Here's a thought.
Let us start a debate about something that really matters in South Africa. As far as I know the President is not dead nor has he achieved Divine status and thus in need of 3rd party intervention to be able to communicate with his mortal subjects.
He can speak for himself.
As a public servant that gets paid a lot of money he needs to get his head out of his backside and state his case.
I could not care a rat’s arse who is right in this flaming debate about what Thabo Mbeki thinks about AIDS.
It does not matter.
As it now stands it’s a self-serving exercise of promoting books by authors and would be authors alike.
It turned into a competition to see who can quote themselves the most and is not unlike an argument amongst little kids stating: “Ignore him, look at me and how clever I am.”
These self-proclaimed intellectuals (and yes there is proof of that as well) forget that many definitions perceive intellectuals as impervious to propaganda, indoctrination, and self-deception.
By their antics they prove that they are not impervious to self-deception.
The debate I have in mind is something along the lines of 'the plight of the sexually abused children in South Africa.’
Some constructive thoughts on how this monumental problem can be alleviated.
Let us pool all of that brainpower now wasted on RSR and debate about solutions that can be tested and implemented to stop little children from feeling alone, terrified and abandoned by everyone.
Something that can shake the politicians out of their lethargy and make them consider the most vulnerable of the population.
I for one would like to hear where Thabo Mbeki stand on this issue and why the problem is left to underfunded NGO’s and charities.
But like with AIDS it will be left to self-appointed ‘powers behind the throne’ to spell out what Mbeki thinks.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Intellectual or Charlatan?
What makes a person an intellectual?
To us plebs it’s one of those words that you’re sure you know exactly what it means but ultimately, when asked to explain, don’t. I asked a few friends in my local pub what they thought it meant. The responses varied from ‘clever and different’ to ‘clever and trying to get a message across.’ All had romantic connotations with the term and conjured up images of Soviet dissidents and other opinion formers that brought about change to society. To my friends the term implies ‘somebody clever that tries to bring about change for the good.’ They also defined it as someone with a superior intellect. When asked to explain how this intellect is measured they were all at loss for an answer.
According to Wikipedia, which I will quote generously, “an intellectual is one who tries to use his or her intellect to work, study, reflect, speculate, or ask and answer questions about a wide variety of different ideas.”
To us plebs it’s one of those words that you’re sure you know exactly what it means but ultimately, when asked to explain, don’t. I asked a few friends in my local pub what they thought it meant. The responses varied from ‘clever and different’ to ‘clever and trying to get a message across.’ All had romantic connotations with the term and conjured up images of Soviet dissidents and other opinion formers that brought about change to society. To my friends the term implies ‘somebody clever that tries to bring about change for the good.’ They also defined it as someone with a superior intellect. When asked to explain how this intellect is measured they were all at loss for an answer.
According to Wikipedia, which I will quote generously, “an intellectual is one who tries to use his or her intellect to work, study, reflect, speculate, or ask and answer questions about a wide variety of different ideas.”
This definition seemed a bit too all-inclusive so I delved further.
‘The expression “man of letters”, has been used in many cultures to describe contemporary intellectuals. The term implied a distinction between those "who knew their letters" and those who did not. The distinction thus had great weight when literacy was not widespread.’
So with literacy now widespread and the ability to express oneself with the written word thus of not such a great distinction, the question remains: How can we conclude someone is an intellectual?
Clearly the ability to string ambiguous and important sounding sentences together does not automatically qualify one as an intellectual. Not anymore. I would venture that the opposite is true because anyone with some form of intellect will take into consideration the level on which people communicate and thus adapt the style of writing to be understood by all. Charlatans use indistinct terminology to masquerade as something they are not; using words as the magician uses props. Safe in the knowledge that most who do not really understand will subconsciously categorize it as something too clever for them and consequently something they will not voice their opinion about because it can, and will, expose their ignorance.
I guess what I’m saying is that the ability to bullshit does not automatically equate to intellect. It just makes for more entertainment when the bullshitter happens to be intelligent as well.
Nowhere does any definition describe the term intellectual as someone who ridicules those who are not considered intellectuals or those that disagree with them. Yet this seems to be something that’s often a prominent feature amongst the self-appointed intellectuals.
This brings me to Ronald Suresh Roberts.
Is he an intellectual, charlatan or both?
When will he move on to become the self-appointed ‘power behind the throne’ in yet another third world country and where will this be?
Will he go down in history as an intellectual that my grandchildren will learn about at school?
I shudder at the thought.
“In many definitions, intellectuals are perceived as impervious to propaganda, indoctrination, and self-deception.”
That Ronnie is not.
I will rather go with the Dutch definition of an intellectual as someone who has ‘unrealistic visions of the world,’ or the Hungarian one as being ‘too clever’ or an ‘egg-head.’
It just seems more applicable in this case.
Monday, November 19, 2007
SAD Can Kill You
I need to explain why I have been so quiet of late
I’ve been living in the Northern hemisphere for more than five years now. Winters with snow were a novelty for a Boertjie from the Southern tip of Africa. So what if it gets minus 25 degrees Celsius? You can dress up warm and don’t have to be out in the elements for more than a few minutes at a time. That however, wears off and after four winters one begins to swear along with the rest the moment it starts getting colder.
Sweden has the highest suicide rate in the world. A lot of people scoff at this and blame it on Swedish efficiency i.e. Sweden was the first country in the world that kept statistics of suicides. The rest of the world is only starting to wake up now and their records thus not as up to date as the Swedes.
Another reason put forward for the high suicide figures is SAD. (Seasonal Affective Disorder) A terrible depression brought on by the lack of daylight. Over and above the feeling of utter worthlessness one struggles to get out of bed and have absolutely no energy. Typing one line on a computer seems to be just too much effort and thus do not materialize.
Fortunately the treatment for this disorder is simple and fast. Light therapy is effective in 85% of diagnosed cases within four days. What it entails is one to two hours exposure per day to a light source with at least ten times the intensity of ordinary domestic lighting. One sits about three feet away from the box housing these lights and can carry on with tasks like reading or writing. Staring directly into the light is not necessary but also not harmful to the eyes.
Unfortunately the diagnoses for this disorder are not so straight-forward. Primarily because the symptoms include misery, guilt and loss of self-esteem and are thus slow to be acknowledged by the afflicted. Avoidance of social contact is also very common.
SAD hit me about a week ago and I can vouch for its destructive capabilities.
A few more treatments to light and I will be back to my normal revolting self again.
I’ve been living in the Northern hemisphere for more than five years now. Winters with snow were a novelty for a Boertjie from the Southern tip of Africa. So what if it gets minus 25 degrees Celsius? You can dress up warm and don’t have to be out in the elements for more than a few minutes at a time. That however, wears off and after four winters one begins to swear along with the rest the moment it starts getting colder.
Sweden has the highest suicide rate in the world. A lot of people scoff at this and blame it on Swedish efficiency i.e. Sweden was the first country in the world that kept statistics of suicides. The rest of the world is only starting to wake up now and their records thus not as up to date as the Swedes.
Another reason put forward for the high suicide figures is SAD. (Seasonal Affective Disorder) A terrible depression brought on by the lack of daylight. Over and above the feeling of utter worthlessness one struggles to get out of bed and have absolutely no energy. Typing one line on a computer seems to be just too much effort and thus do not materialize.
Fortunately the treatment for this disorder is simple and fast. Light therapy is effective in 85% of diagnosed cases within four days. What it entails is one to two hours exposure per day to a light source with at least ten times the intensity of ordinary domestic lighting. One sits about three feet away from the box housing these lights and can carry on with tasks like reading or writing. Staring directly into the light is not necessary but also not harmful to the eyes.
Unfortunately the diagnoses for this disorder are not so straight-forward. Primarily because the symptoms include misery, guilt and loss of self-esteem and are thus slow to be acknowledged by the afflicted. Avoidance of social contact is also very common.
SAD hit me about a week ago and I can vouch for its destructive capabilities.
A few more treatments to light and I will be back to my normal revolting self again.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
I Am Blessed
I am one lucky bastard. So far this month I’ve won the e-mail lottery for seven different countries. They just keep on rolling in. I’ve lost track of my winnings and need to start claiming as my winning tickets will expire soon. I am worth millions!
Over and above my lottery winnings (that I never bought a ticket for) my honesty and secrecy started paying off as well. No less than four widows of prominent African leaders have approached me to help out with a financial venture. I can not share the details because of a confidentiality clause but rest assured that I’m going to get a bumper sticker that reads: “fuck the poor”
I’m going to spend some of my winnings to have my penis enlarged. I think I’ll buy treatment for enough sessions to gain about 30 cms in length. I don’t want to be greedy and don’t need more. I will also buy up all the Viagra and Cialis stocks available on the market. I will use this monopoly to boost my retirement fund.
Do people really fall for these e-mail scams? Someone must. Why else will they still be in circulation?
Over and above my lottery winnings (that I never bought a ticket for) my honesty and secrecy started paying off as well. No less than four widows of prominent African leaders have approached me to help out with a financial venture. I can not share the details because of a confidentiality clause but rest assured that I’m going to get a bumper sticker that reads: “fuck the poor”
I’m going to spend some of my winnings to have my penis enlarged. I think I’ll buy treatment for enough sessions to gain about 30 cms in length. I don’t want to be greedy and don’t need more. I will also buy up all the Viagra and Cialis stocks available on the market. I will use this monopoly to boost my retirement fund.
Do people really fall for these e-mail scams? Someone must. Why else will they still be in circulation?
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
F#¤&!$G Applications on Facebook
Pox on the next one that sends me an invitation to another useless shitty application on Facebook.
May the fleas of a thousand camels seek refuge in your pubic hair!
May your fingers turn into fish-hooks and may you develop an unbearable itch in your crotch!
Get the message?
Enough with this crap!
I do not need to be invited to the application to; “kick a friend in the goonads and then hold him down to search for blackheads on his arse.”
If you want to send me drinks then use PayPal. Either directly to me or to my local. I will gladly forward you the particulars.
Jösses people!
Grow up!
You do not need an application to tell someone you love and miss them.
Remember words?
Use them.
May the fleas of a thousand camels seek refuge in your pubic hair!
May your fingers turn into fish-hooks and may you develop an unbearable itch in your crotch!
Get the message?
Enough with this crap!
I do not need to be invited to the application to; “kick a friend in the goonads and then hold him down to search for blackheads on his arse.”
If you want to send me drinks then use PayPal. Either directly to me or to my local. I will gladly forward you the particulars.
Jösses people!
Grow up!
You do not need an application to tell someone you love and miss them.
Remember words?
Use them.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
An Attempt at Prayer
Hi God,
I’m new at this prayer business so bear with my efforts. I do not believe in any form of religion so I can not go and ask for advice at places of worship. I do however believe in a Creator (You). In my quest to do this right I did do a search on the web for examples of prayers. I found various sites sporting prayers and letters to you and your son. Most were preposterous pleadings for help and I can not bring myself to believe that, that is what you want to hear. I will thus state my case in my normal manner and hope it meets with your approval.
How are things with the universe and all of that quantum physics that makes it work? Rather you than me because maths was never my strongest subject at school and I find black-holes as well time-worms if not boring somewhat frightening. Supernovas and all of that exploding as well as imploding is more my style. Give me a good chunk of anti-matter any day and you’ll see what happens to my enemies.
Please accept my belated congratulations. Creation is truly an amazing achievement. I have to ask this; how did you come up with the idea? I mean it’s not like you went on holiday and saw it somewhere else and decided to copy it. Please share your thought process at the time as I truly enjoy and appreciate a creative and gifted mind. While I’m on the topic, have you got a video or colour photograph of the Big Bang? Even an artist impression of the real thing would do. I am desperate to get a poster size print for my study. Kindly let me have the link where one can place orders. (I have tried Google and the Vatican website with no success.)
You will notice that I write to you directly as I’m of the opinion that the buck gets passed too often on this planet. I therefore ignore your Son and his Mother. As I very seldom approach them I don’t think they’ll mind. I also do not blame them, like people I know, when things go wrong. I do not really have a working relationship with them. I hope they’ll understand.
I need to get a few things off my chest. I realise that I should pretend that you know about these activities because religion will have us believe that you are omnipotent and know what is happening everywhere all the time. However, lack of action on your behalf leads me to believe that your PR department has screwed up in informing you about certain events. I thus volunteer to act as one of your sources and will henceforth, on a regular basis, compile and send you an intelligence summary as to ensure that the incidents I care about have been brought to your attention. In the process I will point out aspects where action is long overdue. Kindly ignore my suggestions if you have other eternal plans that I can not comprehend. Mine will always be only suggestions.
As this is a new initiative I will address only one problem with this communiqué. Future efforts might cover more than one.
I would now like to turn your attention to a breed of people called politicians. I have a serious problem with them and am sure you will have as well once you’ve taken all the facts into consideration. These people wage war in your name and generally just screw up everything they get into touch with. (You probably have it all on file and just need to read up about it.) Quite frankly, I can not understand why you do not make at least one combust spontaneously every week or so. They really do deserve it.
Consider simultaneous detonation of their capillaries and have them bleed from eyes, ears and nose, one a week, on live international television. CNN should do the trick. Not only will this act as deterrent for all of those idiots using your name in vain but it will also be entertaining for us mortals who have to suffer under these people. I do not want to dictate what your priorities should be and also realise that a lot of people will disagree but in my humble opinion you can ignore George W Bush for the time being and start on the politicians of Southern Africa. Robert Mugabe to be more specific, closely followed by the ANC ones who are killing their electorate with incompetence. Thereafter you can turn your attention to the bigger picture.
Once the politicians have been dealt with you can start on other pressing issues. I will endeavour to list a few in future communications. The interaction between “men of the cloth” and choirboys come to mind. I will however deal with that later.
On a lighter note; about nine months ago I’ve also managed to walk on water.
Only here we call it ice.
Haha!
Sorry.
I realise my attempts at humour will always be a bit crass and of the barrack-room variety.
Your humble servant.
Gerrie (The guy that moved to Sweden)
I’m new at this prayer business so bear with my efforts. I do not believe in any form of religion so I can not go and ask for advice at places of worship. I do however believe in a Creator (You). In my quest to do this right I did do a search on the web for examples of prayers. I found various sites sporting prayers and letters to you and your son. Most were preposterous pleadings for help and I can not bring myself to believe that, that is what you want to hear. I will thus state my case in my normal manner and hope it meets with your approval.
How are things with the universe and all of that quantum physics that makes it work? Rather you than me because maths was never my strongest subject at school and I find black-holes as well time-worms if not boring somewhat frightening. Supernovas and all of that exploding as well as imploding is more my style. Give me a good chunk of anti-matter any day and you’ll see what happens to my enemies.
Please accept my belated congratulations. Creation is truly an amazing achievement. I have to ask this; how did you come up with the idea? I mean it’s not like you went on holiday and saw it somewhere else and decided to copy it. Please share your thought process at the time as I truly enjoy and appreciate a creative and gifted mind. While I’m on the topic, have you got a video or colour photograph of the Big Bang? Even an artist impression of the real thing would do. I am desperate to get a poster size print for my study. Kindly let me have the link where one can place orders. (I have tried Google and the Vatican website with no success.)
You will notice that I write to you directly as I’m of the opinion that the buck gets passed too often on this planet. I therefore ignore your Son and his Mother. As I very seldom approach them I don’t think they’ll mind. I also do not blame them, like people I know, when things go wrong. I do not really have a working relationship with them. I hope they’ll understand.
I need to get a few things off my chest. I realise that I should pretend that you know about these activities because religion will have us believe that you are omnipotent and know what is happening everywhere all the time. However, lack of action on your behalf leads me to believe that your PR department has screwed up in informing you about certain events. I thus volunteer to act as one of your sources and will henceforth, on a regular basis, compile and send you an intelligence summary as to ensure that the incidents I care about have been brought to your attention. In the process I will point out aspects where action is long overdue. Kindly ignore my suggestions if you have other eternal plans that I can not comprehend. Mine will always be only suggestions.
As this is a new initiative I will address only one problem with this communiqué. Future efforts might cover more than one.
I would now like to turn your attention to a breed of people called politicians. I have a serious problem with them and am sure you will have as well once you’ve taken all the facts into consideration. These people wage war in your name and generally just screw up everything they get into touch with. (You probably have it all on file and just need to read up about it.) Quite frankly, I can not understand why you do not make at least one combust spontaneously every week or so. They really do deserve it.
Consider simultaneous detonation of their capillaries and have them bleed from eyes, ears and nose, one a week, on live international television. CNN should do the trick. Not only will this act as deterrent for all of those idiots using your name in vain but it will also be entertaining for us mortals who have to suffer under these people. I do not want to dictate what your priorities should be and also realise that a lot of people will disagree but in my humble opinion you can ignore George W Bush for the time being and start on the politicians of Southern Africa. Robert Mugabe to be more specific, closely followed by the ANC ones who are killing their electorate with incompetence. Thereafter you can turn your attention to the bigger picture.
Once the politicians have been dealt with you can start on other pressing issues. I will endeavour to list a few in future communications. The interaction between “men of the cloth” and choirboys come to mind. I will however deal with that later.
On a lighter note; about nine months ago I’ve also managed to walk on water.
Only here we call it ice.
Haha!
Sorry.
I realise my attempts at humour will always be a bit crass and of the barrack-room variety.
Your humble servant.
Gerrie (The guy that moved to Sweden)
This Made Me Think
I got this per e-mail.
Imagine who would have such taste and live in such opulence?
An American Billionaire?
A Saudi Prince?
Louis XIV of France?
Savor the pictures then scroll to the bottom of the page to see who owns this Work of Art.
This Mansion is in Harare and belongs to:
The President of Zimbabwe
Robert Mugabe -
a maniac, mass-murderer whose people are starving while he siphons millions into his own pockets.
And the world, including closest neighbor South Africa stands by and watches.
C'mon Mbeki! Wake up!
Imagine who would have such taste and live in such opulence?
An American Billionaire?
A Saudi Prince?
Louis XIV of France?
Savor the pictures then scroll to the bottom of the page to see who owns this Work of Art.
This Mansion is in Harare and belongs to:
The President of Zimbabwe
Robert Mugabe -
a maniac, mass-murderer whose people are starving while he siphons millions into his own pockets.
And the world, including closest neighbor South Africa stands by and watches.
C'mon Mbeki! Wake up!
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Shooting the Bull
I have a PhD that served me well over the years. No, not a doctorate but a well developed “Pooh Detector” that acted like a guardian angel and kept me at arms length from objectionable material most of the time. However, I just read an excerpt from “Fit to Govern.”
I never knew so many sophisticated and ambiguous expressions existed.
I’m going get me a copy and read a page every night to help me fall asleep.
As I still struggle with difficult terms in English like “is” and “was” I decided to write my adaptation of “Fit to Govern.”
My effort is not mystifying. All it entails is a comparison between political proficiency (capacity to govern) and marksmanship.
I thus put forward my version of “Fit to Govern”, exemplified by how well the politicians in question can shoot. (My account makes for so much easier reading.)
This is how I see it:
Nelson Mandela — will always be number one sniper to be deployed in the most desperate of situations when one needs to get the job done. He can name his price.
Swedish Politicians — can be left alone as they will hit the target 50% of the time, adhere to safety regulations and spend the rest of the time in meetings discussing the merit of each and every shot fired. They are also very fond of special committees where some more discussing can be done and therefore worth their salaries.
Robert Mugabe — to be terminated with extreme prejudice as he could not hit any target and thus decided to blow up all the shooting ranges. He is still armed. Sulking and sitting in the middle of fuck-all, looking for a target. Name your price to cull this abhorrent viral strain.
Thabo Mbeki — can not be allowed close to any shooting range as he failed the entry exam for eight consecutive years. He is yet to hit a cow’s arse with a double-barrelled shotgun at five feet. And yet he earns almost R 2 million annually.
I thus disagree with Ronald.
I never knew so many sophisticated and ambiguous expressions existed.
I’m going get me a copy and read a page every night to help me fall asleep.
As I still struggle with difficult terms in English like “is” and “was” I decided to write my adaptation of “Fit to Govern.”
My effort is not mystifying. All it entails is a comparison between political proficiency (capacity to govern) and marksmanship.
I thus put forward my version of “Fit to Govern”, exemplified by how well the politicians in question can shoot. (My account makes for so much easier reading.)
This is how I see it:
Nelson Mandela — will always be number one sniper to be deployed in the most desperate of situations when one needs to get the job done. He can name his price.
Swedish Politicians — can be left alone as they will hit the target 50% of the time, adhere to safety regulations and spend the rest of the time in meetings discussing the merit of each and every shot fired. They are also very fond of special committees where some more discussing can be done and therefore worth their salaries.
Robert Mugabe — to be terminated with extreme prejudice as he could not hit any target and thus decided to blow up all the shooting ranges. He is still armed. Sulking and sitting in the middle of fuck-all, looking for a target. Name your price to cull this abhorrent viral strain.
Thabo Mbeki — can not be allowed close to any shooting range as he failed the entry exam for eight consecutive years. He is yet to hit a cow’s arse with a double-barrelled shotgun at five feet. And yet he earns almost R 2 million annually.
I thus disagree with Ronald.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Shock! Horror! Is Mbeki Lying?
Fortunately I’m not the type of person that would refer to the president of a country as “a fucking unrepentant liar that should be strung up by his feet.”
Thanks goodness for that else this Blog would have been full of expletives and derogatory statements.
However, someone is lying.
You decide who it is.
In the green corner we have Thabo Mbeki the president of South Africa and the ANC who is clearly busy with election campaigning and stating that GEAR (Growth, Employment and Redistribution Strategy) was making steady progress in meeting the basic needs of poor people. Things are thus improving according to Mbeki as reported in this article dated October 26th.
In the red corner we have Zwelinzima Viva the General Secretary of COSATU. (Congress of South African Trade Unions) who maintains that GEAR has led to the scandalous situation of a supposedly "booming" economy that left 40% of workers unemployed.
Viva also said that: “Unemployed and casual workers were better off under apartheid than now.”
Earlier this year he clashed with Mbeki by saying the country's economic growth was merely a government ploy to create hype and no different to Nazi propaganda. (Read the full article dated October 27th here.)
Mbeki have rubbished Vavi’s statements as shameless fabrication by the "left alternative" to discredit the ANC.
Clearly the honeymoon is now over between these previously staunch allies.
Mbeki based his opinions on the results of a Community Survey 2007 published by Statistics South Africa. (An important sounding name for an organisation that can not even give you the correct population figures for South Africa to the nearest 10 million.)
Viva on the other hand is a trade union representative and thus exposed to wage and employment facts and figures on a daily basis.
Who would you have listened to?
Thanks goodness for that else this Blog would have been full of expletives and derogatory statements.
However, someone is lying.
You decide who it is.
In the green corner we have Thabo Mbeki the president of South Africa and the ANC who is clearly busy with election campaigning and stating that GEAR (Growth, Employment and Redistribution Strategy) was making steady progress in meeting the basic needs of poor people. Things are thus improving according to Mbeki as reported in this article dated October 26th.
In the red corner we have Zwelinzima Viva the General Secretary of COSATU. (Congress of South African Trade Unions) who maintains that GEAR has led to the scandalous situation of a supposedly "booming" economy that left 40% of workers unemployed.
Viva also said that: “Unemployed and casual workers were better off under apartheid than now.”
Earlier this year he clashed with Mbeki by saying the country's economic growth was merely a government ploy to create hype and no different to Nazi propaganda. (Read the full article dated October 27th here.)
Mbeki have rubbished Vavi’s statements as shameless fabrication by the "left alternative" to discredit the ANC.
Clearly the honeymoon is now over between these previously staunch allies.
Mbeki based his opinions on the results of a Community Survey 2007 published by Statistics South Africa. (An important sounding name for an organisation that can not even give you the correct population figures for South Africa to the nearest 10 million.)
Viva on the other hand is a trade union representative and thus exposed to wage and employment facts and figures on a daily basis.
Who would you have listened to?
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Week After
One week after winning the Rugby World Cup what does one find?
Winning the trophy did not cure one case of AIDS in South Africa and neither did it make a dent in the crime statistics. Lucky Dube is still dead and children are still abused sexually in startling high numbers.
Politicians are still corrupt and the president himself still covers for these criminals by interfering in the judicial process. Judges still defeat justice and seem to get away with it.
The Daily Dispatch newspaper still can not get their Saturday edition online in time and their editorial staff still acts like spoilt brats about it i.e. They ignore the problem.
Race relations are at an all time low and investors are starting to have their doubts about South Africa.
Robert Mugabe is still a saint and no plans for an invasion to topple him from power are on the cards yet.
The government is still screwing with your screwing by not producing a trustworthy condom.
Eish!
Anyone having second thoughts about elevating Mbeki to hero status last weekend?
Winning the trophy did not cure one case of AIDS in South Africa and neither did it make a dent in the crime statistics. Lucky Dube is still dead and children are still abused sexually in startling high numbers.
Politicians are still corrupt and the president himself still covers for these criminals by interfering in the judicial process. Judges still defeat justice and seem to get away with it.
The Daily Dispatch newspaper still can not get their Saturday edition online in time and their editorial staff still acts like spoilt brats about it i.e. They ignore the problem.
Race relations are at an all time low and investors are starting to have their doubts about South Africa.
Robert Mugabe is still a saint and no plans for an invasion to topple him from power are on the cards yet.
The government is still screwing with your screwing by not producing a trustworthy condom.
Eish!
Anyone having second thoughts about elevating Mbeki to hero status last weekend?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The South African Rubber Scandal
Only in South Africa, a place where one sometimes can believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast, or a place where Urban Legends are actually true!
Herewith a rough translation from a Swedish Newspaper article dated October 25th: (It is not known whether these things were reported in the South African media at the time.)
For the second time within an embarrassingly short space of time, the South African Ministry of Health has been forced to withdraw from the market no less than 5 million condoms. The rubber used was simply not up to standard and the weasel went “pop” on a regular basis. One can only imagine the anger, surprise and horror amongst those using these defect “safety measures.”
But to say that the condoms were withdrawn from “the market” is a bit of a misnomer. Most, if not all, were handed out for free at clinics, hospitals and places of employment in a somewhat futile exercise to prevent unwanted pregnancies and the spreading of HIV.
The previous incident where condoms proved to be of a much too poor quality to actually use occurred in August this year. A corrupt official at the South Africa control-board neglected the recommendations and rules as set up by the World Health Organisation and ISO. For an undisclosed fee this official turned a blind eye to all the control mechanisms and evidence of inferior quality. (No evidence of the prosecution of this individual or the manufacturer for premeditated mass-murder can be found either.)
The Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for 850 million condoms for the next two years. The deal is said to be worth some R180 million.
One can only hope that these somewhat mind-boggling series of events involving condoms won’t take us back to what happened in 1999. The Government distributed free condoms with a leaflet describing how to use them. Good thought, disastrous result. Why? For one simple reason; the condom had been stapled together with the leaflet, causing ready made holes in the condoms. It is rumoured that the Minister of Health was embarrassed over the fiasco.
She has all the reason in the world to continue being embarrassed as the Ministry of Health still can’t provide a reliable piece of rubber in a country that suffers 400 000 AIDS mortalities annually.
Herewith a rough translation from a Swedish Newspaper article dated October 25th: (It is not known whether these things were reported in the South African media at the time.)
For the second time within an embarrassingly short space of time, the South African Ministry of Health has been forced to withdraw from the market no less than 5 million condoms. The rubber used was simply not up to standard and the weasel went “pop” on a regular basis. One can only imagine the anger, surprise and horror amongst those using these defect “safety measures.”
But to say that the condoms were withdrawn from “the market” is a bit of a misnomer. Most, if not all, were handed out for free at clinics, hospitals and places of employment in a somewhat futile exercise to prevent unwanted pregnancies and the spreading of HIV.
The previous incident where condoms proved to be of a much too poor quality to actually use occurred in August this year. A corrupt official at the South Africa control-board neglected the recommendations and rules as set up by the World Health Organisation and ISO. For an undisclosed fee this official turned a blind eye to all the control mechanisms and evidence of inferior quality. (No evidence of the prosecution of this individual or the manufacturer for premeditated mass-murder can be found either.)
The Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for 850 million condoms for the next two years. The deal is said to be worth some R180 million.
One can only hope that these somewhat mind-boggling series of events involving condoms won’t take us back to what happened in 1999. The Government distributed free condoms with a leaflet describing how to use them. Good thought, disastrous result. Why? For one simple reason; the condom had been stapled together with the leaflet, causing ready made holes in the condoms. It is rumoured that the Minister of Health was embarrassed over the fiasco.
She has all the reason in the world to continue being embarrassed as the Ministry of Health still can’t provide a reliable piece of rubber in a country that suffers 400 000 AIDS mortalities annually.
Screwing is More Important than Rugby
South African rugby fans might be horrified to learn that the only mention of South Africa this past week in Swedish media have been an article about the forced withdrawal of 5 million sub standard condoms by the Ministry for Health.
The articles continue to state that this is the second time that the Ministry for Health has been forced to take back condoms that do not meet the standards of the World Health Organisation and hint at corruption as a reason for the poor quality of the condoms. The previous condom-retraction was as recent as in August where a civil servant overlooked the poor quality, for a back-hand, thus making a nice addition to his normal income.
The South African Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for the manufacturing of 850 million condoms for the coming 2 years. (R180 million)
We live in fucking interesting times.
Trust the Swedes to put things into perspective.
Screwing is far more important than rugby.
The articles continue to state that this is the second time that the Ministry for Health has been forced to take back condoms that do not meet the standards of the World Health Organisation and hint at corruption as a reason for the poor quality of the condoms. The previous condom-retraction was as recent as in August where a civil servant overlooked the poor quality, for a back-hand, thus making a nice addition to his normal income.
The South African Government has placed an order with 8 different companies for the manufacturing of 850 million condoms for the coming 2 years. (R180 million)
We live in fucking interesting times.
Trust the Swedes to put things into perspective.
Screwing is far more important than rugby.
Monday, October 22, 2007
The World Cup and Human Senses
Let us get one thing straight from the outset. Commentators that do not know the rules of the game should not be allowed to spread propaganda to a nation and have everybody up in arms with “we’ve been done in.” The effort by Mark Cueto was not a try. His foot was clearly on the touchline long before the ball got grounded. End of story.
Scienctists now maintain that humans have more than five senses and I am all for it. I can think of a few more. We have movement detection as well as heat sensors and whether the critics want to admit it or not some people do have the ability to communicate with the dead. However, to state that rugby players have the ability to detect when it’s a try or not is pushing things a bit. Mark Cueto should go and preach that to the lost tribes in the Amazon who still worship toenail clippings. He could feel it was a try my arse.
A score of at least 19 to 3 would also be a more accurate reflection of the game. By all rights South Africa should have been awarded at least one penalty try and England should have played with 13 men. Two blatant offences worthy of red cards were obvious even to the totally uninitiated. When you run slap bang into the back of a member of the opposing team you should not get a penalty, and thus three points, either.
Stop whining. The English players had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that South Africa deserved to win. No surprises with the result and congratulations to South Africa. It makes me want to consider moving back to the hell-hole where I was born. A quick lie down and reflection on crime statistics rids me of that notion though.
And then we have the South Africans who in turn are up in arms because the English players “snubbed” Mbeki. (I actually thought it was a nice touch and it enhanced the intensity of the moment for me.) These are the very same people who will leave the room if Mbeki gets up to say a few words and they view him as a charlatan masquerading as political leader. Not one of these people is blind to his obvious shortcomings as leader of South Africa. They all believe that time has now come for him to step down.
Maybe this is why his outstretched hand was ignored and just passed over. It could also be due to the fact that he is a short shit and that most did not recognise him. Whatever the reason, it still left me with a tremendous respect for the English team. There and then the whole event was turned it into a super world cup.
Well done!
Politics and sport are things that do not go well together. I think it should be kept that way. For any politician trying to score brownie-points by a token appearance at a sporting event like this is a crying shame. This poor excuse of a political leader had no bloody right to be in that arena and should have been booed off the pitch. He tainted a glorious event with his presence.
If you think I’m too harsh, just check up on his recent antics and also calculate how many people he allowed to die because of lack of proper health care, a staggering crime rate and the judicial system falling to pieces. He is the political leader of a country with one of the highest child abuse figures in the world and he does absolutely nothing about it. In my book it is hard to show respect for any political leader who let things like that happen to his country and to his fellow countrymen. Respect is earned, not something that automatically comes with the title “president”. Some parts of the population in South Africa conveniently enough, do not make that distinction.
And come to think of it, is there any reason at all why Mbeki should be recognised by English rugby players? Only South African politicians labour under the delusion that they govern a first world country and that the rest of the world takes them serious. It might surprise them to learn that they are very seldom mentioned in the international media. But I guess megalomania can do strange things to people. Just look at Robert Mugabe as example.
Would any sane person complain if it had been Mugabe who was at the receiving end of the alleged snubbing and not Mbeki. Exactly what is the difference between the two “leaders”? Both seem to do an excellent job of leading their countries back to the dark ages. Isn’t it rather a sign of sanity when disapproval against self-proclaimed omnipotent leaders is shown?
Credit to the English players for that.
Scienctists now maintain that humans have more than five senses and I am all for it. I can think of a few more. We have movement detection as well as heat sensors and whether the critics want to admit it or not some people do have the ability to communicate with the dead. However, to state that rugby players have the ability to detect when it’s a try or not is pushing things a bit. Mark Cueto should go and preach that to the lost tribes in the Amazon who still worship toenail clippings. He could feel it was a try my arse.
A score of at least 19 to 3 would also be a more accurate reflection of the game. By all rights South Africa should have been awarded at least one penalty try and England should have played with 13 men. Two blatant offences worthy of red cards were obvious even to the totally uninitiated. When you run slap bang into the back of a member of the opposing team you should not get a penalty, and thus three points, either.
Stop whining. The English players had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that South Africa deserved to win. No surprises with the result and congratulations to South Africa. It makes me want to consider moving back to the hell-hole where I was born. A quick lie down and reflection on crime statistics rids me of that notion though.
And then we have the South Africans who in turn are up in arms because the English players “snubbed” Mbeki. (I actually thought it was a nice touch and it enhanced the intensity of the moment for me.) These are the very same people who will leave the room if Mbeki gets up to say a few words and they view him as a charlatan masquerading as political leader. Not one of these people is blind to his obvious shortcomings as leader of South Africa. They all believe that time has now come for him to step down.
Maybe this is why his outstretched hand was ignored and just passed over. It could also be due to the fact that he is a short shit and that most did not recognise him. Whatever the reason, it still left me with a tremendous respect for the English team. There and then the whole event was turned it into a super world cup.
Well done!
Politics and sport are things that do not go well together. I think it should be kept that way. For any politician trying to score brownie-points by a token appearance at a sporting event like this is a crying shame. This poor excuse of a political leader had no bloody right to be in that arena and should have been booed off the pitch. He tainted a glorious event with his presence.
If you think I’m too harsh, just check up on his recent antics and also calculate how many people he allowed to die because of lack of proper health care, a staggering crime rate and the judicial system falling to pieces. He is the political leader of a country with one of the highest child abuse figures in the world and he does absolutely nothing about it. In my book it is hard to show respect for any political leader who let things like that happen to his country and to his fellow countrymen. Respect is earned, not something that automatically comes with the title “president”. Some parts of the population in South Africa conveniently enough, do not make that distinction.
And come to think of it, is there any reason at all why Mbeki should be recognised by English rugby players? Only South African politicians labour under the delusion that they govern a first world country and that the rest of the world takes them serious. It might surprise them to learn that they are very seldom mentioned in the international media. But I guess megalomania can do strange things to people. Just look at Robert Mugabe as example.
Would any sane person complain if it had been Mugabe who was at the receiving end of the alleged snubbing and not Mbeki. Exactly what is the difference between the two “leaders”? Both seem to do an excellent job of leading their countries back to the dark ages. Isn’t it rather a sign of sanity when disapproval against self-proclaimed omnipotent leaders is shown?
Credit to the English players for that.
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Fever Called Rugby
Hmmm…Even I now have the rugby world cup fever here in Sweden. What a lovely fever it is! The only cure seems to be the intake of copious amounts of cold beer. I have already told my wife and kids to do all their talking to me now and get it over and done with because none will be allowed tomorrow night. I really am looking forward to this clash.
With all this excitement my mind started wandering and soon it took me back to the times of isolation of South Africa. The days when the Curry Cup final was the biggest event on the sporting calendar and provincialism was second only to religion. Hell, relationships failed during this time of the year because she/he supported the wrong province.
In the early 70’s the Free State Stadium, in Bloemfontein, was not the glowing monument to King Rugby as it is today. Even though the size of it was impressively huge one got reminded of the fact that it was still a simple affair. Its temporary stands brought you closer to your Maker during a strong wind as this scaffolding swayed and groaned alarmingly under the combined weight and strain of bloodthirsty, inebriated fans.
Right next to the stadium one found the caravan park. This was a very convenient arrangement as a lot of farmers would make a weekend outing to Bloemfontein when a big match was scheduled for the Saturday. Even some of the locals would go and pitch a tent as to get away from their wives for the weekend. Logically this caravan park was the venue of the biggest continuous party in Bloemfontein for that weekend and attracted quite a few “visitors” for a quick braai and a few brandies and coke.
Being a Western Province supporter, I was not really interested in the final between Free State and Northern Transvaal that particular year. A girlfriend however, got hold of some tickets for Saturday’s game and we were fortunate to sit in the very same corner where the Blue Bull winger, Pierre Spies, scored a magnificent try in the final seconds of the match and obliterated Free State’s hope of winning the trophy that year. It was brilliant rugby. It was an excellent match and we decided to stay put in our seats until most of the crowd has left the stadium as not to get caught up in the rush. We had a few oranges injected with vodka left so the wait was quite enjoyable.
When we eventually made our way through the caravan park towards my car most of the crowd were well on their way home and the braai fires were going full blast. The party to drown all sorrows had started. We passed a FIAT 128 and saw the feet of a sleeping man protruding from the back passenger side window. He was snoring nicely and one could detect that the previous Friday night party ensured that he never made it to the match. As we passed the car we heard the heart rendering shouts of another man looking for a friend called Maans. The pleading calls first emerged from inside the tent pitched next to the FIAT and the desperate, totally blotto, man was soon staggering all over the camp looking for Maans. My girlfriend, Margaret, caught up with him and worriedly enquired why he was looking for Maans. She got a very slurry response:
“I have to find Maans! Please help me find Maans! He’s got our tickets and we can not be late for the match.”
Hopefully I’ll keep my beer intake under control until kick-off tomorrow night.
With all this excitement my mind started wandering and soon it took me back to the times of isolation of South Africa. The days when the Curry Cup final was the biggest event on the sporting calendar and provincialism was second only to religion. Hell, relationships failed during this time of the year because she/he supported the wrong province.
In the early 70’s the Free State Stadium, in Bloemfontein, was not the glowing monument to King Rugby as it is today. Even though the size of it was impressively huge one got reminded of the fact that it was still a simple affair. Its temporary stands brought you closer to your Maker during a strong wind as this scaffolding swayed and groaned alarmingly under the combined weight and strain of bloodthirsty, inebriated fans.
Right next to the stadium one found the caravan park. This was a very convenient arrangement as a lot of farmers would make a weekend outing to Bloemfontein when a big match was scheduled for the Saturday. Even some of the locals would go and pitch a tent as to get away from their wives for the weekend. Logically this caravan park was the venue of the biggest continuous party in Bloemfontein for that weekend and attracted quite a few “visitors” for a quick braai and a few brandies and coke.
Being a Western Province supporter, I was not really interested in the final between Free State and Northern Transvaal that particular year. A girlfriend however, got hold of some tickets for Saturday’s game and we were fortunate to sit in the very same corner where the Blue Bull winger, Pierre Spies, scored a magnificent try in the final seconds of the match and obliterated Free State’s hope of winning the trophy that year. It was brilliant rugby. It was an excellent match and we decided to stay put in our seats until most of the crowd has left the stadium as not to get caught up in the rush. We had a few oranges injected with vodka left so the wait was quite enjoyable.
When we eventually made our way through the caravan park towards my car most of the crowd were well on their way home and the braai fires were going full blast. The party to drown all sorrows had started. We passed a FIAT 128 and saw the feet of a sleeping man protruding from the back passenger side window. He was snoring nicely and one could detect that the previous Friday night party ensured that he never made it to the match. As we passed the car we heard the heart rendering shouts of another man looking for a friend called Maans. The pleading calls first emerged from inside the tent pitched next to the FIAT and the desperate, totally blotto, man was soon staggering all over the camp looking for Maans. My girlfriend, Margaret, caught up with him and worriedly enquired why he was looking for Maans. She got a very slurry response:
“I have to find Maans! Please help me find Maans! He’s got our tickets and we can not be late for the match.”
Hopefully I’ll keep my beer intake under control until kick-off tomorrow night.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Dit Raak Weer Winter
Note: This post is for all my friends in South Africa so don’t even bother to try and read it if you do not understand “the code” called Afrikaans.
Dit raak weer winter in hierdie plek so vêr van die huis af.
Ek gee nie juis om nie en pas goed aan veral met die Sweedse winter voorplantings rituele. Laat dit dan maar minus 25 grade celsius word. Ek klim glad nie uit die bed uit nie.
Laas winter besluit ek toe mos om die tieners ʼn ding of twee te wys. As hulle kan “snowboard” dan kan ek ook.
Fok die feit dat ek reeds 52 winters agter my naam het. Snowboard sal ek ry!
So gesê, so gedaan. Ons vertrek toe mos na die “slope” in Stockholm waar almal hulle Viking agtergrond uitlewe. Kinderjies wat skaars kan loop, ski jou uit die grond uit as jy nie goed oplet nie.
Ons vat toe die “ski-lift” op die “advanced slope” want vir wat wil ʼn boer nou sukkel met beginners se kak.
Bo gekom, “strap” ek toe hierdie gedoente aan my voete vas en met ʼn ”honderd meter se moer” begin ek my aftog.
Hou goed my balans en begin net die trippie geniet toe die gewaarwording my tref: ”Ek weet nie n fok hoe om te stop nie.” Heelaas te laat want ek was reeds halfpad af en het ʼn goeie snelheid bereik.
Al my geskreeu en raas in Afrikaans word geïgnoreer en in die proses is ek bo-oor ʼn mannetjie van so 9 jaar oud wat nie te vinnig was nie. Hy was neus eerste in die sneeu in en ek hou nog my balans en vaart.
Byna onder besef ek dat ek iets sal moet doen om nie moord te pleeg in die niksvermoedende skare wat wag op die ”ski-lift” nie.
Uit desperaatheid werp ek toe myself teen die grond neer en na so 15 meter se geploeg kom ek teen ʼn vriesende stop. Voor fok mense daai witgoed is hard!
Afgestof gaan drink ek toe ʼn bier en eers later bevind die doktor dat my sleutelbeen uit lid uit is.
Dit is derhalwe my weldeurdagte, goed nagevorste, slotsom dat sneeu iets is wat ʼn mens deur ʼn toe venster, voor ʼn magtige kaggelvuur, met ʼn goeie glas anti-vries in jou hand moet beskou.’
“Snowboard” se moer.
Dit raak weer winter in hierdie plek so vêr van die huis af.
Ek gee nie juis om nie en pas goed aan veral met die Sweedse winter voorplantings rituele. Laat dit dan maar minus 25 grade celsius word. Ek klim glad nie uit die bed uit nie.
Laas winter besluit ek toe mos om die tieners ʼn ding of twee te wys. As hulle kan “snowboard” dan kan ek ook.
Fok die feit dat ek reeds 52 winters agter my naam het. Snowboard sal ek ry!
So gesê, so gedaan. Ons vertrek toe mos na die “slope” in Stockholm waar almal hulle Viking agtergrond uitlewe. Kinderjies wat skaars kan loop, ski jou uit die grond uit as jy nie goed oplet nie.
Ons vat toe die “ski-lift” op die “advanced slope” want vir wat wil ʼn boer nou sukkel met beginners se kak.
Bo gekom, “strap” ek toe hierdie gedoente aan my voete vas en met ʼn ”honderd meter se moer” begin ek my aftog.
Hou goed my balans en begin net die trippie geniet toe die gewaarwording my tref: ”Ek weet nie n fok hoe om te stop nie.” Heelaas te laat want ek was reeds halfpad af en het ʼn goeie snelheid bereik.
Al my geskreeu en raas in Afrikaans word geïgnoreer en in die proses is ek bo-oor ʼn mannetjie van so 9 jaar oud wat nie te vinnig was nie. Hy was neus eerste in die sneeu in en ek hou nog my balans en vaart.
Byna onder besef ek dat ek iets sal moet doen om nie moord te pleeg in die niksvermoedende skare wat wag op die ”ski-lift” nie.
Uit desperaatheid werp ek toe myself teen die grond neer en na so 15 meter se geploeg kom ek teen ʼn vriesende stop. Voor fok mense daai witgoed is hard!
Afgestof gaan drink ek toe ʼn bier en eers later bevind die doktor dat my sleutelbeen uit lid uit is.
Dit is derhalwe my weldeurdagte, goed nagevorste, slotsom dat sneeu iets is wat ʼn mens deur ʼn toe venster, voor ʼn magtige kaggelvuur, met ʼn goeie glas anti-vries in jou hand moet beskou.’
“Snowboard” se moer.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Raising Your Hands to Your Father (1978)
Excerpt no 6 : Africa Will Always Break Your Heart
One Friday night returning from the pub I found my brother and a girlfriend visiting my folks. They had driven from Pretoria as Bloemfontein University had no medical faculty at the time and Pretoria was the closest. I was in a dark mood because of a situation at work and needed the support of my family.
“Evening all. Boy, did I have a rough day.”
I must have interrupted my brother in mid-sentence. He brushed me off:
“Shut up. We’re busy talking.”
“Go and fuck yourself!”
I retaliated.
I went to the backroom to collect a few belongings before leaving to spend the weekend with a few girlfriends. I was disgusted and hurt as nobody recognised that I needed a patient ear and shoulder to cry on.
My father followed me and started pushing me about.
“You will now explain this conflict between your brother and yourself! You will do it now!”
He shouted at me, acting as if he was not aware that he was largely to blame for the sibling rivalry that existed between us.
I shouted back at him:
“Go and ask your first-born and favourite and fucking leave me alone!”
There was always alcohol in our house and my dad had clearly put quite a lot of it under his belt as my mom was in the middle of yet another affair. She had later left home for a few weeks to be with her lover, and he needed to ease the pain a bit.
“Explain yourself!”
He pushed me in the chest with a stiff finger.
“Don’t do that. It hurts, it’s degrading and I do outrank you.”
I said.
He continued pushing me. I threatened:
“I will fuck you up! Please stop it!”
“Try me!”
He repeatedly responded.
No amount of begging and threatening could make him stop. In his hurt he was clearly looking for a fight, and I was the chosen one to take his hurt out on. Had I known that he was hurt just as badly as I was, things might have turned out differently. He pushed me one time too many before I’d had enough. I lashed out and hit him.
Into that blow went all my pent up longing and frustration accumulated over the years of trying to get his love and attention. He managed to duck in time and I landed a glancing blow on his cheek, splitting the skin and rolling it up all the way to his left ear. He bounced off the wall and charged at me, the white of his jawbone showing. I was ready and hit him with my left hand breaking his jaw in two places.
That took the fight out of him. I was mortified, and when my rage died down I tried to convey my remorse.
“I’m sorry dad! You were looking for it! Please forgive me! I truly am fucking sorry.”
To raise your hands against your father was totally unheard of. He has never forgiven me for this and I have not forgiven myself either. I never can as it’s too deep-rooted a belief.
I took him to the military hospital where we concocted a story about a car accident. They clearly did not believe us as we were reeking of alcohol, my eyes were red from crying and no car accident could have inflicted the type of injuries he had. He got hospitalised for a week and underwent surgery to wire up his jaw.
Even though we lived and worked in the same city I did not visit my parents’ house for over three months after this incident. Notes were left by my father under the windscreen-wipers of my car urging me to meet with him at the golf club for a drink. I ignored them all until he one day confronted me in person, smartly saluted me and officially invited me for a drink.
“Lieutenant, would you do me the honour of joining me for a drink tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure. I will meet you after work.”
I responded.
That night I went to meet with him, and we got drunk together as two adversaries correctly would once the dust had settled.
One Friday night returning from the pub I found my brother and a girlfriend visiting my folks. They had driven from Pretoria as Bloemfontein University had no medical faculty at the time and Pretoria was the closest. I was in a dark mood because of a situation at work and needed the support of my family.
“Evening all. Boy, did I have a rough day.”
I must have interrupted my brother in mid-sentence. He brushed me off:
“Shut up. We’re busy talking.”
“Go and fuck yourself!”
I retaliated.
I went to the backroom to collect a few belongings before leaving to spend the weekend with a few girlfriends. I was disgusted and hurt as nobody recognised that I needed a patient ear and shoulder to cry on.
My father followed me and started pushing me about.
“You will now explain this conflict between your brother and yourself! You will do it now!”
He shouted at me, acting as if he was not aware that he was largely to blame for the sibling rivalry that existed between us.
I shouted back at him:
“Go and ask your first-born and favourite and fucking leave me alone!”
There was always alcohol in our house and my dad had clearly put quite a lot of it under his belt as my mom was in the middle of yet another affair. She had later left home for a few weeks to be with her lover, and he needed to ease the pain a bit.
“Explain yourself!”
He pushed me in the chest with a stiff finger.
“Don’t do that. It hurts, it’s degrading and I do outrank you.”
I said.
He continued pushing me. I threatened:
“I will fuck you up! Please stop it!”
“Try me!”
He repeatedly responded.
No amount of begging and threatening could make him stop. In his hurt he was clearly looking for a fight, and I was the chosen one to take his hurt out on. Had I known that he was hurt just as badly as I was, things might have turned out differently. He pushed me one time too many before I’d had enough. I lashed out and hit him.
Into that blow went all my pent up longing and frustration accumulated over the years of trying to get his love and attention. He managed to duck in time and I landed a glancing blow on his cheek, splitting the skin and rolling it up all the way to his left ear. He bounced off the wall and charged at me, the white of his jawbone showing. I was ready and hit him with my left hand breaking his jaw in two places.
That took the fight out of him. I was mortified, and when my rage died down I tried to convey my remorse.
“I’m sorry dad! You were looking for it! Please forgive me! I truly am fucking sorry.”
To raise your hands against your father was totally unheard of. He has never forgiven me for this and I have not forgiven myself either. I never can as it’s too deep-rooted a belief.
I took him to the military hospital where we concocted a story about a car accident. They clearly did not believe us as we were reeking of alcohol, my eyes were red from crying and no car accident could have inflicted the type of injuries he had. He got hospitalised for a week and underwent surgery to wire up his jaw.
Even though we lived and worked in the same city I did not visit my parents’ house for over three months after this incident. Notes were left by my father under the windscreen-wipers of my car urging me to meet with him at the golf club for a drink. I ignored them all until he one day confronted me in person, smartly saluted me and officially invited me for a drink.
“Lieutenant, would you do me the honour of joining me for a drink tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure. I will meet you after work.”
I responded.
That night I went to meet with him, and we got drunk together as two adversaries correctly would once the dust had settled.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
What a Week
I attended a PTA meeting and had a good look around at all the old people. Where did they all come from and why are they all so old? These are the parents of my child’s classmates. My God! They are so old. And then I realised that I look the same way.
A week that brought me back into contact with family members I have not seen or heard from for over 35 years. The startling realisation that I actually do care what they think of me.
A week that made my break ties with a good friend in cyberspace because I realised that I will always be the “punch bag” when this friend feels under the weather and that I do not appreciate this fact.
A week that had “sane” people up in arms because they forgot that my Blog is aimed at people with a sense of humour.
A week that made me realise that my psychiatrist might be right and that things might get worse before they get better.
Winter is also approaching.
Thanks God for international rugby and cricket!
A week that brought me back into contact with family members I have not seen or heard from for over 35 years. The startling realisation that I actually do care what they think of me.
A week that made my break ties with a good friend in cyberspace because I realised that I will always be the “punch bag” when this friend feels under the weather and that I do not appreciate this fact.
A week that had “sane” people up in arms because they forgot that my Blog is aimed at people with a sense of humour.
A week that made me realise that my psychiatrist might be right and that things might get worse before they get better.
Winter is also approaching.
Thanks God for international rugby and cricket!
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Howzat!
Praise all the Nordic gods in the Viking Pantheon of Valhalla. At last South Africa have got something else than crooked politicians to fill their news headlines with. I’m talking about a much higher calling than politics i.e. international cricket and rugby.
Let those smug, silly, pretentious specimens called politicians be. Only they labour under the delusion that the rest of the world takes them serious.
Let us mortals escape into the realm of sport for the sake of sanity.
It reminds me of a story about a farmer who’s never being more than 20 km’s away from the “throbbing metropolis” called Pofadder in his entire life. One day he got invited by a friend to come and visit in Johannesburg and as luck would have it arrived on the very same day that an international cricket match started.
This is his story:
…I arrived in Johan se Berg early that morning after a whole night of smelling other people’s farts on a Greyhound buss.
By fuck, it was just people as far as one could see!
Hans could not meet me and send a driver with a ticket for a cricket match as he would meet me there after an important appointment. So I went with the driver who dropped me off at this gate.
Jossis!
If you thought it was a lot of people before you should have seen this!
I did not have a clue what this cricket kak was all about but as Hans seemed to like it, I decided to try it as well.
I joined a line and after about 45 minutes, when I got to the front, a comical bastard in a little cage laughed at me and told me that I did not have to be in the line as I had a Vee-Eye-Pee pass.
I decided Vee-Eye-Pee se moer and yours as well and as I turned away another little prick took my ticket out of my hand and tore the bloody thing in two. I nearly donnered him on the spot but decided that I’m a stranger in a strange town and after saying “fok jou, jou muildoos,” I fell back in the line and bought myself another ticket. This one I shoved in my back pocket so that this little poepol could not tear it up as well.
Inside it was wonderful. For the first time I could see how many people there really was. All of them stuck-up and rude as not one wanted to accept my hand when I tried to introduce myself.
I decided fuck them all and eventually found my seat next to an old oomie.
He had a pair of “by-knock-q-laars.” Really funny things you put in front of your eyes and when you do it pulls the people from the other side of the field right up to you. When you however, put out your hand to greet them you make an arsehole out of yourself because they are still over there.
Boy, in front of me was the nicest piece of veld I have ever seen in my life. No matter that some dumb labourer stuffed up a little rectangle in the centre by cutting the grass too short. One could always nurse that piece back to life and then it would be a beautiful stukkie land.
I was still contemplating why this stupid doos cut that piece of grass so short when two men in white coats came onto the field. I thought to myself “yup, now that labourer is in the shit because these two are inspectors and they are sure to see where he cut the grass too short.” They also headed right for the spot and I had a warm feeling inside of me like when you drink klippies and coke too fast because I knew they would find the culprit, moer and fire him on the spot.
I could not believe my eyes when one of these vulgar bastards donnered three sticks into that struggling piece of grass.
I shouted at him:
“You fucking vandal, why don’t you pick a spot where the grass is longer?”
The people around me immediately shushed me to be quiet and I thought by myself. Just like these city dwellers, no-one wants to get involved.
My moer was coming to a boiling point and was not helped when this guy bliksemed three other sticks in on the other end of the rectangle as well.
I decided to try and cool down by looking at the women around me and ignoring these bastards on the veld until Hans came.
The oomie next to me was telling me how it was the Boere against the Brits today and I then realised what this was all about. Hans brought me to an international fight to welcome me to Johan se berg.
What a friend!
Soon eleven of these English bastards came on the field, all dressed in white and I could see that they are all a bunch of limp-wristed, liberal sissies that probably voted for corporal and capitol punishment to be abolished. Swinging their arms around and trying to look all puffed up with importance. Most of them had white paint on their faces and they were throwing a red stone around. They clearly were not very clever as they only had one stone between all of them. They might have had a better chance if every one had at least five stones.
Ha-ha.
Stupid fucking Poms.
Then two Boere came out. It sounds a bit unfair being only two against eleven but these guys were all padded up and had helmets on. They were also not as stupid as the Brits as each guy had a cano paddle to bliksem the Pommies with. In the event of them not being able to sort out this scum from across the water then there was still about 50 000 of us in the stands that could help them out.
Or so I thought.
I could not understand why these two did not start from one side and just wade into the Brits. Instead they walked to the middle of the field and then split up.
Shit people, it would have been safer to stick together.
At least they were carefully looking around and one could see that they made sure they knew where each and every English bastard was standing on the field.
In the meantime one piece of white British dog-vomit was walking almost off the field with that stone in his hand.
Suddenly he turned around and started running towards the middle and I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.
He got close the middle and let fly with that stone.
Luckily he decided to throw at the Boer furthest away from him because he would have killed the guy closest to him for sure.
Bliksem!
That Boertjie knew what he was doing. He rapped that stone out of harms way with his cano paddle. Glaring at the guilty party and one could see that he thought: “fuck you and Lord Kitchener as well.”
I then decided enough of this crap.
If no one else is going to help my countrymen I will.
When that fucking Pommie turned around for the second time and started running towards the middle I was out of my seat.
Five yards before he reached the middle I caught him from behind and slapped him so hard that the snot went right around his head.
He went nose first into that short piece of ground and his head made a three metre furrow in the pitch before he came to a stop. I have no idea what happened to the stone. He might have swallowed it as he was making noises like a nostril that’s very difficult to clear.
Everyone on the field as well as the crowd was dead silent and the police came and arrested me.
Hans bailed me out of the police cells and I’m never, ever going to Johan se Berg again.
Fuck them!
Let those smug, silly, pretentious specimens called politicians be. Only they labour under the delusion that the rest of the world takes them serious.
Let us mortals escape into the realm of sport for the sake of sanity.
It reminds me of a story about a farmer who’s never being more than 20 km’s away from the “throbbing metropolis” called Pofadder in his entire life. One day he got invited by a friend to come and visit in Johannesburg and as luck would have it arrived on the very same day that an international cricket match started.
This is his story:
…I arrived in Johan se Berg early that morning after a whole night of smelling other people’s farts on a Greyhound buss.
By fuck, it was just people as far as one could see!
Hans could not meet me and send a driver with a ticket for a cricket match as he would meet me there after an important appointment. So I went with the driver who dropped me off at this gate.
Jossis!
If you thought it was a lot of people before you should have seen this!
I did not have a clue what this cricket kak was all about but as Hans seemed to like it, I decided to try it as well.
I joined a line and after about 45 minutes, when I got to the front, a comical bastard in a little cage laughed at me and told me that I did not have to be in the line as I had a Vee-Eye-Pee pass.
I decided Vee-Eye-Pee se moer and yours as well and as I turned away another little prick took my ticket out of my hand and tore the bloody thing in two. I nearly donnered him on the spot but decided that I’m a stranger in a strange town and after saying “fok jou, jou muildoos,” I fell back in the line and bought myself another ticket. This one I shoved in my back pocket so that this little poepol could not tear it up as well.
Inside it was wonderful. For the first time I could see how many people there really was. All of them stuck-up and rude as not one wanted to accept my hand when I tried to introduce myself.
I decided fuck them all and eventually found my seat next to an old oomie.
He had a pair of “by-knock-q-laars.” Really funny things you put in front of your eyes and when you do it pulls the people from the other side of the field right up to you. When you however, put out your hand to greet them you make an arsehole out of yourself because they are still over there.
Boy, in front of me was the nicest piece of veld I have ever seen in my life. No matter that some dumb labourer stuffed up a little rectangle in the centre by cutting the grass too short. One could always nurse that piece back to life and then it would be a beautiful stukkie land.
I was still contemplating why this stupid doos cut that piece of grass so short when two men in white coats came onto the field. I thought to myself “yup, now that labourer is in the shit because these two are inspectors and they are sure to see where he cut the grass too short.” They also headed right for the spot and I had a warm feeling inside of me like when you drink klippies and coke too fast because I knew they would find the culprit, moer and fire him on the spot.
I could not believe my eyes when one of these vulgar bastards donnered three sticks into that struggling piece of grass.
I shouted at him:
“You fucking vandal, why don’t you pick a spot where the grass is longer?”
The people around me immediately shushed me to be quiet and I thought by myself. Just like these city dwellers, no-one wants to get involved.
My moer was coming to a boiling point and was not helped when this guy bliksemed three other sticks in on the other end of the rectangle as well.
I decided to try and cool down by looking at the women around me and ignoring these bastards on the veld until Hans came.
The oomie next to me was telling me how it was the Boere against the Brits today and I then realised what this was all about. Hans brought me to an international fight to welcome me to Johan se berg.
What a friend!
Soon eleven of these English bastards came on the field, all dressed in white and I could see that they are all a bunch of limp-wristed, liberal sissies that probably voted for corporal and capitol punishment to be abolished. Swinging their arms around and trying to look all puffed up with importance. Most of them had white paint on their faces and they were throwing a red stone around. They clearly were not very clever as they only had one stone between all of them. They might have had a better chance if every one had at least five stones.
Ha-ha.
Stupid fucking Poms.
Then two Boere came out. It sounds a bit unfair being only two against eleven but these guys were all padded up and had helmets on. They were also not as stupid as the Brits as each guy had a cano paddle to bliksem the Pommies with. In the event of them not being able to sort out this scum from across the water then there was still about 50 000 of us in the stands that could help them out.
Or so I thought.
I could not understand why these two did not start from one side and just wade into the Brits. Instead they walked to the middle of the field and then split up.
Shit people, it would have been safer to stick together.
At least they were carefully looking around and one could see that they made sure they knew where each and every English bastard was standing on the field.
In the meantime one piece of white British dog-vomit was walking almost off the field with that stone in his hand.
Suddenly he turned around and started running towards the middle and I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.
He got close the middle and let fly with that stone.
Luckily he decided to throw at the Boer furthest away from him because he would have killed the guy closest to him for sure.
Bliksem!
That Boertjie knew what he was doing. He rapped that stone out of harms way with his cano paddle. Glaring at the guilty party and one could see that he thought: “fuck you and Lord Kitchener as well.”
I then decided enough of this crap.
If no one else is going to help my countrymen I will.
When that fucking Pommie turned around for the second time and started running towards the middle I was out of my seat.
Five yards before he reached the middle I caught him from behind and slapped him so hard that the snot went right around his head.
He went nose first into that short piece of ground and his head made a three metre furrow in the pitch before he came to a stop. I have no idea what happened to the stone. He might have swallowed it as he was making noises like a nostril that’s very difficult to clear.
Everyone on the field as well as the crowd was dead silent and the police came and arrested me.
Hans bailed me out of the police cells and I’m never, ever going to Johan se Berg again.
Fuck them!
Friday, September 7, 2007
Review: Azaria Mbatha
Reviewing and/or taking on the role as a critic of a self-published book such as The Roaring Lion and Wedding Bells – In the Heart of Tigers and Leopards by Azaria J. C. Mbatha is indeed a very serious thing. As reviewer and author I am expected to play with open cards and hopefully do my work honestly and well.
I fully admit that Azaria Mbatha might be way ahead of me and have a much better grasp of life than what I have. I also hope that he has a cult following as he has been published before. It is said about self-published books that they on average sell 300 copies. Let’s hope Mr Mbatha reaches this figure.
I have no doubt that the author put his heart and soul into this work but to describe it as page turning prose is a bit too rich for me. Maybe it was written in another language as Mr Mbatha is a South African of seemingly Zulu descent and the beauty and richness might have gotten lost in the translation. I don’t know. All I do know is that I have to review this work, written in English for an English audience, by someone that has been out of South Africa since 1965 and maintain that he is fully in touch with things on the ground.
My opinions will always be subjective, formed by what I enjoy or dislike. I try to be objective with material that I do not understand and treat any work with respect. I do know what effort and labour of love it is to write. I also know about the trepidation one suffers while awaiting a review. Any author writes to be read and ultimately to be liked. If that do not form part of your motivation then I can not see why you should bother.
I will start of with a quote from the author’s preface:
“I can assure my readers that I will continue writing as long as there are things I do not understand. Things that I do not understand are above my head at the moment. However, I don’t want to start writing if I am losing it and just writing in the same mediocre fashion. Then, I don’t think I should write.”
This is the trend throughout the book, categorised as a novel. Broad sweeping statements, interrupted by questions which leads to exactly nowhere and leaves the reader totally bewildered. I could not read one page without going back a few times to check whether there was something I missed as I just could not fathom his reasoning. I still don’t.
When trying to find my bearings in this massive brick of a “novel” I find that I get totally lost in a maze of intricate, many-facetted and confusing tale. I must confess I still struggle to fully understand what, why and where the author is trying to tell anything.
In all fairness I have to admit that I have not read this “novel” from cover to cover. Not because I’m lazy and have too many other things on my plate. No, but rather because I do not like being subjected to involuntary boring lectures about absolutely nothing. If I wanted to be bored and confused I would enrol on a course about the mating habits of the North Sea clam. This book numbers no less than 507 pages of which not a single one made coherent sense to me. However, I will in time complete my reading of this work and then write another review in the event of my initial judgement being too harsh.
In trying to say something positive about this book, in desperation, I subjected it to several reading level algorithms. These "readability tests" all differ but have one thing in common i.e. how easy the text is to read. As an example part of page 243 of Mr Mbatha’s book scored 67%. Anything over 40% is categorised as extremely difficult to read and understand, normally legal jargon associated with governments trying to cover up something. Very few of the pages tested, scored under 45% which places it firmly in the category of a laborious difficult read. I therefore do not seem to be alone in forming an opinion on the perplexing nature of this material.
It’s just like an Indaba on speed, gone terribly wrong. Too many voices at the same time, too many songs sung out of tune at one given point in time, a beehive run amuck.
For those who are not intimately familiar with the traditional African way of storytelling, as I am, this is going to be a bumpy ride. (Southern African stories are often a riddle or even enigmatic at the best of times) Mr Mbatha’s style, where he intercept the flow of telling an actual story, complete with events and persons, and his personal opinions on e.g. Martin Luther, Glasnost, Verwoerd, Ubuntu, Christ, DDR and the Cubists (just to mention a few) is a difficult equation. It will without fail result in a catastrophic literary experiment. This never-ending, disorganised stream of consciousness rather exhausts the reader than offer any enlightenment.
I do recognise that this is a serious effort to get a message across. But regretfully, in Mr Mbatha’s orgy of artistic freedom and over-exposure of his self this is lost.
When trying to dissect the text into separate sections and areas there’s no denying that Mr Mbatha is indeed touching upon many a very valid topic. But why does it have to be in one and the same book? Is that why Mr Mbatha has so generously included no less than 104 footnotes to elaborate on certain aspects and/or to explain to us mere mortals what Africa is all about? Why is a “Select Bibliography”, listing some 40 sources included in a novel? I do not know. And frankly I do not really care. I don’t think Mr Mbatha have to defend his work by referring to others, nor am I of the opinion that he should need to use such a bibliography at all. As I have previously indicated, this is an author that is not at a loss for words, au contraire.
While on the subject of style I cannot help but being terribly disturbed by the countless inconsistencies and proofing errors. Whether or not that should be attributed to the author or his editor (if there was one) I’d rather leave alone. But for me, it makes the book very, very hard to read and follow.
I laboured under the illusion that Mr Mbatha would try to illustrate the riches of African story-telling in its own right. This is somehow lost along the endless meanderings of quotes, events, politicians and opinions. I will still give him credit for trying his best to tell a story that could have been important, furthering African literature to take its rightful place on the international arena. Alas, this time it’s not going to happen.
As it now stands I can not categorise this book as more than a rough first draft that still need to go through a meticulous edit, a final decision as to the genre and at least one proper rewrite. A title that sports 13 words also seem to be a bit out of place.
I fully admit that Azaria Mbatha might be way ahead of me and have a much better grasp of life than what I have. I also hope that he has a cult following as he has been published before. It is said about self-published books that they on average sell 300 copies. Let’s hope Mr Mbatha reaches this figure.
I have no doubt that the author put his heart and soul into this work but to describe it as page turning prose is a bit too rich for me. Maybe it was written in another language as Mr Mbatha is a South African of seemingly Zulu descent and the beauty and richness might have gotten lost in the translation. I don’t know. All I do know is that I have to review this work, written in English for an English audience, by someone that has been out of South Africa since 1965 and maintain that he is fully in touch with things on the ground.
My opinions will always be subjective, formed by what I enjoy or dislike. I try to be objective with material that I do not understand and treat any work with respect. I do know what effort and labour of love it is to write. I also know about the trepidation one suffers while awaiting a review. Any author writes to be read and ultimately to be liked. If that do not form part of your motivation then I can not see why you should bother.
I will start of with a quote from the author’s preface:
“I can assure my readers that I will continue writing as long as there are things I do not understand. Things that I do not understand are above my head at the moment. However, I don’t want to start writing if I am losing it and just writing in the same mediocre fashion. Then, I don’t think I should write.”
This is the trend throughout the book, categorised as a novel. Broad sweeping statements, interrupted by questions which leads to exactly nowhere and leaves the reader totally bewildered. I could not read one page without going back a few times to check whether there was something I missed as I just could not fathom his reasoning. I still don’t.
When trying to find my bearings in this massive brick of a “novel” I find that I get totally lost in a maze of intricate, many-facetted and confusing tale. I must confess I still struggle to fully understand what, why and where the author is trying to tell anything.
In all fairness I have to admit that I have not read this “novel” from cover to cover. Not because I’m lazy and have too many other things on my plate. No, but rather because I do not like being subjected to involuntary boring lectures about absolutely nothing. If I wanted to be bored and confused I would enrol on a course about the mating habits of the North Sea clam. This book numbers no less than 507 pages of which not a single one made coherent sense to me. However, I will in time complete my reading of this work and then write another review in the event of my initial judgement being too harsh.
In trying to say something positive about this book, in desperation, I subjected it to several reading level algorithms. These "readability tests" all differ but have one thing in common i.e. how easy the text is to read. As an example part of page 243 of Mr Mbatha’s book scored 67%. Anything over 40% is categorised as extremely difficult to read and understand, normally legal jargon associated with governments trying to cover up something. Very few of the pages tested, scored under 45% which places it firmly in the category of a laborious difficult read. I therefore do not seem to be alone in forming an opinion on the perplexing nature of this material.
It’s just like an Indaba on speed, gone terribly wrong. Too many voices at the same time, too many songs sung out of tune at one given point in time, a beehive run amuck.
For those who are not intimately familiar with the traditional African way of storytelling, as I am, this is going to be a bumpy ride. (Southern African stories are often a riddle or even enigmatic at the best of times) Mr Mbatha’s style, where he intercept the flow of telling an actual story, complete with events and persons, and his personal opinions on e.g. Martin Luther, Glasnost, Verwoerd, Ubuntu, Christ, DDR and the Cubists (just to mention a few) is a difficult equation. It will without fail result in a catastrophic literary experiment. This never-ending, disorganised stream of consciousness rather exhausts the reader than offer any enlightenment.
I do recognise that this is a serious effort to get a message across. But regretfully, in Mr Mbatha’s orgy of artistic freedom and over-exposure of his self this is lost.
When trying to dissect the text into separate sections and areas there’s no denying that Mr Mbatha is indeed touching upon many a very valid topic. But why does it have to be in one and the same book? Is that why Mr Mbatha has so generously included no less than 104 footnotes to elaborate on certain aspects and/or to explain to us mere mortals what Africa is all about? Why is a “Select Bibliography”, listing some 40 sources included in a novel? I do not know. And frankly I do not really care. I don’t think Mr Mbatha have to defend his work by referring to others, nor am I of the opinion that he should need to use such a bibliography at all. As I have previously indicated, this is an author that is not at a loss for words, au contraire.
While on the subject of style I cannot help but being terribly disturbed by the countless inconsistencies and proofing errors. Whether or not that should be attributed to the author or his editor (if there was one) I’d rather leave alone. But for me, it makes the book very, very hard to read and follow.
I laboured under the illusion that Mr Mbatha would try to illustrate the riches of African story-telling in its own right. This is somehow lost along the endless meanderings of quotes, events, politicians and opinions. I will still give him credit for trying his best to tell a story that could have been important, furthering African literature to take its rightful place on the international arena. Alas, this time it’s not going to happen.
As it now stands I can not categorise this book as more than a rough first draft that still need to go through a meticulous edit, a final decision as to the genre and at least one proper rewrite. A title that sports 13 words also seem to be a bit out of place.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Marketing Medicine for Maniacs
It takes a special type of person to not only read the enclosed instructions in any form of medication but to actually understand it. No doubt hypochondriacs stand to gain the most out of these detailed instructions as they spell out all the symptoms associated with the ailment. It conjures up an image of a person memorising symptoms to use the next time he sees a doctor.
But to get back to the medication; you first buy it, then read the instructions and realise, yup; this is definitely what I’m suffering from, so I need this treatment. It’s a good thing I bought it.
That however, is not the issue I want to address. My problem is that even something serious as medication falls prey to advertising jargon that just confuses the consumer.
Let’s take the Nicotinell I’m currently using in my effort to stop smoking as an example. A listed side effect is mild diarrhoea.
What is a mild diarrhoea and how did they ascertain that?
Was a survey conducted and they then just used the opinions of blatant liars that complete questionnaires for remuneration? It is definitely not a trustworthy way of doing things.
Did they conduct a clinical trial? I can just picture people in white coats poking around in stool monsters going oh and ah and then making notes on a clipboard.
Or do they grade the level of diarrhoea as they do with a curry or chutney? "Hey Hank, try this one! Definitely a mild one as it lacks all flavour." The image that conjures up will not be discussed further.
Why do they not use simple language all can understand?
I would have appreciated the following line:
“Warning: When using this medication, do not trust the art of a fart. You might get more than you bargained for.”
It would have saved on one load of underwear washing.
But to get back to the medication; you first buy it, then read the instructions and realise, yup; this is definitely what I’m suffering from, so I need this treatment. It’s a good thing I bought it.
That however, is not the issue I want to address. My problem is that even something serious as medication falls prey to advertising jargon that just confuses the consumer.
Let’s take the Nicotinell I’m currently using in my effort to stop smoking as an example. A listed side effect is mild diarrhoea.
What is a mild diarrhoea and how did they ascertain that?
Was a survey conducted and they then just used the opinions of blatant liars that complete questionnaires for remuneration? It is definitely not a trustworthy way of doing things.
Did they conduct a clinical trial? I can just picture people in white coats poking around in stool monsters going oh and ah and then making notes on a clipboard.
Or do they grade the level of diarrhoea as they do with a curry or chutney? "Hey Hank, try this one! Definitely a mild one as it lacks all flavour." The image that conjures up will not be discussed further.
Why do they not use simple language all can understand?
I would have appreciated the following line:
“Warning: When using this medication, do not trust the art of a fart. You might get more than you bargained for.”
It would have saved on one load of underwear washing.
Monday, September 3, 2007
My Week
This week saw the completion of some major dental work. I decided that it’s time to make use of the Swedish Health Care system and had some bridgework done. It took my dentist the better part of four months to complete the exercise and I must say that I am suitably impressed.
One negative however, is that she told me to stop smoking immediately. I left her chair with my mind made up. I decided to change dentist and continue doing so until I find one that smokes as well because my love affair with tobacco is too intense and go back a long way. I think I stopped smoking for the first time at the age of 6 and only then because my father gave me a serious thrashing.
To cut a long story short; I am now on day four without a cigarette and it’s not a pleasant exercise at all. I’m cutting up plastic straws and using them as placebos. I've used approximately 2445 but who’s counting. I’m also using Nicotinell lozenges to try and keep the craving for nicotine under control. One of the side effects of these tablets is described as mild diarrhoea. Thanks god for that because if the one I’m experiencing is a mild one then I don’t want to see what a proper case of the shits is all about. I’m stuck in my office (3 meters away from the loo) and will remain so for time to come. That might not be a bad thing as I’m sure I will kick old ladies around the moment I step outside the door and venture into the public domain.
I’m busy preparing a legal document to sue tobacco companies for a breakdown of my marriage and driving my children away from home. It is no fun to be around me. I am one irritated shit.
One negative however, is that she told me to stop smoking immediately. I left her chair with my mind made up. I decided to change dentist and continue doing so until I find one that smokes as well because my love affair with tobacco is too intense and go back a long way. I think I stopped smoking for the first time at the age of 6 and only then because my father gave me a serious thrashing.
To cut a long story short; I am now on day four without a cigarette and it’s not a pleasant exercise at all. I’m cutting up plastic straws and using them as placebos. I've used approximately 2445 but who’s counting. I’m also using Nicotinell lozenges to try and keep the craving for nicotine under control. One of the side effects of these tablets is described as mild diarrhoea. Thanks god for that because if the one I’m experiencing is a mild one then I don’t want to see what a proper case of the shits is all about. I’m stuck in my office (3 meters away from the loo) and will remain so for time to come. That might not be a bad thing as I’m sure I will kick old ladies around the moment I step outside the door and venture into the public domain.
I’m busy preparing a legal document to sue tobacco companies for a breakdown of my marriage and driving my children away from home. It is no fun to be around me. I am one irritated shit.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The Best Defence is To Attack (Then)
Excerpt no 5: Africa Will Always Break Your Heart
We had some weird and wonderful neighbours. We only saw the woman next door when we played soccer or cricket in the street and one of our balls had soared into her yard. She must have sat sentinel everyday. She would be out in a flash, cut the ball in half and throw the pieces back at us.
My friend Edward lived across the road from her. When I started High School he was one grade senior than my eldest brother. Edward failed his exams so many times that he finished school with me. When his dad had drunk enough wine at night to be out for the count we used to steal his car, a DKW. The DKW had a distinctive sound and made a hell of a racket so we worked our asses off pushing it as far as possible down the street before starting it. We had some great joyrides in this vehicle — always managing to evade the local traffic cop who was on the lookout for us. Edward was a hairy bugger and would cover his upper lip with sticky plaster to hide the moustache he grew before every school holiday. He was a great friend.
I went to their house often. His mother never left the house. I never saw her in anything else but a dressing gown and slippers.
A few houses away from us lived Frank. Like most people at the time he was fonder of the bottle than what was acceptable outside of military circles and definitely not something which relationships were built upon. One Friday evening Frank returned from the pub where he’d had a few pints. He got told by his wife:
“Go and buy some bread and milk. We have none in the house. Hurry back. I still need to feed the children.”
Frank did a quick shop and went back to the pub. The party got out of hand and Frank continued his quite impressive intake of beer.
He joined a group of chaps who’d come to town with the sole intent of loading up for the rugby match the next day. The military pub, of course, had to adhere to strict hours. Everyone got totally smashed. The Queens Hotel was their first venue of choice and the public bar and snooker hall had to take the full impact of a bunch of drunken military louts.
Frank was a spectator at the rugby match that Saturday afternoon without having been home yet. The local team lost and the party to drown all sorrows started right after the match. On Sunday morning Frank woke up in the single quarters of the military base. There was still some booze left over and Frank had a serious hangover. He was unshaven and unwashed. He had a splitting headache, a full-blown case of amnesia from the night before and in need of some comfort. Soon they got stuck in again. Frank had a disturbing premonition that he might be in trouble with his wife. These thoughts he tried to drink away.
“I’m always in shit with my wife. It is just the depth that varies. Please pass the rum.”
On Sunday evening Frank arrived home. Standing on his doorstep, newspaper in one hand and a squashed loaf of bread under his arm and a pint of sour milk in the other hand with a plan of action prepared. As he walked in through the front door he immediately started shouting at his wife:
“Why are the bloody children still playing in the road? Do you know what fucking time it is? Don’t you realise it’s a school-day tomorrow?”
The poor woman had nothing to say. Frank was delighted since this part of military doctrine worked so well in his favour. He bragged about it for days in the tea-room.
We had some weird and wonderful neighbours. We only saw the woman next door when we played soccer or cricket in the street and one of our balls had soared into her yard. She must have sat sentinel everyday. She would be out in a flash, cut the ball in half and throw the pieces back at us.
My friend Edward lived across the road from her. When I started High School he was one grade senior than my eldest brother. Edward failed his exams so many times that he finished school with me. When his dad had drunk enough wine at night to be out for the count we used to steal his car, a DKW. The DKW had a distinctive sound and made a hell of a racket so we worked our asses off pushing it as far as possible down the street before starting it. We had some great joyrides in this vehicle — always managing to evade the local traffic cop who was on the lookout for us. Edward was a hairy bugger and would cover his upper lip with sticky plaster to hide the moustache he grew before every school holiday. He was a great friend.
I went to their house often. His mother never left the house. I never saw her in anything else but a dressing gown and slippers.
A few houses away from us lived Frank. Like most people at the time he was fonder of the bottle than what was acceptable outside of military circles and definitely not something which relationships were built upon. One Friday evening Frank returned from the pub where he’d had a few pints. He got told by his wife:
“Go and buy some bread and milk. We have none in the house. Hurry back. I still need to feed the children.”
Frank did a quick shop and went back to the pub. The party got out of hand and Frank continued his quite impressive intake of beer.
He joined a group of chaps who’d come to town with the sole intent of loading up for the rugby match the next day. The military pub, of course, had to adhere to strict hours. Everyone got totally smashed. The Queens Hotel was their first venue of choice and the public bar and snooker hall had to take the full impact of a bunch of drunken military louts.
Frank was a spectator at the rugby match that Saturday afternoon without having been home yet. The local team lost and the party to drown all sorrows started right after the match. On Sunday morning Frank woke up in the single quarters of the military base. There was still some booze left over and Frank had a serious hangover. He was unshaven and unwashed. He had a splitting headache, a full-blown case of amnesia from the night before and in need of some comfort. Soon they got stuck in again. Frank had a disturbing premonition that he might be in trouble with his wife. These thoughts he tried to drink away.
“I’m always in shit with my wife. It is just the depth that varies. Please pass the rum.”
On Sunday evening Frank arrived home. Standing on his doorstep, newspaper in one hand and a squashed loaf of bread under his arm and a pint of sour milk in the other hand with a plan of action prepared. As he walked in through the front door he immediately started shouting at his wife:
“Why are the bloody children still playing in the road? Do you know what fucking time it is? Don’t you realise it’s a school-day tomorrow?”
The poor woman had nothing to say. Frank was delighted since this part of military doctrine worked so well in his favour. He bragged about it for days in the tea-room.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
A Verbal Laxative called The Peoples Republic of South Africa
A fundamental revolutionary lesson:The enemy manouevres (sic) but it remains the enemy / Part I
The ANC must depend on itself to defend and advance the democratic revolution!
I’ve been reading Thabo Mbeki’s letter to the nation part1 as on ANC Today with a growing unease. The same unease a diarrhoea sufferer experiences when starting a fart and realising that he is nowhere near a toilet, dressed in white trousers and in a crowd.
At first glance it is a well written piece of rhetoric but after a few more reads the feeling of trepidation grows stronger and stronger. I had this feeling before; when I watched the planes crash into the World Trade Centre on television. I then told my boy to watch as history was forever changed in front of our eyes.
First of all the president repeatedly addresses a “democratic revolution.” I have no idea what this means and to further confuse the issue he describes it as an ongoing event. The only reasonable conclusion I can draw from it is that first one must have a revolution to ensure democracy. Then you screw up that democracy with incompetence until your back is against the wall and you are under siege from the western world to start governing your country. When there is no other way out, you then promote another revolution. In this process you find enemies everywhere. These enemies do not exist but that hardly matters as long as your blind followers believe what you are promoting.
He then takes the quantum leap of declaring an independent judiciary body, The Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the ANC as one. He continues to describe what they (ANC/TRC) did not uncover and still need to do. This is sending a clear message to the already under siege realistic, law-abiding and competent minority and the message is: “Toe the line and don’t criticise our government, we are not done with you yet.” I wonder what the International Court in Den Haag will have to say about this. I also wonder where Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch stand on this issue.
The next heading is the real scary one. “Let a hundred flowers bloom.”
No sane government anywhere else in the world will use this line in any of their speeches. Was this not what Mao said? Are we talking about a future “Peoples Republic of South Africa?” Are we going to see a purging of the intelligentsia as under Pol Pot?
The “democratic revolution” then becomes the “national democratic revolution” and for the remainder of the speech the media gets bashed for daring to expose any ANC weakness. Mbeki lavishly quote The New York times as argument for his opinions but he tends to forget that the same newspaper recently carried a strong worded attack against him about his stance on HIV and AIDS.
I will be on the look-out for part 2 of this speech and like a diarrhoea sufferer I will ensure that I am close to a toilet when reading it as things like this does tend to keep me regular.
The ANC must depend on itself to defend and advance the democratic revolution!
I’ve been reading Thabo Mbeki’s letter to the nation part1 as on ANC Today with a growing unease. The same unease a diarrhoea sufferer experiences when starting a fart and realising that he is nowhere near a toilet, dressed in white trousers and in a crowd.
At first glance it is a well written piece of rhetoric but after a few more reads the feeling of trepidation grows stronger and stronger. I had this feeling before; when I watched the planes crash into the World Trade Centre on television. I then told my boy to watch as history was forever changed in front of our eyes.
First of all the president repeatedly addresses a “democratic revolution.” I have no idea what this means and to further confuse the issue he describes it as an ongoing event. The only reasonable conclusion I can draw from it is that first one must have a revolution to ensure democracy. Then you screw up that democracy with incompetence until your back is against the wall and you are under siege from the western world to start governing your country. When there is no other way out, you then promote another revolution. In this process you find enemies everywhere. These enemies do not exist but that hardly matters as long as your blind followers believe what you are promoting.
He then takes the quantum leap of declaring an independent judiciary body, The Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the ANC as one. He continues to describe what they (ANC/TRC) did not uncover and still need to do. This is sending a clear message to the already under siege realistic, law-abiding and competent minority and the message is: “Toe the line and don’t criticise our government, we are not done with you yet.” I wonder what the International Court in Den Haag will have to say about this. I also wonder where Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch stand on this issue.
The next heading is the real scary one. “Let a hundred flowers bloom.”
No sane government anywhere else in the world will use this line in any of their speeches. Was this not what Mao said? Are we talking about a future “Peoples Republic of South Africa?” Are we going to see a purging of the intelligentsia as under Pol Pot?
The “democratic revolution” then becomes the “national democratic revolution” and for the remainder of the speech the media gets bashed for daring to expose any ANC weakness. Mbeki lavishly quote The New York times as argument for his opinions but he tends to forget that the same newspaper recently carried a strong worded attack against him about his stance on HIV and AIDS.
I will be on the look-out for part 2 of this speech and like a diarrhoea sufferer I will ensure that I am close to a toilet when reading it as things like this does tend to keep me regular.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
”Sigh!”
With a heavy heart and eyes brimming with tears I am pruning my friends’ lists on both Facebook and Myspace.
I am forced to do this because I have to face reality.
He does not care about me. I was just a one-night stand. No matter that I hung onto his every word and every drag he took from his pipe. I worshipped him but he does not call and he does not write. He did not even send me a sms to thank me for the cuddly teddy bear gift I sent him on Facebook. I tried to give him moral support with the hard times he is experiencing but he just brushes me aside.
It is not that he has not got the time. How busy can one be steering South Africa off a cliff, defending Robert Mugabe and your Minister for Health? He clearly does not care about me.
Thabo Mbeki, you brought this one yourself! I’m not your friend anymore and don’t expect a Christmas card either.
Let this be a lesson to all. Never fall for short men. They will break your heart.
I am forced to do this because I have to face reality.
He does not care about me. I was just a one-night stand. No matter that I hung onto his every word and every drag he took from his pipe. I worshipped him but he does not call and he does not write. He did not even send me a sms to thank me for the cuddly teddy bear gift I sent him on Facebook. I tried to give him moral support with the hard times he is experiencing but he just brushes me aside.
It is not that he has not got the time. How busy can one be steering South Africa off a cliff, defending Robert Mugabe and your Minister for Health? He clearly does not care about me.
Thabo Mbeki, you brought this one yourself! I’m not your friend anymore and don’t expect a Christmas card either.
Let this be a lesson to all. Never fall for short men. They will break your heart.
The Cango Valley, Affairs and Fantasies (1968 - 1973)
Excerpt no 4: Africa Will Always Break Your Heart
...We discovered popular music. In Geoff’s case, The Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival while I was leaning more towards Deep Purple, Uriah Heep and Cat Stevens. We drove the old man insane with our newly discovered ‘satanic’ influence. He initially did not allow us to play any of it while he was around. But he soon learnt that all of our friends listened to it as well and only then did he grudgingly accept it. Geoff became a good guitarist. I think the old man was silently very proud of him.
We did holiday jobs as guides at the ostrich farms and the Cango Caves. We got well paid and were therefore esteemed by our peers. We bought our own clothes and fended for ourselves.
Family life was more relaxed. In an honest effort of reconciliation mom was not having any affairs. We had friends over. Most of them liked our folks as they came across as carefree and liberal. Dad had a wry sense of humour and treated our friends a lot better than he did his own children especially the teenage girls.
One thing that didn’t change was the dinner ceremony. For one thing, were you as much as a few minutes late you were bound to have shit coming your way. Dinners would always be concluded by dad taking out The Holy Book. He would read and preach and this inevitably led to some serious arguments. He elevated himself to godly status within a few minutes by quoting the Word of the Lord as to how a son should obey his father and then immediately embark on the stupid rules and regulations imposed by him, which he believed we did not carry out to the letter. We were made to feel like the scum of the earth. My most vivid recollection of these suppers is that I used to make ‘fists’ with my toes, tensing up for the argument that was sure to erupt sooner or later. It all depended on whether the old man had a good day at work or not. Mostly it tended to be bad days.
Still, things were better. We even went on a few holidays as a family. Dad had bought a car and even though it was close to becoming a vintage, it was a somewhat reliable form of transport. We did the trip back to Cape Town quite a few times, specifically to visit my cousins in Simon’s Town.
Soon mom was at it again.
Mini-skirts were in fashion at the time and one of mom’s lady friends would visit us regularly. This normally happened over weekends when my elder brother was visiting his girlfriend and not around. ‘M’ never wore a bra and one could see her firm breasts and big swollen nipples quite clearly through the thin tops she wore. She was a slightly chubby little thing, about a head shorter than me with long shining black hair, large emerald green eyes and an upturned nose. She was twice my age but could easily pass for a teenager. She rolled her ‘r’s’ as some do, and I found this extremely sexy.
I was never sure if she knew I was looking at her legs each time I managed to sit opposite her. This was most of the time since she always pulled me into the conversation and made sure that I sat facing her.
Her thighs were slightly thicker than perfect but muscular. I could swear that she’d purposely part her legs slightly to give me a glimpse of her forbidden crotch never looking me in the eye. She would start off by sitting cross-legged showing just a glimpse of her panties underneath a very short skirt. I would wait impatiently for her to uncross her legs as to get a better view of this small triangle of forbidden delight. In time she would uncross her legs, slowly, revealing a full view of her sex. She toyed with me and never let me know if she did this on purpose or not. My mouth went dry and I was unable to speak, mesmerised by her appearance. I was afraid to get up and show my prominent erection...
...We discovered popular music. In Geoff’s case, The Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival while I was leaning more towards Deep Purple, Uriah Heep and Cat Stevens. We drove the old man insane with our newly discovered ‘satanic’ influence. He initially did not allow us to play any of it while he was around. But he soon learnt that all of our friends listened to it as well and only then did he grudgingly accept it. Geoff became a good guitarist. I think the old man was silently very proud of him.
We did holiday jobs as guides at the ostrich farms and the Cango Caves. We got well paid and were therefore esteemed by our peers. We bought our own clothes and fended for ourselves.
Family life was more relaxed. In an honest effort of reconciliation mom was not having any affairs. We had friends over. Most of them liked our folks as they came across as carefree and liberal. Dad had a wry sense of humour and treated our friends a lot better than he did his own children especially the teenage girls.
One thing that didn’t change was the dinner ceremony. For one thing, were you as much as a few minutes late you were bound to have shit coming your way. Dinners would always be concluded by dad taking out The Holy Book. He would read and preach and this inevitably led to some serious arguments. He elevated himself to godly status within a few minutes by quoting the Word of the Lord as to how a son should obey his father and then immediately embark on the stupid rules and regulations imposed by him, which he believed we did not carry out to the letter. We were made to feel like the scum of the earth. My most vivid recollection of these suppers is that I used to make ‘fists’ with my toes, tensing up for the argument that was sure to erupt sooner or later. It all depended on whether the old man had a good day at work or not. Mostly it tended to be bad days.
Still, things were better. We even went on a few holidays as a family. Dad had bought a car and even though it was close to becoming a vintage, it was a somewhat reliable form of transport. We did the trip back to Cape Town quite a few times, specifically to visit my cousins in Simon’s Town.
Soon mom was at it again.
Mini-skirts were in fashion at the time and one of mom’s lady friends would visit us regularly. This normally happened over weekends when my elder brother was visiting his girlfriend and not around. ‘M’ never wore a bra and one could see her firm breasts and big swollen nipples quite clearly through the thin tops she wore. She was a slightly chubby little thing, about a head shorter than me with long shining black hair, large emerald green eyes and an upturned nose. She was twice my age but could easily pass for a teenager. She rolled her ‘r’s’ as some do, and I found this extremely sexy.
I was never sure if she knew I was looking at her legs each time I managed to sit opposite her. This was most of the time since she always pulled me into the conversation and made sure that I sat facing her.
Her thighs were slightly thicker than perfect but muscular. I could swear that she’d purposely part her legs slightly to give me a glimpse of her forbidden crotch never looking me in the eye. She would start off by sitting cross-legged showing just a glimpse of her panties underneath a very short skirt. I would wait impatiently for her to uncross her legs as to get a better view of this small triangle of forbidden delight. In time she would uncross her legs, slowly, revealing a full view of her sex. She toyed with me and never let me know if she did this on purpose or not. My mouth went dry and I was unable to speak, mesmerised by her appearance. I was afraid to get up and show my prominent erection...
Saturday, August 25, 2007
NOT Fit to Govern 2
Factbook on Global Sexual Exploitation
South Africa
"...The number of violent crimes against women and children has risen dramatically since the ANC came into power in 1994, says National Party. The number of rapes in South Africa had increased by 23% since 1996..."
"...Health officials in South Africa say adolescent girls are twice as likely to become infected with HIV as boys, a reflection of increased sexual activity, often unwilling, with older men. Mamelato Leopeng, an AIDS counselor at the Esselen Street Health Center in Johannesburg, said about one-third of the HIV-infected men she encounters have bought into the belief that sex with a virgin will cure them, and they are further convinced that the needed "dose of purity" is rendered ineffective with a condom. (Dean E. Murphy, "Africa’s Silent Shame," Los Angeles Times, 16 August 1998)
The desire to "get back at women" is the most common reaction among men when they are first told they are HIV-positive, says Mamelato Leopeng, an AIDS counselor at the Esselen Street Health Center in Johannesburg, says. HIV-infected men have even targeted young girls as an act of vengeance. In a case reported by South African police in May 1998, members of a gang of unemployed men in Soweto were allegedly raping schoolgirls, telling their victims that they were HIV-infected and didn't want to die alone. (Dean E. Murphy, "Africa’s Silent Shame," Los Angeles Times, 16 August 1998)"
South Africa
"...The number of violent crimes against women and children has risen dramatically since the ANC came into power in 1994, says National Party. The number of rapes in South Africa had increased by 23% since 1996..."
"...Health officials in South Africa say adolescent girls are twice as likely to become infected with HIV as boys, a reflection of increased sexual activity, often unwilling, with older men. Mamelato Leopeng, an AIDS counselor at the Esselen Street Health Center in Johannesburg, said about one-third of the HIV-infected men she encounters have bought into the belief that sex with a virgin will cure them, and they are further convinced that the needed "dose of purity" is rendered ineffective with a condom. (Dean E. Murphy, "Africa’s Silent Shame," Los Angeles Times, 16 August 1998)
The desire to "get back at women" is the most common reaction among men when they are first told they are HIV-positive, says Mamelato Leopeng, an AIDS counselor at the Esselen Street Health Center in Johannesburg, says. HIV-infected men have even targeted young girls as an act of vengeance. In a case reported by South African police in May 1998, members of a gang of unemployed men in Soweto were allegedly raping schoolgirls, telling their victims that they were HIV-infected and didn't want to die alone. (Dean E. Murphy, "Africa’s Silent Shame," Los Angeles Times, 16 August 1998)"
These People are NOT Fit to Govern
South Africa a major player in human trafficking
"Poverty is the major contributing factor in ‘sexploitation’. Anthony is in charge of a project to free young women trapped in prostitution in Atlantis, an area in Cape Town. She says girls, sometimes as young as four, are drawn into the sex work industry."
"While the government has acknowledged the problem, it has yet to commit itself to solving it. So it is left to non-governmental organisations to do the best they can."
"Poverty is the major contributing factor in ‘sexploitation’. Anthony is in charge of a project to free young women trapped in prostitution in Atlantis, an area in Cape Town. She says girls, sometimes as young as four, are drawn into the sex work industry."
"While the government has acknowledged the problem, it has yet to commit itself to solving it. So it is left to non-governmental organisations to do the best they can."
What a Farking Farce!
A fierce debate is raging in South Africa as to whether the Sunday Times had the right to expose the Minister for Health’s medical records for the sake of public interest. The right of the people to know is weighed up against doctor-patient privilege. Even academics and usually sane people are involved in this furore. As sure as God made little apples this will end up in a court battle that should lead to the dismissal of either the minister or the editor but I am not holding my breath as to either eventuality. I can just picture the legal representation of all parties concerned rubbing their hands together in anticipation of the fees involved.
In the blue corner we have the Sunday Times and the red corner the government and more specifically the Minister for Health. A woman who fails to realise that she will be much better served if she can just keep her yap shut for a few minutes at any given time.
Hey Manto! Do you honestly believe that the rest of the world considers you as someone to be taken serious? Go and play Dr. Mengele with a few thousand more AIDS sufferers and let them eat beetroot and garlic. Maybe one will surprise the crap out of you and recover.
The President can not do the rational thing and suspend this specimen, masquerading as a servant of the people, until such a time that a thorough investigation have been carried out covering all aspects of the allegations levelled against her. Nope, that is too much to ask. He will not even consider an investigation because the allegations came from a newspaper.
You see, criticism of the ANC is heresy as preached by their authority figures and will be brushed aside by each and every means at their disposal.
The minister’s alleged theft gets swept under the carpet as of no importance because it happened a long time ago (70’s) in another country. I know South African society and how they view people with criminal records. As a general rule they do not get employment let alone voted into public office. Why should this minister then be allowed to levitate above the law and elevated to godly status?
Come on Thabo! Do the right thing. Ignore her medical condition, place her on immediate suspension, get hold of her criminal record, conduct a thorough investigation of all accusations and fire the woman if the allegations are found to be true. One can always start by going back to your own records, how hundreds of cadres died of malaria in the ANC camps because someone was too lazy and disorganised to place a simple order for quinine.
There is no need to debate the matter further. This whole situation is turning into a farce and I’m beginning to believe that you are actually related to Robert Mugabe. The resemblance in attitude is too apparent to be coincidental.
And then we have the Sunday Times who have exposed all of this because they honestly believe in the people’s right to know.
Ja, right and I don’t fart!
Sensationalism and newspaper sales play absolutely no role in this whatsoever.
There is a misleading notion that journalists are people with highly developed values and norms and that they consider “the people’s right to know” as their first and foremost quest in life.
Good Lord, people!
The term “journalism” does not equal sainthood. It describes an icky career in which very few ever make a real contribution to society. A dog eat dog career that is known for deadlines, fierce competition, sensationalism, inaccuracies, scoops and the quick gratification of seeing their names in print.
They get paid for what they write and how well that sells the newspaper. Do not labour under the illusion that a journalist considers “the peoples right to know” of any importance when chasing a story. That term is legal jargon for total insensitivity when ruining another person’s life and they are quick to hide behind it.
Why do we all not wade through this crap and see it for what it is. Even though well disguised and served up as figs, it’s still a load of fresh horse manure.
In my mind none of the parties in this dispute are right. All have abused their power and the trust placed in them by the people.
The Sunday Times knows the current ANC leadership and knew that this would be the attitude. Why did they not take their information to somebody that could have used it effectively and ensured an investigation? Even an international body if none could be found in South Africa.
As for the government; what can one say? Nothing surprises me anymore. A bunch of crooked misfits who have tainted the image of the struggle that got rid of apartheid forever and puts the names of Nelson Mandela and Govan Mbeki to shame. Have they no moral fibre or remorse?
This hogwash of a dispute, and not the real issues, will remain news headlines for weeks to come and the plight of sexually abused children and HIV/AIDS sufferers will be ignored.
I feel sick to my stomach.
In the blue corner we have the Sunday Times and the red corner the government and more specifically the Minister for Health. A woman who fails to realise that she will be much better served if she can just keep her yap shut for a few minutes at any given time.
Hey Manto! Do you honestly believe that the rest of the world considers you as someone to be taken serious? Go and play Dr. Mengele with a few thousand more AIDS sufferers and let them eat beetroot and garlic. Maybe one will surprise the crap out of you and recover.
The President can not do the rational thing and suspend this specimen, masquerading as a servant of the people, until such a time that a thorough investigation have been carried out covering all aspects of the allegations levelled against her. Nope, that is too much to ask. He will not even consider an investigation because the allegations came from a newspaper.
You see, criticism of the ANC is heresy as preached by their authority figures and will be brushed aside by each and every means at their disposal.
The minister’s alleged theft gets swept under the carpet as of no importance because it happened a long time ago (70’s) in another country. I know South African society and how they view people with criminal records. As a general rule they do not get employment let alone voted into public office. Why should this minister then be allowed to levitate above the law and elevated to godly status?
Come on Thabo! Do the right thing. Ignore her medical condition, place her on immediate suspension, get hold of her criminal record, conduct a thorough investigation of all accusations and fire the woman if the allegations are found to be true. One can always start by going back to your own records, how hundreds of cadres died of malaria in the ANC camps because someone was too lazy and disorganised to place a simple order for quinine.
There is no need to debate the matter further. This whole situation is turning into a farce and I’m beginning to believe that you are actually related to Robert Mugabe. The resemblance in attitude is too apparent to be coincidental.
And then we have the Sunday Times who have exposed all of this because they honestly believe in the people’s right to know.
Ja, right and I don’t fart!
Sensationalism and newspaper sales play absolutely no role in this whatsoever.
There is a misleading notion that journalists are people with highly developed values and norms and that they consider “the people’s right to know” as their first and foremost quest in life.
Good Lord, people!
The term “journalism” does not equal sainthood. It describes an icky career in which very few ever make a real contribution to society. A dog eat dog career that is known for deadlines, fierce competition, sensationalism, inaccuracies, scoops and the quick gratification of seeing their names in print.
They get paid for what they write and how well that sells the newspaper. Do not labour under the illusion that a journalist considers “the peoples right to know” of any importance when chasing a story. That term is legal jargon for total insensitivity when ruining another person’s life and they are quick to hide behind it.
Why do we all not wade through this crap and see it for what it is. Even though well disguised and served up as figs, it’s still a load of fresh horse manure.
In my mind none of the parties in this dispute are right. All have abused their power and the trust placed in them by the people.
The Sunday Times knows the current ANC leadership and knew that this would be the attitude. Why did they not take their information to somebody that could have used it effectively and ensured an investigation? Even an international body if none could be found in South Africa.
As for the government; what can one say? Nothing surprises me anymore. A bunch of crooked misfits who have tainted the image of the struggle that got rid of apartheid forever and puts the names of Nelson Mandela and Govan Mbeki to shame. Have they no moral fibre or remorse?
This hogwash of a dispute, and not the real issues, will remain news headlines for weeks to come and the plight of sexually abused children and HIV/AIDS sufferers will be ignored.
I feel sick to my stomach.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Fraud, Deception and Depravation
I have mailed a draft of this article to the deputy editor of a regional newspaper in South Africa 24 hours ago. I clearly stated that I will post it on my Blog if they do not respond within a reasonable time. I have not named the paper as yet, but if no response is forthcoming by the end of the workday on Friday, August 24th, 2007 I will do so. I will also approach the press ombudsman in South Africa, the owners of the newspaper and post all relevant correspondence as wide as possible on the World Wide Web. It is high time that the normal man in the street be heard.
One of the things South African society is known for is their callousness towards victims and specifically victims of violent crime. The attitude of their police force towards rape victims illustrates this. A few other aspects that comes to mind is the governmental stance on supplying anti-retroviral drugs to HIV/AIDS sufferers and lack of involvement with the plight of sexually abused children. Society as a whole is so snowed under with crime and cruelty that they have to develop very thick skins as a defense mechanism for the sake of their sanity. This has an unfortunate backlash. Petty crimes are shrugged off with a “we don’t care attitude.”
“What on earth is he on about again?” you might ask.
Let me explain my situation.
I am a struggling first-time author using a small publishing concern in South Africa. Together we decided not to send copies of my book to newspapers with the hope that some would respond and do a review. We have not got money to waste. We therefore did not, ‘doorstop’ the newspapers as some authors do, and just sent them a copy. We first contacted the newspapers and only when they showed interest did we forward them copies, at our cost, for review purposes. A regional newspaper is on record asking for a copy of the book for the purpose of a review. A trail of e-mail messages confirms this.
Not only have this newspaper not done a review in a reasonable time i.e. approximately 4 months but repeated enquiries about the status remain unanswered. I know that journalists are busy people and sometimes ‘forget’ about responding to correspondence but this paper have not made any effort to return the book to my publisher and reimburse him for his postage and time. They have stated no reason as to why they can not do the review either. They clearly have no intention of doing the review. In my mind they thus obtained a copy of my book, by devious means, and intend to keep it. They have also had ample time for all the staff and their families to have read the book by now without any payment or acknowledgement, so returning it now, serves no purpose. There is no more choice in this matter. The newspaper is under an obligation to do an objective review of my work, publish it and to include the contact particulars of my publisher. That was our agreement.
I have had enough of this attitude of “to hell with the small man on the street, he counts for nothing.”
See what other readers say about my book. An interview was even carried on Reuters and I'm thus lead to believe that my work is seen as "good enough" and also relevant to the current political situaution in South Africa..
A quick search on the web brought up a few “layman’s terms.”
“Defraud” means to knowingly obtain, by deception, some benefit for oneself or another, or to knowingly cause, by deception, some detriment to another.
“Deception” means knowingly deceiving another or causing another to be deceived by any false or misleading representation, by withholding information, by preventing another from acquiring information, or by any other conduct, act, or omission that creates, confirms, or perpetuates a false impression in another, including a false impression as to law, value, state of mind, or other objective or subjective fact.
"Deprive” means to do any of the following:
(1) Withhold property of another permanently, or for a period that appropriates a substantial portion of its value or use, or with purpose to restore it only upon payment of a reward or other consideration;
(2) Dispose of property so as to make it unlikely that the owner will recover it;(3) Accept, use, or appropriate money, property, or services, with purpose not to give proper consideration in return for the money, property, or services, and without reasonable justification or excuse for not giving proper consideration.
One of the things South African society is known for is their callousness towards victims and specifically victims of violent crime. The attitude of their police force towards rape victims illustrates this. A few other aspects that comes to mind is the governmental stance on supplying anti-retroviral drugs to HIV/AIDS sufferers and lack of involvement with the plight of sexually abused children. Society as a whole is so snowed under with crime and cruelty that they have to develop very thick skins as a defense mechanism for the sake of their sanity. This has an unfortunate backlash. Petty crimes are shrugged off with a “we don’t care attitude.”
“What on earth is he on about again?” you might ask.
Let me explain my situation.
I am a struggling first-time author using a small publishing concern in South Africa. Together we decided not to send copies of my book to newspapers with the hope that some would respond and do a review. We have not got money to waste. We therefore did not, ‘doorstop’ the newspapers as some authors do, and just sent them a copy. We first contacted the newspapers and only when they showed interest did we forward them copies, at our cost, for review purposes. A regional newspaper is on record asking for a copy of the book for the purpose of a review. A trail of e-mail messages confirms this.
Not only have this newspaper not done a review in a reasonable time i.e. approximately 4 months but repeated enquiries about the status remain unanswered. I know that journalists are busy people and sometimes ‘forget’ about responding to correspondence but this paper have not made any effort to return the book to my publisher and reimburse him for his postage and time. They have stated no reason as to why they can not do the review either. They clearly have no intention of doing the review. In my mind they thus obtained a copy of my book, by devious means, and intend to keep it. They have also had ample time for all the staff and their families to have read the book by now without any payment or acknowledgement, so returning it now, serves no purpose. There is no more choice in this matter. The newspaper is under an obligation to do an objective review of my work, publish it and to include the contact particulars of my publisher. That was our agreement.
I have had enough of this attitude of “to hell with the small man on the street, he counts for nothing.”
See what other readers say about my book. An interview was even carried on Reuters and I'm thus lead to believe that my work is seen as "good enough" and also relevant to the current political situaution in South Africa..
A quick search on the web brought up a few “layman’s terms.”
“Defraud” means to knowingly obtain, by deception, some benefit for oneself or another, or to knowingly cause, by deception, some detriment to another.
“Deception” means knowingly deceiving another or causing another to be deceived by any false or misleading representation, by withholding information, by preventing another from acquiring information, or by any other conduct, act, or omission that creates, confirms, or perpetuates a false impression in another, including a false impression as to law, value, state of mind, or other objective or subjective fact.
"Deprive” means to do any of the following:
(1) Withhold property of another permanently, or for a period that appropriates a substantial portion of its value or use, or with purpose to restore it only upon payment of a reward or other consideration;
(2) Dispose of property so as to make it unlikely that the owner will recover it;(3) Accept, use, or appropriate money, property, or services, with purpose not to give proper consideration in return for the money, property, or services, and without reasonable justification or excuse for not giving proper consideration.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Nightmare of a Child
In the middle of the night we were woken up by heart rendering sobs coming from the room of our 9 year old. I dragged myself out of bed to see what was wrong. The child was absolutely devastated and I got the dream out of him in panting little sobs. It went like this:
“Gerrie, I dreamt of a terribly cruel leader of a far-away country. Nobody knew exactly how cruel this man was because he could hide it very well. Nobody actually wanted to believe that this man was capable of such cruelty. He was the pre-destined ruler of the country and was groomed and schooled by reasonable people to one day take charge. When he came to power he also practiced a policy of silence diplomacy so nobody could question his motives because he would not respond.
A couple of years before this man came to power a terrible disease struck the people of his country. Scientists warned the world of this horrible illness and started research to look for an effective medicine. Soon they had prototypes of medicine available and needed to develop this further.
Because a big pharmaceutical company knew that this man would one day be the leader, they approached him and told him to invest in their brand of medicine as he could become very rich out of it. They did not tell him that there was also another brand of medicine in development. They silently hoped that he would promote their prototype to take over the market. The leader saw this as a golden opportunity and got his family and close circle of friends to invest a lot of money into it.
Fate did not smile upon this man and medical research soon proved that the other brand (the one he did not invest in) was the most effective and the one to be used worldwide. This made the leader very angry and when he came to power he made it government policy not to supply the medicine to the very sick people of his country that desperately needed it. He decided if he could not get rich then nobody will get the medicine.
He makes the people of his country die by the hundreds of thousands because of his anger. The rest of the world allows this because they do not know his real reason. Only his close circle of confidants does.
One of them is the Minister for Health. She drinks and steals but he can not fire her because she tells the people that the medicine is not needed by them. She also knows what his real reason is and he can not act against her because he is afraid she will tell the world.”
I comforted the boy and told him it was only a dream and that things like that do not happen in real life.
Soon he was sound asleep again but I lay awake thinking…
“Gerrie, I dreamt of a terribly cruel leader of a far-away country. Nobody knew exactly how cruel this man was because he could hide it very well. Nobody actually wanted to believe that this man was capable of such cruelty. He was the pre-destined ruler of the country and was groomed and schooled by reasonable people to one day take charge. When he came to power he also practiced a policy of silence diplomacy so nobody could question his motives because he would not respond.
A couple of years before this man came to power a terrible disease struck the people of his country. Scientists warned the world of this horrible illness and started research to look for an effective medicine. Soon they had prototypes of medicine available and needed to develop this further.
Because a big pharmaceutical company knew that this man would one day be the leader, they approached him and told him to invest in their brand of medicine as he could become very rich out of it. They did not tell him that there was also another brand of medicine in development. They silently hoped that he would promote their prototype to take over the market. The leader saw this as a golden opportunity and got his family and close circle of friends to invest a lot of money into it.
Fate did not smile upon this man and medical research soon proved that the other brand (the one he did not invest in) was the most effective and the one to be used worldwide. This made the leader very angry and when he came to power he made it government policy not to supply the medicine to the very sick people of his country that desperately needed it. He decided if he could not get rich then nobody will get the medicine.
He makes the people of his country die by the hundreds of thousands because of his anger. The rest of the world allows this because they do not know his real reason. Only his close circle of confidants does.
One of them is the Minister for Health. She drinks and steals but he can not fire her because she tells the people that the medicine is not needed by them. She also knows what his real reason is and he can not act against her because he is afraid she will tell the world.”
I comforted the boy and told him it was only a dream and that things like that do not happen in real life.
Soon he was sound asleep again but I lay awake thinking…
Still Trying
Posted on BNN on August 20th, 2007 and titled "Current Affairs South Africa: The Week that Was: 2"
There are plenty valid reasons to call for and insist on an immediate termination of the ANC government in South Africa. Even their staunch allies, the Swedes, now turn their backs on the ANC.
That alone should be reason for some serious introspection. Let us however push the known reasons aside and list a few more that are probably a lot more sinister.
It is deemed fit to prosecute a few “apartheid” offenders. That is fine and probably long overdue but at the same time files of ANC leaders who were denied amnesty by the TRC are now missing.
This does not say much for reconciliation and if true, I begin to side with the white people who believe that there is an orchestrated campaign against them.
In the event of somebody else having a valid different opinion then I would like to hear about it.
The government is trying to hide their incompetence behind scaremongering.
All of a sudden their Intelligence Services have now uncovered a conspiracy that aim to destabilise the state.
I seriously doubt that, as their Intelligence Services are not known to be able to recognise a plot if it came up and bit them on the behind whilst in the pub. (The normal venue where most of their collection of intelligence takes place)
Is this not an attempt to infringe on the constitutional right of people by implementing draconian measures?
Put forward a threat as well as counter measures which entail invasion of privacy and denial of human rights.
Is that not what Colin Powell did in Iraq and Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe?
Be warned. This will be the next step.
Coerced silence as preached by authority figures does not bode well for democracy. “If you are not with us then you are against us.”
Trade union leader’s criticism of the unfair dismissal of a deputy minister leads to a quick rap on the knuckles from the president himself and then they withdraw their initial valid complaint.
Hitler used those tactics.
Any one with a bit of intellect that questions government stupidity gets ostracized.
Pol Pot used that one.
The official presidential spokesperson, Rat S**t Anga (sorry that is Ratshitanga – my mistake), now promotes a full-frontal lobotomy as room for improvement of political figures.
“The President knew her style from when she was deputy minister of Defence. If he didn’t like it, why did he appoint her to the post of deputy Health minister?
She, like other human beings, is capable of improving.”
The worst failure however, which should galvanise the world into action, is the fact that the current politicians have no other vision than seeing how many zeros can be added to their bank account balances before their term of office runs out.
They have no known vision for the future of South Africa and their stance on the plight of sexually abused children reflects this.
I can find no reference to any active participation of the political leaders regarding prevention and intervention of child abuse. (I’m not saying there are none – I’m just stating that it is in no obvious place like a newspaper headline)
Suggested legislation and amendments do not count. Any idiot can make a suggestion and then expect others to follow up.
This issue seems to be on the “pending pile” and will remain there if somebody does not wake up.
Since quite a substantial numbers of rape cases originate from an environment that’s run by the Government namely the school, one could have hoped that every single politician should personally get involved in serious effort to ensure a safe school for every child.
The report from 2006 by Human Rights Watch gives ample proof of this. And so far, the reaction to a very serious problem is a deafening governmental silence.
As I am not known for my tact I will put it another way; the current South African politicians do not seem to even regard the protection of children as one of their responsibilities and could not care less.
This plight is left to understaffed, underpaid and under funded charities, non-governmental organisations and other organisations like SASPSCAN, Child Care, Childline SA, Rape Crisis etc.
Please donate to their cause!
These organisations should be lauded and given our outmost support. But having said this, I maintain that it’s a sad and appalling fact that organisations like these are needed. We’re addressing a massive, national trauma that will continue for generations to come.
Isn’t it therefore an issue for the politicians elected by the people of South Africa to get involved in right now?
If I was a politician I would shout the figures, which are known, from the rooftops and ensure that a large part of my budget is channelled into the future of my country instead of spending all of my time protecting an alcoholic thief that happens to be the current Minister for Health.
What an idiotic legacy to leave behind! It is deemed more important to defend that champion of human rights, Robert Mugabe, in neighbouring Zimbabwe.
No wonder the law abiding citizens of South Africa are totally dumbstruck by the idiotic views and antics of their politicians.
The callousness of South Africa society is once more illustrated by this article.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Just A Thought
Maybe it's better for me sitting on the sidelines to make an observation. I am fortunate not to be bombarded daily by farcical political antics in South Africa.
Something is wrong with the ANC government's approach to the investigation of "alleged" misconduct by the Minister for Health.
"This mirrored earlier responses on the matter by the Presidency. Spokesperson Mukoni Ratshitanga earlier on Monday said the Presidency would not launch an investigation into the matter until the evidence was produced." Mail & Guardian.
They first want evidence before they investigate!
From watching TV I've learnt that evidence is a result of an investigation.
They don't want evidence. They want to know who the sources are so that they can use their Intelligence Agencies to try to discredit and intimidate the ones who were brave enough to speak out.
These politicians should watch a bit more TV and spend less time scheming how to hide incompetence before they come up with crap like this but I guess that is also too much to ask.
Something is wrong with the ANC government's approach to the investigation of "alleged" misconduct by the Minister for Health.
"This mirrored earlier responses on the matter by the Presidency. Spokesperson Mukoni Ratshitanga earlier on Monday said the Presidency would not launch an investigation into the matter until the evidence was produced." Mail & Guardian.
They first want evidence before they investigate!
From watching TV I've learnt that evidence is a result of an investigation.
They don't want evidence. They want to know who the sources are so that they can use their Intelligence Agencies to try to discredit and intimidate the ones who were brave enough to speak out.
These politicians should watch a bit more TV and spend less time scheming how to hide incompetence before they come up with crap like this but I guess that is also too much to ask.
How to Recognise a Swede Part 5
1. After realising that someone is standing on their foot in the subway, they think it best not to say anything at all and maybe cough or nod a little in order to attract attention.
2. They are stuck in front of their TV’s watching curling during every Olympic Games.
3. They actually understand the rules of curling.
4. They have been accused of being from Switzerland, repeatedly.
5. They never use public transport without a valid ticket even though it’s ridiculously overpriced.
6. They can not see why the 1st floor they walk into should be called anything but the 1st floor and the next one up the 2nd and so on. They get confused by this with every multi-storey building they enter.
7. They look forward all year round to August when they gather their friends, put on stupid paper hats, drink vodka, sing and eat crayfish.
8. They don’t mind ladies using the men’s bathroom in clubs if the queue to the ladies is too long.
9. They all love Carola and know almost all her songs by heart even though she is a bit of freak these days.
10. It still disturbs them that Carola did not win the Eurovision Song Contest the 1st time she participated back in 1983.
2. They are stuck in front of their TV’s watching curling during every Olympic Games.
3. They actually understand the rules of curling.
4. They have been accused of being from Switzerland, repeatedly.
5. They never use public transport without a valid ticket even though it’s ridiculously overpriced.
6. They can not see why the 1st floor they walk into should be called anything but the 1st floor and the next one up the 2nd and so on. They get confused by this with every multi-storey building they enter.
7. They look forward all year round to August when they gather their friends, put on stupid paper hats, drink vodka, sing and eat crayfish.
8. They don’t mind ladies using the men’s bathroom in clubs if the queue to the ladies is too long.
9. They all love Carola and know almost all her songs by heart even though she is a bit of freak these days.
10. It still disturbs them that Carola did not win the Eurovision Song Contest the 1st time she participated back in 1983.
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