would be tantamount to child abuse. With the bomb-question dropped, my Mother stared at my Father, the awkward spouse dance soon ensued. 'It's your call. Can your back handle the trip to Joburg? What about school on Monday?' The reality of having to cave in to their adolescent son’s pleas started dawning on them. My Dad, having failed to avoid apportioning responsibility to his wife, had little option really but to agree. With adult/child negotiations done, it was time to start preparing for what would be the equivalent of my Woodstock pilgrimage, even though it was just a backseat trip in my parents battered car to that cesspool of kak - Johannesburg.
I paid for the ticket myself, a feat (and it was nothing short of that at the fresh that age) that seemed to impress my recently disgruntled parentals. ‘Where did you get the cash?’ my Dad half-heartedly enquired. ‘I stole it from you, naturally’ was my mental response. I’d actually saved it up from the 15 previous birthdays. Like I said, I was a sad, sad youngster.
On a Friday afternoon in February 1994 we headed off for the big smoke from Kimberley. Me, my Dad and Mom and all of Depeche Mode’s back catalogue. I'dspent weeks rubbing the noses of friends, acquaintances, homeless people and pretty much anyone who’d listen to me in the fact that I, little old me, skinny legs, acne skin and no sporting ability whatsoever,was going to see one of the most influential bands of our time(any arguments here?) live in concert.
Needless to say the trip to Shitsville… umm, Joburg, was a blur. My tiny mind was focused on only one thing – beholding Depeche Mode live.
Fast forward to the night of the show. My fretful Mother, baptised by fire by having to ensure her teenage son wasn’t going to be lured into slavery by the hordes of ‘miscreants’ looming around the Standard bank arena in the maw of Joburg, did her best to equip me for this alien experience as she tried to usher me through the throngs of people. ‘Don’t smoke the drugs. Don’t’ drink anything anyone gives you. Don’t leave your seat during the concert. Don’t’ make eye contact with anyone!’ The list was a veritable decree of parental neuroses.
Filing in to the stadium with the masses, my stomach curled into a knot. The sounds and smells (my first whiff of dagga), tempted me, but never quite secured my fleeting mind from the task at hand. I sought out my seat, taking in the mix of people. For what must have been a first in our newborn nation, Goths, sat cheek- to- jowl with bomber jacket-donning Afrikaners (hey, DM’s appeal is wide and vast). Preppy ‘Northern suburbs’ prissies, dared to mingle with so-called Grungeheads. This was the height of Grunge, remember. The arena filled up fast, another testament to not just how desperate and thankful South Africans were for a quality musical act following decades of cultural isolation. The opening act, the Outsiders, were simply a formality. Cheers of ‘Just can’t get enough ' made it very clear to the openers as they lumbered through their set that it was time.
The roars grew into… ummm, louder roars, the anticipation reached breaking point. Within seconds, a life time of waiting, 16-years of devoted listening climaxed into Dave Gahan launching himself onto South Africa’s first ever live taste of Depeche Mode. The rest, as they say, is hysteria. Much sweat was shed. Over-sized Doc Martens were well broken into. Baggy jeans flayed clumsily through manic attempts at quasi-moshing. It was my baptism minus strange dogmas and uncomfortable rituals.
I’ve been to many more concerts since then. I’ve witnessed U2 twice... live. I endured Jamiroquias (don’t ask). I saw Skunk Anansie in their hey day In Port Elizabeth (?) and have survived numerous Cokefests. I've even caught a live Fever Ray gig in Paris. But nothing to date has been able to trounce the thrill of seeing a band so embedded in my psyche in concert, surviving the mania, the elation of my induction into live music. For me even trying to recapture those 2 hours I spent in an alien city, by myself in a packed arena, surrounded by an assortment of freaks will be nearly impossible.
I was 16 and a few hours old. My birthday present to myself was a ticket to see my most favourite band in the world (at that time): Depeche Mode. From a wee age I’d learnt to love them and depending on the stage of adolescence I found myself trapped in, I deified them to a degree (Hey, I was a virgin. What else was I going to do?) I knew nothing else but Depeche Mode and didn’t care much for anything else. I was young, dumb and full of a trenchant lack of musical diversity). So, in 1994 when I read in Top 40 magazine (who can remember that classic read?) DM planned to do the unthinkable and tour the Third World, I exploded with joy. With magazine in hand I sprinted to my folks. I fell to my knees and started that well-practiced chore of begging for something I wanted. The thing is I had a little something in my corner to back up my argument as to why the well-being of my youthful life (and my street cred and possibility of finally scoring with girls and not my hands) depended solely on seeing this band in the flesh. It was my 16th birthday that year and to refuse me this would be tantamount to child abuse. With the bomb-question dropped, my Mother stared at my Father, the awkward spouse dance soon ensued. 'It's your call. Can your back handle the trip to Joburg? What about school on Monday?' The reality of having to cave in to their adolescent son’s pleas started dawning on them. My Dad, having failed to avoid apportioning responsibility to his wife, had little option really but to agree. With adult/child negotiations done, it was time to start preparing for what would be the equivalent of my Woodstock pilgrimage, even though it was just a backseat trip in my parents battered car to that cesspool of kak - Johannesburg.
I paid for the ticket myself, a feat (and it was nothing short of that at the fresh that age) that seemed to impress my recently disgruntled parentals. ‘Where did you get the cash?’ my Dad half-heartedly enquired. ‘I stole it from you, naturally’ was my mental response. I’d actually saved it up from the 15 previous birthdays. Like I said, I was a sad, sad youngster.
On a Friday afternoon in February 1994 we headed off for the big smoke from Kimberley. Me, my Dad and Mom and all of Depeche Mode’s back catalogue. I'dspent weeks rubbing the noses of friends, acquaintances, homeless people and pretty much anyone who’d listen to me in the fact that I, little old me, skinny legs, acne skin and no sporting ability whatsoever,was going to see one of the most influential bands of our time(any arguments here?) live in concert.
Needless to say the trip to Shitsville… umm, Joburg, was a blur. My tiny mind was focused on only one thing – beholding Depeche Mode live.
Fast forward to the night of the show. My fretful Mother, baptised by fire by having to ensure her teenage son wasn’t going to be lured into slavery by the hordes of ‘miscreants’ looming around the Standard bank arena in the maw of Joburg, did her best to equip me for this alien experience as she tried to usher me through the throngs of people. ‘Don’t smoke the drugs. Don’t’ drink anything anyone gives you. Don’t leave your seat during the concert. Don’t’ make eye contact with anyone!’ The list was a veritable decree of parental neuroses.
Filing in to the stadium with the masses, my stomach curled into a knot. The sounds and smells (my first whiff of dagga), tempted me, but never quite secured my fleeting mind from the task at hand. I sought out my seat, taking in the mix of people. For what must have been a first in our newborn nation, Goths, sat cheek- to- jowl with bomber jacket-donning Afrikaners (hey, DM’s appeal is wide and vast). Preppy ‘Northern suburbs’ prissies, dared to mingle with so-called Grungeheads. This was the height of Grunge, remember. The arena filled up fast, another testament to not just how desperate and thankful South Africans were for a quality musical act following decades of cultural isolation. The opening act, the Outsiders, were simply a formality. Cheers of ‘Just can’t get enough ' made it very clear to the openers as they lumbered through their set that it was time.
The roars grew into… ummm, louder roars, the anticipation reached breaking point. Within seconds, a life time of waiting, 16-years of devoted listening climaxed into Dave Gahan launching himself onto South Africa’s first ever live taste of Depeche Mode. The rest, as they say, is hysteria. Much sweat was shed. Over-sized Doc Martens were well broken into. Baggy jeans flayed clumsily through manic attempts at quasi-moshing. It was my baptism minus strange dogmas and uncomfortable rituals.
I’ve been to many more concerts since then. I’ve witnessed U2 twice... live. I endured Jamiroquias (don’t ask). I saw Skunk Anansie in their hey day In Port Elizabeth (?) and have survived numerous Cokefests. I've even caught a live Fever Ray gig in Paris. But nothing to date has been able to trounce the thrill of seeing a band so embedded in my psyche in concert, surviving the mania, the elation of my induction into live music. For me even trying to recapture those 2 hours I spent in an alien city, by myself in a packed arena, surrounded by an assortment of freaks will be nearly impossible.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, September 19, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, August 12, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
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.
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.
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