Roy’s life as a charged man

31 03 10

Poor old, beleaguered Roy Bennet, a top aide to Zimbabwean Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai, has been charged again for apparently being ‘unlawfully found in possession of 92.289 metric tonnes of maize, which he did not declare to authorities, in terms of the Grain Marketing Board Act’.

This, as he walked into court for his treason trial.

Roy’s explanation was that the maize was meant to feed workers at his farm and that it was seized by soldiers.

He’s been accused of plotting to assassinate Zimbabwean President Robert Mugabe in 2006, in a conspiracy already dismissed by the courts in an earlier case.

What else could Roy be charged with, do ya think?

Well, if I were a ZANU-PF police officer, I would charge him with the following infractions in order to ensure that Roy Bennet remains a captive of Zimbabwean persecution for the foreseeable future:

  • · Conspiracy to set the country on a path to prosperity
  • · Defeating the ends of a vicious, self-centred government
  • · Attempted murder of the policies of an oppressive regime
  • · Murder of the illusion of a country that cares about improving the lives of its citizens.

Good luck to Roy, boy does he need it.


Back soon..

30 03 10

…when I have something worth saying, or when there is something not really worth talking about but I feel the need to anyway.

Warning! Another inane email may waste your time, again.

25 03 10

What follows below, with my own comments in italics, is an email doing the rounds in South Africa at the moment, which was forwarded to me by an indisputably stupid, white person:


Be on the lookout for a SILVER TOYOTA COROLLA 2003/4 model, tinted windows, with registration: PNW 886 GP the driver is suspected to be Nigerian; he is trying to kidnap young girls.
On Wednesday morning he attempted to kidnap a young girl in Mayville and he tried again to kidnap a young girl in Pretoria North this morning.
They were talking about this email on Morning live & Gareth Cliff also mentioned it on 5fm: (The idea that because these purported incidents were allegedly mentioned on a radio and TV show, it would be more likely that they were true, is a flaw in logic that many South Africans will happily overlook.)

SAP (As far as I’m aware, the police in South Africa go by SAPS – South African Police Service) had a meeting this week about the 2010 world cup. They (the SAP) say that we have to guard our children more than gold (this goes for girls AND boys) (aahhhh, it’s gratifying that the police are educating parents on how to look after their children, and to put them above the level of that gold molar on which one’s bonus was spent, but below, perhaps, that tenth pint of lager that the author must consume every night in order to come up with this rubbish. What’s more, it’s nice to know that boy children warrant equal protection from baddies as their girl children counterparts do and, perhaps, should not be left alone with a toaster in the bath) and women should not go to shopping centers during May, June, July, without having a male to escort them (Shopping centres? I thought this was about young girls being kidnapped by Nigerians. I’ve always felt that I’ve needed a man’s protection when I shop for tampons and drink tea at cafes in shopping centres, especially during the months of May, June and July… I’m so glad this has finally been brought to the attention of the emailing public) – we must remember that loads of Nigerians & other foreign nationals, so forth will be coming to SA and that sex & drug trading is a reality, please take it seriously. (Ah finally, the heart of this bigoted email dressed up as a warning against an alleged criminal …evil black people are coming to South Africa to rape women, kidnap and traffic children, and inundate the country with drugs.)

Please forward to others that have children – even if they don’t, they might know people with children.

The levels of racism, sexism and pure idiocy in this discourse blew my hair back. The fact that someone I know chose to forward this shit to me made me question, again, the general intelligence level of the working public; right now it’s hovering between a wooden plank and a cucumber.

I ain’t dead…

23 03 10

I’ve just been away.There was the beach, there was the sea, there was the sun, there was eating and there was walking.
It was unbelievably bloody marvellous, but more on that tomorrow.

I realise I never followed up on my promise to disclose all about my visit to the dentist.
That ship has sailed now, I fear, so suffice it to say that the quote I received to return my mouth to a state of porcelain-like beauty is hovering at about R36 000. That kinda beauty I can live without – I very nearly asked the dentist man to rip ’em all out and give me a nice new set of false choppers that I could scare kids with through dangling them on the edge of my tongue.

On a more frightening note, the dentist had three TV screens scattered about his surgery, all showing the Crime and Investigation channel on DSTV. So while I was being told how my previous dentist had stuffed up badly regarding my root canals (how alike dentists and hairdressers are…no predecessor’s work is ever good enough for them), I watched how a man systematically went about killing his pregnant partner.


Louis da Tooth Puller is clearly not to be trifled with.

To my friend Lilian

17 03 10

About six weeks after my father died, I joined my mother, my grandmother and two of their friends in Plettenberg Bay for about a week. The three of us were shell-shocked, unsure how my father was a casualty in a war he was told he’d won just two weeks before he died.

It was a relief to be in a stranger’s holiday home, far away from my life. There, I didn’t have to worry about expecting my father to walk through the front door at around 18:30. The lack of routine meant that I didn’t have to be who I was back home in Jo’burg: a grieving daughter; a person without a father; a person who’d lost something unquantifiable.

One night in Plett, we ate dinner at my gran’s friends Lilian and Leon. I’d heard that these two oldies were good eggs; warm and lovely people. At that stage, Lilian was 83 years old and Leon probably a couple of years older. When I was introduced to her, she hugged me like she’d known me since birth and there was never a moment after that in which I did not feel completely welcomed by her.

I didn’t see Lilian and Leon for a while after that as my life slowly became a new type of normal. Lilian and my gran continued to attend Wednesday night concerts by the Johannesburg Philharmonic Orchestra (JPO), and eventually I started attending the odd concert with them where I began getting to know this intensely smart, interesting woman. I envied how she was able to close her eyes during those concerts and let the music win.

Lilian held ‘soirees’ on Wednesday nights during the off seasons of the JPO. A group of women in their eighties would gather at her beautiful flat to listen to the music of Mozart, Dvorak, Beethoven and others, and learn a bit more about one of Lilian’s great passions. One Friday night at her flat, as she yet again extended her unbounded, joyful hospitality to my family and others, she laughed at how loudly she had to play the music on those Wednesday nights because her friends were so damn deaf.

Lilian never made me listen to stories about her grandchildren. I never had to hear that this one was the cleverest, handsomest and most popular in his class, as well as being tall. We spoke about work and school, music and relationships, books, animals and email. She was not afraid. She learnt how to use email when she was 80 years old, and thoroughly loved what ‘the You Tube’ had to offer. Most importantly, she listened to people and asked them more about themselves; a characteristic sadly absent in most of the people we’ll meet through the course of our lives.

I saw her for the last time in December, when I visited her with my gran. As we were leaving, Lilian hugged my gran and told me firmly, “This woman is so special; she is my sister.”

When she died on Monday at the age of 90, I knew there’d be hundreds of people who would stop, be quiet and shed a tear or two for the loss of such a woman. I loved her from the day I met her, and I am sure I am not the only one who felt this. What a legacy she has left.

Celibate? You may be a paedophile

12 03 10

Vatican watcher (whatever that means), Bruno Bartoloni, has attempted to explain what Archbishop of Vienna, Christoph Schoenborn, meant when he called for an unflinching examination of the possible roots of child sex abuse by priests. According to AFP, Schoenborn cited the ‘issue of priest training, as well as the question of what happened in the so-called sexual revolution’ as possible aggravating factors. He also mentioned the issue of priest celibacy and ‘personality development’.

However, after this caused a bit of a ruckus in Catholic circles, Schoenborn’s office issued a statement insisting that he was not calling into question the Vatican’s stance on celibacy.

Now comes my favourite part: the Vatican watcher Bartoloni said that Schoenborn was warning that ‘paedophilia can reflect the frustration of those priests who are not at ease with being celibate’.


Choosing a lifestyle that requires celibacy may be an explanation for paedophilia.

That is creative, I tell you! Who knew the Vatican and their watchers had it in them to spin a situation so creatively?

Just to reiterate… CHOOSING not to have sex for the rest of your life while you devote your life to the god that allegedly requires you to deny a fundamental aspect of being a living, breathing human being = a propensity towards paedophilia.

‘Die Antwoord’ to an undefined question

10 03 10

As I staggered about my flat last Sunday morning, trying to work off the tail end of a raging headache and a little bit of nausea, I realised that singing, ‘Jou ma se poes in ‘n Fishpaste jar’ would not be something I’d be able to do quite so freely in public. I’d watched bizarre Afrikaans ‘Zef’ (redneck) rappers, ‘Die Antwoord’ (The Answer) perform the previous night at the Alexander Theatre in Braamfontein, with Wit Woef, and I admit to feeling somewhat hardcore that morning .

However, as I watched dust bunnies take flight and considered the plight of Sunday morning TV, I reflected on the pathos of a 32-year old white, middle-class woman from Sandton slurring out lyrics referring to cunts and the like.

I tried to reassure myself with the idea that there were probably a thousand or so similar individuals who were singing obscenities while eating their Sunday morning croissants or browsing organic food markets. Perhaps.

That’s what was so weird about Die Antwoord’s concert… we did not spot all that many individuals who one might expect to enjoy extremely offensive rap by an odd individual called Ninja (a.k.a.Waddy Jones) and a pre-pubescent seeming rapper lass called Yo-Landi Vi$$er. Almost everyone around us at the concert were middle-class, English-speaking White peeps, though the odd Black and Coloured person, as well as a couple of Afrikaans speakers, were around – perhaps my favourite moment of the eve was when Wit Woef’s friend offered a ticket to a young black woman who almost did cartwheels of excitement at the offer. What was evident that the primary motivation for attending the concert was pure curiosity about this incomprehensibly odd spectacle.

They arrived in some sort of 4×4 white stretch limo, as befitting their stature. When we couldn’t spot Yo-landi, Wit Woef asked someone at the door where she was, only to have the doorperson spit at her that Yo-landi was ‘in disguise’.

Watching Wit Woef delicately sip her rum and coke mixed in a ratio of 5:1 (rum: coke) while yelling ‘Wat pomp, julle?” was a sight I’ll recall when we are old gits reflecting on that time we vokked off down to Braamies to tjeck out the Zef rappers (if we don’t have senile dementia by then).

It was fun! Barring the intense strobe lighting which lead to the aforementioned headache and nausea (I couldn’t even finish half of my own 5:1 rum and coke), the concert was a terrific experience. Die Antwoord were unique; they were professional, catchy and engaging, so much so that when Yo-landi announced “Dis klaar, vok off” (it’s finished, fuck off), we all smiled happily and fucked off.

I shall leave you with a verse of one of the tjoons I liked a lot, entitled ‘Doosdronk’. According to the interweb, doosdronk can be translated as ‘cunted’, meaning ‘under the influence of illicit drugs or alcohol; drunk; high; broken; to be extremely tired or worn out.’

Doosdronk,God, waar is my hond?
Lê in my kotz en
Vrot in die tronk

Party, party, party, party, party, party, party


God, where is my dog?

Lie in my vomit and

Rot in jail)

HAHAHAHAH, listen to it on