Fifa’s Blatter promises ‘no more homeless as referees’

29 06 10

Fifa president, Sepp Blatter, has promised that any referee at the Brazil 2014 football World Cup will have played at least three years of primary school level football himself and have watched no fewer that five under-10 football matches, in order to be considered for duty.

Blatter undertook to revise the referee selection processes ahead of after a disappointing performance by the 2010 World Cup’s match officials in South Africa.

“I expected more from these referees. We chose some of the finest South African car guards, Homeless Talk vendors and primary school physical education teachers. It has been a most enormous disappointment to see how many blunders they’ve made,” Blatter told reporters at a press conference held at the bus shelter at the corner of Bree and Market streets in the Jo’burg CBD.

Blatter’s announcement was met with rage and disbelief by the board of SOCCA (Stumblebum, Outcast, Car guard and Con artist Association).

“This is outrageous!!” blurted Red-card Radebe, general secretary of SOCCA and a grade five P.E. teacher at Wendywood Primary School.

“I learnt to bounce a football five times consecutively on my head for this tournament and gave up eating Woolworth’s chocolate chip ice-cream, and this is the thanks I get?”

Acknowledging some of the criticism levelled against the match officials, SOCCA’s head of trumpeting, Goal-post Koekemoer, blamed the poor performance by his fellow officials on the droan of the vuvuzela, but Blatter would have none of that.

“No more homeless as referees!” he shouted. “From now on, only people who have a passion and love for the game, and who need glasses only to read should apply. Now where’s that fucking MetroBus when you need it?”


Fixing dead phone

28 06 10

I located a cell phone repairer this weekend, in a bid to resuscitate my dead toilet phone.

Yes, I acknowledge, I left it a bit late for this rescue attempt, but I had to factor in some ‘glaring that the useless electrical fucker’ time, as well as ‘contemplating driving over the failed electrical fucker repeatedly’ time. This was, indeed, time consuming, and led to more corrosion than if I had sought to fix the phone a few days after I wrecked it.

Ah well, live and learn. I regret nothing. Except allowing my mother to cut my fringe as a kid, and the ‘hairstyle’ she allowed the hairdresser to wreak upon me when I was 8.

So I entered the cell phone repair place on Saturday, located in a deteriorating building in a deteriorating part of town where an ex-boyfriend operated his own business, once upon a time.

I produced the toilet phone and handed it to the assistant:

Me: My phone won’t work. It…er… is water damaged.

Shop Assistant (SA): * blank stare, keeps still*

Me: OK, OK, I dropped it in the toilet.

SA: *blank stare, writes something down*


SA: *rubs his nose, writes something down*

Me: Sooooooo, do you think you can fix it?

SA: I’d say there is a 95% chance that we can fix it.

By this point I felt horribly judged but hopeful.  A peal of laughter by the Canadian woman standing next to me at the counter led me to, unfortunately, make eye contact with her.

Canadian Woman (CW): Ha ha, sorry about your phone. Your kid?

Me: No. ME.

I need a kid to blame things on. It doesn’t help that I regularly do things that kids do, like cry when I don’t have chocolate and pat my cat with a hand sticky from Coke that I spilt down my chest when attempting to drink it like a grown up.

If I had a kid, I could have laughed in a knowing way with the Canadian women and shared stories about pooh and vomit and formula feeds with her, all the while bonding with her in the knowledge that we were both members of that awesomest non-secret society, like, everrrrrrrrr.

Then I could have killed myself because my life was that fucking dull.

Anyway, I’m told my phone was ‘badly corroded’ and it’s  unclear if it will make it. So much for 95%.

I’m warming up my car for the driving over the fucking failed electrical device that will take place later.

The worst of men at pubs

24 06 10

Tuesday afternoon I ended up at a pub with three of my colleagues, to watch the Bafana-France match. We shared a table with two young women, both of whom gleefully told me that they were unemployed. The aspiring musician became the focus of the attention of a pickled, young guy who took it upon himself to put the business end of a vuvuzela down his pants in the bum region, and the remove it and blow it with his mouth. At this point, the object of his affection remarked: “So this is what life’s come to – you get dumped, you wonder why, and then someone who has pooh on his lips wants to kiss you.” Pooh-lips went on to sit on the lap of a guy who made the Michelan Man look anorexic. Quality stuff, I say.

To Brazil 2014 we go!

22 06 10

2014 FIFA World Cup, here Bafana Bafana come!

It’s too frightening not to be supportive

21 06 10

I enjoyed the football this weekend, particularly the forays into some self-destruction by France and Italy.

Having drawn the fershtunkende French in a World Cup 2006 pool, I stood to win R1400 in that tournament until the Azzurri put an end to my potential (mini) spending spree.

I have never forgiven that moron Zindedine Zidane for acting like the low-IQed git he is and using his head in the only way it would make an impact during the final with Italy.

Therefore, it brought me no small measure of joy to watch the lacklustre Italy draw with the plucky New Zealand, and hear about France’s banishment of player Nicolas Anelka after a to-do with his coach. Their going on strike was the cherry on top.

Regarding SA’s performance last Wednesday, which a group of us watched at a bitterly cold Melrose Arch, political commentator Justice Malala wrote an article, published on The Times website.

Malala asks if there’s a connection between our treatment of our sports stars and the way we treat our politicians. To sum up very crudely (please, read the article), Malala argues that SA, as opposed to the UK, are too forgiving of ineptitude and do not demand full accountability in all spheres of public life, including governance and sports.

While he lauds our apparent inherent compassion and ability to forgive, Malala says our steadfast refusal to demand explanation and responsibility from our public representatives “is why many of our politicians are disdainful of us”.

“Even when they behave outrageously, they know we will not demand full accountability. We let things slide. We are quick to forgive and move on. We look away and demand no action when crime and corruption entrench themselves.

It is in our failure to demand explanations and accountability from our leaders that we, as citizens, fail our country. Patriotism at its best is when we demand answers from our politicians – and from Bafana Bafana.”

He has a point, absolutely.

But it’s also a bloody hard ask for this country right now, in the midst of an experience in which we are meant to have ‘united as a country’.

To tell us that we have to tell our team that they’ve disappointed us, that they’ve let us down and that they’re not doing well enough, is a bit like asking us to take a long walk off a short pier.

Because it’s all very precarious, isn’t it?

We’re suspending showing our ‘real’ selves (or our far more dominant ‘fake’ selves) in the hope that if nothing goes wrong for this month-long football festival, we will have triumphed over corruption, awkward and problematic race relations, and service delivery problems. We don’t want to consider that perhaps the droan of the vuvuzela has simply muted these thoughts quite effectively.

Those desperate, pleading TV adverts featuring Bongani Khumalo and Siphiwe Tshabalala asking us not to give up on them, make it nigh impossible to really ask Bafana Bafana what the hell they were doing in the Uruguay match – we don’t want to be like the fractured, unpatriotic, grumpy British, do we?

Do we?

The South African public, frantically holding its breath and keeping still in order not to set anything in motion which might return us to the reality of this country pre-2010 FIFA World Cup, is in a tough spot. Perhaps not making it through to the second round will just make things a bit easier for us.

Jewish penicillin

19 06 10

I successfully made chicken/vegetable soup! It doesn’t taste like dishwater. It doesn’t taste like flavoured water. It’s decent! It’d better get rid of my head cold, now.


17 06 10

My office has never believed in offering its staff members suitable equipment for our jobs.

Until about a year ago, I was using Microsoft Office 97.  Three of us shared two recorders, one of which was the unspoken but very evident property of our ‘manager’, leaving my colleague and me the unenviable task of trying to ensure that none of our interviews coincided with each other’s. Naturally I began schlepping my laptop (personal, not the company’s property, of course) to meetings, simply to type as the person spoke.

Until recently, the bosses came to work by ox-wagon and we would brew morning tea over a fire in an old drum in the basement parking

This morning I was forced to conduct a telephonic interview with a radiologist who is snowbound in the Drakensberg, on holiday apparently.

The options for taking notes during this interview were as follows: put the dude on speaker phone very loudly in this open-plan office because we have no phones that offer a speaker phone function in the two enclosed spaces on the premises; scrunch the phone between my shoulder and ear as I write illegible notes by hand and miss most of the vital points; scrunch the phone between my shoulder and ear at an impossible angle while I type words that look like ‘suxryel’  and ‘marnjsnu’ while convincing myself I’ll know what they’ll mean when I look at them later.

I thus decided to try putting a thick rubber band around my head and phone, thereby securing it to my ear.

Almost worked, too!

Then I realised I looked like a Walmart person, so I dismantled my working contraption. I am an INVENTOR!!!