Every country in the world needs a Sarah Britten who can wade through the façade of society and unmask us for what we really are...mere mortals, prone to making complete idiots out of ourselves on a regular basis. It takes a keen observer and understanding of human nature to be able to do that.
Described by a columnist, Barry Ronge, as Hitler with tits, she takes no prisoners and covers all facets of South African society with her insults. (Not an easy task if one takes into consideration that South Africa sports 11 official languages and is sometimes more confused about its national identity than a chameleon during a paint session in a pre-school art class)
She hits the national character hard between the eyes, picks it up by the feet and shakes the broken bones out of its nose for all to see and digest. This line from her first chapter probably sums up South African society best:
"South Africans, as a rule, do not frequent museums and public art galleries except to steal large public sculptures. Sunday Times"
The beauty of it all is that her book is based on actual events and opinions, as portrayed by South African media. Whether or not the truth can be seen as an “insult” is of course in the eye of the beholder. Do not close your eyes to this one.
A few hints to prospective readers:
Do not read this book in public. You will be institutionalised for laughing out loud at regular intervals and shoving the book under a total stranger's nose as to share a hilarious line.
Keep a damp cloth, change of clothes and sufficient toilet paper or tissue handy because reading it might trigger involuntary voiding of the bladder or worse.
If friends tries to borrow it, tell them you’ll rather break their arms because you will never get it back.
It is a novel idea for a book (she should consider patenting it) and one of the more rewarding reads I've experienced in my lifetime. It is truly hilarious.
I will treat my copy of The Art of the South African Insult as reference material for party jokes for a long time to come.
In South Africa the book is available here.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Alarm Clocks of a Human Kind (Then) continued
Excerpt no 2: Africa Will Always Break Your Heart
...That this lifestyle was of course totally contrary to Christianity, a façade, oh so very important to keep up did not matter to the folks. A hedonistic lifestyle was what they wanted and what they lived.
Sundays were, on the contrary, a totally different matter. Every single one of us had to go to church. Dad said so. It was probably the most boring hours of my entire life. I practiced my own form of shorthand trying to keep track of what the preacher said. The poor man realised too late in life that he had no calling as a man of the cloth in the ordinary society. To save his family from starvation he promptly became a military chaplain. His sermons were truly mind-numbing exercises.
The Dutch Reformed Church was the prevailing religion. The pulpit was used as much for advocating the fight against communism as it was used to preach the word of God. Songs praising the Good Lord were dreary and stretched out affairs. Hymns and psalms were mumbled out, accompanied by an organist who always seemed to be a few bars ahead of the pathetic congregation. Only the few really tone-deaf as well as the musically talented dared to raise their voices above a whisper. Unfortunately, the former outnumbered the latter by far. If God was ever present during any of these dreary meetings I would be very surprised. Even though it was ghastly we were Christians and practised our religion with fervour — twice every Sunday. I was even a Sunday school teacher while completing High School.
Double standards became the norm rather than the exception. One can get used to almost anything.
“Do as I tell you and not as I do!” was one of my father’s favourite sayings. He had quite a selection of these little snippets of wisdom that he shared with us ad infinitum. Another one that always used to pop up after a few drinks was:
“I’m not a racist, I do not hate kaffers more than what is absolutely necessary.”
...That this lifestyle was of course totally contrary to Christianity, a façade, oh so very important to keep up did not matter to the folks. A hedonistic lifestyle was what they wanted and what they lived.
Sundays were, on the contrary, a totally different matter. Every single one of us had to go to church. Dad said so. It was probably the most boring hours of my entire life. I practiced my own form of shorthand trying to keep track of what the preacher said. The poor man realised too late in life that he had no calling as a man of the cloth in the ordinary society. To save his family from starvation he promptly became a military chaplain. His sermons were truly mind-numbing exercises.
The Dutch Reformed Church was the prevailing religion. The pulpit was used as much for advocating the fight against communism as it was used to preach the word of God. Songs praising the Good Lord were dreary and stretched out affairs. Hymns and psalms were mumbled out, accompanied by an organist who always seemed to be a few bars ahead of the pathetic congregation. Only the few really tone-deaf as well as the musically talented dared to raise their voices above a whisper. Unfortunately, the former outnumbered the latter by far. If God was ever present during any of these dreary meetings I would be very surprised. Even though it was ghastly we were Christians and practised our religion with fervour — twice every Sunday. I was even a Sunday school teacher while completing High School.
Double standards became the norm rather than the exception. One can get used to almost anything.
“Do as I tell you and not as I do!” was one of my father’s favourite sayings. He had quite a selection of these little snippets of wisdom that he shared with us ad infinitum. Another one that always used to pop up after a few drinks was:
“I’m not a racist, I do not hate kaffers more than what is absolutely necessary.”
Monday, August 6, 2007
Alarm Clocks of a Human Kind (Then)
Excerpt no 1: Africa Will Always Break Your Heart.
We never had any use for an alarm clock. Every morning we were woken up by my mom’s farts as she made her way to the kitchen to make coffee for the whole family. The poor woman suffered terribly from a spastic colon and with every step she would fart twice. One could measure the distance to the kitchen by counting the farts and dividing them by two. I felt good about this. It was home after all. One never dared to share the concept of our alarm clock with friends and other parts of the family as one had to keep up appearances. Mom was also very good about this and the alarm clock never went off when we had friends sleeping over...
Mom and I had a secret. I was her favourite child and was not allowed to share this with anyone else. We made a vow. I now realise that all my siblings had the same secret with her, but it made me feel very special at the time.
Mother was not an old hag without manners and grace. She was a beautiful woman who had an endless stream of admirers. Both my parents were exceptionally attractive people and both had their share of extra-marital affairs and flings, right under our noses, blissfully unaware of that we knew. Or maybe they just did not care. It did not sit well with us. I still catch myself blaming my father for allowing this to go on. It took me years to understand that he must have loved my mother immensely and therefore forgave her over and over again. But inside it must have torn him apart...
We never had any use for an alarm clock. Every morning we were woken up by my mom’s farts as she made her way to the kitchen to make coffee for the whole family. The poor woman suffered terribly from a spastic colon and with every step she would fart twice. One could measure the distance to the kitchen by counting the farts and dividing them by two. I felt good about this. It was home after all. One never dared to share the concept of our alarm clock with friends and other parts of the family as one had to keep up appearances. Mom was also very good about this and the alarm clock never went off when we had friends sleeping over...
Mom and I had a secret. I was her favourite child and was not allowed to share this with anyone else. We made a vow. I now realise that all my siblings had the same secret with her, but it made me feel very special at the time.
Mother was not an old hag without manners and grace. She was a beautiful woman who had an endless stream of admirers. Both my parents were exceptionally attractive people and both had their share of extra-marital affairs and flings, right under our noses, blissfully unaware of that we knew. Or maybe they just did not care. It did not sit well with us. I still catch myself blaming my father for allowing this to go on. It took me years to understand that he must have loved my mother immensely and therefore forgave her over and over again. But inside it must have torn him apart...
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Nostalgia (and the cure for it)
I've experienced one of those pain in the chest longing days for South Africa. It was one of those that put you in a, bite your own neck arteries off, suicidal mood.
That was the mood that prevailed until I read a few newspapers online.
It sure cured my nostalgia in a flash.
What a f 'kin violent society!
Simon Barret, when interviewing me, asked whether I would return to South Africa. My response will now have to be:
"I would rather share a tent for a month, in the middle of the coldest winter, in Outer-Mongolia with a horde of Yak-shagging, anal sex-fiends descendant from Ghenghis Khan, whose idea of torture is a white-hot soldering iron shoved firmly up your rectum, than return to that hell-hole."
First world country, my arse!
And they dare to wonder why the rest of the world treats them like a brother who's in prison i.e. they still love him but do not acknowledge his existence in civilised company.
That was the mood that prevailed until I read a few newspapers online.
It sure cured my nostalgia in a flash.
What a f 'kin violent society!
Simon Barret, when interviewing me, asked whether I would return to South Africa. My response will now have to be:
"I would rather share a tent for a month, in the middle of the coldest winter, in Outer-Mongolia with a horde of Yak-shagging, anal sex-fiends descendant from Ghenghis Khan, whose idea of torture is a white-hot soldering iron shoved firmly up your rectum, than return to that hell-hole."
First world country, my arse!
And they dare to wonder why the rest of the world treats them like a brother who's in prison i.e. they still love him but do not acknowledge his existence in civilised company.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
How to Recognise a Swede
Do Swedes have a sense of humour?
Judge for yourself. Herewith a few items I lifted off a list compiled by Swedes for Swedes. (I can’t recall where I got it else I would have credited the source)
They secretly love the Eurovision Song Contest to pieces.
Everyone knows at least 10 Abba songs by heart.
They don’t really consider silence a problem in social situations.
They consider the question “how are you?” when posed, needs to be answered with an honest and thorough explanation of their mental health.
They consider a fast and audible intake of breath as a synonym to the word “yes.”
All have a summer house in the countryside. It has no running water or flushing toilet but they can’t understand why no one wants to visit.
They prefer writing in pencil.
They happily engage in conversations about the weather.
They would rather stand in the buss for an hour than bother the person whose handbag is currently occupying the last available seat.
They insist on convincing people that Vikings were the first to discover America.
I will post ten a week.
Judge for yourself. Herewith a few items I lifted off a list compiled by Swedes for Swedes. (I can’t recall where I got it else I would have credited the source)
They secretly love the Eurovision Song Contest to pieces.
Everyone knows at least 10 Abba songs by heart.
They don’t really consider silence a problem in social situations.
They consider the question “how are you?” when posed, needs to be answered with an honest and thorough explanation of their mental health.
They consider a fast and audible intake of breath as a synonym to the word “yes.”
All have a summer house in the countryside. It has no running water or flushing toilet but they can’t understand why no one wants to visit.
They prefer writing in pencil.
They happily engage in conversations about the weather.
They would rather stand in the buss for an hour than bother the person whose handbag is currently occupying the last available seat.
They insist on convincing people that Vikings were the first to discover America.
I will post ten a week.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Proud Memories
This afternoon found me by my old watering hole nursing a pint of light beer. Next to me were two Swedes reminiscing about the good old days in their language. They had no idea that I could understand them as the staff of the pub always uses me to practice their English on.
I found the sound of their voices extremely soothing which is understandable if one takes into consideration that Afrikaans (which I’m used to) has exactly the same effect on the eardrums of the uninitiated as a piece of rough sandpaper, rubbed briskly and furiously, has on the head of an erect penis. I think it was P. J. O'Rourke in his "Holidays In Hell" who described the language of my youth as sounding incredibly similar to the Katzenjammer Kids on speed.
Their idea of the good old days were about the 1994 Winter Olympic Games held in Lillehammer and more specifically about Peter “Foppa” Forsberg’s penalty in the finals of the ice-hockey. (I don't have a clue where Lillehammer is or who the hell Peter Forsberg is/was)
My train of thought along the lines of "f'kin kids" was rudely interrupted by the connection of a few synapses in my brain that made me realise a startling fact. I’m old. And inside me there is a young chap wondering what the hell happened to the years. Their conversation started me thinking about the good old days and things that I can be proud of.
In the first 35 years of my life I could not list one thing with pride because of politicians like H. F. Verwoerd and P. W. Botha who soiled my heritage and existence forever, like a used condom. I dare not even mention that we tried to save the lives of comrades under enemy fire because that happened at a time when our politicians did not want to admit to the world that we were fighting in Angola. Our invasion was also a crime against humanity and utterly senseless so there is nothing to be proud of.
What a criminal, shitty waste of time and total disregard of human capabilities.
I still maintain that politicians like tv-evangelists should be shot on sight.
I found the sound of their voices extremely soothing which is understandable if one takes into consideration that Afrikaans (which I’m used to) has exactly the same effect on the eardrums of the uninitiated as a piece of rough sandpaper, rubbed briskly and furiously, has on the head of an erect penis. I think it was P. J. O'Rourke in his "Holidays In Hell" who described the language of my youth as sounding incredibly similar to the Katzenjammer Kids on speed.
Their idea of the good old days were about the 1994 Winter Olympic Games held in Lillehammer and more specifically about Peter “Foppa” Forsberg’s penalty in the finals of the ice-hockey. (I don't have a clue where Lillehammer is or who the hell Peter Forsberg is/was)
My train of thought along the lines of "f'kin kids" was rudely interrupted by the connection of a few synapses in my brain that made me realise a startling fact. I’m old. And inside me there is a young chap wondering what the hell happened to the years. Their conversation started me thinking about the good old days and things that I can be proud of.
In the first 35 years of my life I could not list one thing with pride because of politicians like H. F. Verwoerd and P. W. Botha who soiled my heritage and existence forever, like a used condom. I dare not even mention that we tried to save the lives of comrades under enemy fire because that happened at a time when our politicians did not want to admit to the world that we were fighting in Angola. Our invasion was also a crime against humanity and utterly senseless so there is nothing to be proud of.
What a criminal, shitty waste of time and total disregard of human capabilities.
I still maintain that politicians like tv-evangelists should be shot on sight.
What a Load of Horse Manure!
An e-mail I just received:
“WE HAVE A MISSION SOLUTION CENTERDo you wonder why you have obstacles in your life? Do you feel as if youwere in bondage? Our mission is to assist you to find solutions to theabove issues. Where necessary we will intervene or intercede on yourbehalf. Visit our SOLUTION CENTER FREE Prayers, Deliverance, and CounselingWe offer FREE Counseling on a wide range of Spiritual Issues. We can prayfor you. Otherwise, we will intercede to overcome the adversaries whereyour future and prosperity were threatened.You need to live with understanding rather than just existing - beingtossed around by circumstances, not knowing where your destiny wasleading…”
Four spelling mistakes, I had to edit the layout to make a bit more sense and I won’t even venture near the grammar.
I don’t wonder why there are obstacles in my life, I know. It is because of idiotic troglodytes like this who have the moral standards of a pregnant, squatter camp sow, who wants me to pay for their “wisdom.”
Since when was prayer anything else but free and an exercise of free will within grasp of any moron who can string a coherent sentence together. I definitely don’t need them to pray on my behalf as one can not be sure were their crucifixion of the language will ultimately end up. There might just be a dark god of bad language waiting patiently for their prayers and I’m not taking that risk.
I would however, like to make use of their intervention as far as my adversaries and prosperity is concerned. Both issues can be found in the bank where my mortgage is being held and I would look upon it kindly if they could inflict unmentionable suffering on these adversaries that threaten my future prosperity with their high interest rates. I would really understand and not only exist if they could pull that one off for me and get my loan declared all paid up.
Why do I read this crap?
“WE HAVE A MISSION SOLUTION CENTERDo you wonder why you have obstacles in your life? Do you feel as if youwere in bondage? Our mission is to assist you to find solutions to theabove issues. Where necessary we will intervene or intercede on yourbehalf. Visit our SOLUTION CENTER FREE Prayers, Deliverance, and CounselingWe offer FREE Counseling on a wide range of Spiritual Issues. We can prayfor you. Otherwise, we will intercede to overcome the adversaries whereyour future and prosperity were threatened.You need to live with understanding rather than just existing - beingtossed around by circumstances, not knowing where your destiny wasleading…”
Four spelling mistakes, I had to edit the layout to make a bit more sense and I won’t even venture near the grammar.
I don’t wonder why there are obstacles in my life, I know. It is because of idiotic troglodytes like this who have the moral standards of a pregnant, squatter camp sow, who wants me to pay for their “wisdom.”
Since when was prayer anything else but free and an exercise of free will within grasp of any moron who can string a coherent sentence together. I definitely don’t need them to pray on my behalf as one can not be sure were their crucifixion of the language will ultimately end up. There might just be a dark god of bad language waiting patiently for their prayers and I’m not taking that risk.
I would however, like to make use of their intervention as far as my adversaries and prosperity is concerned. Both issues can be found in the bank where my mortgage is being held and I would look upon it kindly if they could inflict unmentionable suffering on these adversaries that threaten my future prosperity with their high interest rates. I would really understand and not only exist if they could pull that one off for me and get my loan declared all paid up.
Why do I read this crap?
A Friendly Warning
This Blog is aimed at people with a sense of humour.
Any member of the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security and any other Intelligence Agency in the world for that matter will be well advised to stop reading now.
This warning also applies to politicians, clerics, religious freaks, tv-evangelists, Jehovah's Witnesses, psycho-analysts, snobs and litlle people called "know-it-alls."
Any member of the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security and any other Intelligence Agency in the world for that matter will be well advised to stop reading now.
This warning also applies to politicians, clerics, religious freaks, tv-evangelists, Jehovah's Witnesses, psycho-analysts, snobs and litlle people called "know-it-alls."
My Life Is So Boring (NOT)
It is the morning after the night before and I have the distinct impression that I’ve killed a few million brain cells last night. My mouth tastes like a Greek all-in-wrestler’s jockstrap after a hectic week long tournament without any form of ablutions available. I am very ill and it happened like this…
My good friend George, an Assyrian and the owner of our local pub, sprung a surprise book signing on me. This was done in collaboration with my wife who supplied him with 100 copies of my book.
George advertised the event two weeks prior to my return from Värmland and made an appointment with me to come and see him the moment I set foot in Stockholm. (He even had his brother, Afram, meet me at the underground exit as to ensure that I showed up) The evening started well and we sold quite a few books. It was a tonic to sit and discuss my work with prospective readers and some got stuck in the book straight away over a beer or two.
At some stage we had some cognac and I believe also cigars as I have no other explanation for the nicotine stains in my underwear this morning. I also could not understand why my one friend kept on falling over when we escorted him on the short walk home. We were not that drunk. It became clear this morning when George phoned and informed me that we forgot Magnus’ wheelchair in the pub.
Nothing special ever happens in Stockholm. Just a typical night out.
My good friend George, an Assyrian and the owner of our local pub, sprung a surprise book signing on me. This was done in collaboration with my wife who supplied him with 100 copies of my book.
George advertised the event two weeks prior to my return from Värmland and made an appointment with me to come and see him the moment I set foot in Stockholm. (He even had his brother, Afram, meet me at the underground exit as to ensure that I showed up) The evening started well and we sold quite a few books. It was a tonic to sit and discuss my work with prospective readers and some got stuck in the book straight away over a beer or two.
At some stage we had some cognac and I believe also cigars as I have no other explanation for the nicotine stains in my underwear this morning. I also could not understand why my one friend kept on falling over when we escorted him on the short walk home. We were not that drunk. It became clear this morning when George phoned and informed me that we forgot Magnus’ wheelchair in the pub.
Nothing special ever happens in Stockholm. Just a typical night out.
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