Sunday, November 05, 2006


If you think taxis are the most dangerous part of your morning commute, think again, your car could explode. What’s more, while you’re waiting in the traffic jam caused by a car ahead of you exploding, your car could also overheat and fling itself around in a million pieces.

Luckily it’s easy to spot if your car is about to explode, flames coming from under your bonnet, oh yes, if you have flames coming out of your bonnet, grab your bag (if it hasn’t been grabbed already) and run like hell. If the chick putting on her mascara in the car next to you has flames coming out of her bonnet, you should likewise, exit your car immediately and put foot. If that Engen tanker up ahead has flames coming out of its bonnet, return to your seat, put your head between your legs and kiss your beautiful booty goodbye.

And if the exploding cars are in a traffic jam in the single occupancy lane on the highway, tough luck, you should have remembered to have children.

Shop for your lives, the Do-Gooders are coming

“The cause of Aids in Africa is very close to your heart, is this why you used red sequins on this bouffant skirt”

Swear to God this was a question put to Georgio Armanion on Top Billing last week by one of their increasingly weird looking presenter luvvies. Armani is putting his weight behind a brand called Red, which plans to sell frocks and other “lifestyle items”, with a portion of the proceeds donated to Aids in Africa.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Georgio Armani, he’s a genius in cloth, and I don’t doubt his commitment to a worthy cause, but somehow gorgeous expensive fripperies for leisure women and Aids in Africa don’t really fit.

I was only watching Top Billing because Apprentice was late, I love the Donald, he’s a genius and funny too, but there I was watching Top Billing, which is like a giant sized Chocolate Log, all foam, no substance, with a sickly sweet after taste. Next up was Ashley Judd, an actress I’ve always admired, with her little bobbing head, so earnest, so clean, so entirely made of white bread, she said “For every sixth Red garment sold, a child in Africa gets a pill.”

I think that’s what she said, maybe I was hallucinating, anyway, great new s folks, we’re each getting a pill, isn’t that just exactly what we need.

Which got me to thinking if I bought six Red outfits, could I get a pill of my choice?

I always wanted to try Viagra.

Monday, April 17, 2006


Friday, March 24, 2006


Between Telkom bouncing me off the Net two or three times a day or cutting off my phone completely, it's impossible to do any regular blogging, good excuse, besides I'm doing other things OK. It'll be hit and miss for a while at best, but if you're reading this, you'll pop back every now and then.

If you just want to look at cute pictures of possums, go here.
SEVENS (tagged by Luke)

Seven things to do before I die
Resolve the dilemma of my love for others vs love of solitude
Visit at least 20 more countries
Publish a novel
Live in a little house by the sea
Master pastry
Figure out how to make love stay

Seven things I cannot do
Become a ballerina/brain surgeon/supermodel
Become “normal”
Become “less sensitive”
Believe that humans are superior to animals
Achieve superhuman feats of discipline, or any discipline at all
Speak the languages of my own country
Engage in the single-minded pursuit of money

Seven things that attract me
The dark side
Foreign climes
The edge of the envelope
The deepest recesses of the human mind
The deepest recesses of the animal mind
Life’s big questions
What does the future hold?

Seven things I say
Yes, but…
I know, I know ….. I know (a la Sybil Fawltey)
Nee, skattie
Yeah, right!
If you do it now, it’s done
Thanks God it’s Friday payday
I read somewhere that …

Seven books I love
Jitterbug Perfume
Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow
The Secret History
Fear of Flying
Bonfire of the Vanities
The Wasteland

Seven movies that I’ve loved
Far from the Madding Crowd
The Fisher King
Fifteen Minutes
Minority Report
The Last Emperor

Seven tags
This was the hard one I haven’t reached out to my fellow bloggers, too busy blogging, I’m a slow writer. Anyway, my seven favourite sites are linked at right. Knock yourself out.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Friday, March 03, 2006


Why are there 5 syllables in the word "monosyllabic"?
If a man says something in the woods and there are no women there, is he still wrong?
What was the best thing before sliced bread?
If a mute kid swears, should his mother wash his hands with soap?
When an evil masochist dies does he go to hell, or would heaven be a better punishment?
How did a fool and his money get together in the first place? (Steven Wright)
What do you do when you see an endangered animal that eats only endangered plants?
Can you buy an entire chess set in a pawn shop?
How do you tell when you're out of invisible ink?
What happens if you get scared half to death twice?
Why do psychics have to ask you for your name?
What's another word for Thesaurus?
If you write the word "monkey" a million times, do you start to think you're Shakespeare?

* Origin unknown


Great news for lovers of facial foliage, the beard is back, and so is the moustache, the smooth-cheeked metrosexual thing is o-ver, the rugged, masculine hirsute man is in.

The mullet is still out.

They're still there, languishing in Cape Town, tangled up in red tape when there are whales to be saved. Sis man, Cape Town, is this any way to treat your guests?


Oupa Seemo accused of tying his dog to the back of his car and dragging it along the road. He said he was "misunderstood".

Monday, February 27, 2006


From Bartcop

Fascinating story from Norway, a large and aggressive hare jumped in the middle of dog sled team and the dogs were so astonished, they backed away slowly. The hare biffed one or two of the dogs on the nose, gave a giant leap and hopped away into the sunset.

I suppose it’s hard to hold a camera when it’s 40 below, but I would’ve liked to see a photograph of that. It’s not that I don’t believe them or anything, but there are those northern lights, and insomnia from the midnight sun, and all that white around, which has to be having an effect. Apparently some sledders enjoy smoking it up before they go on a run to get the full effect of flashing sky and dazzling white.

Well, someone was tokin’, maybe it was the rabbit.

Saturday, February 25, 2006


IOL hosts Patentdata which invites people to submit their brilliant invention in the hope of finding a backer and the untold riches that come with a lucrative new idea. Some of the ideas are quite useful, like the gel pocket that heats in the microwave and slips into a special “panty”, to keep us chicks from garroting our men when we have menstrual cramps. Not a bad idea and it’s nice to know that someone’s feeling our pain and more importantly doing something about it.

Another great one for women, if you’ve always wanted to pee standing up, now you can, with the nifty Femme Plus. It’s a type of funnel made from water-resistant cardboard, which you place over the “flow area”. Stand with your feet apart, straighten your knees, push your bottom back so the spout is aimed and off you go. When you’re finished, you throw it in the bin or “put it in your pocket”, a fanny funnel, how brilliant is that?

The fucking cleaning, how come nobody has invented something that removes the dust without any intervention from me. Here’s a step in the right direction, a vacuum cleaner that chugs around the floor, its dirt sensors seeking out and eliminating those elusive dust bunnies, like a terrestrial Kreepy Krauley. It even “remembers” the layout of your living room so it doesn’t keep bumping up against the furniture. You switch it on, go to work, when you get home, it’s as though the fairies have been. You can even get one that washes the floor.

It gets better you may never have to clean your bathroom ever again because it will never get dirty, yay, it’s an environmentally friendly coating which can kill bacteria. It repels water, so the dirt just washes away. No zims, no Handy Andy, now that’s what I call a freaking great invention.

This is brilliant in a creepy way, it’s a sonic teenager deterrent, it gets rid of loitering teenagers. by emitting a high frequency noise that doesn’t hurt the tender ear of the teenager, but makes him uncomfortable enough to move on and bother someone who doesn’t own one of these.

A few weeks ago, someone submitted an invention that involved pantyhose to the knee. Knee-hi’s been done, you chortle, but no, these come down from the waist and stop just below the knee, it’s something to do with thighs rubbing uncomfortably together, crap product, but then here’s Madonna wearing them.

Nope, my thighs can chafe away, I wouldn't be seen dead or alive in this.

Friday, February 24, 2006


Watch out gropers, pinching a woman’s arse is becoming a perilous business, a man was sentenced to 4 years in jail for grabbing a woman’s arse as he cycled past her on the street. Here’s the good part, in Columbia, the woman gets to decide what’s going to happen to the perpetrator, she can charge him, let him go, or SLAP him.

I’m totally anti violence of any sort, but I don’t see anything wrong with a timely slap on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. It’s instantly satisfying and ends the saga right then and there. Court proceedings drag out endlessly, whereas a swift klap over the ear gets the message through in no uncertain terms. A kick in the shins, delivered with a ladylike demeanour will hammer the point home better than any subpoena, and if he really has a hard head, a sharp twist of the nuts is the furthest you’ll ever have to go. If all else fails, reach for the lawyer, but the quick answer to sexual harassment, is a punch to the nose with sufficient force to make it bleed.

Harsh? I don’t think so, four years is a long time.

Monday, February 20, 2006


It’s the crack cocaine of the thinking world, the annual Question that gets academic propeller heads and your average blogging punter all worked up in a frenzy. Every year The Edge asks a big question and the responses are compiled into a book. Last year’s question was “what do you know to be true but you can’t prove?” This year “what is your dangerous idea?” In the tradition of Galileo and Copernicus, the best ideas are preposterous in their time, but ultimately accepted as blindingly obvious.

“The most dangerous idea of all is that we should all share our most dangerous ideas”

Saturday, February 18, 2006

Friday, February 17, 2006


In light of the fact that Evita Bezuidenhout has denied she has a love child by ex-deputy president Zuma, I feel it incumbent upon me to state unequivocally and with no ambiguity whatsoever that I too have not mothered any child and/or children by ex-president Jacob Zuma. It’s nothing to do with my attractiveness I assure you, I am quite acceptably sexy for most men, however the life paths of Mr. Zuma and myself have never met in any meaningful way, therefore the aforesaid love sprog, either real or imaginary, did not materialize in any way, shape or form, now or in the past, or indeed in the future.

I’ve absolutely nothing against Jacob Zuma, I always thought him a good solid, honest man, until I heard otherwise, and perhaps in another time and place, we might have got together in a meaningful way, but as of this time, our celestial destinies have not brought us into sufficient proximity for the exchange of body fluids (or solids and semi-solids) necessary for the production of zygotes, embryos and in fact, living miniature human beings.

Therefore I wish to categorically state, I am not currently in possession of any love child of any person known now (or henceforth) as Mr. Zuma, whether it is possible to possess any child or cat for that matter, but no matter, the fact remains, that I am minus one child of Jacob Zuma, and the way things are going, I will never, ever have the love child of one Mr. Jacob Zuma.

And perhaps that’s for the best.

Zapiro from Sunday Times


In a change of tactic against pelt hags, PETA recently pelted Paris Hilton and designer Julian Macdonald with flour for their sins against creatures with nice fur.

In a series of candid admissions forced by new FDA rules on food labelling, fast food giant McDonalds has admitted its burgers contain nothing that bears any resemblance to anything which we have come to know on earth as meat. Furthermore, their ice cream contains neither ice nor cream and their lettuce is made from a slurry of liquidised and reconstituted flurorescent pigs.

In the past few weeks, McDonalds has been forced to make embarrassing admissions about the nutritional content of their “food”. Their totally vegetarian freedom fries, it turned out, are cooked in beef tallow, and contain enough trans fats to keep the earth’s heart surgeons busy in perpetuity. Now they’ve admitted their fries also contain gluten and dairy products which can be toxic to those with celiac disease or gluten allergies. They hasten to reassure those with nighshade allergies that the fries contain absolutely no actual potato either.

By contrast their buns and cheese contain neither gluten nor dairy products, and their bacon is a cunning mix of “autolyzed yeast extract and hydrolyzed corn”, their buffalo sauce contains no actual buffalo, and their apple pie is made up of L-cysteine, sorbitol, dextrose, sodium citrate, sodium alginate, and didalcium phosphate, just exactly the ingredients your mom used to use.

Monday, February 13, 2006


If you think you’re going to toss the missus a box of Nutties to keep her quiet this Valentine’s day, you can forget that shit, according to this, we want a surprise island holiday, thank you very much. Only six percent thought a bunch of flowers was appropriate, and four percent of us were happy with a card. One staggering finding was that (choke) only two percent opted for a pair of diamond earrings!

It seems the Valentine’s day ante has been upped to ridiculous proportions, no wonder so many people are anti-valentine. Watch the movies, buy the T-shirt, send the e-cardand the rest of the crap. To get you in the mood, go and look at the art at Fuckvday. If you absolutely have to fork over some something in a box and you want to make a statement, get some of these Bittersweets.

If you’re having an affair it’s even worse for you, because it’s the one day of the year when everyone is expected to do something romantic for their partner, singular or plural. It’s a particularly busy time for private investigators who know their mark has to make contact with his/her illicit sweetie, and all they have to do is ensure they are around to record the evidence. Don’t ever book a business trip over that period, it’s dead suspicious, and remember, the more expensive the present, the more serious the relationship, so watch those credit card slips.

Be careful out there all you hopeless romantics, as the wag said “you can cheat on your wife, but don’t ever cheat on your mistress”.


Here he is, brace yourself girls, here’s the guy that’s going to revive the fortunes of Mattel, manufacturer of the perennial Barbie, who has been dallying with an Australian surfer boy for the past two years.

Challenging the interloper on his own turf is the new super-duper improved Ken, his body is more ripped, his chiseled features have been toned down, he looks almost pretty in a Beckham type of way, with his hat on backwards. Looks like he needs a boyfriend more than an ageing blonde with fake tits. Add a moustache, the old Ken will do nicely.

Thursday, February 09, 2006


Tired of the usual steak and chips? How about a whale burger, whale frikkadels or a delicious bowl of whale bolognaise. No thanks? That’s what the Japanese are saying, and now the Japanese government has 1035 tons of last year’s meat on its hands, plus some left over from the year before and the year before that to 1999. Seems the Japanese have gone off whale meat now that it’s not the only thing to eat besides dirt and leaves, like it was for the current generation's parents.

Whale hunting was banned in 1986, but a loophole allowed it in the name of research, which apparently the Japanese can’t do without killing the poor buggers. Every year, Japanese fishing companies kill increasing numbers of whales in the name of “establishing reliable information on whale populations and habits”. Most of the meat is sold on to the restaurant industry in order to fund the next expedition. Greenpeace says Japan has been buying votes on the International Whaling Commission, by offering coastal countries assistance with their fishing industries in return for support for their whaling policies. This year Japan plans to kill 1070 whales and it’s invented a super-harpoon to do the job most effectively. The device has a grenade attached, which hurls “shards of metal through the whale’s body to sever major nerves and blood vessels”. How convenient, mince it up while you kill it, isn’t science wonderful?

The Japan Whaling Association claims whale meat is part of Japanese culture, that they’ve been eating it for 10,000 years, but apparently tastes have changed, there’s so much of it around the price has plummeted and it’s being offloaded on the nation’s poor hapless schoolchildren.

Pack a lunch and run, kids.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

I are Manto, Manto I be
Don’t come to me for ARV

Like the hat? Buy one here but they only come in red and white stripes.

Pic : Sunday Times

Another piece of censorship slipped under the radar this week, the "volume was lowered" on two words sung by the Rolling Stones during the American Football Superbowl, held last Sunday. The NFL, twitchy about the Janet Jackson boob incident in 2004, was taking no chances and eliminated the offending words under the all-powerful mantra CHILDREN MAY BE WATCHING. The words were “cum” from “Start me Up” and “a barnyard reference to cocks” from “Rough Justice”. Futile, really, everyone knows what you imagine is far worse than what was bleeped out in the first place.

I knew it was going to end in tears, the Rolling Stones, idols of my youth, who never sold one iota of their principles, allying themselves with middle America by signing up for the Superbowl “spots and promo’s” in the first place. Whatever happened to dignity? It’s not as though Mick and the boys are eyeing out the catfood tins for their retirement, I’m sure we could send a hat around the world if they’re a bit skint, anything to spare us the spectacle of another of music’s most treasured icons muddying down with the money men.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Britney in Will & Grace Cruxi-Fixins episode

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Wasting Time, Becky Kelly, USA


During the World Economic Forum, a moral dilemma was debated: what is the eighth deadly sin, and could it be useful? A number of ideas were put forward, cynicism, fear, self-idolatry, rampant consumerism, but the “winner” was spiritlessness, proposed by Pekka Himanen a professor from Helsinki. It means “having no beliefs, no dreams, no vision, and therefore doing nothing”. The punishment for the new sin of spiritless apathy is to be condemned to live in a world where you could have made a difference, but didn’t. Doesn’t sound too bad really, not like being boiled in oil.

The original seven deadly sins are: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride, enumerated back in the sixth century by St Gregory the Great and they’re still the base motives that lead to most modern crimes, but in our celebrity obsessed culture, they’re hardly seen as sins at all. Virtue, it seems, is still its own reward.

Everyone’s got an idea of what the 8th deadly sin should be, BBC radio listeners voted for apathy, P.J. Brown says it’s using numbers as objects, Terry Pratchett thought it was the utterance of the term “core values”, it’s been interpreted as online quilt art, and is the theme of deviant art. Jessica Mann says the 8th deadly sin is being caught, Johnny Golgotha thinks it’s Cockteasing, this blogger thinks it’s spam, and if you really want to get heavy, here are the philosophers.

My pick for 8th is the cellphone, the tiny tyrant, that shrill little voice, She who Must Be Obeyed. You’re discussing an earth-shattering emotional event with a friend, the phone rings, hold it right there, THE PHONE COMES FIRST. You are forced to listen to simpering platitudes with your tears drying on your cheeks and when the call is dispensed with, the moment is lost forever. There’s also the pernicious practice of humming tunelessly along to your I-Pod, and sending sick child and Irish good luck e-mails, ditto Powerpoint presentations about angels.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006


I’m trying to think of a reason for this invention, except as a useful night light during a power cut. Scientists in Taiwan have developed green pigs, glow-in-the-dark green pigs, and they don’t just have green hides, they’re green all the way through to their green piggy nuclei.

They were created by adding the DNA of jellyfish to pig embryos, which were implanted in 8 sows, 4 of which got pregnant resulting in a paltry 3 piglets, (which might indicate what the pigs think of the wisdom of this enterprise). In daylight their skin has a decidedly green tinge, and in the dark under a blue light, they glow “torch-light bright”.

There’s something horribly ghoulish about this whole thing, but it’s all in the name of science, the pigs are transgenic, and what a creepy word that is. Transagenics, the science of transferring genetic matter between species, creating those much needed tortoise-daffodil combinations so crucial to the survival of our planet.

It’s a brilliant idea in theory, because by injecting green pig stem cells into ordinary pigs, they can track the movements of the cells through the host’s body. Why stop there, pink elephants will become a reality and not a hangover apparition. A trip to the game reserve will take on a surreal glow. Think of the combinations that can be achieved by judicious gene mixing, cross a dog with a rose, for example, or create the fastest horse in the world with a pinch of cheetah tissue, it all sounds like a B-movie in the making.

This sort of trans species manipulation has been done before in the name of art, a glowing rabbit called Alba was created by artist Eduardo Kac who is PhD research fellow at a University in Wales (where else?). He developed the project to “combine biotechnology, private family life and the social domain of public opinion into a single furry symbol.” The whole thing ended in tears when his collaborators refused to hand over the bunny, and he’s now working on a transgenic dog that at least has the useful function of lighting up the front stoep.

They’re working on other, even more useful applications for this glow in the dark technology, consumer products that we, the average punter, won’t be able to resist: hair mousse, cake frosting, beer and champagne.

Think of the implications - No officer I haven’t been drinking, that’s hair mousse down the front of my shirt.

Monday, January 30, 2006


It has come to our attention that in places called Italy and England, domestic pets are possessed of rights, the five freedoms laid down by the Animal Welfare Bill, reinforced by the Pet Police who are empowered to sting offending owners with a hefty fine. In light of this, we your resident cats hereby demand certain changes in the provision of food and entertainment in our current situation, and we’ve made a list.

First off you’re required to provide an “appropriate” diet, and we think chicken and tuna are far more appropriate to our needs and tastes than those dry science pebbles, which are OK if all you want to eat day in and day out is that muesli stuff you choke down every morning. From henceforth it is an offence to make the aforementioned food items for yourself without giving us any.

We’ve got no complaints about the living arrangements, although we’d like it if you allowed us unlimited scratching on the new couch before you reach for the water pistol. It has the ideal texture for stripping those pesky nails and it’s the right colour to conceal blobs of hairball puke.

You are now required to provide “mental stimulation” so that we don’t become bored and frustrated, and we’re not talking catnip-filled mice, and feathers on a stick (although we do like the catnip), we’ll be needing several hours of string chasing, fishing-rod flinging and lightweight ball retrieval to stimulate our “catching behaviour”. Or you could leave the window open during the day when you’re at the office, and we’ll work on our catching skills in our own way.

The new law makes it compulsory to provide companionship or solitude depending on the situation, and we’re pleased to inform you that cats are solitary animals so there is no reason whatsoever for you to acquire a dog. If you did feel compelled to get a dog, it would need to be kept on a leash and introduced to us carefully and you will have to provide a hidey hole for us in case of rowdy children, and for that we’ve decided on the bed with the electric blanket.

You are also compelled to monitor us for abnormal behaviour (difficult to tell) and we’re sure we’ll quickly show signs of abnormal behaviour if a dog is introduced, so we must stress once again that no canine creatures be introduced into our living situation. Ever.

With the aforementioned in mind, don’t make any plans for this evening. We’re expecting a chicken fillet dinner followed by a saucer of cream. You will then need to chase us up and down the stairs at least seventeen times before our massages, after which you will fluff out our pillows and if you persist in sleeping in our bed, try not to snore.

And for God’s sake, clean out the litterbox, the smell can strip paint off the wall.

Thursday, January 26, 2006


Tuesday, January 24, 2006


I’m starting to look askance at some of the rocks in my garden, they look real enough, but since the revelation that British James Bond types had a transmitter hidden in a fake rock on a Moscow street, one can never really be sure.

That tree, sure the leaves are green and it purpled up during jacaranda season like a real tree, could it possibly harbour a tiny camera monitoring my every twitch and flicker? Hmm, never could trust that clump of bamboo.

I wonder at their choice of a rock, because what would really blend into a bustling cityscape is big brown rock that appears out of nowhere and sits there for no good reason. It doesn’t say where the rock was placed and how they found out it was made of less than rocklike materials. Needless to say, a full enquiry will be held, and the whole affair will provide endless hours of fun for satirists all over the world.

Come to think of it, that wheelie bin looks a bit dodgy.

Monday, January 23, 2006


If you were particularly grumpy today, if you were feeling disgruntled, despondent, depressed, down in the mouth or in the dumps. If today was the day you were finally going to blow your brains out, relax, it’s not you, it’s the 23rd of January, a day which has been scientifically proven to be the gloomiest most morbid and horrible day of the year.

Here’s the formula devised by Cliff Arnall from Cardiff University : [W+(D-d)xTQ M x NA]. The variables are:

W = weather
D = Debt
d = monthly salary
T = time since Christmas
Q = time since failure to quit bad habit
M = motivational level
NA = the need to take action

“The happy, giddy influence of the holidays fades with no immediate celebrations to anticipate. Meanwhile, those New Year's self-bettering resolutions such as losing weight or saving money often fail about 21 days later”.

All is not lost, in a few hours, the worst will be over, and if you succeeded in refraining from slitting even one wrist, you’ll be fine. If you’re looking for a new job, May 18 is the best day on which to make your move, and watch out for June 23, which absolutely has got to be the most fantastic day of the year, based “how much time we spend outdoors, social interaction, warm weather, vacations and pleasant-memory association”.

We might need to tweak this a little for South Africa, I’m suggesting a few variables like these:

t = time since last burglary, mugging, etc.
P = petrol price, car repayment, etc.
SAB = price of alcohol, cigarettes, mind-altering substances, etc.
j = interval before Christmas presents are repossessed

Thursday, January 12, 2006


Monday, January 09, 2006


Because there really aren’t enough words in the world, here’s a new one, recently voted Word of the Year by the people who decide there things, truthiness which means stating concepts one wishes or believes to be true, rather than the facts, a fuzzy, nebulous sort of truthfulness. Podcast is the most useful and the most Creative terms are “whale tail”, the appearance of the thong above the waistband and “muffin top”, the bulge of flesh hanging over the top of low rider pants”, both fairly squicky (unappealing).

Interesting how new words become part of the lexicon. This year has been particularly fruitful in terms of words for things that never used to exist. Here’s a brilliant idea for the nicotine bereft, the butt bus, a bus parked near a pub or restaurant that is used as the establishment's smoking section. Then there’s acoustic snooping, stealing data by decoding the sounds of keyboard strokes, jumping the couch, thanks to Tom Cruise and splog, a cross between a blog and spam, pupperware, dog accessories and toys sold at in-home parties, and zooing, to stare or ogle in a fixed way. Ever been accused of drailing? Sending an embarrassing e-mail message while drunk., don’t lie, we’ve all done it, and it tends to end us as a fiascal, between a fiasco and a hassle.

In the office, you might encounter nut-hugging, the highest glorified behaviour associated with ass-kissing, and if that doesn’t work, you could consider a nupgrade, to upgrade one’s life via nuptials or even become an angst entrepreneur, the weasels who profit from scaring the bejesus out of the rest of us on a more or less continuous basis.

If you live in Joburg, you might have come across a Garage Mahal, a large ostentatious house, which exists solely to house a couple of 4x4’s and a Porsche.

Some words and terms have become so obnoxious they are henceforth banished for all eternity, and looky there our favourite word for schoolkids, “learners”. That word is now banished, can’t say it anymore, ag shame, the SABC will have to think of something else.

Sunday, January 08, 2006


It’s that time of year when the lists of Best and Worst come out. I'm more interested in the dreadful stuff, the cringe-worthy moments of deluded movie stars, the horrible songs endlessly repeated on the radio, the putrid movies that not only made it through the production process, but got foisted on the long-suffering viewing public.

Here are this year’s misguided moments in music and the most annoying pop songs of 2005.

Those wacky celebrities! Vote for the most toe-curling celebrity gaffe or scoff at their taste. Gwen Gill's SA worst and the winner is .... Amor's Jerry Springer style.

Style had something to say about Madonna’s disco reincarnation, ew are we really going to wear Farrah Fawcett hair another time around?

Everyone’s got an opinion on the Worst movies, here’s Dark Horizons, The Bombs Tomatometer List, The Stinkers and Ruthless Reviews Worst of 2005.

Although words are cheap, they hang around for an awful long time, here’s some of 2005’s memorable quotes.

Books, cars, gadgets and so you know what not to buy next year, here’s the Worst Christmas Gifts of 2005.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

It's Mardi Gras season

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Madonna looks in the wrong place


It’s incredibly reassuring to know that all over the world, scientists are grappling with the pressing issues of our times, peace, famine, disease and how fabric types can affect the perception of bottom size. Yes folks, female volunteers will try on hundreds of types of clothing and have their bums photographed in a study by Dr Lisa Macintyre of Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh. They will then look at the photographs and answer the age old question “Does my bum look big in this?”

It’s all in the interests of finding out which fabrics and patterns are most flattering to the posterior because “enhancing body perception can improve confidence and self-esteem”.

It’s not going to help, everyone knows that drawstring waists, bum pockets and checks make your bum look huge, but spend five minutes on the beach and you’ll see that nobody pays attention to any of that. Despite their better judgement, people still wear track suit pants, stiff fabrics and those lycra tights you can see the cellulite right through. Levi’s are now putting lycra in their jeans, is nothing sacred. All you have is the illusion that the wobbly bits are being pulled in, whereas they are merely being outlined.

Everyone knows these things, but still they do it and why, because we all think we’re much more fucking special than we really are. According to this study on Self-Assessment (PDF) Blissfully Incompetent, by Wendy Williams of Cornell University, we all think we’re fabulous whereas most of us are barely average. Apparently we’re wildly off base when it comes to judging our skill, knowledge, expertise, talent, personality and moral character and this has serious consequences for the millions of decisions we make every day. We’re over optimistic about our health, reckless with our physical safety and over-confident about our hotness factor, to whit Internet dating sites where nobody will ever claim to be less than “above average” in attractiveness. The world is “rife with people whose flawed self-assessments create a burden shouldered by everyone except, seemingly, themselves”.

In other words, self-esteem in a pair of pants is not the answer, we’re so blinded by our own magnificence, we just don’t notice that those pink stripes make our bum look HUGE.

I really love the way the new year flushes out people who are willing to lay their heads on the block and make predictions about the future. According to this, Camilla is the new It-Girl, oh yes, Camilla Parker-Bowles, the big boned galumphing aristocrat with really bad posture, the surrogate tampon who took on a beautiful princess and snatched away a jug-eared simpleton. Seems this is what we all aspire to now, according to Marian Salzman of J Walter Thompson we all want to be a woman who has no achievements to her credit but a little light charity work and her ability to ensnare a prominent man.

On the other hand, as a woman of a certain age, I’m thrilled to bits that the people who decide these things have determined the wrinklie is IN. “Young women are so over,” says Salzman, opening up a lucrative market niche, older people with presumably fat checkbooks, falling in love, getting married and desperately needing all the products that go with it, since Camilla and Charles have de-stigmatised love over the age of 50. Even now, Nokia is working on cellphones for the older generation that do nothing but “make calls and if you’re feeling very adventurous, texting.” I am so glad about that, far too many buttons on the dang thing. According to the oracles, “affluent women in their forties and fifties are returning to the way they ate as children”. Hmm, jelly and fish fingers are so not in my freezer.

Other predictions include a new medievalism (and you only have to drive around Sandhurst to see that palisade fencing has become our national tree) and apparently growing our own food will become the “big aspiration thing”. I’m not sure how you grow cannelloni, but I think Woolies does it better, ditto for the prediction that we are going to find a new respect for our livers with “alcohol-free entertaining” (in which universe).

I’m all for the “new-connoisseurship”, a “sipping and savouring”, but I don’t even know what a chastity ring is and I don’t like the sound of “new Puritanism” or anything about “buttoned-up sexual restraint”, which jars oddly with Camilla’s new found sexiness about which Salzman says “she has an earthy, restrained sexiness that makes her bizarrely desirable.”

Oh and we’re going to start loving our neighbours, yeah right, good fences and all.

Here’s a bit of good news for the new year, South African executives are remarkably easy going about sex in the office. According to a survey by Finweek on sexual behaviour among South African executives, 27% believe that sex in the office has a positive effect on productivity, so go ahead, don’t hold back, bonk the sales manager in the file room, it’s not going to harm your career, uh, as long as you start when you’re young and cute.

There’s lots in this report that’s interesting, surprising and just plain hilarious and it might go some way to explaining why your boss is always in a foul mood. Turns out that success at work has a negligible effect on whether you are likely to have more sex at home, about equivalent to using recreational drugs. Although your boss might be sanguine about sex in the office, turns out if he’s over 50, well he’s not getting very much of it.

And why? Surprisingly enough, most of the respondents considered themselves unsexy, despite their high status and relative wealth, more than two thirds did not think they were appealing to the opposite sex. Most regarded themselves as conservative/traditional, yet more than half were bored and keen to up the excitement factor in their sex lives.

They’re not doing it, so what are they doing? They’re thinking about it a lot. Oh yes, and single executives think about sex more often that those married and over 50, although their level of sexual activity was a paltry once every few months!

Where are they doing it? Female executives seem to have a penchant for hotels, but most male executives have it at home, or in cars, parks, beaches and clubs, and if the lift at the office is taking a long time to reach you, you’ll know why.

While 90% of the subjects have been to a strip club and 9% to a swingers club, only 10% would admit to paying for sex and when it comes to sex toys, only 8% of the men confessed to using them whereas 17% of the women owned up to Rapid Rabbit under the pillow.

The Internet is a particularly popular hunting ground amongst executives who claim to be conservative, 90% have indulged in chat room sessions or intimate e-mails while less than 10% of the total sample have had any kind of virtual sex.

When it comes to what they find attractive, no surprises here, it’s looks for men, and attitude and intelligence for women. Money scores remarkably low, but interestingly enough, of those that are turned on by money, 33% think about sex all the time.

How’s this, 9% of men admit to sleeping their way up the career ladder, while only 4% of women did so. One thing they all agreed on was that sex in the office disrupts the power relations, upends the pecking order and for this reason perhaps, only 16% of the respondents admitted to having indulged in sex in the office, although 30% of them said they would grab the chance given the opportunity. What’s more of those who indulged, the majority said they didn’t regret it at all.

Almost all agreed that the line between sexual harassment and flirting lay at the point of physical contact or where the word “no” was heard.

So there you have it, so much for the new Puritanism, office sex is alive and well, so if you’ve a hankering for the blonde in accounts or that cute guy in IT, go ahead, knock yourself out, just be careful not to scuff the leather finish on the boardroom table.