Having a Brit Fit

I’ve never considered myself a masochist. Far from it. In fact, if given the opportunity to remain entirely inert and largely unconscious, I am usually the first to snap it up. Napping, eating, sitting entirely still – I would list myself as a fan of all the aforementioned. Yet somehow, through some bizarre force of nature, I find myself prancing around the Sea Point promenade twice a week like a flaming lunatic, performing a ritual known as British Military Fitness. Britain has certainly managed to impart some hideous crimes upon the world at large in its illustrious history – slavery and scotch eggs spring to mind – but this must certainly represent a low point in their global cultural footprint.

For an entire unspeakable hour each Monday and Wednesday, trainers of Nazi-esque proportions inflict upon their class torturous activities such as lunge walks and bench squats, all in full view of intrigued passers-by. Passers-by, I might note, who are not afraid to laugh and point excessively. One might usually be indignant to such criticism, but when you are lying with your legs over your head in a public place, you really don’t have a leg to stand on, as it were.

Having sold the activity so incredibly well over the course of the previous paragraphs, one might imagine that I’d be cowering in a corner, avoiding the promenade at all costs, clutching onto the small shred of dignity that I still possess. You’d be wrong. Instead, I repeatedly attend this abomination of a class, in all my red-faced panting glory, for reasons I can’t quite decipher.

Perhaps it’s the lingering expectation in the back of my head that illogically dictates that, through repeated torture, I might actually start to look like one of the instructors. This is, of course, entirely absurd. I am sure that they end off class, looking bright and breezy as ever, with their perfectly concentric sweat circles, and head off to a delightfully uninteresting meal of lettuce leaves and beetroot or some god-awful health alternative. I, on the other hand, use all the remaining strength at my disposal to haul my aching carcass to the nearest KFC, and indulge in what I feel is a just reward for the punishment I have just undergone. Somewhat counter-productive you might say, but exercise = KFC in my world, it’s just a simple fact of life.

Perhaps it is these miraculous endorphin things of which all these exercise aficionados speak so favourably. I will agree that, after the class, I do feel somewhat elated. I do, however, believe that this is less linked to a rush of chemicals through my body than it is to an overwhelming sense of relief that the damn class is over. Nothing beats that feeling quite frankly.

I will say that it’s a fantastic alternative to psychotherapy. Any pressing issues you had on your mind will be swiftly beaten out of you. You simply won’t be able to dwell on your problems as you’ll be too busy desperately trying to stay alive. It’s like a very active form of meditation…not quite as Zen, but just as effective.

The bottom line of it all might just simply be the fact that I will not drag myself to gym or something equally hideous if I haven’t paid for it. Unless someone is shouting at me and threatening me with public humiliation I just won’t exercise. This is a proven fact. As a result I am handing over large portions of my hard-earned salary to have someone be the conscience that I don’t seem to independently possess. And here’s hoping that, in a couple of months, I will able to report back on my successful attempt to shape myself into some sort of Adonis-esque specimen. Otherwise I’ll sue the fuckers. I’m not paying good money to be tortured and still look like a human potato.

If you feel like joining this hideous endeavour, visit http://www.britmilfit.co.za or head down to the Promenade to have a good laugh every Monday and Wednesday at 18:30…SHARP!

The Ayoba List

Ayoba. The new South African watchword. Since the start of MTN’s aggressive marketing campaign this catchy little sequence of letters has firmly entrenched itself into the local vernacular, and has rendered all other superlative adjectives entirely redundant. There is no longer a need for archaic words like ‘awesome’, ‘great’ and ‘amazing’ – they all now fit under the giant umbrella of enthusiasm that is  ‘Ayoba’. And nothing exemplified this phrase more than the stupendous World Cup Draw which took place in Cape Town on December 4^th. It was a sumptuous spectacular, offering the world a glimpse of what to expect when all hell breaks loose on our shores next year. I was lucky enough to be amongst the 50,000 strong crowd, and below I bring you my ‘Ayoba’ list for the evening:

Ayoba – The Production

The world was welcomed to Africa in explosive style, with gorgeous visuals accompanied by thumping rhythms. If you didn’t feel chills when cameras swooped through Cape Town and hovered over the evening’s presenter as she looked down from atop Lion’s Head, then I suggest that you must either be some sort of heartless robot, or blind. And if you’re reading this you are quite frankly less likely to be the latter. The entire package was seamlessly put together and induced a gigantic welling of pride and all kinds of throat lumps as the evening progressed.

Not Ayoba – Charlize

Right I know this woman has won an Oscar. But quite frankly, a 5 year old child could have played a more convincing South African. It is quite unnerving to watch your country’s most famous export parading around the stage spouting words of patriotism in a thick American accent. Quite frankly she has no business swooping in and claiming South Africa as hers whenever the occasion represents a chance for sufficient exposure. I hope someone manages to slap her between now and the time she flits back to her Malibu mansion.

Ayoba – The Crowd

If ever a crowd demonstrated a country united, it was this one. No racial group or culture was remotely under-represented, all standing side by side and swept up in the spirit of the occasion and what it means for us as a country. The significance is lost on nobody, and it was simply inspiring to be reminded of what patriotic people we are. And even packed in like sardines, we sure know how to throw one hell of a party!

Not Ayoba at all – South Africa’s Draw

I suppose at some point the night had to become focused on soccer, and it appears that, sadly, Bafana Bafana are lurking in a pool full of former champions and potential glorymongers. Amongst all the furore and excitement, South Africa’s chances of actually getting anywhere in the World Cup were dealt a pretty heavy blow, but stranger things have happened, and at least we don’t have to play our games out in Rustenburg. Every cloud…

Quite Ayoba – Cape Town’s Draw

I will have sex with an Italian. I will have sex with an Italian. I will have sex with an Italian. (This mantra shall be repeated until the Italian team arrives in Cape Town in June, bringing along with it a vast colony of what could be regarded as fairly aesthetically pleasing folk). Oh some other teams are also playing here. Who knows, who cares. I have my Italian football jersey pressed and ready…

Not Ayoba – Random Drunken TV Interviews

Knowing absolutely nothing about soccer/football and having imbibed a fair river of spirits achieves two things – it makes one very susceptible to the allure of fame but concurrently about as insightful and coherent as David Beckham in, well, any situation. Suffice to say I did not make a stellar TV interviewee, choosing to divert attention from my appalling lack of soccer knowledge by simply shouting random words like ‘Madness’. Not a particularly eloquent way to sum up my feelings on the draw, but I do hope and pray that this footage never EVER sees the light of day.

Totally Ayoba – PJ Powers

This woman has still got it! Even though we were totally scammed out of ‘World In Union’, which quite frankly might have sent me into a patriotism-induced euphoric coma, we were still treated to a South African diva who’s still very much alive and kicking – literally. To be fair, she may have taken the soccer theme a little far, as she repeatedly scored imaginary goals and put other people on stage in quite substantial physical peril. Nonetheless, PJ rocked the party and got those goosebumps going for the umpteenth time!

I can’t quite describe what it felt like to be part of such an event. To know the entire world’s eyes were focused on us as we gave our all and succeeded beyond expectations was an overwhelming experience. We’re a country divided in so many ways, but occasions like this give us pause to consider what incredible feats we can achieve when united in pursuit of a common goal. Our enthusiasm is mind-blowing, our pride infectious and our potential limitless. Woza South Africa 2010. AYOBA!

That Four Letter Word

After a bottle of wine one always feels sentimental. It’s simply a by-product of what appears to be a natural part of the human condition. As the alcohol flows through our veins we are reminded of past mistakes, longing, love, damages. As we use this rather palatable substance to escape our woes, it concurrently brings to the fore our deepest-seated emotions, cowering in fear of being released under the clasps of sobriety.

It makes us think of love. Love we give, love we receive, love we have lost. Love is the primal drug, the well into which we dip in the face of all reason, logic and circumstance. The saltwater that we drink in search of constant fulfilment, yet that which eternally fails to quench.

Love is the most basic of human emotions and the one that serves to teach us the most about ourselves. We find ourselves eternally mismatched, our scars seeking partners matching our levels of complexity. Yet so often we find ourselves tarnished – bruised and battered by what we perceive to be the purest of all emotions.

Yet the more we learn about love, the more we learn the vitality of loving ourselves. For we are our own constant partners, our only guarantee in the face of turmoil, turbulence and uncertainty. In the face of adversity, we are ultimately only accountable to and dependent on our own strength, drive and fortitude.

This having been said, love is the true teacher in our lives. Those we adore are those who teach us the most about what we have to offer the world. By giving your heart to another, you render it open to judgment, hurt and, ultimately, improvement. It’s a risk we all take, that we all need to take in order to better ourselves as people. And in love we never fail, for we are always richer for having loved. For though it feels, at times,  like our hearts have broken, they have in fact simply reconfigured themselves to become more resilient, more truthful, more capable.

I am eternally thankful to you that I have loved. For it is you I have to thank for my humanity, my compassion and my capacity to appreciate the person that I am. It is you I have to thank for teaching me that another can never be ours, as we can never belong to another. To you I am grateful for showing me that love is demonstrated only through being ourselves, rather than attempting to live up to a preconceived expectation. I am forever thankful to you for allowing me to love you, and for caring enough to set me free.

We as humans spend our lives creating barriers – emotional walls to cut us off from heartbreak and despair. Yet these walls are the very same barricades that prevent us from growing, expanding, flying. We are all capable of reaching such great heights, yet it is our pasts and our scars that prevent us from reaching such zeniths. It is time to take a sledgehammer to these, and open ourselves up to the myriad of opportunities that lie in wait. We have all been blessed with the capacity to love, and, as a result, to learn, and grow into the people we never thought possible.

So, in my wine induced state, I encourage you all to open yourselves up to the world and see every occasion as an opportunity. Love with all your heart. For in spite of all adversity, you are stronger than you know, and that thumping muscle in your chest will be tested, compromised, stretched beyond all capacity. But it will never break. It is there to remind you that you are human. Flawed, crazy, beautiful. Never ignore your flaws, never take the safe option and never fail to love. And most of all, never stop loving yourself.

This Place I Call Home…

It’s been a year now since I arrived in the Mother City and it’s given me cause to reflect on a place that is quite unique, both in this country and the world at large. A little town in the shadow of a breathtaking mountain, it heaves with creativity, howls with wind and seduces its residents in all manner of ways. I highly recommend you consider taking up residence in this little pocket of eccentricity, but, before you do, here are a few tips to consider:

1. Get high. The mountainous landscape seems to have encouraged all activity in this town to take place at altitude. If it takes place on the ground it is probably uncool. You’ll need to conquer any vertigo you may have before moving here as you will be required to swim, gym and perform all manner of other feats on rooftops. That is simply how it is done.
2. Be wise, accessorise. Fashion in this town is so dramatically cutting edge that it defies logic to the point of insanity. One key item that should always be a staple in your closet is the much touted fedora. This will indicate that you are a) super trendy and b) ever so chilled. The key to its success as a status symbol is the fact that it reveals that you are clearly impervious to gale force winds. In a city where said winds regularly gust to the point that one is actually unable to cross the street unaided, the feat of keeping a stylish little hat on your head simply demands to be applauded. You should also make sure you have a number of trendy scarves close at hand. These can be worn in any season and any weather condition. It seems that Capetonians have very sensitive necks which must be kept warm at all times. As a result, scarves are worn with t-shirts in summer, and pullovers in winter. Strangely enough, the rest of the body seems to be able to cope with all extraneous weather phenomena.
3. Complain about the weather. This is a favourite hobby of Capetonians, myself included. Due to the fact that we experience so many different forms of weather, it seems we are always missing at least one element. Sunny days are always ‘too windy’, but boiling hot days inevitably bring endless moaning about the lack of a ‘cool breeze’ (even though said cool breeze is so strong that it could land you up in a tree somewhere). You should basically always be displeased with the weather and make sure this is adequately vocalised. You will then be welcomed into the fold with approving nods and knowing glances.
4. Be where the tourists aren’t. Once tourists have cottoned onto a hotspot, you would be seriously jeopardising your social status should you, as a local, dare to venture into such territory. Cape Town is epically hip and one small mistake such as this could result in a dramatic social faux pas. Never suggest that you go to The Waterfront for dinner.  Your power lies in your ability to suggest little out of the way places that are probably dingy and horrid but pack a huge punch for your Capetonian credibility. I suggest you scour the innards of the city and find the most remote, out of the way spot and tout it as God’s greatest gift. If the locals don’t know about it they will be compelled to go along for the ride for fear of having missed the proverbial boat. And voila, you have yourself a hotspot! It’s seriously that easy.
5. Don’t use the natural resources. Sure Cape Town has a mountain. Sure it has beaches. Sure it has views to absolutely die for. But you know what else it has? Cavendish Square! That’s right, it’s three floors of retail decadence and quite frankly, is a far more suitable alternative to outdoor activities in a place that has so many to offer. Keep away from these. Nobody wants to see you sweating, huffing and puffing after a long mountain walk. No no. You will be allowed excursions from time to time such as a concert or two at Kirstenbosch, but don’t push it. Wait to be invited to such perilous activities by those in the know.
6. Drive like an idiot. Cape Town is legendary for its less than skilled drivers. Some put it down to the distracting views, which is certainly not a problem in a place like Johannesburg, where cement and mine dumps pepper the landscape. Basically, just drive like you are permanently stoned. Operate at a pace so epically slow that a pedestrian could outwalk you. You should also be smoking while you do this, incidentally. Your lungs are fair game once you arrive in the mountain town. If you can smoke, talk on your cellphone and drive at the same time you will know you have arrived. But start slow, very slow. You’ll get there.
7. Be chilled. I don’t care how much it stresses you out you must, at all times, appear not to have the slightest care in the world. This kind of behaviour is reserved for places like London and New York. Should you do something ridiculous like be on time for an engagement, you will clearly identify yourself as an outsider.
8. Learn to love alternative, indie music. Everyone in this city has an opinion on music. When you first arrive you won’t have heard the majority of the bands appearing on iPods around the city. Don’t panic. Smile and nod. Just don’t EVER admit that you’ve just been jamming to Now 52 or something else obscenely mainstream. Do some research and get a few names before you come down. If it sounds like music that you could only possibly enjoy while tripping on acid in a Tibetan Buddhist facility it is probably acceptable. It is also essential that the group’s name makes no sense whatsoever. It’s art you know bru.
9. Hit the gym. People are beautiful in this town. It is honestly ridiculous. You are going to have to hit that treadmill like the world is about to end before you swan your way onto Clifton Beach. Stop reading now, grab a celery stick and start running.
10. Don’t eat any food with flavour or texture, this is intensely passé. You will need to drink organic tea, filled with substitute fruit sugar as you eat your topping-free pizza on a wheat free base , or, even more criminally, your burger with a wheat-free bun. Basically if you consume anything containing wheat, gluten or the blood of an unfairly raised animal, you are doing yourself a massive social disservice. Don’t come hungry.

Cape Town is a strange, eccentric and beautiful place to live. For all its oddities I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s the place I call home and hope to do so for many years to come. Much love to the little mountain town.

All Aboard!

Workplace dynamics are always strange and unpredictable. Upon acquiring a new job, one always arrives on that first, fearful day with a stomach full of butterflies and a mind awash with possibilities. Was the interview a ruse and is the boss, in fact, a rancid Nazi dictator, complete with extensive body tatoos and an effective swinging arm? Will your colleagues object dramatically to your obvious sense of style and panache? The questions are endless. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what awaited me at my current place of employment.

For starters, not one of the employees, myself and my boss included, have any idea what we actually do. I work for a boating company and the combined nautical knowledge of the entire staff does little to indicate that we live in a country surrounded by the ocean. Apparently boats have strange names for toilets, kitchens, left and right. We don’t know what any of those are. As you can imagine, marketing such an endeavour becomes rather a challenge to say the least. We live in a world of copy and paste and hold thumbs that others have not already read the pearls of wisdom that we chuck around our mail database with great gusto. In fact, so confused am I by what I do that I don’t think any of my friends actually believe I have a job, as all questions relating to it are met by blank stares and extensive stammering.

We recently acquired two Dutch interns who, through some bizarre twist of circumstance, have arrived in my care. Clearly I am doing a very good job of pretending to be busy, as I am now able to split my workload amongst three of us. And when I say that, I mean that I split the work between the two of them. Well that was the plan anyway. My veneer of calm authority was abruptly shattered within the first couple of days when every question posed by them about the Boating Industry was given the Helen Keller treatment . I was forced to resort to distracting them with various beverages and sweet pastries in order to distract their attention from the fact that their boss is clearly a blithering idiot. We have since come to an understanding – no work talk at work. It’s really better for everyone involved.

I have tried repeatedly to reassert my authority over my charges. Getting absolutely blind drunk and passing out at their house probably did little to generate respect. Offering naked massages was also possibly a slight slip-up in professionalism. In fact, our entire office treats Intern 2, as he is affectionately known, as some type of swaggering sex god. Now it must be said, he is indeed easy on the eye, but in a harbour surrounded by a plethora of industrial, toothless types, he shines like a beacon of hope and possibility.  In fact, since his arrival, this establishment has degenerated into some sort of soft porn show, with this poor lad being ushered around in order to present other employees with the most ideal vantage point from which to take in his impressive form. He has now been nominated as the official brainstorm idea writer. It is felt that, when he takes charge of the whiteboard, ideas flow far faster and more extensively, motivation stemming from the desperate desire for him to remain in position. Professionalism doesn’t run rampant here.

Well now that I’ve spent a productive morning blogging, it might be worth getting back to this bizarre, special workplace of mine. For all its problems, I certainly wouldn’t have it any other way. Time for a brainstorm methinks…

My Little Memories

Returning home after a prolonged absence is always an interesting experience. It’s a cathartic and humbling place to be, as all the layers of ego, pretense and pride strip themselves away and reveal the essence that lies at one’s very core. It’s the place in which you’ll always be seen as a child, ever-preserved in the eyes of those around you. The person you’re trying to be is automatically replaced by the wide-eyed whippersnapper of yesteryear, incapable of being anything but who he is.

The memories come flooding back here in the rolling hills of Natal. Back to my first pet Boomie, a monstrous, decapitated Boomslang which my mother very gallantly shot out of a tree after a Book Club meeting. It touched me greatly that my mother was willing to resort to such extreme and savage violence in order to make sure I had the pet of my dreams. God I loved that thing. Regrettably, rigor mortis was rapid and lasting, but we still shared a definite bond and giving away my increasingly delapidated and ever-stiffening friend was one of my saddest childhood memories.

The second of my pets was a semi-retarded cat named Joey. After a block landed on his head early in life, he never grew or developed co-ordination which absolutely fascinated me. He was loving and loyal, until we cleaned the verandah with chlorine and he took a slightly overenthusiastic gulp. He is now, appropriately one might say, buried next to the pool.

When pets clearly weren’t working out as a viable outlet for my affection, I turned my focus to the acquisition of the grandest collection of My Little Ponies the world (or our neighbourhood at least) had ever seen. Understandably, this was a slight concern to my father, who relentlessly threw G.I Joes and other He-Man-esque characters in my path with the desperate hope that one might conjure up a whiff of interest. Sadly they did not. I had a mandatory collection of boy ponies (because otherwise, let’s face it, this might have seemed a little camp!), which seemed to alleviate his stress marginally. Nonetheless I soon showed him when people came from far and wide to see my burgeoning collection (complete with a spinning tail pony, the undeniable piece de resistance). I now justify this dodgy little obsession to my father by insisting that these toys are now highly valuable, and I was simply a savvy investor at an early age. I think it’s easier for him to believe that.

Anyway that’s all from me today. They’re running Pensioner’s Thursdays out here in Smallville so I must take my grandmother out to acquire her 5% discount at Spar. It could get violent. Until next time, Blob

Onward Christian Soldiers

Is it just me or is Christianity getting a lot more creative these days? Disciples of the faith displaying alarmingly variable levels of sanity seem to be cropping up in the most unusual places. I don’t know whether, like bloodhounds, they can sniff my heathen ass coming a mile away or whether there’s some sort of grand strategy to it all. Clearly the whole ‘Jesus loves you’ spiel wasn’t working so a more aggressive form of ambush warfare has been developed. When you least expect them, they shall come. It’s all very biblical and scary.

The first of my recent encounters with one of these VIP ticket holders to heaven took place at a garage somewhere along the N1. Quietly doing sums in my head to work out the smallest possible amount of petrol I could input to reach my destination, you can imagine my surprise when some crazy clutching a bunch of books leapt over to me and tried to convert my passenger seat into a pulpit. Without the slightest hesitation this lunatic shoved her head through my window and began extolling the virtues of a divine existence to me. I always thought I had the measure of these people. Usually once you tell them that you believe in JC Le Roux they tend to back off and tell you that they will pray for the salvation of your demon soul. Not this new breed. This gem of a person responded to this answer with the words, ‘I used to be like you’. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I fail to see how someone who hangs out at a petrol station on the N1 all day shoving her man-face into the cars of poor unassuming unsaved souls is anything like me (hold comments please). To this I took exception and decided it was time to end this little divine encounter. I was one of the lucky ones. I escaped relatively unscathed. Who knows how many poor people stopped that day for a pie and ended up pious?

A second, and altogether more alarming meeting took place atop Lion’s Head on a Friday evening. My friend and I had been separated from the group (as I am too pathetic to climb chains and had to go the long way around), so were essentially sitting ducks for this new brand of militant Christian vigilante-ism. An innocent conversation about wonders of the world seemed to ignite interest in a very large, uniformed man standing menacingly in the shadows. Possibly the most terrifying person I have ever encountered, he leapt at the opportunity and before long was babbling on about Jesus, the Holy Spirit and the whole gang. He kept slipping off into some sort of foreign language (Hebrew I assume), his eyes darting around terrifyingly the entire time. He started demanding our names and got quite intensely personal when it was clear that my poker face was not working. Crazy people like this are scary at the best of times, but at dusk on the side of a really large mountain one really does begin to fear for one’s life. I’m not sure if this is part of the new Christian marketing handbook – pushing people to the brink of existence in order to force them to find Jesus in that last fleeting moment of life. Whatever it was it scared the living shit out of me.

I must say I feel lucky to have escaped these special people. Who knows where they get off lurking on mountains and in petrol stations. Is there an army out there I don’t know about? How many of them are there? And how do you spot them before it’s too late? It’s all very ‘I know what you did last summer’. Be careful out there….you just never know when they might strike next.

An Open Letter To Dan Brown

*Please note, this post contains ‘spoilers’. I do, however, recommend that you continue to read and spare yourself the agony of actually reading this entire book*

Dear Dan Brown,

I recently completed your latest novel ‘The Lost Symbol’, a heaving beast of a book that serves to strongly reinforce the notion that your best days are well behind you. Yes, shame on me for falling for the bloated hype machine that accompanied its release. However, it is actually a lot to ask of a person to resist such a thing when a gigantic building-sized billboard glares at me daily from my bedroom window. I don’t have that kind of strength. Lesson learnt – bigger is not necessarily better.

Having accepted that resistance was futile, I decided to give ‘The Lost Symbol’ a shot. To my dismay, the actual book was only marginally smaller than the billboard extolling its virtue. It actually requires a fitness test prior to reading. Ten chapters of this amounts to what must be the equivalent of a hectic weights session in the gym. It really should come with a health warning.

That having been said, it does help to know that, R299 later, I will still be able to use this gigantic piece of shit for an arm workout. 500 pages have passed, hours that will never be retrieved, and I’m still entirely at a loss as to what this book was even about. References to ‘Ancient Mysteries’, pyramids and secret passageways do present some sort of mysterious allure early on. However, once it becomes clear that you are rambling in such vague circles that you make the plot of ‘Lost’ look concise, the novelty wears thin.

All in all, your novel presents a unique challenge in that it is very hard to review a book that is essentially about nothing at all. For all its references to everything remotely relating to anything symbolic, it is all a cloak and daggers act to fool your reader into thinking you had any idea what the hell you were talking about. I know the trick. Every week I submit a marketing report. You think I know what I’m talking about? Of course not. I’m onto you Dan Brown, I know your games.

As for your piece de resistance – purporting to kill off your main character in a watery grave, only to reveal, 20 CHAPTERS LATER, that he was actually in a ‘water-like solution which allowed him to breathe’ – I snort at this. Firstly, the fact that a homicidal maniac who thinks nothing of killing just about everyone else in the book would go to the trouble of attaining a ‘water-like breathing solution’ just so that Robert Langdon could have some sort of catatonic rebirthing experience seems marginally far-fetched. Really now Dan. Tut tut.

In conclusion, I’d like to thank you Mr. Brown for confirming that the old adage ‘third time’s a charm’, is absolute, utter bullshit. I would also like to point out that, next time you feel like killing a rainforest’s worth of trees, please make sure you have a decipherable plot to scribble down on them.

I hope this letter finds you well.

Your humble, giant armed servant.

PS: The book is now being used as a door stop. It withstands the Cape Town winds admirably.

Facebook Do’s and Don’ts

There was a time, not very long ago, when Facebook was a novel, idealistic platform, reuniting friends and families and providing a forum for people to communicate in real time. Sadly, it has now degenerated into what can only be called an egotistical shambles, with a myriad of uninteresting people using the service as a veil to disguise the sheer mundanity of their lives. Below is a handy series of tips on how to maintain your Facebook account without making sure that all of your 256, 498 friends (of whom you know approximately 15), don’t come at you with pick axes when they see you on the streets.

1. If you don’t have anything interesting to say, don’t say anything. Facebook has installed a magical ‘Clear Status’ tool for just this purpose. Nobody cares what you had for breakfast. Not even your mother. Seriously. She may ask but it’s only a formality. She doesn’t give a flying shit. She’s probably on Facebook too (you made her set up an account so you could have more friends didn’t you?), but remember, we ALL have to sit through your updates. Stop it. Stop it now.

2. Use full sentences. This is not Twitter. There is no character limit. You are not going to run out of space. Rely its gr8 this fb thing, u can type and type til ur blue in the face! So if you INSIST on boring us with the details of your laundry contents and other such joys, please at least use proper words. It doesn’t make you hip and current to spell like an imbecile. Really.

3. Punctuation does not change ANYTHING. Trust me. Adding four smiley faces to the end of your status endears you to nobody in no ways. It actually just draws attention to the fact that your status is about as pointless as a bumper sale of pork cuts in Saudi Arabia during Ramadan. The same goes for exclamation marks. ‘….. is brushing her teeth’ or ‘……is brushing her teeth!!!!!!!!!!!!’ are as mundane as one another, except for the fact that the second one indicates that you are feeling some sort of special excitement reserved for days such as Christmas, which doesn’t reflect well on your oral hygiene at all.

4. Don’t ‘like’ your own status. Obviously you like your own status otherwise I assume you wouldn’t put it up in the first place. Your approval of your own status (just listen to how silly that sounds) doesn’t in fact confuse your litany of ‘friends’ into thinking it is, in fact, AWESOME, but rather elicits an infernal fury that is capable of spoiling one’s entire day.

5. In-jokes are out. Must you really put up status messages that refer to some dumb joke that you and your one real living flesh and blood friend share. Why do we have to be tagged along for the ride? Write them a damn message. Or, better yet, stop being so damn cheap and phone them. Or send a please call me. If they like you they will call you back. Leave us alone.

6. Stop with the quizzes. Do you really even care what ‘Friends’ character you are most like? (If you’re one of these people chances are you have very little in common with any of them!) And is it really imperative to yours or anybody else’s life that you have a 95% compatibility with Hermione Granger? How bored are you? Go and read a damn book.

7. Enough with the baby pictures. Why on God’s green earth do you think that anybody wants to see your kid taking a bath? You know there are perverts in the world right? And you know where they spend a lot of their time? That’s right, the INTERNET. Next time you contemplate uploading some sort of dreadfully charming baby porn album, just think of the pervert down the road knocking one out at the sight. Yeah, I thought so.

8. Stop LOL-ing. Ok seriously people, no amount of LOLs in a status can make cancer funny. It’s just not a funny thing. That is a joke that will fall flat time and again. A ‘friend’ of mine recently updated her status to read ‘….. is going for a mole check. Hope it’s all clear unlike last time. LOL. ’. I removed her. There’s a positive attitude and then there’s just bad taste. Try to keep on the right side of the line please.

9. Stop bragging about your social life. Chances are, if you have SOOOO much time to spend on Facebook yakking about how wonderful your life is, you are most likely a) completely socially inept and b) a liar. Go out and live your life and stop telling us about it.

10. Stop writing notes….oh shit, hang on…

All in all there’s a lot of good to be gained from Facebook. I <3 it along with the rest of the world. In a perfect world my social network would be just about my real friends and not around the social ingrates who you feel too guilty to remove. Let’s work together to make Facebook a safer and less frustrating place.

The Hefty Price of Fame

Is it just me or is anybody else concerned about Kelly Clarkson? It has recently been brought to my attention that she has morphed into what can only be described as a human potato. It’s a very confusing, and slightly unnerving state of affairs for those of us with a predisposition to upsize our meals. So what went wrong? Is Kelly pulling a reverse Michael Jackson and trying to become her idol, Aretha Franklin? Or is she trying to work her way into the Hershey’s Hall of Fame?

Either way, it is a worrying situation, and quite upsetting for a fan of her angsty music. Now that I realise that ‘My Life Would Suck Without You’ is an ode to a triple cheeseburger and ‘I Do Not Hook Up’ a mere documentation of a physical impossibility, I feel slightly less moved by her offerings.

Now I’m no stranger to a Streetwise Two snack before dinner. We’ve all been there. The fast food marketing web is a tough one to combat. (On that note, KFC is now offering a Colonel Burger, chips AND a milkshake for R29, I mean how can one say no?!). But this takes things to a whole new level. Kelly looks like she has been feasting on small children for the better part of the last year. Fried, not grilled.

I want desperately to reach out to this poor behemoth and offer her a healthy, nutritious, SMALL snack. While all of Hollywood’s attention has been focused on the trials and tribulations of the uber-skinny, Kelly has been made to suffer in solitude, growing more and more alarmingly similar in appearance to Meatloaf.

I feel like an intervention is in order. Somebody needs to strap this woman to a solidly reinforced treadmill and go all Third Reich on her ass. If the rest of us can muster up the enthusiasm to take the occasional trip to the gym, she can, at the very least pay someone to be enthusiastic for her.

I implore somebody out there to help on this mission. Save Kelly before her immense crushing power overtakes her voice as her defining feature. Show her the value of a salad, before she has to be winched onto stage with a heavy-duty crane. We lost Elvis to peanut butter, we can’t afford to lose another star to cholesterolism. Come on Kelly, break away!

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