The end of 2010

28 12 10

2010 be gone! I’ve had enough of you, you’ve outworn your welcome. Yes, there were some very lovely times and events you shared with me, and I thank you for them. The other shit, however, you can keep.

Without actively making resolutions for the coming year, I resolve to seriously consider doing the following:

  • Reading more
  • Eating less
  • Exercising more
  • Pretending less
  • Attending to my teeth more
  • Hating myself less.

Happy new year, y’all. Thanks for reading my blog and sharing your insights with me – I appreciate it more than you know.

See you on the flip side.

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An particularly un’glamarous’ place

27 12 10

On the way to Sun City, a sign for this becoming restaurant was spotted…


Spud’s a dud, Ed lacks cred

20 12 10

There are times when I attempt to take as unimpassioned a look as possible at my country, South Africa, in order to assess if our stars are really stars, or if they are just the best of a mediocre lot.

I do need to point out, though, that ‘unimpassioned’ is an emotional (or unemotional, perhaps) state that I am rarely able to achieve. Music, theatre, film, work, friends, family, exercise, eating, reading…. these are subjects about which I appear not to be able to retain a removed and disinterested approach for any substantial period of time.

I can be a judgemental horror – I am the Simon Cowell  in the reality show of my life, and there is no Paula. Consequently, I felt initially that the degree to which I hated ‘Spud the Movie’ was not quite rational. On the other hand, however, when the producers of a movie suggest that their product is world class, proudly bleating about having attracted the accomplished John Cleese, and yet decide to employ SA musician Ed Jordan to compose the movie’s score, I am reminded of validity of my reaction.

One would assume that the rights to ‘Oliver!’ were somewhat more expensive than the budget of ‘Spud the movie’ allowed for. Yet, instead of perhaps downplaying the importance of the school musical in the film, the powers that were chose to employ Ed ‘King of the Portable Keyboard’ Jordan to create an entirely new score for the musical.

Instead of focussing on the more interesting aspects of the book, such as the crazy but somewhat endearing grandmother (whose character in the film was utterly awful and just so reliant on stereotype), the interaction with the older boys in the school and the fact that Spud was assigned as a de facto maid to a prefect, they got Ed ‘Host of a Game Show’ Jordan involved.

For those of you who don’t know, Ed Jordan might have been a fairly able Bar Mitzvah singer … 10 years ago. Ed Jordan *is* that song that causes you to change radio stations while swearing at the lack of decent music on the wireless. He is that jingle for a supermarket that you hear on the radio. Ed is that voice urging you to by a coke and Bar One at the garage shop. And now he is the composer of the instantly irritating and immediately forgettable music and lyrics featuring in one of South Africa’s most successful movies to date… though still only about a third as successful as Leon Schuster’s brainchild, ‘Mr Bones 2’.

Ah well, maybe it’s just me. Maybe I was particularly grumpy that evening, leaving me yawning at Troye Sivan’s alleged ‘beautiful’ voice and ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ expression meant to convey emotion ranging from deep distress to horny anticipation.

Or maybe I’m just a little frightened that this mediocrity is rocketed into super-stardom in this country because it’s all we have.

Nah… it is most definitely not all we have.


Say no to bad pants

20 12 10

Why must these pants exist and why must certain women continue to wear them?


Who’s yo daddy?

14 12 10

I finally managed to successfully apply for a Visa for India today, after being sent away last week for being stupid. That stupidity involved arriving at an embassy to apply for a mucho important legal document sans photos, copy of ID, copy of air ticket and proof of residential address in SA.

I know, I know, you need not smirk and snigger so loudly.

Annnnyway, as I furiously completed the Visa application form by pressing on my sister’s back as she urged me to hurry up, I noticed that item three to be completed demanded the name of my father/husband.

Why it might be of interest to Indian authorities that I have no husband and that my father has not been alive for almost eight years is beyond me. Am I more legitimate if I have a father and/or husband who can vouch for me? Is it not absolutely bloody ridiculous that I am a self-sufficient, reliable, independent woman who is *choosing* to travel to India, where I will spend highly valued tourist Rupees, and yet despite this, must be asked about my father and husband, and not my mother, sister or wife, if that were the case?

I am interested to hear if India would deny Visas to men who write down the name of their husbands. Probably would. That’s why I wrote down my dad’s name instead of “No, I won’t fucking write down the name of a man who can ‘look after’ me, you arrogant, sexist fucks’.

Viva India!


More bizarre things I heard today

09 12 10
  • A 72-year-old widow: "When I die, I want my dog to be put down and buried with me, because my dog would just pine too much for me and would be miserable. I am not saying this because I am arrogant."
  • My colleague remarked on the breasts she had noticed in one of the journals I edit, and I told her that one of the photos was of a man with an extreme case of gynaecomastia (breast growth in men), which was a side effect of antiretroviral drugs that patient was taking. My colleague, the mother of a gay man remarked: "Oh my god, I hope that person is gay."

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They said what?

07 12 10

I heard a LOT of shit these past few days. In a most unsurprising disclosure, the bulk of the shit I’ve heard has been at the workplace, and include the following:

This woman, who helps out at my workplace: Oh, I just reread my old books because new books are too expensive.

One colleague to another: OK, well, when she gets here on Monday morning, I’ll talk to her and save her marriage.

Boss: Here’s a Christmas card we’re signing for my daughter who’s overseas being an au pair. Oh wait, you haven’t met her, right?

Me: No, I haven’t

Boss: Ah well, just write a note anyway

Receptionist at a travel clinic on the phone to someone: “Well, an adult is an adult and a child is a child.”

Young woman to her colleague: I can climb Kilimanjaro in old sneakers, right?

Me to insurance broker: I want to take out household contents insurance

Broker: You can’t until February next year.

Me: Why not?

Broker: Because you could be trying to defraud us.

However, among the above-mentioned rubbish, I have heard some wonderfully witty repartee compliments of ‘The West Wing’, which I am only watching now for the first time:

Toby: There’s literally no one in the world that I don’t hate right now.

CJ (after a particularly difficult press briefing, while the journalists are still inside): Set fire to the room. Do it now.

Charlie: Mr. President?

Bartlet: I’ll take the Indian ambassador in the Oval Office.

Charlie: Yes, sir.

Bartlet: And then if you could just ask the Secret Service to step in and kill me, please.

Charlie: Yes, sir.

Mrs Landingham: How are you, Josh?

Josh: I’ve been subpoenaed.

Mrs Landingham: Oh, I’m sorry, dear. Would you like a cookie?