PRANA the Blog

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 16

2010-10-19T20:44:00.001+02:00

22nd September

Okay so I’m a tad obsessed over the definition of a castle but it isn’t that Jimmy’s wrong or the Blair Atholl Estate or Trust or whatever the fuck it’s called has it inaccurately – it’s just that my own boyhood visions of castles always involved roughly hewn stone, jagged battlements, moats, drawbridges, portcullises and a generous complement of soldiers to man the thing – preferably clad in armour or at least chainmail.
Blair Atholl or Blair Castle conjured up none of these childhood perceptions therefore it had to be wrong. Although Oxford Concisely – it isn’t wrong – it’s just – ah fuck it!
The following day we were embarking on a day trip and I harboured this secret hope that Karen would be a lot more impressed with Edinburgh’s famous castle than she had been by the mishmash of furnishings, displays and accoutrements of my own ancestral seat.
But first we were to route our trip via Rosslyn Chapel, originally highlighted as a place of interest in an esoteric sense by the writers Baigent, Lincoln and Leigh through their alternative Jesus/Mary Magdalene book: Holy Blood, Holy Grail and which Karen and I had read in the 90’s.
I had visited the place back in ‘99 on my last trip to Scotland and at that time the chapel had still been covered by an external structure to help dry it out during a period of renovation lasting over a decade.
Holy Blood, Holy Grail had certainly raised the profile of the little chapel which had enjoyed an upswing in visitor numbers after its publication and subsequent worldwide success but nothing prepared the Rosslyn Chapel Trust for the madness that was to ensue when one Dan Brown picked up on the Baigent, Lincoln and Leigh hypothesis and wove the concept into a blockbuster of a book called – yup – that’s right – The da Vinci Code.
After the DVC, the village of Roslin and the chapel itself was never the same again, thousands upon thousands of people flocking there annually just to see what all the fuss was about and hoping against hope that the present Earl of Rosslyn had suddenly decided to excavate the floor and reveal the holy grail or the remains of Mary Magdalene or even Christ himself.
No such luck, the Earl being a staid and canny fellow and reportedly dead against (ooh sorry) disturbing the graves of many of his forebears who seemingly repose in crypts below the chapel floors.
But the stories, the mythologies, the mysticism, the dreams and fantasies of the public fuelled by Dan Brown’s fertile imagination (at least that’s what they’ll tell you) are just that – pure and utter fiction but they refuse to be quelled.
The Holy Blood, Holy Grail authors weren’t quite as admiring of Mr Brown’s fictions claiming that he had usurped their hypothesis, which was firmly anchored in truth through factually referenced sources and years of painstaking research. Dan said that he had simply taken their ideas and woven them into a novel but as their own work was claimed to be factual and his was mere fantasy, how on earth could he possibly be called a plagiarist? The matter went to court and the judge found in Brown’s favour.
Ah well, armed with all of this insight and knowledge served only to compound the complexity of what you see inside Rosslyn, for the chapel is so ornate and full of stone carvings that it would take you a couple of weeks to go through it properly and enjoy every detail. You could take lots of photographs, one might say, and study them at home later, right?
Well, once you could – in 1999 you could but since a litigious wanker of an American stumbled on the uneven flagstone floor while photographing some delightful carving then tumbled over hurting herself and instantly sued the Trust, the owners decided after legal counseling to ban all comers from taking photos inside the chapel. If you want the detail, then buy the picture DVD from the gift shop through which you are compulsorily channeled before you reach the exit. Of course you are – ask Banksy.
But cynicism aside for a moment and notwithstanding the myth associated with Rosslyn Chapel, standing inside the small supposedly Christian edifice, one cannot help but be moved by the dedication that went into its creation. The apprentice pillar, the master craftsman’s pillar, the geometry, the symmetry interposed with a seemingly deliberate imbalance and the legends behind why this is so all contribute to the energy that abounds in this place.
The St Clairs may dismiss the beliefs of those who would attribute more to their family church but there is mystery here for sure and no-one knows exactly why this place was built in the manner it was nor why it replicates a portion of Solomon’s Temple yet is filled with pagan iconography to its core.
My own take on it is simple – I believe Rosslyn was a monument to spirituality rather than to the prescribed religion of the day hence its arcane symbolism, its Templar lore and its enduring magnetism. Messrs Baigent, Lincoln, Leigh and Brown didn’t do its reputation any harm either but their contribution to Rosslyn’s mystique has conversely diluted one’s ability to soak up that mystique in any private way due to its massive popularity.
Karen, I believe, was entranced and disappointed simultaneously as I know she would have relished the idea of being alone within the carved walls for just fifteen minutes to engage with the place in her own unique way.
As it was, we left with mixed emotions only to be confronted by a 1911 vintage car in the small gravel carpark, which immediately deflected our mood and provided new focus both for cameras and admiration.
“Nineteen eleven,” I thought, “the year before the voyage of the Titanic. So that’s what cars looked like back then – wow!”
The guys who alighted from the machine looked decidedly windswept but happy and we chatted for a few minutes while Karen photographed the car (pics which I have to track down on her return from Cape Town and paste on my facebook profile).
And so – on to Edinburgh just a lick up the road with Gabby’s destination set for Edinburgh Castle and my heart beating in my chest just that little bit harder as it always seems to do when I visit this beautiful city. And maybe, if we had time, I could take Karen down to 60 Bath Street, Portobello where I spent the first ten years of my life.

This was Britain in the autumn – I thought it would be the perfect time on both hemispheres for a trip – Britain in autumn – not too cold, not too rainy and South Africa in spring - pushing into summer when we returned.
I remember thinking before we left SA (usually while sitting on the bog with a Mojo or Classic Rock magazine in my hands) how cool it would be to have all that musical talent around because we were bound to catch a gig either in England or Scotland – a little Sting perhaps, or maybe Portishead or Morcheeba or Paul Weller or Steve Harley or Bad Company – anyone actually. But fuck me if every single gig that was worth a wank wasn’t either in August or October onward. It was as if September didn’t exist for rock stars or they all went into detox for that month or something – absolutely stone to the wall fuck all – and I mean nothing!
So it was in Edinburgh for we were there the month after the Royal Military Tattoo which is held each year in August. The sum total of what we witnessed of the event was the dismantling of the massive seating scaffolding as we walked up the forecourt toward the portcullis. I say, dismantling but it was really a bunch of Jock “workers”, some idly leaning on brooms under the structure while one lethargic guy loosened steel struts and planks then slid them downhill to a team of three who even more lethargically piled them in a kind of a stack in readiness for some more contemplation tomorrow perhaps. All the while they did what all good construction workers do and took in the passing talent leeringly and with much more relish than anything occurring on the scaffolding.
But I run ahead of myself again.
Karen’s response to Edinburgh and her reaction to the castle were even more passionate than I had anticipated. She loved the place and was in awe of the castle even though I took pains to make no comparisons with Blair Castle (chortle). I didn’t need to. The castle seduced her, embraced her and titillated her far more than any lascivious construction worker (or Blair Castle) ever would.
We spent an idyllic couple of hours meandering the castle grounds, lunching at the castle café which enjoys a panoramic view of the city and where I got to crack a couple of jokes with an Afrikaans family who were dining at the other end of the room.
When I passed them by clad in my distinctive Springbok windcheater, the father of the family piped up: “Waar loop jy met so ‘n jas, meneer?” (“Where are you going wearing that jacket, sir?”)
I stopped, smiled and responded in English: “After our kak performance in the tri-nations, they were giving these away gratis at OR Tambo…”
They all laughed and I made my way to the khazi for a call of nature. On my return I passed the table again and made another little chirp, which had come to me while gazing at the porcelain tiles over the urinal a floor below the dining room.
“Y’know,” I began, “we are actually in the wrong place…”
Raised eyebrows all around.
“Ja,” I went on, “We saw all these signs saying CASTLE and we followed them thinking we were heading to the beer tent!”
More laughter and a wink or two and then I was back with Karen relating my interaction with the Seffricans before we continued on our rounds of the castle.
Gazing out over the Scott Monument to the magnificent backdrop of the city beyond is an awe inspiring sight for those who are used to the view; breathtaking for those, like myself, who’ve seen it more than once but have forgotten its majesty; and just indescribable for first-timers like Karen.
It isn’t that Edinburgh is more grand than London or has a more imposing natural setting than Cape Town or that it boasts an Eiffel Tower for it doesn’t perhaps match up in any of those departments but the pure beauty of its cityscape seems to be imbued with an energy that somehow infects the viewer to a degree that wows you. So it was for Karen too who confessed that she could easily live in this city and for the first time since arriving in the UK, I had to confess that I felt the same way. There’s just something about the place.
I felt just a little smug knowing that my wife loved my hometown as much as I’d hoped – perhaps even more than I’d hoped, in fact. When we’d walked the cobbles of Edinburgh Castle as much as we had a mind to, Karen suggested we head off to my boyhood home in Bath Street. I just grinned madly and said, okay.
Setting the address in Gabby showed us that we’d be there in around fifteen minutes, which I thought to be impossible – surely I had lived further from the city centre than fifteen minutes…? I mean, everything had been so far away back then. The swing park had been a walk from the house, Towerbank Primary further still and Joppa Rocks had been on the other side of the planet. Well, it had been a lick around the coastline hugging the Firth of Forth, a name Karen insisted was a drunk man ordering a measure of whisky or something which I suppose it does, in fact, sound a bit like.
And true to form, within twenty minutes we were driving down Bath Street, Gabby being unable to calculate in my poor interpretation of her directions at Portobello High Street which ran us around a little detour and then the snail’s pace down my old boyhood stomping ground taking me by surprise with its narrowness and then the single lane transition at the bottom end of Bath Street where I misjudged the oncoming traffic, got a little too close to the parked cars and clipped Sally’s passenger side wing mirror on one of them. Oops! But no damage done and after a swift three-point manoeuvre at the bottom of the road and an even more rapid parking move outside (what used to be) Cullen’s Pub now The Espy, we were safe from any nosy witnesses or the squillion cameras that dot the British landscape. More on those later.
End of this part

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 9

2010-10-14T22:04:00.000+02:00

Friday 17th September

And having left the beautiful verdant carwash lanes of Devon and Cornwall, we headed back to Yatton as Robin & Tracy were starting work the next day. The idea of work, something so second nature and addictive just a scant week or so ago, seemed foreign and unappealing on all levels and we were very happy that it was happening to someone else and not to us - just yet.
The mattresses in our guest bedroom in Yatton, still a long way from our own home comforts were never so rapturously embraced as that night after the rigours of bed hell in Edeswell.
Tomorrow (13th Sep - I'm running a bit behind here) would be our first venture out into the harsh world of Mud Island under our own recognisance (with the aid of Gabby Garmin, of course) and in our newly named Skoda, Sally.
And so, off we set to Bristol and the very first thing we encountered before even leaving Yatton was a detour in front of the local shopping precinct which really pissed Gabby off, however, we soon learned that forcing her hand simply got to her to recalculate a new route once we ignored the initial protestations and the little car graphic spinning wildly off the preplanned magenta course..
But soon we were cruising into Bristol under leaden skies with me trying to figure out the idiosyncrasies of Sally's windscreen wiper controls. Now this may seem dull and uninteresting to many (me too initially) but it took some working out and I still wonder if this methodology was planned by some coke-snorting engineer to annoy drivers whilst bamboozling them simultaneously or if there is just some quirky fault that is unique to Sally and Sally alone.
What happens is this: if you click the intermittent mode on from the off position then the wipers do a grudging sweep of the glass before resting again and sitting there unmoving for - well they simply don't move. So, as the windscreen is now totally obscured by rainwater, one clicks one mode up to slow wipe which is too much as there isn't sufficient rainfall to warrant this and the rubber begins to scrape across the glass with terrifyingly annoying squeals so off the wipers go.
But not before I tried to click one mode down to intermittent again from the slow wiper speed only to find out that this intermittent mode is now not really intermittent at all but just a slight pause as they sweep back to their starting point and begin a new sweep and repeat this interminably.
Fucking bizarre, I think to myself and switch the damn things off.
Rain builds up on glass, accident seems imminent so on they go to intermittent again until eventually I discover that if you go through the motions of: OFF / INTERMITTENT / SLOW SPEED / INTERMITTENT / OFF (PAUSE HERE FOR AT LEAST 6 OR 7 SECONDS) / INTERMITTENT then the stupid fucking things actually operate at a speed that works for light drizzle.
And it has nothing to do with the density of the rainfall or the speed of the car - it has everything to do with serendipity and eureka moments which I chose not to divulge to Karen for fear of being certified by the time we found our way to our Bristolian destination.
Which was (drumroll) a cosmetics shop to exchange some mail-order goods that weren't quite as expected. Yeah I know - anticlimactic and as about as exciting as - well a monologue about Skoda windscreen wiper operation.
But to Karen's abject horror (yes, of course it wasn't me exchanging cosmetics you dumbasses), the frigging shop was closed for renovations and the nearest alternative was in Bath.
Seemed like divine providence if you ask me - it was wet (off and on - just like the temperamental Skoda wipers) and we had an opportunity to go and see Bath, a pretty place by anyone's standards and it was the quiet time of the day.
So off to Bath we tootled under Gabby's circuitous guidance (she just loves roads that are not straight and after a further week of driving here in mud island we can safely report that another euphemism for that activity would be: Death By Roundabout). Fucking hell but there are a lot of roundabouts in this country and Gabby developed a wicked knack for instructing me to take whatever number exit from a roundabout where a) in some instances she counted minor exits such as sporting venue entrances and b) in other instances she didn't which then resulted in a) me spinning around the fucking roundabout more than once to Karen's (and many other road users') horror or b) us shooting up the wrong exit (easy boys this is a family blog) with me cursing the stupid satnav bitch, Karen telling me to calm the fuck down and Gabby placidly saying "recalculating" as I steamed and fumed.
We reached Bath unscathed, much wiser as to the guiles and vagaries of satnav devices, and found the place friendly, very touristy (but in a nice way - i.e. it was quiet that day) and glory be - the Lush shop (no not a rehab clinic for alcoholics but an emporium of natural, solid cosmetics - apart from the sodium-lauryl-sulphate that is) was open.
I parked, Karen went to the shop, I moved the car to a longer term parking precinct, went back to the shop, waited, waited some more, ended up paying for a wagonload more cosmetics than had been originally ordered (surprise, surprise) then we meandered through the drizzle and among the shops to a nice vegetarian pub, The Porter where we had lunch.
The barmaid was a hybrid South African / English combo who had lived just about 75km from our place in Magaliesburg on the West Rand, Roodekrans. What a small world it really is. Afrikaans being bandied about in the heart of Bath - yegods!
The food was superb, Karen drank some Italian rose and soon we were meandering back to Yatton with Gabby getting her own back on me for ignoring her earlier orders (vich must be obeyed at all times jawohl) by taking us yet another death-by-roundabout route all the way. Must we always be commanded and managed by women? That is rhetorical of course but it is the reality all good men should live by - the women do actually know best.
Sigh.
Goo goo ga joob...

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 8

2010-10-14T22:02:00.001+02:00

Thursday 16th September

On the follow up from the smashing (accidentally) of Kayla's yo-yo, I made enquiries at the toy shop in the centre of the budding metropolis of Tintagel, a beautiful little Cornish village boasting the sprawling ruins of Tintagel castle (more on that elsewhere).
The rosy-cheeked shopkeeper looked at me balefully and peered cornerwise into some realm where her distant memory seemed to reside.
"Yo-yos," she murmured as if I had asked her for a glazed ham with sparklers on it, "we had some of them..."
"Perhaps you have some in the back then?" I enquired optimistically.
"Oh no, love," she replied with a reproachful shake of the head, "the last time we had yo-yos here was about two or three Christmases ago."
Which only goes to show that the events and the period between events in a place where nothing happens ever all the time - it is easy to allow the period between these events to stretch into profound antiquity commensurate to priority and a paradoxically immediate recall.
Much in the same way a farmer in the Free State would say: "There's nothing so important that it can't wait two weeks..."
I'm really beginning to like things about this funny little island - I am being surprised by the quirkiest things in the best kind of way.
Goo goo ga joob...

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 7

2010-10-14T21:54:00.002+02:00

Monday 13th September

(Just realised we were mindlessly oblivious of the September 11 anniversary - so belatedly - condolences to all who suffered or lost their loved ones on that fateful day but perhaps it presented yet another lesson to humankind in ways too complex to be processed by our emotions)

Insert - 1 minute's silence here...............................................................................

Well, what is so gratifying about being in England is looking at the roadmap and wondering how the hell we're going to cover the distance in a single day then realising that the density of development within all those intersecting lines on the paper are so close together that nothing is further than 2 1/2 hours away - brilliant!
So the preparation of the cars and organising "padkos*" and anticipating an epic journey seemed so funny afterwards when it took around an hour to get to where we were going which was near Totnes in Devon at a little resort called Edeswell Farm.
Cute place I have to say but the mattresses were the highest quality from the new IKEA Marquis de Sade summer range and left us all buckled, bent and grumpy each morning - fucking atrocious things.
Another interesting dynamic was the assumption by sister-in-law-from-hell that there were 2 double beds in the 2nd bedroom, so accommodating 7 of us would be no problem but the sneaky gits who posted the pic on their website must've used a fish-eye lens because the skinny little single beds that were actually snugly (and I mean 'snugly') ensconced in the bedroom were anything but accommodating.
And I have recently discovered that my wife is not just into retail therapy but has evolved to a fully-fledged serial shopper and the pathetic sight of Robin & myself trailing after the women in various shopping precincts like a pair of puppy dogs is about as good as it gets for the boys who have no browsing capabilities whatsoever and, it has to be said, no retail stamina in any manner or form.
Men can run, cycle, jog, shag or walk for hours and hours to attend a desired sporting event etc. and this only serves to invigorate them, however, when it comes to a mere 20 metres of lethargic meandering around any form of specialist store boasting how much you will be saving by spending money there for items that may perhaps never see the light of day other than the very moment of purchase, the will to live just seems to fizzle out and die within the breast of the normal man. Women, conversely, are buoyed by these activities and seem to suck the lifeblood from their partners with scant disregard for his dwindling life-force which seems to be inexorably connected to the thickness of his wallet. And it's an event of attrition - the shopping stops when a) the husbank falls over in the mall, twitching and gasping for air or b) the wallet dessicates into dust as the remaining credit is drained from its innards never to be resurrected in that particular realm of retail.
Having survived the rigours of mallemia or craftcentre-fever, we assembled at the local supermarket to buy 2 days groceries for 7 which seemed to result in the gross domestic product of a small developing nation squeezed into a landfill's worth of plastic bags and catered for every dietary requirement from vegetarian to cholesterolarian.
An afternoon of swimming, eating, eating, eating and then surprisingly eating when we were bored, ended in an evening at the local pub which is reputedly haunted and, I'm told by my wife, is called The Coachman circa 1046 which boggles the South African mind. Not the possibility of haunting (we have millions of spooks scattered throughout car-parks of South Africa haunting the hapless motorists daily), but the vintage of the place and the fact that it is still an operational establishment in fine condition and, judging by the dank atmosphere of the place, still boasts the original plumbing system.
Having instructed the resident barman in the intricacies of concocting of a rock-shandy for moi, we settled for a very cosy evening of banter and bullshit before retiring for the night, knackered and unaware of the horrors that faced us...
and no, once again, not the haunting which would have been welcome in comparison to the torture visited upon us by the self-minded man-eating mattresses.
Twisted and tetchy we breakfasted unenthusiastically then headed off for a drive to Bigbury-On-Sea as Robin cited this as a potential surfing spot and an area he would have visited aplenty if he'd secured a transfer to this part of the country. It was beautiful and typical of the dramatic coastline we would see over the weekend and I was fascinated by the elevated sea tractor they used to drive people across the isthmus to the island hotel across the way.
What was even more impressive for me was the stainless-steel self-contained hand-washing units in the public loos. What a great idea - soap-dispenser, lukewarm water and dryer all in one compact unit. Brilliant! I know I am odd but these practical gadgets would work a bomb anywhere and I've never seen anything like them in SA.
We enjoyed a pleasant lunch at a local fish & chip shop in Torcross where locals tucked into the giant cod portions - catches that would have sunk a destroyer but were happily consumed by denture-challenged wrinklies with much gusto and broad exposure of semi-masticated food.
Is it just me or do people generally have fucking atrocious table manners? I've never seen so many people chewing open-mouthed, talking at the same time while exposing their lunch to their dining companions who, in deference to their piggy partners, seem to reciprocate with a similar obliviousness. Head down, eat food, don't look around and escape became my lunchtime motto.
Now that we have acquired a Garmin satnav device - a must for anyone hoping to traverse the mazelike hedged-in roadways of Britain, we gave our little device a name - Gabby and true to her programming she guided us in the "fastest route" possible around the Devon countryside which is great unless you suffer from motion sickness and/or claustrophobia being contained within green tunnels, hedgerows whipping past the windows like verdant carwash brushes.
And I'd tell you about the passing scenery if I'd been able to see the fucking stuff! Hedge heaven.
A lazy meander back after breaking Kayla's yo-yo while attempting to demonstrate the walking-the-dog manoeuvre and smashing it on the pavement. Someone needs to teach that kid how to tie slipknots I tell you.
Night of telly in the room and the dread of the Marquis-de-Mattress to look forward to.
Goo goo ga joob...

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 6

2010-10-14T21:51:00.001+02:00

Thursday 9th September

Well today was our first day trawling around a city, Bristol City to be precise and I just love saying those words Bristol City - probably one of the first naughty rhyming slang expressions I ever learned from my old man - whoah hey - she's got a nice pair of Bristols...it was all downhill from there I can tell you.
And en-route along the country roads I couldn't help but notice the stark difference in approach to things here compared with South Africa. Here, they aim to take people out of the equation at roadworks where a traffic lane is blocked. Whereas we have the workers (?) in the middle and one person at either side of the detour playing with flags and rotating STOP/GO signs, the English have a fully synchronised automated set of mini traffic lights set up so that one bloke can do the entire gig.
Just think how much more crime there would be in SA if we automated all those sad flag waving twats out of work as well...
We stopped off in Leigh Woods en-route to Bristol and partook of a casual stroll around the place.
It's what's so nice about the English countryside - no matter where you are, there's a forest close by or a place to walk and enjoy nature.
Although this must've been a South African forest as there were very big oaks everywhere dressed in green...(sorry - lame I know but it was funny this morning...)
Then on to Bristol where we crossed over Brunel's suspension bridge spanning the Avon Gorge, the first one ever built I'm reliably told, however, my in-laws clearly know nothing about the cross-dimensional construction of the Giza pyramids by Thoth, the Atlantean who I'm sure could have manifested a suspension bridge in a matter of nanoseconds. I felt it unwise to embark on this particular line of speculation at the time as it would have killed the moment and detracted from the godlike status Isambard Kingdom Brunel (that was his name, I kid you not) enjoys in these parts. And he was a singular fellow by all accounts which is odd as most civil engineers that I've worked with are just boring bastards with all the wit and panache of a salted slug.
The bridge was impressive though - even if short by modern standards and the way people behave on the roads here is also quite startling - us Seffrican anarchists are constantly taken aback by the decorum and consideration shown by local motorists - it's just not normal.
Bristol seems like a nice (love the vagueness of that word) city which is neat, clean and populated by lots of bouncy students, looking even bouncier thanks to the wonderful sunshine that is following us through this trip.
We lunched at an unpretentious little cafe called Rocatello's where Karen and I experienced "curly" fries for the very first time and man you gotta love the good old British potato in any manner or form. Curly fries are a wonderful invention and make chip eating so much more interesting than anything the Americans could come up with. (If anyone tells me that the yanks invented curly fries, I think I'll vomit in my mouth right now!)
On to the Bristol Museum & Art Gallery which, surprisingly, didn't feature nearly enough of Banksy's work if you ask me but Karen did spot a few of his graffiti in and around the place as we strolled after lunch down to the harbourside area.
A ferry trip to a quaint little pub where we supped on beer/cider etc. while watching the locals and listening to them saying arrrrrr and stuff like that. I think the place was called The Bumcombe Inn as Karen made an inappropriate remark about buttock hair which we all found totally distasteful - or perhaps on reflection it may have been me...
Another splendid, peaceful and relaxed day in the south western environs of Mud Island - a jolly good time was had by all.
And tomorrow on to Devon...ah well.
Goo goo ga joob...

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 5

2010-10-14T21:47:00.002+02:00

Wednesday 8th September

We thought we had it sussed with our anti-rain manoeuvres the night before, however, as we neared Stonehenge, the rain began to drizzle down and the sky just fuzzed over with grey.
I'll load Karen's photos later onto the Mud Island album but you'll see how washed out the day looks compared with the brightness of Avebury.
Without the benefit of a GPS unit and with the added confusion of a primary and secondary navigator (Tracy and Paul respectively), the meandering route to Stonehenge was very interesting and I cannot recall how many villages we passed through. Many. A lot. Plenty. Loads. Millions even...
As we suspected a few days ago, we're certainly in Star Wars territory as we noticed a Wookie Hole then there was Chew Magna which must be a local misspelling of Chewbacca, the most famous Wookie of all time thanks to George Lucas. Sightings of some locals confirmed that there were indeed aliens in our midst although they had shed their body hair in an attempt to blend in with the resident humans. It didn't work. We could see which were which.
Stonehenge was blustery and miserable with hordes of Asian, Dutch and German tourists whom I thought to be incredibly rude as they weren't at all interested in the sacred ancient monolithic structure but simply stood around listening on their mobiles.
As I neared I realised they were all using the informative audio devices to gain an insight into the monument and its history.
Ah how quickly technology reduces us to looking more like morons every day.
Karen braved the rain while I meandered back to the car to munch snacks with Robin & Tracy and grumble about the weather but as Robin so sagely observed: "If you wait for weather to clear in this country, you'll never go anywhere ever - you just do it and hope for the best..."
How true this proved to be for a short trip to Avebury found us in a totally different climate with bright blue skies and puffy cumulus clouds overhead. And, it has to be said, a totally different vibe - a much more pleasant one where you can walk among the standing stones and actually touch them. I realise that allowing public access to Stonehenge would reduce it to a vandalised ruin within months (well it would in South Africa in any event) but the knowledge of the millions of feet that have trodden the grass perimeter some way distant from the trilithons, sarsens and blue stones ahead of me just seemed to dampen my enthusiasm along with the grey weather. No disrespect to the Druids, hippy people and other space cadets who tramp the Stonehenge mystic pathway to whatever it is they get from it and I am as taken by the miraculousness of the solar alignment of the site and all that represents - but it just wasn't inspiring today. It sucked.
Avebury, on the other hand, was peaceful, warm, uplifting and had a much better goodies shop with the prospect of crop circle visits (all laid out on a map). Unfortunately, all the demarcated circles had been lost in the recent harvesting but we got the number of a local guide who checks up on the latest occurrences as and when they appear. May check that out on another visit. Has to be done.
The whole place was amazingly imbued with a profoundly placid energy which seemed to set our mood for the way home.
As usual, the gemstones and crystals were minutely inspected by Karen who bought a crystal skull - in the form of an alien Grey no less. Which only goes to prove that they do actually exist after all but I had no idea they were that small. Perhaps there are Martian headshrinkers just like we had here on old Terra.
Perhaps my need for food at that time had kicked in - either way, it was another fabulous day out with the most interesting simulacra on display all around us.
And our sixty odd quid on the National Trust membership for the year has paid for itself in the last 2 days - brilliant.
Tomorrow we have booked for a half day spa and some self-indulgent pampering back in Yatton.
Ah well - what is life for but to enjoy it?
Goo goo ga joob...

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 4

2010-10-14T21:44:00.001+02:00

Monday 6th September

Low cloud and a forecast of ongoing drizzle didn't dampen our spirits today - no siree bob!
We willed away the grey and forced some blue to brighten our day as we set off once again for Glastonbury - this time a tad earlier, perhaps because we weren't trying to rendezvous with Rex Dunlop aka Kurt Alexander aka Zhig O'lo (it's a long story - ask me when we get back...)
And so we laughed, we cried with the banter and repartee between the travelers especially Tracy's directions, Robin's lack thereof and our collective lack of observation concerning road signs at traffic circles / roundabouts. Thus we ended up somewhere in Glastonbury suburbia at a quaint little enclave entitled Leg Of Mutton Road (I shit you not - see the pics for yourself).
Turning back after the photo op was completed - much to the consternation of local drivers behind us - we trundled down to Glastonbury and set out for The Tor where the wind whipped us relentlessly but the hazy views were still fantastic - again that "Here In England It's So Green" vibe - you can't get away from it. Pastoral, gentle rolling hills, fields and meadows then an overwhelming urge to piss drove us down to the Chalice Well site where Karen bought jewelry.
Piss complete, jewelry safely stowed, blessings of the sacred depths upon us, we gave some Indian travelers very vague directions to Street (a village nearby). The: "just head down this street until you're in town and see a sign to Street then follow it..." seemed to bamboozle them no end and I have no idea why.
We returned to our (new) old haunt of the splendidly vegetarian Blue Note Cafe where we partook of haloumi burgers while observing a very sickly serene expression permanently etched onto the face of a gowned young new-age woman who was about as convincing as a soap powder advert. Her vegetarian lunch notwithstanding, it was clear she had not only reached Glastonbury but had sashayed into nirvana simultaneously. I suspect her hippy boyfriend was probably hung like a donkey hence the doe-eyed Mona-Lisa smirk but if that's what it takes to achieve total enlightenment then what the fuck...
Following lunch, Karen headed back to the shop in which she'd been seduced first time around and - guess what - bought some more jewelry - a Libyan gold tektite scarab ring accompanied by a pair of gold and moldavite earrings in the shape of little star-tetrahedrons - very beautiful. But I managed to maintain firm denial during this piece of retail therapy by tossing a rubber toy for the owner's very cute labrador-cross - once started, hard to stop...and fairly disruptive in the tiny square as doddery old hippies scattered in Jaydee's slobbery, manic wake. That was real fun I can tell you. I thought their whole bag was love, man - but I got some really filthy looks. Peace, baby, peace...
Dark enlightenment (pardon the oxymoron) followed shortly thereafter by virtue of a self-proclaimed guru in a small crystal shop in the middle of Glastonbury - I had no idea there was someone else on the planet who knew as much as me yet could get it so spectacularly wrong but there you have it - she must be the antipaul or something...(tosser ;-) )
As you can imagine, we were exhausted after such a strenuous day of doing absolutely fuck all really so we headed off to Cheddar where we ate the best scones that have ever been made enhanced by clotted cream and fresh strawberry jam at The Simply Gorgeous Tea Room while listening to cars hiss by through the rain outside. Sweet shops, hot mulled scrumpy (the women had that) then Cheddar cheddar and back to the Pengelley pad for a lazy evening of TV and dishwashing I guess...
Sigh...we're gonna do a reverse-rain-dance tonight to ensure the skies clear before morning.
Watch this space
Goo goo goo joob xx

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 3

2010-10-14T21:42:00.000+02:00

Sunday 5th September

In answer to Mr Griggs' query about our interesting day today - well it was rather quiet in fact with another visit to the freaky precincts of Weston-Super-Mud/Mare - not to view the Darwinian dropouts but rather to have a gawk at the sand sculpture exhibition down on the beach which was very entertaining.
Larger than life renderings of such diverse personages from Wallace & Gromit to Maggie Thatcher & Prince Charles done Spitting Image style were just great.
Sitting by the English seaside eating mushy peas and chips on the promenade while watching the passing freak-show provided an hour or two of fascination for us.
Anyone who is into manufacturing and/or selling and/or maintaining the frail people's motorised buggies must be worth a mint regardless of where you go - there are thousands of the things.
Eminently practical for sure but one cannot help noticing that the average age of people around you seems far higher than that of South Africa hence, I suppose, the need for these electrical perambulatory devices which Tracy (my ever irreverent sister-in-law) has dubbed NDW's.
When I asked her what that meant, she wickedly replied: Nearly Dead Wagons....
And another day shuffles to a close here in sometimes sunny, sometimes overcast Somerset in the south west of Mud Island and you know I have to say - not a bad day at all.
Watch this space for photos which will be appearing soon.

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 2

2010-10-14T21:39:00.001+02:00

Sunday 5th September

Thanks for the heads-up Lana - I get it. But the rambling would have been what it was in any event so this thread may continue with some more meandering unless I keep the UK journal via my notes - I don't really care being on holiday and all.
Obtained some interesting perspectives on England from a few Seffrican/Zimbabwean imports last night - people who've been here for between 2 - 15 years and it's an immutable truism that people's impressions are shaped by their personal circumstances regardless of the country they're in or the customs into which they're immersed.
The short-termer whose circumstances were much harder than the others I spoke to, had a far more critical view of the place than those who "had it better" both personally and financially. And as my fantastically psychotic sister-in-law observed so sagely: anyone who is stressing financially will find it hard to enjoy life no matter where they are.
And that is so true.
My own impressions (after 2 days!) - too early to tell and I haven't really had any interaction with the locals other than people in shops and cafes etc. and, just like in South Africa, I find that people respond to me depending upon my own mood and approach - in other words, they've been absolutely great.
And the stuttering light of morning has dawned into the more familiar drizzly grey weather of Beatles' I Am The Walrus reflection:
Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun
If the sun don't come
You get a tan from standing in the English rain
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen
I am the walrus,
goo goo goo joob
goo goo goo joob

And on that profound pearl of wisdom - goo goo goo joob, folks

NOTES FROM MUD ISLAND PART 1

2010-10-14T21:35:00.002+02:00

The chronicles and meandering waffle from our trip around the UK in Sophie Skoda...

Sunday September 5th

Interesting day in Glastonbury watching geriatric hippy folk amble around the town square - really shoo-wowish - haven't seen so many tie-dyed fabrics, dreadlocks and filthy denim for a while. Oh, the abbey and the tor were interesting too...and as Thomas Dolby said:Here in England it's so greenMartian men can move unseen...

Well now chronologically: yes indeed, David (Faye says everyone only ever calls you Mr Griggs so bollocks to that), I am measuring my vacational success by the degrees to which ennui overshadows my fervent ability to do as little as possible with innate enjoyment.
So far so good.
Traipsing after Karen through all the little crystal and psuedo-wiccan shops was more than interesting although I did feel a bit like her feline familiar rather than a husbank (oops sorry - Freudian slip there) husband!
And Mr Closs, yes indeed, we'll be visiting the auld fowk in the last 2 weeks of September aroon Edinburgh, Perth, Pitlochry, Dundee etc. (aw on the east coast - nane ae yer Glescae rubbish noo) ;-)
My sister, Norma arrives from South Africa via Portugal around 18th and we're hooking up with her to do the Scottish leg.
Some of our relatives are getting very long in the tooth now so this may be our last opportunity to see them - kinda bittersweet visit in that sense but cathartic in a way as well.
And Lana, my green-eyed sister - we'll have to revisit Glastonbury as we arrived late following an eye-opening visit to the shallowest of gene-ponds in Weston-Super-Mare (sounds like a gender-confused equine superhero) to buy myself a local mobile package for the month.
It is affectionately (or not) known as Weston-Super-Mud given the silty nature of the tidal flow in the estuary there. Some of the residents looked like they'd recently crawled amphibiously from the slime that very morning and bipedal locomotion was altogether new to them...but I digress.
Glastonbury needs a relook and we wanted to spend a little more time visiting the chalice well and the tor which we didn't get to and frankly want to see more privately to get the most from the experience. So we'll make a plan next week.
Today off to Wells (I can only ever hear the immortal line from Blackadder II) - "It's the baby-eating bishop of Bath and Wells..." as he bursts in on Edmund who is snugged up with a strumpet whom he introduces as "...a very dear friend of his..." and to which she replies: "I'm not dear at all actually considering all the weird, kinky..."
Edmund interrupts timeously - well you get the picture.
It's a beautiful part of the world I must confess and we half expected to see knights on horseback thundering across the meadows or pox-ridden serfs wailing at the roadside but truth be told - just aging hippies with interesting aromas and even more interesting tonsorial arrangements...Ah England - so civilised. (I wonder when we'll see that bit...?)

I HAVE BEEN IN YOU - FRANK ZAPPA

2009-12-29T19:23:00.002+02:00

TO RUN OR NOT TO RUN - or notes from Digger van der Murray's diary

2009-09-20T20:51:00.001+02:00

It is interesting to gauge the reactions of people when you tell them you are leaving one country for another – not something I could comprehend or contemplate when my parents left Scotland for South Africa in early 1970.
Regrettably this wasn’t something I ever felt the need to discuss with them until now and unless I connect ethereally with them for confirmation, I’m unlikely to get their subjective opinions on the matter.
In my own recollection of their “need” to emigrate at that time, bolstered by what I came to know of their marriage and relationship dynamic, it always appeared to me that my dad was running from something rather than to something. It’s not to say that he didn’t believe he might be travelling to a land of opportunity (for South Africa certainly was that for a white minority elite during those times), but it was more of an escape than a new beginning I think. I believe my dad thought he would make his marriage better by changing it for a newer, more expansive lifestyle while subconsciously disregarding the looming reality that he was heading off to a white working-man’s paradise and plunging my mother into an alien culture that would isolate and polarise their relationship even further. He was exporting the problems from Scotland to South Africa while creating a whole range of new ones that my mother had no way of dealing with.
Needless to say, it didn’t fix their marriage – it served only to exacerbate their fragile relationship until it broke completely, at which time a new setting (Australia, ironically) was contemplated as the final place of therapy for an unhealthy domestic situation.
However, Australia merely became the battleground for the ultimate assault in the final analysis. So the venue didn’t resolve anything and they both died bitter people – bitter toward each other. It was a tragedy that I would have preferred not have been part of and fatefully was spared the ongoing destruction by dint of the oceans that separated us. My little brother and sister who were forced to emigrate with them weren’t so lucky. They got ringside seats.
My dad’s way of (not) dealing with things was kinda like a simplistic version of cognitive dissonance such as the way smokers constantly reaffirm that their habit is something they want to give up, cannot give up, know it’s bad for them but are virtually powerless to do anything about it. So instead of doing something positive – i.e. empowering themselves and their wellbeing by simply not smoking, they grapple with this concept that they are giving up something they actually need then go on to argue how much easier it is for people who don't have an addictive personality or how there needs to be a replacement habit to fill in for the damaging one. Or they just carry on as they are, bemoaning their lot, continuing to knowingly screw up their health as if it was the tobacco industry’s responsibility for their life choices. In the USA, some plaintiffs have even gone as far as to prove that it is the tobacco industry’s insidious marketing that got them hooked and once they were in, they couldn't get out.
What I battle with in any of those scenarios is this ongoing affirmation that we are victims of some heinous agenda which denies us the right or ability to make our own choices. Regardless of the physical addictiveness of nicotine or any other drug to which we find ourselves slavishly beholden, we still have the choice (no matter how difficult it may be) to stop taking the stuff.
It is remarkable how many people drop destructive habits when a modern-day god such as a medical expert tells them that unless they change their lifestyles, they are going to die very soon. Point is – we all have the ability to make different choices and evolve from the victim reality. But some of us choose to continue on potentially dangerous paths. So be it. In the case of moving to Oz – that has nothing to do with danger but everything to do with simply making a new choice.
I look on our impending migration as something akin to the preceding analogy – we decided to empower ourselves by doing something different in a new place – a place to go to rather than South Africa being a place to run from.
If we were running from something: fear, crime, apathy or the like then I don't believe for a moment we’d have been addressing the root of the issue but rather that we’d be merely supplanting our own fear of those things and hiding from them. We’re not. We’ve never had issues with any of those aspects of existence in South Africa or anywhere else for that matter despite me going through life as one of the most confrontational personalities I know. I attract that in my work as project management-related challenges require swift, resolutionary (my word) confrontation that has to be managed positively in order to succeed and progress but it doesn’t necessarily invite chaos or mayhem into my personal life which, although a work in progress, is a deliriously happy, idyllic one with the best woman in the world who shares the way I view our reality.
And although we have always created our own personal reality regarding health, wealth, safety, security etc., we are still surrounded by a largely fearful society that tacitly condones the ethos that the New South Africa has created. That isn't a criticism – it’s an observation of what we experience through interaction with friends and colleagues in our daily life and it’s not necessarily an ethos to which we subscribe. Which, I suppose, could make us hypocrites or could simply mean that we need a change if we cannot change the outlooks of everyone else around us – and clearly we can’t do that. So we need to change. And so we are.
Once we’d arrived at the decision to initiate the migration process and we spoke of this to people, a knee-jerk reaction from many was that they envied us the ability to be able to do it. Others sneered at the decision assuming we were heading off to Perth (aka Pretoria Far East) to continue with the careers we have in SA. When I abstractly tell people that no, it isn't Perth it’s Adelaide and Karen will most likely teach or work as a ceramist while I focus on my writing seriously, they think exactly the opposite of that – I’m not serious. Oh but I am.
Others said it is “easy” to run away from SA with a foreign passport and I guess that’s true if you want to run to an enclave under the sovereignty of the passport you hold – in my case, the United Kingdom with its vast but dwindling empire. But the bottom line is, I, a vegetarian would rather eat MacDonalds than live in a principality of the UK or heaven-forbid, the UK (Mud Island) itself. I just don't want to be there. Scotland will always be the land of my ancestors and lineage, a land I love dearly and the place where my morality was largely shaped by (despite their own shortcomings toward each other) loving, caring, and open-minded parents. But it isn't the place I want to return to, not is its managing neighbour, England nor Wales nor Ireland. I crave the wide open spaces and the climate that Africa or the broad expanses of Australia can offer.
And for the record – it is anything but “easy” to migrate to Australia what with the reams and reams of paperwork, a requirement to be younger than 45 and have some kind of formal qualifications in a field that they desire and may wish to sponsor. Not to mention her, as a South African, having to undergo English language aptitude testing on more than one occasion.
Having family there, which I have had for almost a full generation – direct blood-relations among many cousins, aunts and uncles – assists you in no way whatsoever. And Karen just makes it by virtue of age & qualifications; even so, she required additional points through state sponsorship which dictates the region and style of work she would be required to do for a prescribed period of time.
We are (or at last she for the most part is) working extremely hard just to qualify to move there so let it be known to all the sneery know-it-alls that it isn't easy just because you have a British passport. It means sweet FA, bru!
While it may be true to say that nothing stands still and South Africa is changing, if we examine the Jacob Zuma situation – that hasn’t changed at all – oh with the exception than unsurprisingly he is now the president of this wonderful country.
The fact that:
Zuma didn’t go to trial;
he wasn’t acquitted;
the charges weren’t dropped (no they weren’t – go back and re-read the court transcripts),
exemplifies the ethos that is prevalent in this country and presents this case as a microcosm of the macrocosm.
Given enough time, our passion for justice (not revenge) fades into apathy and we slip back into a numbed acceptance of the status-quo and go through the motions of everything being ok again. Everything isn't ok. Just because the NPA decided it wasn’t going to proceed with this case (despite the presence of prima-facie evidence compelling them to do so), a contrived and disingenuous story hinged on two key players in the NPA & (now defunct) Scorpions produced enough smoke and mirrors to allow Zuma to slip out the back door and become the president of the country.
The upshot of this – business as usual and the inevitable spin accompanied by absolutely zero accountability and a seemingly national acceptance that to proceed now with Zuma’s prosecution would be more damaging to SA than it would be helpful. Well, in my view, that remains to be seen but I doubt if it ever will be. Seen, that is.
And it’s not about being unforgiving either. It’s simply that it’s not the public’s position to forgive Zuma – it’s the judiciary’s job to do that or convict him as the case may be – a job that they haven’t been allowed to conduct in favour of political expediency with a horribly loaded agenda.
But the precedent that’s been set by this debacle, the arms-deal saga, travelgate and a myriad other corruption cases that have produced enough smoke to suggest a fire somewhere within the ANC’s upper echelon, remains the core of the pervasive mindset that poisons this land of ours.
In this terribly flawed and abundantly corrupt political landscape, the suspects and (in some cases) the guilty remain miraculously free from any manner of punishment or retribution. Is it any wonder that South Africans emulate this behaviour through all walks of life from corporate corruption to the cops on the take and the generally anarchic attitudes of the average citizen to the concept of law and order? Let’s face it – we don't obey speed limits, we jump traffic lights and stop signs, we make a national sport out of drinking and driving and the cops about whom we complain as being dense and corrupt are kept that way should they dare stop us for speeding (or some other irritating aspect of law enforcement) by the R50 we slip them rather than admit to our wrongdoing and allowing ourselves to be subjected to the inconvenience of the judicial process.
Well, by the same token, it would have been much more inconvenient for Zuma to have gone through yet another trial after they found his mate Shaik guilty (oh, hang on, I forgot – he’s at home in Durban courtesy of a tame physician, living on his ill-gotten spoils, the stolen boodle padded by a significant interest accrual – all at the taxpayer’s expense). Yeah why should our esteemed president have to go through the due process of law when we can’t be bothered with that tedious bullshit either? Glass houses and all that...
The answer is a simple one: Because – we are above the law in this fair and pleasant land – or at least that’s the way it seems. And working in corporate business, believe me, that’s exactly what we think.
Therein lies the issue that I have with South Africa and the so-called systems of governance in place here fomented by the corporations that ran and continue to run SA beyond the apartheid years. The same white elite that ran things back then are the same cronies (not the new black elite) that concocted the vehicle of BEE to protect the existing white oligarchy while ensuring the existing and emerging black elite are well looked after.
The saps (it is alleged) that BEE is supposedly designed to empower sink even further into abject poverty through the perverse machinations of BEE while our mercenary elitist hierarchy sucks the country dry through de-industrialisation and a potentially fatal dependency on imported commodities that we should be making ourselves to:
a) Provide basic employment & training programmes
b) Combat spiralling poverty and the consequential crime, and
c) Protect our economy now and in the future
But we have weathered the media circus of the general election, quietly forgotten about the issues that were raised during this process and now we pat Comrade Zuma on the back for simply meeting the triumphant Tri-Nations winning Boks at the airport. We waste copious media column-inches on the worthless (albeit fascinating to none but the terminally bored I’d imagine) issue of the gender identification of an award-winning South African athlete. I see it as a bonus if Caster Semenya has both sets of business parts – can’t he/she simply enter into the 800m men’s and women’s events and have two shots at gold? Yep – it’s the usual neverending servings of inconsequential drivel and smokescreens while the real business goes on in the backrooms of corporate boardrooms, on golf courses and in political offices countrywide.
It’s not to say that South Africa is poised on the brink of destruction – it’s not. It’s poised at the intersection of a very significant crossroads – one which offers the leadership the choice of doing the right thing and re-industrialising the country, putting wealth back instead of funnelling it offshore and creating an real equal-opportunity economy or continuing along the path upon which we now find ourselves, a tortuous, unsustainable one that will bleed the life out of the country in a very short space of time.
I have given my lot to this country from the age of ten, volunteered to enlist at the tender age of 17 being summarily exempted due to changing laws and my dual citizenship, paid my dues as a manual labourer, a tax-paying worker and someone who has tried throughout my life to do the right thing. I’m not about to hang around while South Africa decides what it’s going to do. And in my experience, as a global business (as any country surely is), it has mostly ignored the “right” choice in favour of self-serving agendas as has all of sub-Saharan Africa without exception while its citizens suffer as a consequence.
The right thing for us, as a couple, to do at this moment is look further afield and try a change of landscape, ethos and possibility. So that’s what we’re going to do.
But as it is with moving provinces, this does not compel total abandonment – as a Cape Province resident for a few of my years in this country, I remained and remain still, a long-suffering Lions rugby supporter. No matter how much my love of my intended new home, I will forever remain a Bok supporter through and through only shouting for the Wallabies whenever they play anyone else...
It was complex enough being a Scottish South African but adopting the mantle of a Scottish South African Australian – Digger Van der Murray – is going to be a whole new ballgame altogether...
Watch this space.

NUTS (or lack thereof) TO CYCLING

2009-09-06T17:33:00.012+02:00

I got on my bicycle for the first time in about 3 years the other day and went for a ride.
Why the prolonged hiatus?
Well, it's a question of nuts really. Or rather - how you would like your nuts (speaking solely from a man's perspective, of course).
You see - cycling may be very good exercise and it may well work your cardio-vascular system in a manageable way, it may help you lose weight, define muscle tone (on the legs) while burning fat off the upper body over a period of time.
Yes, folks, cycling may do all of these beneficial things but unfortunately in the course of this benefit, danger and misery lurks... and I'm not talking about falling off - that's gonna happen anyway sooner or later. There are, we know, two types of cyclists:

1. Those that have fallen off
and
2. Those that will fall off

No, I'm talking about saddles and ass assemblies and how both are designed.
Now if you were to have a look at your ass - in a mirror is preferable otherwise your neck could develop serious muscle spasm from peering over your shoulder - you would see instantly that the distance between the centre of each butt cheek bears absolutely no resemblance to the widest part of a standard bicycle saddle.
Why, you may ask, is this the case?
For you actually sit on your butt cheeks don't you?
Or you're supposed to aren't you?
And the simple answer to these two fundamental questions is - YES - of course you are supposed to sit on your butt cheeks. That's why the padding was put there in the first place and it must be said here and now that some people have more padding than others and it's a matter of fact that women tend to have a bit more padding than men. It's true, I tell you - it's a gender trait - I didn't design us - but there it is. Live with it.
And don't worry - it isn't cycling shorts that make our butts look bigger - it's usually a shitload of fatty food and a crappy lifestyle devoid of exercise that does that. But I digress.
Padded cycling shorts make everyone look like they've just shit themselves anyway so no fashion statement there, honey, I don't care who makes the fucking things.
So you measure your centre of butt-cheek to centre of butt-cheek gauge and you take this measurement and compare it to the saddle you've been told is the ultimate in aerodynamic excellence and state-of-art designing.
But, you conclude, if your ass cheek gauge is much wider than this costly rapierlike accessory (and everyone's is - without exception even the skinny gits) then won't the cheeks be hanging over each side of the thing and your weight will be resting on....
That's absolutely correct, Einstein - your entire upper body weight will be resting on that shard of anatomy that connects your asshole to your pink (dangly - in many cases) bits!
But, I hear you cry (and cry you soon will, I promise you), that ridge of fleshy meat surely wasn't designed for that purpose?
And again, dear masochists, you'd be totally spot on.
And after several hours of writhing around on this bridge of gristle with testicles (in guys - and maybe some women - who knows?) being ground against the unyielding pommel, it is scant wonder that these once magnificent spheres of pleasure and manhood, dessicate into worthless prunes after just one supposedly healthy ride. And the rider rolls away on tottering legs like a sailor after ten months at sea or a John Wayne impersonator showing how a real cowboy should swagger...
And for the ladies, I can only imagine the havoc being wreaked upon those delicate folds of flesh that deserve nothing more robust than the gentle lapping of a lover's tongue or the tender ministrations of a more practised nature than the pounding of a R600 hardened bar of plastic whacking into them like a miniature jackhammer in overdrive.
Suffice to say, I don't buy this macho bullshit dispensed by the hardcore cycling fraternity when they say: "You learn to ride through the pain."
What a crock of bollocks (or "what a crush of bollocks" to be more precise).
Why should any sane person trust a man who believes that shaving his legs will make him so much more aerodynamic than he was before he started this macho hobby?
And secondly, anyone who tries to convince you that bicycle saddles have to be rapier thin to provide a lower drag co-efficient, needs to see a shrink or get a 21st century reality check.
When the saddle is being overlaid by a large ass assembly, a gnarly scrotal appendage, cycling-shorts' padding and a pair of meaty thighs and all of these attachments present themselves to the oncoming wind before it has any chance of reaching the saddle (if it ever does), then how in God's name does the skinny, uncomfortable piece of shit designed by the Marquis de Sade require to be aerodynamic at all?
And the very simple answer is - IT DOESN"T!!!
So, once I had figured this out (it didn't take me long) - I designed myself a saddle that (while perhaps not sleek and Armani-ish) allowed me to rest my buttocks upon it as they were designed to do and designed, I may add, by a superior being infinitely more savvy than any wanked out smooth-legged cycling afficionado!
Then glory be! I found myself a saddle in a Cape Town cycling store that went one better as it resembled an upholstered tractor seat but with a webbing spring assembly beneath soft padded rubber, the whole thing sitting on little suspension springs and augmented by the soft-tail mono-shock on my Orbea mountain bike.
And guess what, folks?
You don't even have to wear one of those padded cycling shorts/nappies when you get on to hit the roughest terrain.
Why not? I hear you ask.
1. Because the saddle design and the bike suspension takes the hits!
2. And your arse is on the seat, your bollocks (other prettier bits for ladies) are well out of the way of the grinding zone and your legs can pedal freely on either side of the pommel without emasculating you or initiating some other unmentionable mischief.
I thus beseech you all - gentlemen and ladyfolk alike:
Don't let them bullshit you with -
It has to hurt but you get used to it....
or
No pain, no gain
or
This one is really aerodynamic
or
Any other inane bullshit that has no foundation in common-sense reality.

Buy yourself a saddle that looks like an upholstered tractor seat and have fun.
If you are a seriously psycho harcore cycling freak pushing the Giro crews on the Tour-de-France mountain climbs and you are usually seen racing wearing the latest in yellow accoutrements and you need to be sleeker than a hairless, polished beanpole, then maybe this advice isn't for you and you deserve to be a eunuch or a woman with a permanently bruised pudding anyway.
But if not, be fucking sensible and forego the pain.
Trust me - I'm not a gynaecologist but I'll have a look at it for you anyway!

Springbok Anthem 2007 II

2009-08-08T16:42:00.001+02:00

THE SPRINGBOK ANTHEM 2007

CHORUS:

Oh, oh, oh, oh, the Springboks

They're lightning, they're agile, yeah they're solid as rocks

While singing the anthem we all might shed a tear

But bring on the English coz the Springboks are here!

…Up front there's CJ, and there's Os and John Smit

…Yes they'll be pumped up from the very first hit

Every" "Touch, pause, engage!" - Will inspire them with rage

And the English front row will submit

CHORUS

We got a Blou Bulle second row pair

Yes it's a combo that's beyond compare

From the Bull Ring of Hatfield - Bakkies Botha and Matfield

They're the kings of the ball in the air

And then there's Burger and Smith and Rossouw

Yes, they're our fetching and fighting back row

In the rucks and the mauls -Yeah these boys have the balls

To make sure that the next phase can flow

CHORUS

We got a midfield of Butch, Jacque and Steyn

Yes we'll inflict on the Pommies much pain

And with our whiplike attack - Jonny Wilko will crack

And his kicking will go down the drain

And then there's Fourie du Preez as our scrummie

Oh he can kick, dart or sell one a dummy

Yes he's the world number one - At the base of the scrum

And at crossing the line on his tummy

Our left wing is someone called Bryan

Whose forte is low-level flying

His side step and ducking - Leaves opponents just kakking

And that's when he's not even trying

CHORUS:

And then to counter the in-ter-cept king

…There stands JP on the o-ppo-site wing

Yes, he's so young and in-spired - He never gets tired

Gives our backline its scorpion sting

And Monty our veteran fullback

With his highlights, he cops all the flak

But his highlight for me - Is his consistency

And his calmness when under attack

CHORUS:

And not forgetting our boys on the side

They're still a wave in our green and gold tide

Oh yeah the awesome Jake White - With his flair and insight

Win or lose - fills our nation with pride!

Yes now the battle is over and done

Aha - the English have turned tail and run

Mister Smit and his team – they've returned with a dream

Yes our brilliant young Springboks have won!

CHORUS:

Oh, oh, oh, oh the Springboks

They're lightning, they're agile, yeah they're solid as rocks

Yes now the anthem is over, the flag is unfurled

Coz we're champions of Paris – we're Kings of the World!

We're champions of Paris – we're Kings of the World!

lyrics © Paul Murray 2007

Music: Sven Goldin

Arrangement: Sven Goldin

Recorded: November 2007

Paris Studios Fish Hoek

Thanks to:

Sven from Paul and Paul from Sven for the experience and to Paris for the jol doing this thing, to Jake White, John Smit and the Springboks for making us so darn proud again, to Jacob Zuma, Thabo Mbeki and Eskom for all engaging equally in the South African power struggle, God, Goddess, It, The Great Achitect of the Universe, Wakan-Tanka, prana, absolutely nothing at all (if Richard Dawkins is to be believed), the Japanese for inventing sushi, that omnipotent being again for inventing everything else including Lucifer who should be used, like Robert Mugabe and GW Bush as a source of inspiration of how not to do things, Frank Zappa for being the single biggest inspiration in Maul's life without actually having met the dude and for ensuring that humour definitely belongs in music, everyone on the path to the point we're now at and all relationships good and bad that have helped shape the people we've become, merkaba meditation, the birds and the bees, Arno Carstens for keeping me interested in amazing local music, Alan Day for selecting the guitar I can't play yet, the first person on the planet who ever struck a chord or hummed a tune or strung some lyrics together in a rhyme, Enki and Enlil and their race of beings who most likely seeded the pair of species that eventually became men and women and by the luck of genetic engineering or the intervention of the Syrians found procreative compatibility – i.e. we made a new species when we did the horizontal bop for the very first time, Woolies for pre-packing food and taking the pips out of the fruits I like coz I'm a lazy man who still has trouble with invisible socks that my fiancée can always seem to find (I don't know why she carries them around with her ready to plant where I've already looked), my kids for teaching me things I thought I had already learned mostly patience, and finally to Karen, the best thing that ever happened to me and continues to be the best thing that happens to me every day all the time to infinity and beyond. P – Dec. 2007

KING OF POP DIES...WACKO JACKO BOWS OUT

2009-06-30T16:36:00.004+02:00

25th June 2009 - BREAKING NEWS – MICHAEL JACKSON DIES AGED 50!

The tragic news of controversial pop-star and self-styled “king of Pop”, Michael Jackson’s death in Los Angeles has brought with it reactions of abject grief in many and little surprise in others given his eccentric and self destructive lifestyle.
Love or hate the “Peter Pan of Pop”, one could hardly ignore him, whether it was looking on dumbfounded at his physical transformation over the years from a cute black kid to the androgynous white creature he became in his latter years or simply reeling at the bizarre behaviour he exhibited for all to see – building a kids-only fairground on his sprawling LA property, dangling babies out of hotel room windows or just hanging out with precocious juveniles and monkeys. Although the latter behaviour probably pertains to many brat-pack American celebrities so let’s not judge him too harshly on that one.
Once the 911 call had been logged and emergency medical services dispatched to the eccentric singer’s home in the small hours of June 25th, he was reportedly found in a strange condition – when wasn’t he in a strange condition? one might ask.
Reports of Jackson’s injuries vary as some allege that he suffered cardiac arrest, other unconfirmed reports say he was incapacitated from food poisoning from having eaten some 12 year old nuts and a wiener while others say he was merely exhausted and had suffered a physical collapse.
“He was fine,” paramedic Buzz Mafone said after dropping the singer off at the UCLA medical centre, “until we wheeled him past the paediatric ward when he went stiff…”
Unconfirmed reports say it wasn’t cardiac arrest at all but he had a stroke in the Children’s Ward at the medical facility. A white, sticky patch on the Ward wall was recorded as Jackson’s last single release. Teeny boppers are already reportedly lapping it up.
Reports of a tiny pair of boxer-shorts taped to the pop-icon’s upper arm were not an unusual sight according to Jackson’s personal physician. “He was in rehab wearing a paedo-patch – trying to give up his habit,” the doc was heard to say.
Whatever the cause of death, and the county coroner isn’t sure on that one either issuing a statement that it could have been a variety of causal factors: Moonlight, sunshine, good times or boogie – he wasn’t sure what to blame it on exactly.
Uncertainty surrounds the actual time of death as well where the closest approximation from the office of the County Coroner places it around the time - “when the big hand was on the little hand…”
The tragedy of the event now denies the world the opportunity to have witnessed Jackson’s much-vaunted Comeback Tour in the UK, however, Manchester United manager, Sir Alex Ferguson was heard to comment upon receipt of the news that: “I’ll still be playing Giggs in August so dinnae worry!”
Similarly the Jackson Five were poised to relaunch their collective careers after Michael’s series of gigs but have now had to offer a 20% discount to Jackson 5 concert ticket holders.
Jermaine, brother of the late singer, said that they had been given a torrid time by the authorities following Michael’s death, certain issues raised - one being a knock-back from the undertaker saying that they wouldn’t accept plastic.
“As if that wasn’t bad enough,” Jermaine said, “but the EPA has cited us for planning to ‘dispose of toxic waste in a white plastic container’. Then there was the matter of the funeral itself. Michael had very specific last wishes – if he couldn’t be cremated and sprinkled into packets of Cheerios so he go through all those little assholes one last time, then he elected to have his casket carried by his best friends but the UCLA Garden of Remembrance management aren’t sure that so many six year olds would fit around the coffin…”
“Failing interment or cremation,” Jermaine went on, “Michael’s last resort would have been a burial at sea, being tossed between two buoys. He loved the idea of being surrounded by seamen.”
And the problems don’t end there: the comeback tour was an attempt by Jackson to stave off looming bankruptcy where now his bizarre assets will be auctioned off to settle his enormous debt.
Latest reports on this front confirm that Gary Glitter has made a $1m bid for the Moonwalker’s laptop although, Jermaine noted: “Bubbles isn’t really for sale. We’re looking for a good home for the ape, though – he’s very friendly, loves children and being whacked off by a white-gloved hand.” Jackson’s brother went on to say that if the auction went well, Bubbles would probably end up as the wealthiest monkey in the world after GW Bush.
The rush for memorabilia and Jackson’s many recordings has already begun and a new Mr Potato Head figure in Jackson’s image has been manufactured featuring five different removable noses. The high level of recyclable plastic following the cremation will be used to fashion Jacko Lego blocks so that kiddies can play with him for a change. And the London HQ of Madame Tussaud’s has now put in a bid to have the realistic Michael Jackson waxwork replaced with the newer plastic version “now that it’s become available”.
Crossing Over star, John Edward, the renowned mystic and celebrity has issued a statement to the press that he has already received messages from Michael from beyond and that he’s okay and in a better place. “In fact,” Edward stated, “Michael said he had met St Peter who had made him a probationary angel until he had passed his first test – making it through the Christmas bash without getting too close to the manger and baby Jesus. Michael had also met with Farrah Fawcett and had been hurt by the rumours that just because she had been ‘fucking Majors’ didn’t mean automatically that he had been ‘fucking minors’. He also poured derision on the rumours from the Heavenly choir that he had molested Casper the friendly ghost or that Farrah’s last earthly wish had been to save all the children of the world hence Michel’s sudden demise. It was all lies, Michael said – lies that had followed him to heaven.”
Whatever you may wish to believe of this man/woman/other – he was certainly imbued with talent that nobody could deny.
No matter how poor the taste of this piece (and Jacko was his own worst enemy not me or the piss-takers who came up with all the jokes); I personally loved his music, his contribution to the world of entertainment and despite it all - his chequered but brilliant legacy will live on forever.
While angel Elvis gobbles down another celestial cheeseburger and strains the sequined jumpsuit with the wings just a little more, maybe the heavenly host will be able to scrounge up a couple of needles and a yard of fabric and make Michael another glove and find a pair of trousers that actually fit him.
RIP Michael Jackson you twisted genius. (1958 – 2009)

PS - apologies to all affected by this but I don't think Michael gives a rat's ass now.

BLOG CORRECTION

2009-05-27T06:39:00.002+02:00

Apologies to Yukio Mishima (whom I have recently discovered and) from whose work the quotation:
"Eternal is the warrior who find beauty in his wounds..." originates.
I previously attributed this to Jackie Leven who used Mishima's beautiful quote as the final line in his haunting song Main Travelled Roads (circa 1981)

I intend delving a little deeper into this talented and tragic man's work.

ZUMABABWEAN TRAGEDY (sung to the tune of BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY with apologies to Freddy Mercury)

2009-04-27T09:17:00.003+02:00

Is this a real man?
Is this a parody?
Expecting a landslide
Well here's the reality...
Open your eyes
It's bullshit and lies
You'll see

He's a real Zulu boy
Who's into polygamy
You see it's Arms Deal Rands - in his hands
Schabir Shaik at his command
Any way the cash flows
That's where Zuma's gonna be...

Zuma - just sold a man
Yeah, his name was Schabir Shaik
The crooked dog was on the take
Come on - someone had to burn
There's no way it would be old Jacob Zee
Zuma - ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh
Couldn't let the charges stick
We'll have to conjure up some smoke and mirrors
Carry on, carry on
As if justice doesn't matter

Too late - Selebi's done
A partner in the crime
But he won't do any time
We've bought everybody
So long ago
But the NPA still wants my day in court
Zuma - ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh
The Scorpions must die
And that way I will never be tried at all

We'll use the old Polokwane master plan
In the bush, in the bush where Mbeki is hanged - oh
While his noose is tightening everyone is watching me
Got away oh (got away oh) Got away oh (got away oh) Got away oh (got away oh) - hit the dough
Magnifico-o-o-o-o
I'm just a Zulu boy - leading the ANC
He's just a Zulu boy - showering for HIV
Sharing his dick with his menagerie
This Zuma parody
Easy bucks, easy dough - will I reap what I sow?
Ms Zille: - no you won't reap what you sow
Won't reap what you sow
Ms Zille: - no you won't reap what you sow
Won't reap what you sow
Ms Zille: - no you won't reap what you sow
Won't reap what you sow
Won't reap what you sow
Won't reap what you sow-o-o-o-o
Oh never fear, never fear, never fear - I won't go
The NPA has a loophole set aside for me, for me, for me....

See I told you I'd get off and still be the guy
Who would win this election and make you all cry!
So shady - all my dealings are shady
And I got Shaik - and I got Shaik out of jail

Justice doesn't matter
Anyone can see
Justice doesn't matter
Justice doesn't matter to me

Any way the bucks flow.....

MY VIRAL CONDITION

2009-02-19T12:26:00.008+02:00

DAY 1.
Yes, something recently overhwelmed my indomitable physicality and turned my joints into wobbling, gnarly things (not to be confused with my wife's sculptures of the same name...) that ached and groaned as I moved, my head was a vacuous space (no, it isn't always a vacuous space - sometimes I watch rugby and yell at the TV) filled with high-expansion urethane foam and the numb semi-euphoric feeling sapped me into total inactivity. I stalled on the settee and couldn't be kick-started or jump-started or anything.
You must understand that if my wife fails to jump-start me then there is something seriously amiss.
But never fear!

DAY 2.
Virus, what virus?
Oh yeah I kicked it's arse - Disgruntled Eel (my Dimac “waihao” or nickname* follow link below) crushed the bug with the famously dangerous chicken noodle manoeuvre (and a liberal dose of all-natural immune-boosting muti).
There is nothing left of this virus to even study - that's how efficacious the chicken noodle manoeuvre actually is.
Chuck Norris wishes he could master the art of Dimac - Chuck would get fucked up just trying to put on a pair of Dimac Gi trousers...
If he even tried to read the manual that describes the chicken noodle manoeuvre, he would instantly self-destruct as the processing of the data describing this deadly move if read aloud (which is what Chuck has to do to understand things) initiates an unraveling of the human DNA that would disintegrate poor Chuck like a mango in a microwave.

With reverence

http://comics.com/monty/?DateAfter=2001-03-04&DateBefore=2008-12-23&Order=&PerPage=1&x=39&y=12&Search=VENGEFUL+COBRA

Disgruntled Eel
DIMAC practitioner

CONSPIRACY - WHAT CONSPIRACY?

2009-02-12T23:05:00.003+02:00

I receive many emails and some concern things by concerned people and don't always go down too well.
Such as the following message from my friend, Sven, who was being politely chastised for "spamming" a friend of his with "conspiracy theory" posts:

One of my friends wrote me this - my reply follows..

I love you dearly, my friend, but please take me off your distribution list. I don't set any store by conspiracy theories and find them mildly annoying to deal with while the world goes down the tubes by means that are in plain sight and from which conspiracy theories are an unnecessary distraction.

To which Sven responded:

My dear friend,

Although much or even most of what passes as conspiracy theory could well be false, it's important
to understand that "conspiracy theory" is always the first term the establishment turns to when they want to
quickly debunk an idea which threatens them. If these ideas were harmless to them they would probably be just ignored.

I have little idea of what is really true. (Who does ?) But there's one thing I'm pretty sure is true:

That the crucial power structures operate behind the scenes and are knowingly kept top secret by the owners of the media.
What is offered to us as the actual power structure (i.e. the president, congress etc) is the trick that is used to deceive as
to the truth of from whence the strings are actually pulled. (Obama is just part of the latest stunt).

Regards
Sven

My own take:

“The means that are in plain sight” are indeed the most insidious insults of all and while I don’t specifically see myself as a conspiracy-theorist, I am certainly a sceptic and the very basis of science, as acknowledged by scientists, is founded on scepticism – questioning everything all the time until the evidence can provide “proof” which can be replicated to support the original theory that began the process.

So whether one subscribes to the belief in science or simply trusts the sense of instinct, I maintain that most people’s belief in what’s going on in the world is based, not on science, but on the mainstream version of events as promoted by the media. Anthropogenic Global Warming is one such debate, the presumed correlation between HIV and the condition that presents as AIDS is another. However, rather than conduct our own research into these matters, most people I know certainly, and a consensus of people who seem to believe everything peddled by the media, simply accept what is being printed as being based in conclusive, empirical science and beyond debate. And to question that, as Sven does in his own style, sets one up to be ridiculed or ostracised by those too idle or stupid to seek the option of “informed choice” – i.e. reading what the other side is saying as well then deciding for themselves no matter how unpopular that view may be.

If anyone out there believes that the media in this or any other country for that matter, presents a balanced view of any particular subject whether it be environmental, health-related, fiscal or whatever then I have to confess to living in an alternative reality to the one those people gobbling up the media spin occupy.
Nowhere is the argument for and against any controversial matter given a balanced airing – the generally accepted opinion is presented as the “truth” and anything else, no matter how credible the argument may be, is dismissed as folly or falsehood.
It was not that very long ago that the majority of people inhabiting this spinning blue rock believed to their cores that the planet was flat. To say otherwise was considered heresy and people were burned as witches for promoting such blasphemous talk.
Yet, we all know now that the loony fringe who were saying the Earth was a ball, were actually right on that one. Just like they were right about scurvy and pellagra and swine flu and a myriad other devastatingly sound scientific facts that turned out to be total bullshit.
This was all promoted as unwavering empirical science in the journals of the day – and one of my favourites was the crème-de-la-crème of our academia awarding the Nobel prize to a surgeon named Moniz for drilling holes into people’s crania and destroying portions of their frontal lobes either by injecting alcohol into them or by means of a sharp steel spike – the frontal lobotomy. He was recognised and lauded for his work. And while there are people out there who probably deserve a spike through the noggin, that’s hardly the point is it!

The role of people like Al Gore, who promote a series of “theoretical” data to support a cause and guilt people into changing their lifestyle because we’re “destroying the planet” and causing “sudden and possibly catastrophic climate change” is a cause for concern. Not the alleged global warming issue – no, but why Gore has made it his raison-d’être and I don’t believe for one minute it’s because he wants to be remembered as the guy who made us all aware – bollocks!
I believe that it is more likely to sway the global populace into a way of thinking that prepares us for the introduction of new technology to eventually replace the fossil-fuel driven science of the day and initiate a relatively seamless transition from one to the other while the same moguls who have raped us financially using the old stuff will be the same dudes that continue to screw us with the new stuff. But it has to be managed otherwise the global economy is likely to collapse if we switch to cleaner technology too rapidly. Well, they blew that one as well, folks if anyone has been watching the global marketplace and the fickle house of cards that our most advanced financial minds put in place to manage our money. It isn’t founded on sustainability – it is founded on greed – that’s why we’ve not been using clean, sustainable technology that’s been around for decades, centuries in some cases – because it wasn’t viable (for the good fellows selling it) even if it was viable for the planet. Now, all of a sudden, they care about the planet – puhlease!
I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have both sides of the debate (which are entirely theoretical either way) and make up my own mind instead of being made to feel guilty about what I drive, what I eat and what “ my carbon-footprint” is. It’s all theoretical shite.
That’s not to say we shouldn’t be ecologically and environmentally responsible – of course we should, but to promote this in the manner that the media and the politicians do is nothing short of insulting and disingenuous. But we’re an ignorant, lazy species for the most part so why not use that approach – it works!

So if questioning this stuff and researching it further to see what’s really going on catapults me into the realm of the conspiracy-theorist then that’s where I’d rather stay than feed on the drivel that is spewed up at us on an hourly basis in the hope that it will modify collective behaviour in the world.
But the sad thing is – it does.
And it’s not hard to see why.

GEORGIE DEBRIS (with apologies to Frank Zappa)

2009-02-09T06:25:00.004+02:00

GEORGIE DEBRIS
The Barfko man came over and he said: Let's say goodnight
He said: You're not quite ready but I've about gave up this fight!
If we were ready, willing and loyal to honor his memory
He would shuffle right out of his old mortal coil, be one with the Cozmik Debris
I said Look here, brother - won't you play one last time just for me?

The guitar man got restless and he tweaked out a couple o' licks
He turned up the amp til the stage was alight and he gave it a few hefty kicks
Now I thought I'd heard some good stuff but he played like a demon possessed
And I thought to myself: You're a league on your own. I don't give a shit for the rest!
He said: Look here, Frenchie - just remember what I tried to be.
Look here, Tipper I'll come haunt you with profanity!

I've got visions of my own, he said, so I'll watch from where I go
I'll see GW Monkey Man running his own Jackass Show
"But I've got a famous dad!" he said as he nuked Iraqi folk
So I zapped him with a guitar note and said, "George you're a fucking joke!"
I trussed a band-aid round his head, took the assholes from his eyes
Played some eighties music til I saw he was hypnotised
I changed his mind and policies, I took our freedom back
Said: "The problem's here at home, my friend - it ain't there in Iraq!"
I proceeded to ban all religion then - long as I was running the show
I said: "I just met God and guess what, George - She's black and She's ready to blow!"
He said: Please, please Frankie - don't you tell her what I tried to do...
Don't you know - you could make more money fucking sailors so why's it the voters you're trying to screw?

THE 2009 SOUTH AFRICAN ELECTIONS

2009-01-24T20:38:00.003+02:00

Listening to Andy Rice on 702's Ad Feature, he spoke of the upcoming election and the opportunity for political parties to really create something vibrant and special with their BRAND and bring something with a hook to the campaign trail.
Remembering Obama's: YES WE CAN! catchphrase, here's the best our uninspiring political hopefuls could come up with:

ANC: WORKING TOGETHER WE CAN DO MORE

DA: ONE NATION. ONE FUTURE

UDM: NOW'S THE TIME FOR ALL SOUTH AFRICANS

And last but not least:

COPE: A NEW AGENDA FOR CHANGE AND HOPE

People - with all due respect - here's my slogan response to them:

THEY ALL SUCK

These have got to be the least imaginative and uninspiring slogans I have ever heard - the DA probably being the catchiest but that's not saying much.

What about something dynamic like;

COPE: KEEPING IT REAL
or something fast and vibey along those lines?

There is an amazing opportunity for this party to shed the skin of the old, tired political dreariness, again like Obama did - speak to the people. Keep it short. Keep it to the point. Keep it real! We are tired of all the longwinded hyperbole and hollow promises;
And how about COPE's name being part of the campaign thrust as another acronym?:

Clarity - A clear vision for the future
Objectivity - Allowing autonomy in government & NGO organs
Prosperity - A share for us all in SA's growth
Equality - For each gender and every race group

Some sketchy ideas but man oh man - what has been put together is as dull as ditchwater in my humble view!

This is an exciting time - some of that excitement should be engendered within the campaign and spread to the people COPE hope to harness.

Isn't democracy fun...

BARACK OBAMA - 44th PRESIDENT OF THE USA

2009-01-21T06:58:00.002+02:00

Think what you want to but the Yanks do this ceremonial stuff even better than the Brits in my view.
In the dark old days we had that unsavoury alliance of Bush Blair - BB. Now we have the African American and the Scot or could I call them Black and Mac without offending the sensibilities of the Politically Correct analists? Bollocks to them!
And while it is most certainly naive to imagine one leader can turn the world around from its current state of despair in many quarters - war, famine, disease, financial instability, rampant bigotry, racism, ethnic cleansing, (alleged) global warming etc. Barack Obama gives one the impression that he can make that happen. His eloquence and stature, his evangelical conviction and delivery evokes within the listener (American and foreigner alike) the belief that we have truly turned a corner and the world (never mind the US) is on the path to healing.
The cynics (myself among them) would simply say - "anything after Dubya is a step in the right direction..." but Obama is inheriting a minefield from GWB as has been described above with the confidence of US citizens at an all time low. He can work that in his favour of course with his fresh approach (and ability to speak English) but it will only work for so long until he starts to deliver on his promises (or not).
The key to this potential success, in my view, is his consummate ability of including the American people in the effort by acknowledging their true potential every time he speaks and without making it sound like ersatz hyperbole (like most politicians are prone to do).
Maybe I'm just getting more sensitive as I mature (perish the thought!) but every time this dude hits the podium I feel tears welling up in my eyes because I get this feeling that Obama has entered the world stage at a point where the very consciousness of humanity has undergone a significant shift and whether we would like to acknowledge it or not, I believe the GW Bushes of this world actually helped to get us to this point even if it was by trudging down a long, hard, nasty road.
It's that old dark and light thing isn't it - how can we achieve balance if we don't have appropriate / equal proportions of both?
It isn't always the lessons imparted by the shining "leading by example" people of this world - the people of this planet have always (and I mean always) got the choice to learn from any example shown them from a drunken father to a saintly mother - whatever. It's as beneficial to see what we shouldn't be doing as it is to be going down a path behind a saint.
We need to make mistakes (hopefully not fatal ones) to learn and Obama has that concept firmly in hand.
As naive as I may be, this man inspires confidence and that mere fact alone is contagious and brings people together and with confidence comes belief and with belief comes positive action and a lot less guilt and the nett result has the potential to make us more temperate, tolerant and humane.
I like him - VIVA OBAMA
Is it true that his first policy decision will be to petition congress to have the White House painted black?
I can hear the Rolling Stones in the background as we speak!

THE GREAT GLOBAL WARMING SWINDLE DEBATE

2009-01-21T06:57:00.000+02:00

As soon as politicians and the media put their collective weight behind a particular viewpoint to the exclusion of any other opinion, is the day that my bullshit barometer kicks in. The whole concept of informed choice and a balanced representation of the two sides of the debate are forgotten and the popular viewpoint becomes the status-quo. This has been true of the issue concerning the correlation between HIV and AIDS where people like Thabo Mbeki and Manto Tshabalala Msimang have been vilified for saying things that don't conform to the accepted view. To such a degree that our erstwhile health minister became nothing more than a cartoon figure without any credibility when, in fact, anyone actually bothering to research the data behind what she claims rather than lampooning the messenger, may be very surprised at what they find - I certainy was.
But by then it was far too late - public opinion had already been swayed to accept everything the mainstream protagonists were saying and denouncing anything that contradicted that. As I said - so much for informed choice. In our country it doesn't exist and coupled with the apathy of much of the public and their innate sloth when it comes to actually conducting their own research in these matters, we are now facing an even greater deception when it comes to the issue of AGW (Anthropogenic Global Warming) where both the media and the political community isn't offering a balanced representation of both sides of this debate. The generally accepted perception is that Global Warming is a reality and it has come about as a result of humanity's activity on the planet and particularly with regard to our emission of so-called greenhouse gases into the atmopshere, the main culprit being Carbon Dioxide. Moreover, our activities in this regard have initiated sudden and potentially catastrophic climate change which threatens the very survival of this species (and others) on planet Earth. All very dramatic but is it true?
Whether we choose to believe it is or not, what irks me beyond reason is the spin being placed on the issue (that clearly suits a specific agenda) that disallows both sides of the debate being given equal representation in our mainstream media.
Whether or not this is to influence our thinking (and again, like religion, it's done through fear and guilt) and steer us away from fossil-fuel based technology in a managed transition to newer, more environmentally friendly energy technology and ensure that such a transition doesn't fatally impair the global economy - isn't the point. I'm all for being ecologically aware and responsible but I would like the opportunity of being able to make up my own mind about the issues and choose a path once I've seen all the available DATA not biased media spin or spurious so-called science. Both sides, please!
But it isn't happening and I believe we should be asking ourselves - Why not?
I urge you to take the time and view the full series of the "SWINDLE" debate on Youtube which makes for very interesting and thought-provoking viewing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIjGynF4qkE&feature=related

PS - Happy 2009 everyone - I'm truly happy really - never been more so xxx

THE DEVIL WEARS PARIS HILTON PERFUME

2008-12-29T18:05:00.002+02:00

You want to do someone a favour? Don't do it - just don't do it!
My New Year's resolution - fuck em all!
We have a house full of guests ranging from the great-granny to the great-grannychildren and obviously there's a teenager in the mix somewhere - of course there is!
This one, Pearl (http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/profile.php?id=1174333234) dresses up like Paris Hilton to go bush walking and will not go to the toilet without putting on make-up. She's developed thumbs like irradiated gherkins from MXIT intercourse (that means conversation, Pearl) and after two days away from civilisation (read: staying in Magaliesburg) she gets Mall withdrawal, a malady that can be likened to heroin cold-turkey where the addict becomes irrational, sweats uncontrollably, resorts to verbal abuse and profanity in desperate attempts to have the drug of choice served up.
Well, being the soft-hearted pussycat that I am, I succumbed to the wiles of the pretty Pearl as she fluttered her eyelids and abused her mother just one time too many.
"Okay, Godammit!" I was heard to croon lovingly, "I'll take you to the fucking mall, you little ingrate!"
Honestly, it didn't sound as bad as it looks in print...
So, after an hour and a half of tonsorial teasing, cosmetic pastiche and the fumigation by teen-fragrance of every square millimetre of her waiflike body, we were all ready to venture forth from the harsh wilderness of Magaliesburg to the Jerry Springer breeding ground of Krugersdorp and more specifically the Key West Mall.
Now the fact that the inhabitants of this mall only learned to walk upright that very morning and have as much in common with Pearl as a juvenile Cambodian refugee has with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, the place boasted the epithet: MALL and that was enough for our MXIT minx. It may have been a really poor grade of mall but she was strapping up the arm, puffing out the veins and ready for an almost lethal injection of Key West.
So I dropped her and her mom at Entrance 4 - oh yeah I forgot to mention the other significant trait of our city-slicking teenager: anything that walks the earth that isn't on a leash, wearing a bell or served up with fries and ketchup is deemed to be a threat to humanity (and especially to Pearl) even more so than Global Warming (if you buy into that pish)
Yes, despite the voluminous research conducted by arachnologists, herpetologists, entomologists and zoologists per-se recording the retiring nature of almost all arachnids, reptiles, insects and small mammals, Pearl would have us believe that there are new, malicious toad species endemic to the Magalies region (localised in the family room of our home, in fact) that have one singular desire: to abduct her and subject her to the most unspeakable cruelty involving just actually being there and looking um well like totally gross. The accompanying screams at the sight of a little toad on an evening feeding foray or an errant moth that may flutter within 2 metres of the teenager are enough to curdle milk at five hundred paces. So the thought of this little wuss being left alone in a strange mall in the middle of the "wild West" was but an episode of madness. Of course mom would have to go with...
Having safely desposited my charges at the mall, I proceeded to fulfill the real mission quest: to purchase (from the only open Midas Spares store that had stock) a pair of hydraulic arms for the rear door of my bakkie. Why not - we'd just paid the thing off and Doris (my bakkie) deserved to be rendered pristine. Yeah right - read on.
It was all proceeding famously - I was popular with the teenage contingent of the menagerie, I had found a supplier open in the holidays and I got to take a break from the festive (but chaotic) home environment for a short while.
Then without warning as is the nature of a wife remembering shit she forgot to tell her husband prior to leaving home, my cellphone rang just as I was approaching the side junction at which I was to turn.
I looked down to the mobile (my hands-free was in the other car and needed recharging). I picked it up. I looked up. The road was clear (wasn't it?). I had already crossed the median line but then - oh my God - a Ford Sierra appeared from nowhere and was skidding toward me. I could do nothing but a bunny in the headlight impression - which I did pretty well as the oncoming car slewed and squealed toward me then collided with the front right hand corner of the bakkie with the usual horrible crunch that goes with arse-snatching and the helplessness of these moments.
I casually told my wife that I had just had an accident and would call her back then vacated the vehicle to see if the occupants of the other car were okay.
They were, the driver volubly so, indignant and threatening at first but as soon as I admitted fault, he seemed to deflate like an erection when your mum catches you having a wank.
His car: to put it technically - fucked and undrivable. Mine: I managed to drive it to the parking bays outside the Midas store where I scrutinised the damage. The right front wheel assembly was pushed back and damaged to a degree where the car could only be driven in a straight line, anything involving turning graunched the tyre against the inside of the wheel arch. Undrivable.
The usual formalities were concluded and when attempting to console the wife of the elderly driver, herself a frail-looking Afrikaans tannie resplendent in crimplene and nylon and seated on the grass verge, I was told in no uncertain terms that this horrible deed was all Satan's doing.
I was immediately in two minds at that vehement pronouncement wondering if a) I should recant my previous admission of culpability and suggest we both claim against the Prince of Darkness' insurers - Hellfire Provident or somesuch firm or b) tell her she was still in shock and the real culprit was Pearl who had guilted me into taking her to the mall to silence the falsetto mall withdrawal whingeing...the consequence of which had brought me to this very intersection at this very time. If I'd been going directly to Midas, I reasoned, I wouldn't have been at this intersection at this time and the accident would have been avoided. Damn that Black Pearl! (Sounds like a line from Pirates of the Caribbean)
Upon further reflection and registering the obviously fragile demeanour of the traumatised tannie, I opted to maintain my guilt and assured her that if Satan had been involved we'd probably all be dead and holding hands in a barque as we were escorted across the Styx. This seemed to totally fly over her blue-rinsed and curled head so I let it be.
If she wanted the devil to be the bad guy - then hey - who was I to stand in the way of that?
Even when someone puts up their hand and shoulders the responsibility for something - the Godfearing folk of our fair world brush this aside in favour of the unseen. Mystery seems so much more appealing than some red-headed git in glassed claiming to be the culprit. Fuck that!
Tis true - the devil must work in mysterious ways - ask Pearl - for according to her, he has trained demonic amphibians to torment her in the hellfire of Magaliesburg for what must seem like an absolute eternity - well the Christmas hols to be exact..
But it's hard not to believe in the existence of the Prince of the Pit especially when one looks at the current level of teenage communication that abdicates any actual verbal discourse, or we take stock of the current generation's value system based on McDonald's, branded clothing and cloned pop stars.
There was a fleeting moment when Pearl spoke with me about matters of spirit but then as soon as the Mall juice hit her veins, the headphones hit her ears, both thumbs assumed their MXIT position on either side of her cellphone and I realised that this was the portrait of the new world.
Better the devil you know...

YouTube - Frank Zappa on David Letterman, 10-31-83

2008-10-02T23:42:00.000+02:00

YouTube - Frank Zappa on David Letterman, 10-31-83

if you do nothing in your life - watch some of Zappa's thoughts, insights and interviews on YouTube - man - my only regret has to be never having seen this dude live...

COBEY (FERGIE) THE GAS-PIPE PAINTER

2008-10-02T21:59:00.005+02:00

This requires a small introduction:

first - it is intended in good spirits and humour as the butt of this lampoon was repeatedly nominated and victorious in the questionable BEAR OF THE YEAR contest through the eighties and nineties here in Johannesburg and other exotic regions.
One can read more on this and other matters in a soon-to-be-published novel cryptically entitled (The first book of) PRANA - a partially semi-autobiographical tale of shock, horror, humour and human endeavour - with some angels and demons thrown in for good measure. (Fuck, if it worked for Dan Brown then why not...)
The antihero of this rhyme fell from grace (as it were - and probably a few other dodgy tarts to boot - or old boots or whatever) and the bottle got the better of him in the latter stages of his career hence the reference to the lush.
As for gas pipes - these refer to fire suppression system piping which our hero probably never painted in his life - although he did install fire suppression systems (although the efficaciousness of said systems remains highly debatable to this day).
And so we have the lampoon:(PS - COBEY COULD BE INTERCHANGEABLE WITH FERGIE - WHY NOT - and I have nothing against the Red Devils per-se but being an ardent Chelsea supporter - the dig at Man Utd just happens to coincide with the fact that the poem's antihero was [and indeed probably still is] a fanatical Man U supporter to a ridiculous degree - I'm presuming Fergie is much the same thing)

COBEY (FERGIE) THE GAS-PIPE PAINTER

(Sung to the tune of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer)

Cobey, the gas-pipe painter
Couldn’t hold a steady brush
And all the other painters
Said he was a fucking lush!
Each day around ten thirty
He would disappear for tea
But the other gas-pipe painters
Knew it was a dram or three.

Then one Tuesday afternoon
He downed a bottle full
Cobey with your slurry tongue
How’ll you reach the topmost rung?

So all the pipes were painted
Red and drippy everywhere
All on the piping brackets
And even in the pisscat’s hair
Cobey the gas-pipe painter
Said it was deliberate
Coz now the red and white bits
Looked like Man U’s latest kit

When he painted nozzles closed
He got his last red card
Cobey won’t say he was fired
He tells us all he just retired

So the moral of the story
Revolves around the colour red
All you dodgy Man U lovers
Need a bullet in the head
Ronaldo is a fucking wanker
Rooney might as well lay bricks
The strip should be a pack of condoms
Coz that’s what people put on pricks!

GLOBAL DECEPTION - OH AND ZUMA!!

2008-09-19T21:40:00.005+02:00

Following on from the article: Contrived Shortages and the New Reality by Texe Marrs (Biophile 23), I have been conscious of contrived scenarios meted out by “authorities” under the mantle of scientific or technically endorsed hyperbole.
And none are closer to home than the HIV-Aids scam, the ESKOM scam and one of my personal favourites - the Zuma sleight-of –hand manoeuvre.
I know the HIV = Aids hypothesis has been covered in Biophile before and it’s a subject I’ve studied over the last decade with growing horror – not at the “spread” of the “pandemic” but rather at the spread of the perception created through the pharmaceutical industry and the media, of this contrived virus and its alleged un-virus like behaviour.
From Robert Gallo’s orchestrated pronouncement to the world of his discovery of the virus related to the AIDS phenomenon in 1984 (later retracted by him although scarcely highlighted by the beneficiaries of the AIDS industry) to the spurious “AIDS test”, that has nothing to do with finding a virus, to the manipulated “infection statistics” and on and on. For the benefit of readers unfamiliar with this mega-billion dollar venture, perhaps an enlightening summary would be Clark Baker’s independent article on the subject entitled HIV, AIDS & Gallo’s Egg, viewable at:
http://www.californiaconservative.org/academia/hiv-aids-gallos-egg
a quite compelling read.

Being associated with the power industry in this country as a Data Centre infrastructure consultant and solutions architect, I am much closer to the totally unbelievable scenario contrived and spun to the SA public regarding the critical power shortages, under-capacity availability and a whole convoluted chapter on coal that is as impenetrable as it is daft. The coal reserves weren’t soaked by water – they were saturated by bullshit - period.
While it is true that there are serious energy problems in this country, the exercise we’ve just experienced was nothing short of national deception and it was purely and simply about that old mass-manipulator’s trick of problem-reaction-solution. While I regard much of David Icke’s work with a healthy pinch of scepticism (the only way to live, I think), he has the problem-reaction-solution paradigm 100% spot-on.
And another truism is the strategy of containing the truth within the spin being dispensed but masking it so cleverly that it is virtually impossible to discern the fact from the fiction as it all intermingles like a morass of knotted fishing line complete with nasty hooks.
The ESKOM story was about money and a need to hike up the power tariffs substantially. By the supplier’s own admission the billing model it had wheeled into motion decades back was based on erroneous factors and made no proper allowance for realistic maintenance and upgrade costs in this model hence our wonderfully cheap electricity up to that point. With the advent of the emerging mass power consumer and the need for capacity upgrades, costly (previously ignored) maintenance of existing infrastructure as well as the massive salary structure in play within the executive hierarchy of the corporation, ESKOM simply needed more money to do what it does. And what better way to contrive our reliance on power than by making it unavailable or erratically available at best and by launching a countrywide campaign to highlight the crisis in which we found ourselves. Thus the PROBLEM was created.
Phase 2 – REACTION. The public were outraged at the under-capacity, at the inconvenience, at the projected tenure of this problem and over time amid the thundering protests, we eventually acknowledged that perhaps we aught to be using electricity more wisely or simply less of it while it was clear that money had to come from somewhere (read: the taxpayer) to begin the upgrade process. We began to get used to managing our lives around the black-outs, the traffic congestion caused by robot outages, the additional expense of running households off standby generator supplies etc. But this all smacked of third-world infrastructure and the spectre of socio-economic collapse loomed large in our subconscious especially given the unfathomable “foreign policy” our government accorded our troubled northern neighbour. Hell, we didn’t want to go down that road.
Phase 3 – SOLUTION. In a nutshell – ESKOM asked for more money and they had been banging on about a 52% rate increase through the currency of the crisis. We were even more appalled but had now steeled ourselves for some form of increase, praying fervently to the national power regulator (who also works for the same boss as ESKOM by the way) that they would reject this ridiculous increase out of hand. After all it was ESKOM who’d failed to get their business model correct, plan capacity or maintain their systems but who had somehow managed to make a desperate public feel guilty about the way it used electricity as if we were complicit in having created the problem.
Result: a 17% rate increase is announced and we collectively sigh with relief as if we’ve been handed a generator-driven olive branch.
However, if we’d been asked to pay 17% more at the outset of the “crisis”, we’d have been appalled and told ESKOM to take a hike. They’d had a substantial rate increase not that long before the crisis.
So through clever manipulation – we’d been played to feel grateful for a “small” increase in our electricity tariff. Brilliant. Insidious but brilliant.
And how many serious outages have you experienced since the rate increase was accepted and through the high-demand winter months? Interestingly, virtually none.
Summary: we’re probably using electricity more frugally than before, have a little generator on hand just in case (import benefits to government), are paying 17% more for this and the real capacity can now be managed and upgraded with some breathing space. Only – let’s see how well our energy ministry manages the future of this and sustainability in new solutions. I remain sceptical.

Then there’s Jacob Zuma – good old Zuma without whom, Zapiro’s life would be a lot less colourful.
Readers should read Judge Chris Nicholson’s summation of the latest in this saga at:http://www.politicsweb.co.za/politicsweb/action/media/downloadFile?media_fileid=1077
On the face of it – a totally unsurprising outcome and the focus is now squarely shifted from the issue of Zuma’s alleged wrongdoing to the procedural inconsistencies of the NPA and the resultant nullification of the due process.
Regardless of this, it certainly makes one wonder over the smoke & mirrors surrounding the Scorpions when perhaps the media (and indeed ourselves) should have been scrutinising the deeds and doings of the NPA to ensure that the process had no possibility of being thwarted. Nice sleight of hand don’t you think! Orchestrated perhaps or just coincidence?
I said to my wife not long ago that to avoid becoming lumped into the same category as Zim in the eyes of a watching world, the ANC had to be seen to be following the dictates of the constitution and its judiciary and Zuma had to be brought before a judge. However, I went on, he will get off scot-free through some technicality or other! And me with no crystal ball at all!
Anyone who imagined for one moment that Zuma would succumb to the same fate as that scapegoat Shaik is living in a different SA from the one I occupy.
Watch that particular space and don’t be surprised…by anything.
One thing worth considering – he may turn out to be a more moderate president than we think and in the eyes of Africa, I think we’ll get more mileage out of him than Mbeki. Just remember, although publicly he and Mbeki have to be seen as opposing one another, they are not only struggle comrades but co-conspirators/beneficiaries of the arms deal (in my and millions of other South Africans’ view). The ANC will trundle on regardless and the businesses that run the country will prevail. Oh yes, and Zille’s DA will roar like a toothless tiger in the background…

And in conclusion – if a politician is moving his lips he is perhaps being disingenuous to some degree – it simply goes with the territory. And as Mr Marrs illustrates in his article (Biophile 23) the UN seeks to control our means to grow, buy and distribute food – surprise, surprise.
In the same way – Mr Al Gore has been paid to travel the world dispensing another perception contrived for the manipulation of the masses – i.e.Global Warming. Now don’t scream me down, please. I am not saying that we shouldn’t be ecologically more responsible nor that we shouldn’t look to sustainable energy systems and smaller “carbon footprints” but for goodness sake – the Earth has gone through these climatic cycles for millennia and (as with any other scientific debate) there are compelling arguments from both sides of the fence.
What is of substantially more significance is the simple fact that (as with Mbeki and Zuma) Gore and Bush are actually brothers-in-arms and now that the global population (currently being raped by GW and his cronies with the oil price and fossil-fuel based technologies) has accepted that we require a solution to the “crisis” (PROBLEM), this gives the same cabal of manipulators the time and space to establish themselves as the saviours with the managed and phased introduction of hybridised and sustainable technologies in favour of the old stuff at an even higher price than we were paying before. The economy will tick over without any collapse as it gets carefully manoeuvred through the transition.
And we will sit back wondering what the next crisis will be and how much we’re going to pay for it.
Ce’st la vie…

SEEKERS SUCKS - PAY NOW FRY LATER

2008-03-16T17:33:00.004+02:00

NOT TAHITI BUT BREAK OUT THE SNORKELS ANYWAY!

Picture the scene: we’ve been in Australia for two weeks, having spent time with my family paying final respects to the memory of my younger brother who passed away a year ago, and now we are finally at Sydney Airport to catch our flight to Tahiti for our dream honeymoon. The emotion of the compassionate part of the trip is over – we are finally heading toward paradise.

It gets a little tense as the check-in clerk points out that our combined luggage weight is around 55kg. We patiently explain that we have already made an arrangement through their offices to have the limit upped to 60kg. She checks the computer screen and acknowledges that this is the case. We relax.
“But,” she continues, “you will have to pay excess for this bag anyway…” (she points to the moulded blue plastic case)
I tense up. I am confused.
“Why?” I ask plaintively. “The total weight of our bags is fifty five kilos. It’s less than the allowable maximum.”
“Yes,” she says, “but the maximum permissible weight per item is twenty five kilograms! This bag is thirty kilograms.”
I look at her incredulously then at my new wife with an expression that says: is this woman kidding or what? The blue case reposes defiantly on the scale in silence refusing to budge.
“Baggage over twenty five kilos,” she says patiently, “is considered too heavy and potentially dangerous to handle.”
“Well how much is the excess cost?” I ask with barely concealed frustration, imagining the wimpy Aussie baggage handlers who can’t manage a measly 30kg suitcase.
“It will be around twenty dollars a kilo,” she says. The mental calculation is instantaneous - $100 at the (then) exchange rate of R6.50 to the Aussie dollar is R650! That’s ridiculous, (especially as I know the case isn’t likely to get any lighter on our travels and the Rand is hardly poised to strengthen).
“What’s the answer?” I ask.
The check-in clerk looks at me with a practised professional smile and suggests we buy another bag and distribute the load between three bags to avoid the excess costs. I check my watch. We have enough time. Exhaling like a Pamplona bull after a heavy day at the charge, I heft the offending blue case off the scale and reload the baggage trolley, smiling comfortingly at Karen.
“Let’s do it,” I hiss and stride purposefully toward the luggage shop half a kilometre down the departures concourse.
The purchase is swift and it’s only $35 (R230). We then sit on a bench and redistribute the load across the three bags and head back confidently to the check-in counter. The clerk had had the decency to concede that we needn’t queue again – just come back and recheck the bags.
The bags are loaded – all legitimately under the magical back-breaking borderline of 25kg each – beautiful!
I am now grinning at Karen as the excitement of the island trip hits me again. Then within the space of just one sentence (it could have been construed as a prison sentence), our dreams and hopes are smashed into a million pieces.
“Where are your visas?” the check-in clerk asks.
I dig deep within myself looking to find some sign that this woman is kidding after the luggage saga.
“We haven’t got visas,” I respond, “We were told we didn’t need them for Tahiti on a South African passport. It’s part of France…”
The check-in clerk’s face folds into a frown. “I’m sorry – that’s not the case…” she gestures to a senior staff member who bustles officiously over to where we are standing. The situation is swiftly explained. The supervisor is scrutinising our passports as if the visas will miraculously appear from the ether with the correct degree of encouragement like an enchantment from a Harry Potter spell book.
Karen’s body language has diminished her diminutive stature even further; she is shrinking into herself as I see the dismay descending over her. Her eyes are brimming with tears.
“We were told by our travel agent we didn’t need visas,” I repeat. Karen says the same thing. “We asked them three times,” she says as if that will convince the woman that they must somehow be mistaken.
The supervisor is curt and sharp with her response: “All South African travel agents know a visa is required for your passports to French Polynesia.” She takes in our glazed expressions.
“It’s part of the Schengen agreement,” she adds as if that clarifies everything. I am standing there feeling like I am being lectured by an old-school headmistress. My wife is shrinking before my eyes. I can feel a mixture of disappointment, anger and frustration welling up in me as my project-manager mind goes into top gear. It’s Saturday; it’s also Australia Day – 26th January so that means anything that is usually open today won’t be. South Africa is nine hours behind us and I don’t think I have the travel agents’ emergency numbers. We’re screwed.
And as that thought crystallises in my mind, Karen erupts. She begins to sob over her hand luggage as if her dearest friend had just died. I move to her side and extend a hand.
The school mistress suddenly warms. She can feel our desperation. The tears have flicked a switch.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I ask. “Can’t we get hold of passport control in Tahiti and arrange emergency visas or something?” I am reaching. I don’t know what else to do. I hug my wife and hold her against me, the sobs thudding thick and hot into my chest.
Schoolmarm smiles and nods then spins toward another staff member holding a phone. A call is made and we can almost discern a muted one-sided conversation across the distance between us. She returns but she isn’t smiling.
“I’m sorry,” she begins. “There’s nothing they can do… I’m sorry…”
Karen’s body racks with more intensity as the inevitability of our predicament hits us both. We’re not going to Tahiti. Certainly not today in any event.

The sympathy from the Tahiti-Nui airline staff is palpable as we make our despondent way toward the ground floor and the hotel-reservation and car-hire kiosks. Their sympathy is appreciated but it changes nothing.

After rehiring a car and arranging accommodation through Sydney Visitor Centre, we drive back to Sydney city and book into the hotel; Potts Point Holiday Inn. I check my laptop for emergency numbers for Seekers Travel in Fourways but find nothing and have to revert to sending an email to Robyn Barrett, the multiple-award winning travel consultant who has yet to show her true colours in this saga. It is, after all, Saturday and they will be working in South African later on. I mentally commit to phoning there later at the appropriate time.

In the meantime, we try to piece together our shattered day, and as it is a festive time in Australia, we decide to watch the fireworks display down at Darling Harbour with the hundreds of thousands of Aussies who have swarmed to the city for the occasion. The loss of my wallet after the fireworks results in even more sobbing and despair but miraculously it’s found and returned to me after a late-night search on the roof of a multi-storey car park. It is all too much.
When we get back to the hotel, exhausted and emotionally drained from the day and after I have spoken to Robyn, who is clearly not good under pressure as she has referred me to her senior, Mary-Ann Goddard; I see there is a response from Mary-Ann. She is suggesting an alternative to our predicament which takes us to Easter Island via Santiago (Chile) and not via Tahiti as was originally planned. While we are in Easter Island, she commits to assisting us with obtaining the necessary visas for Tahiti “if you (we) are spending time in Tahiti” which we clearly are. The one-night stopover in Tahiti en-route to Easter Island was merely a convenience booking in order to coordinate a connection with a group of people with whom we were rendezvousing for a workshop. After the Easter Island leg we were scheduled to return to Tahiti for the remainder of the workshop and an island wedding ceremony as well as a week’s honeymoon surrounded by coral lagoons on this volcanic atoll in the Pacific.

None of it happens though. The following day, Sunday 27th, we return to Sydney Airport, return the hire car and confirm the booking with Qantas who run Lan Airlines (the principle Chilean airline) operation there. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately in the scheme of things), Seekers hasn’t been able to make the payment for this trip - only to book it. This strikes me as odd but when I see the price I begin to realise that Seekers seems to be ducking any form of financial commitment whatsoever. As yet we have received no recompense and I am now being asked to fork out AU$9,300 for these tickets, some R60, 000! This is for one-way tickets only between Sydney-Santiago-Easter Island! Unbelievable!
Karen looks desperate again. “What shall we do?” she asks.
“I tell you what,” I say. “I’ll let the gods decide. I’ll try and pay for this on both my credit cards and if it goes through then we’re meant to go. If it doesn’t, we’re not and …um…well…we’ll have to book back into a hotel…”
She looks at me and nods. “Ok,” she says, “fair enough.”
We try. No luck. It isn’t happening.

By now Europcar and the staff at the Sydney Visitors’ Centre are getting to know us quite well and I’m sure I could conduct guided tours of Sydney Airport. We rehire a car yet again and explain our sorry predicament to Jenny at SVC and she books us in at the Old Sydney Holiday Inn at The Rocks.

There is nothing left to do but wait until Tuesday (Monday is a public holiday due to the Australia Day event) and try our luck at the French Consulate General in downtown Sydney. In the meantime, we kick back and take turns at breaking down over this debacle. With the previous scenario (flying via Santiago to Easter Island) we would have crossed the date line and would have ironically ended up on the same flight with the tour group that were travelling from Chile, and missed nothing of the workshop. What wasn’t guaranteed, of course, was the Tahiti leg as this relied on obtaining visas, while we were in Easter Island, to allow us entry to complete our workshop and honeymoon. Given the debacle through Seekers thus far, we weren’t absolutely convinced this would happen.
Tuesday arrives and the visit to the French CG yields nothing, they aren’t interested in our case, our pleading, the fact that we are on honeymoon – nothing! There is no such thing as an emergency visa and the standard visa will take 2 weeks to issue (potentially longer) in which case our honeymoon is over. We are simply devastated and Karen remains heart-brokenly numb for a few days.
I have made no mention of the other factors that Seekers failed to deliver during this “dream” excursion of ours which are namely:

Robyn discovered that the flights she had booked from Sydney to Tahiti were actually on the wrong dates. There were no flights on the dates appearing on the tickets. Therefore she simply adjusted our itinerary to reflect the correct dates and left the tickets as they were. We had to visit Qantas offices in Australia to have them changed and endorsed for travel under the advice of a friend in Australia who happened to be in the travel industry.

While on the subject of the itinerary: had we stuck to these guidelines, we would have missed our return flight to South Africa via Kuala Lumpur as the Seekers itinerary stated that we had to leave the hotel at the time the flight was actually taking off! If we hadn’t checked this against the actual tickets, we would have missed the flight.

Robyn then failed to pre-book the correct food option for us on Malaysia Airlines and we received vegan options rather than the lacto-vegetarian options we had requested from her.

She also failed to pre-book the seats we asked for on the first leg of the trip and we ended up enduring an extremely uncomfortable 10 hours to Kuala Lumpur from Johannesburg

She also asked us to pay for our Sydney hotel in advance (we arrived there for a stopover while my sister, also flying from SA arrived the day after us) which we duly did. However, when we arrived at the hotel, they had received the booking confirmation only – not the money thus I had to pay for it again. I am still awaiting recompense for this double payment.

All these service offerings from the award winning travel consultant of the year – multiple years in a row, I must add. She must have been having an off-year!

One of the main reasons we had been sold on the Seekers one-stop travel service offering was they had their own internal visa department. That is certainly the way it was portrayed to us by Robyn who even went as far as to refer to Visas International as “our visa company” in an email to us during the copious correspondence between us. And for the record, Seekers’ own terms and conditions make the same claim: “PASSPORTS Please note that it is the clients (sic) responsibility to check that you are holding a valid passport for your journey. Should you be travelling on a temporary passport you need to check that the country you are travelling to will accept a temporary passport. You are welcome to contact our In-House Visa Company should you require any assistance.” (My bold italics)

At no point did Robyn point out to us that VI was a separate entity or that we were responsible for finding out about our own visas, on the contrary, she touted them as a Seekers’ value-add. We asked her more than once about visas for Tahiti and were told by her more than once that they weren’t necessary as Tahiti was part of France and South Africans didn’t need visas for France; something which she now flatly denies. After all, given this debacle – there is little chance she’ll make the cut for Consultant of the Year 2008 if she admits to any ineptitude. (Have a look at the bullet point list above – too late for that). Seekers and “their In-House visa company” clearly didn’t seem to be aware of the Schengen agreement which I Googled while I was waiting in the hotel for Tuesday to arrive, as well as “French Polynesia visa requirements” to find out in single search the following information:

http://www.wordtravels.com/Travelguide/Countries/Tahiti+and+French+Polynesia/Visa
which revealed:

Which anyone will admit, is self-explanatory and not very hard for a layperson to discover. So the question remains – why didn’t Seekers and “their In-House visa company” know this? After all, they had booked us all the way through to French Polynesia and had taken my money for this service. And they had been quick to point out our visa requirements for Australia. We assumed they knew what they were doing and foolishly took the word of the travel agent of the year four years running when she told us we didn’t need visas for Tahiti. Silly of us to believe her.

We then spend the next week at our hotel as admin executives, phoning & emailing South Africa, trying to rebuild the shambles of our honeymoon and contacting our agent in Tahiti, who’d organised the internal aspects of the trip over there, to tell her that we wouldn’t be making it after all despite our best efforts.
We received a full refund from her almost immediately and this was transferred into my American Express card within a day.
No such luck with Seekers Travel, however. They merely offered alternative trips and I noticed that they were careful not to say “compensatory” anywhere in their correspondence and the alternatives arrived in the form of “quotations”. But going to Phuket (as nice as it may be) was not what we had dreamed and wasn’t what we wanted, thus we rejected their suggestions and told them we’d resolve the matter on our return to South Africa and would advise them of our new travel arrangements as we’d decided to book an internal Australian excursion to the outback.

And as promised, on our return, I compiled a dossier of the correspondence, the consequential costs including the non-refundable workshop costs that we’d forfeited, the fares to Tahiti and back from Sydney, car-hire, loss on foreign currency rates that we’d exchanged in anticipation of the Tahiti/Easter island leg then re-exchanged at a loss when it all fell apart, hotel costs while we’d been stuck in Sydney etc.
We asked for no more than we’d spent – in fact we asked for less than we’d spent; we excluded cellphone, internet costs etc. as a result of this debacle which, we do not believe was any fault of ours. The total (without trauma & stress factored in) came to around R104,000.00 and Seekers has had the opportunity to do the right thing and reimburse us for this dream turned nightmare.
But Seekers sought rather to play a waiting game and I was shunted from Mary-Ann to a William Fourie who didn’t bother to read the correspondence properly as he didn’t grasp that we weren’t claiming for our internal Tahiti excursion as part of the overall claim, merely the cancellation costs which were a paltry €70 (R700 at that time). He somehow thought I was trying to claim recompense from Seekers that had nothing to do with them. I wasn’t. I’m still not.

I consolidated our claim on 20th February when we returned only to have Seekers thank me for this a day later then request, on 28th February (after several follow up phone calls to them), that I collate this into a letter to them which I duly did on 3rd March.
They then informed me they would meet (twice for some reason – internal conflict perhaps?) over the matter and come back to me with a formal response by Friday 14th March which they did.

Not only is there not one single acknowledgement of responsibility by Seekers/Tourvest/Thomsons Tours for this comedy of errors, not even where I have had to pay for things twice, they politely told me to go and screw myself in the most eloquent of legalese they could muster by disingenuously claiming “their In-House visa company” actually isn’t In-House after all, in fact it has nothing to do with them.
But I beg to differ and it can be clearly shown in the correspondence that they maintained their ownership role of handling the visas until they realised they had botched it whereupon they adopted a 360 degree shift in attitude and ran for the hills.

I also beg to differ that Visas International was at any time portrayed as being anything other than their, Seekers’, “In-House visa company” affirming an overall ownership to the customer of this perception – they even go as far as to claim this fact. But elsewhere in the fine print lurks little escape clauses and presumably within their company hierarchal documentation they can prove that Visas International is actually not IN but Out-House.

In my world an Outhouse is a place where people go to dump crap and this is certainly the attitude adopted by this unprofessional company of people, the crap in question being unceremoniously but unequivocally dumped on their unhappy client. Rather than admit to a horrible mistake that caused a couple to be denied their dream honeymoon, they now definitely Seek to hide behind a single clause in their terms and conditions that both contradicts another clause in the same conditions as well as their portrayal of Seekers as a one-stop, turnkey travel operator offering one butt to kick. Well, I choose now to kick that butt.

I thus must broadcast to the world the nature of this company and warn others against the same despicable treatment of customers while I pursue this matter through my attorneys.
Seekers sucks – big time!

PS: read this for a laugh from Seekers’ website http://www.seekers.co.za/ReadContent1.aspx
(Emphases courtesy of me)

About Seekers Travel
Seekers Travel has been in operation since 1989 and was acquired by the JSE-listed group, Tourism Investment Corporation (Tourvest) in 1999. The acquisition of Seekers consolidated Tourvest's position as South Africa's leading tourism group with top buying power, product and technology development and systems skills.
The Seekers expansion philosophy "growing big by staying small" sets the company apart from other operators in the travel industry. Growing big, as part of the Tourvest Group, enhances economies of scale. Staying small with decentralised accountability allows personalised customer service.
Seekers Travel has decentralised the organisation into specialised business units with independent decision-making power(1). The implications of this are that each unit within the company is empowered to take ownership of their service levels as well as resolution(2). Seekers believes that this adds great value to the relationship between Seekers and the client(3), using the standardised processes and procedures that have been implemented throughout the national network.
Seekers Travel is a radical leader in travel and is constantly striving to achieve customer satisfaction in all interactions with clients(4). Seekers has always been at the forefront of development in the travel industry and the expertise has been recognised by numerous industry awards.
Seekers is dedicated to growth without losing sight of service excellence(5). The company is committed to maintaining a professional approach(6) in an otherwise laissez-faire market. People are Seekers’ greatest resource and the company is pledged to the personal and professional development of their staff(7).

1. This doesn’t seem to be the case as the matter in point was referred up the line 4 times to attain any degree of “independent decision-making” i.e. Robyn Barrett to Mary-Ann Goddard to William Fourie to Gavin Stevens to Conrad G Mortimer

2. This is also laughable as no “ownership” has been taken for any of the ineptitude on their part thus far let alone resolution in any satisfactory manner other than to their own egos and arrogance

3. Sorry, can’t agree here either – they have added no value to their relationship with me, quite the reverse – they have undermined any value that may initially have been apparent. However, I ended up assuming an admin role on their behalf due to their inability to deliver as promised. I must thus conclude that I inadvertently added value to them…

4. Another hollow claim akin to the previous one. There has been no “striving” to satisfy this customer – only to polarise him as is evidenced by this sordid account of our honeymoon tour package.

5. Seekers hasn’t got a clue what “service excellence” is – certainly not in this case in any event

6. Their approach has been anything but professional and their follow-up dismally lacking until prompted by me

7. This is quite possible, however, the ethos instilled does not comply with this hype-laden “mission statement”

IT WASN'T A TRY - LIVE WITH IT!

2007-11-12T22:04:00.000+02:00

FOR ALL THOSE ENGLISHMEN AND ANTI-SPRINGBOK TOSSERS - PLEASE HAVE A CAREFUL LOOK AT THE PICTURE BELOW AND FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE - OR YOUR PIECE FOR THAT MATTER - WHATEVER! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP & MOVE ON...

BOKKE RULE! (for the next 4 years at least....)

PURE RUGBY - update

2007-10-19T15:52:00.000+02:00

(This post was updated on 24th October - the final limerick verse was added. I didn't want to jinx the boys by posting it prior to our win - which was never in doubt - see the latest post - NICE TRY BUT IT WASN'T ONE!)

I was blown away, but not surprised, by our march through to the Rugby World Cup final on 20th October against England.
I truly believe that Argentina is a far better side than the performance against the Boks in the semi-final would have us believe. Had they engaged us like they did France in the opening game where they believed they could take us on in every facet of the game, the match might have played out differently. Don't get me wrong - I still believe the Boks would have prevailed but the Pumas' professional approach all through the tournament seemed to disintegrate in the semi-final almost as if they had resigned themselves to losing their line-out ball and hoping to keep us pinned back with tactical kicking. Had their kicking been on-song, we might have paid a heavy price for our own inept punting display but the touch-finders that did actually make it to the line, more often than not, were comfortably won by the Springboks on our own and the Pumas' throw.
We will need to step up a gear for the final clash and I have no doubt the Boks are more aware of that demand than anyone else on the planet right now.
The Springbok team psychologist (name escapes me right now) was featured on 702 during this week chatting to David O'Sullivan and he intimated that the players couldn't help but feeling isolated right now and starved of their home support and understandably so. Leaping into action immediately, an sms and email line were set up to receive the wellwishing of 702-landers, these to be forwarded and displayed at the Bok quarters in France. David O'Sullivan admitted to being staggered by the volume of the response and further amazed by the fact that there was not a single dissenting voice among the correspondence - a significant yardstick for the present sentiment in the country marred only by yet another victim of violent crime - the high-profile and well-loved reggae star, Lucky Dube who was tragically and horrifically gunned down in front of his young children in a suspected botched high-jacking in the south of Johannesburg on Thursday (last) night.
John Robbie, 702's morning show host, raised the question of whether listeners thought the Boks should wear black armbands as a mark of respect for the fallen musician and I, for one, believe that the gesture should be embraced - not just for Lucky Dube alone but for all victims of violent crime in our country and this sentiment should be stressed and broadcast to the populace especially the attending President Mbeki en-route to Paris to cheer the Boks on.
That said, I felt compelled to add my own literary contribution to the Springboks wellwishers' list and this little offering takes the inevitable form of a limerick as below:

AN ODE TO THE SPRINGBOKS

Up front CJ, Os and John Smit
Will be pumped from the very first hit
Every” “Touch, pause, engage!”
Will inspire them with rage
And the English front row will submit

With the Blou Bulle second row pair
It’s a combo that’s beyond compare
Yeah Botha and Matfield
From the Bull Ring in Hatfield
Are the kings of the ball in the air

Then there’s Burger and Smith and Rossouw
Our fetching and fighting back row
In the rucks and the mauls
These boys have the balls
Ensuring the next phase will flow

With a midfield of Butch, Jacque and Steyn
We’ll inflict on the Pommies much pain
With our whiplike attack
Jonny Wilko will crack
And his kicking will go down the drain

Then there’s Fourie du Preez as our scrummie
Who can kick, dart or sell one a dummy
He’s the world’s number one
At the base of the scrum
Or crossing the line on his tummy

Our left wing is someone called Bryan
Whose forte is low-level flying
His side step and ducking
Leaves opponents just kakking
And that’s when he’s not even trying

And to counter the intercept king
There’s JP on the opposite wing
He is young and inspired
And he never gets tired
Gives our backline its scorpion sting

And Monty our veteran fullback
With his highlights he cops all the flak
But his highlight for me
Is his consistency
And his calmness when under attack

Not forgetting our boys on the side
Still a wave in our green and gold tide
And the awesome Jake White
With his flair and insight
Win or lose - fills our nation with pride!

Now the battle is over and done
The English have turned tail and run
John Smit and his team
Have brought home a dream
Yes our brilliant young Springboks have won!

GO BOKKE – YOU’VE ALREADY MADE US PROUD – AND YOU'VE MADE HISTORY!

ADVERTISING? ARE YOU KIDDING ME...

2007-10-14T09:31:00.000+02:00

MISSING THE POINT....

(I emailed this to Jenny Crwys-Williams and Andy Rice of 702 Talk Radio. Jenny runs an ad feature on her show every Thursday with Andy as a guest expert. That he is and more with a subtle wit to accompany his articulate, informative demeanour.)

Now is it just me or has there been a plethora of irritation expressed over the ads I’m about to highlight?
I refer firstly to the strange practice of advertising agencies allowing themselves to be browbeaten into the hideously bad idea of presenting a real live customer as a voice-over artist through a radio media campaign. I mean, I can’t imagine for a second that the agency would have advised the client of such folly. Would they? Surely not? Tell me it isn’t so…

I recall the MD of Sembel-It having a go at this in the dim and distant past, his wooden monotonous delivery about as inspiring, exciting and convincing as an inebriated beggar at a traffic light.
But the ultimate cringe has to be the Hirsch adverts starring none other than the irrepressible (yet nauseatingly irritating) Lucy Hirsch herself. At first pass I was amused – greatly amused – as I thought it to be a lampoon of some sort but as time wore on I realised that this was the real deal, almost as tragic as those hapless figures on SA Idols who can’t carry a tune for toffee yet are convinced, not only of their vocal prowess, but believe they really and truly deserve to be the biggest thing in pop since Robbie Williams gave his erstwhile boy band the finger all those aeons ago…
I have reached the stage where the opening: “Hah – ahm Loo see Hersch…” causes an involuntary muscle reaction within my left arm, spasming it whip-like to the OFF button on my car radio. I have no control over this – it just happens. About thirty seconds pass and then it does it again – this time targeting the ON button. And the demon is gone. The sweating subsides into a mild panic and I can drive to the jocular John Robbie or the redoubtable Redi Direko or the charismatic Chris Gibbons or the jolly Jenny Crwys-Williams or the drive-time David O’Sullivan – after that I’m usually home. Anything, please anything other than Loo-see Hersch!
Why do they do it Andy, why? I would rather eat worms than listen to the nasal whine of that woman let alone directing my car to any of their one-two-three stores to buy so much as a pack of AAA batteries. It simply doesn’t work. Or does it? Is there a rabid following of aurally-impaired Hirschophiles out there that hang on her every badly-pronounced word? Or are there droves of people like me who cringe every time she opens her mouth? I mean a Facebook group dedicated to her irritation: Get off the radio Lucy Hirsch: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2418711473 Doesn’t that kinda sum up the dismal failure of this campaign or are the ad execs disarmingly convincing the Hirsch family that even bad media is good exposure?

Secondly there is the bizarre perception fostered by agencies that ordinary people talk like physicians when they meet casually in supermarkets, just breathless to pounce upon the first opportunity to discuss constipation or other digestive ailments in the frankest of terms. Where do these fools live?
When have you or anyone else on the planet small-talked about the pharmacological action of a medication? Never happened. Never will.
They have one on air currently about a certain laxative. Picture this: a Saturday morning. Jenny and Andy casually bump into one another in the aisle of their local Spar (Good for you? Good for them!).

Reality is:
Jenny: Hi, Andy, what’s up?
Andy: (if he’s comfortable about sharing his digestive dilemmas in the first place) Hi, Jen – nothing much. Just feeling a bit bloated – y’know – constipated…very uncomfortable.
Jenny: You poor dear. Oh, I use this stuff (insert trade name here) and it’s great. It really works.
Andy: What was that name again?
Jenny: (Repeats trade name)
Andy: Thanks, I’ll try it.
End of discussion. It either works or it doesn’t.

Not:
Jenny: Hi, Andy, what’s up?
Andy: (we’ve already established that it doesn’t offend his or Jenny’s sensibilities talking about his poo-problems publicly) Hi, Jen – nothing much. Just feeling a bit bloated – y’know – constipated…very uncomfortable.
Jenny: You poor dear. Oh, you should really try (launching into a pharmacist-type authoritarian tone) (insert trade name here) it acts by its osmotic properties thus increasing stimulation of fluid secretion, thereby promoting bowel movement while simultaneously stimulating the accumulation of water and electrolytes in the colon and thus increasing intestinal motility.
Andy: Wow! that sounds like just what I need?
Jenny: (Repeats trade name) – it really works
Andy: Thanks, I’m going to rush over to the pharmacy immediately and ingest heaps of this amazing stuff!

If anyone’s friends (who weren’t pharmacists getting Drug company kickbacks) had to talk to them in this manner, they would turn tail and flee, considering the possibility of having their pal committed for losing all touch with reality.
If they’re going to advertise drugs in technical manner then surely they must attempt to deliver the message through the agency of an authority figure such as a (suitably cast) doctor or a pharmacist and avoid at all costs the insulting, annoying dynamic of unrealistic situation dialogue which serves only to alienate the market they seek to access?
The third one is for a pile (haemorrhoid) treatment which devolves so deeply into the realm of ridiculousness that it can only be amusing – ask Redi Direko – she knows this stuff really works. She heard the ad, lapsed into paroxysms of mirth to such a degree that I’m sure she must have been in danger of having a mishap.
The ultimate ad would thus have to be: Lucy Hirsch and the MD of Sembel-It meeting in a public place and discussing their combined haemorrhoidal and defecatory restrictedness in a frank, whining, pharmacological exchange.
I just can’t wait.

GEORGE GREGAN ARRESTED IN PARIS

2007-09-10T20:45:00.000+02:00

GEORGE GREGAN ARRESTED IN PARIS!

The arrest of pivotal Australian scrumhalf, George Gregan, in Paris yesterday, deals a serious blow to the Wallabies’ World Cup campaign.
The feisty ex-Zambian, who is known for speaking his mind when on the field, met his match in the shape of a phalanx of no-nonsense Gendarmes who removed the veteran scrumhalf from a Parisienne restaurant after it was alleged Gregan became violent and disruptive in the world-renowned night spot.
A group of Wallabies players were dining at the upmarket Fellini Restaurant in the Les Halles district of the city when Gregan was alleged to have questioned the Maitre-D’s knowledge of the food being served.
An argument ensued wherein Gregan was alleged to have become belligerent with both the Maitre-D and the restaurant Manager, Pierre Du Bois, Gregan refusing to accept that the lamb he’d ordered had been properly treated.
M. Du Bois was visibly upset by Gregan’s behaviour and insisted that the Lamb Cacciatore was prepared traditionally: he went on to explain how the world-class chefs at Fellini took garlic powder, onion powder, kosher salt, and black pepper and sifted them into a small bowl. They then proceeded to sprinkle this mixture over the lamb and tossed it to coat the meat. Thereafter a large, heavy, deep skillet was heated over medium-high heat until very hot. Olive oil was added and swirled to coat the pan. The lamb was browned in batches, taking care not to crowd the pan. Once removed, the browned lamb was added to a separate bowl and red wine was then added to the hot pan, cooked for 3 minutes, scraping all the browned bits from the bottom. Tomato sauce was blended with the red wine in the pan, swirling to combine, whereafter the browned lamb was returned to the skillet. Sweet peppers, bell peppers, mushrooms, rosemary, and garlic were added and gently tossed to combine with the sauce. The mixture was brought to a gentle boil, covered, and heat reduced to lowest setting. The cacciatore was allowed to simmer for about 1 hour, being stirried every 15 minutes, until the lamb was fork tender. Additional kosher salt and pepper was added as needed. Crucially, Du Bois noted - the rosemary sprigs were to be removed before serving the lamb cacciatore over linguini or other large pasta. “This is how Mr Gregan’s lamb was prepared – not ‘rooted to death by a queer Froggie cook in fishnets and g-string with a feather up his arse’ as Mr Gregan claimed,” said the distraught restaurant manager.
Bail was denied by the local authorities when it became clear that Gregan’s violent behaviour in the restaurant wasn’t going to abate in a hurry, thus numerous Gendarmes arrived to quell the riot. Gregan continued to shout, scream and hurl abuse at the French policemen on the trip to the holding cells.
The case will be heard tomorrow at 10 am. The Wallabies’ legal counsel are confident that “the ropey frog bastards will come to their senses…” but declined to comment further. John Connolly was tight-lipped noting that young lamb was made to be discreetly shagged not broiled and pickled in red wine with rabbit nosh. He was hopeful that his vice-captain would be released for the Wallabies clash against Wales on Saturday, adding that “George was always a bit hot-headed especially after a skinful of grog but what they did to that poor lamb was enough to annoy any red-blooded Aussie bloke.”
Gregan has declined to comment.

An Invading Demon Story

2007-09-08T16:49:00.001+02:00

An Invading Demon Story
by Paul Murray

A long time ago in a galaxy not so very far from this one there was a beautiful blue planet.
This planet, Homaz, had several continents which abounded with animal and plant life as well as a variety of clanspeople who lived in small villages all over this world.
Homaz had been created from the celestial wars of gods many millennia before this tale and now two opposing gods claimed sovereignty over the planet.
One god, the dark lord, Gavak held no love for the Noran plainspeople of the Dark Continent, Mavial. He looked upon them as a blight upon the face of the planet he had helped create. He wished only that they be eradicated and their lands possessed by the race of beings he himself had seeded – the warlike Bozars.
Gavak’s brother, Luciel, the progenitor of the Noran race, however, protected his loved ones and answered their prayers whenever they called. They were good, industrious people who lived harmoniously in the kingdom he had bequeathed them.
The Bozars on the other hand swept through foreign continents like a plague of locusts, claiming occupied territories for themselves and dividing the land among their warlords to rule over the local inhabitants with cruel intent.
They forced the laws of Gavak upon them and kept the vanquished in servility – sacrificing them as the whim took them.
These events caused enormous enmity between the brother gods, Gavak and Luciel who were locked in an eternal struggle for supremacy. Luciel wished peace and harmony for all on Homaz whereas Gavak wished only the dominion of the Bozars over all others. They sought to conquer all – land, sea and man – no matter the cost.
From time to time, upon petition from the inhabitants of Homaz, either Gavak or Luciel would send emissaries to answer the prayers of their followers.
Sometimes, however, one of the gods would send a chosen one, a walking spirit, just to find out how the people of Homaz were doing.
This story is about one of those times.

Luciel had sent a walking spirit, to Homaz. He simply appeared one night in a small Noran village. No one in the village could understand how the stockade perimeter had been breached and the stranger offered no explanation.
He was seen by a small boy who ran, shrieking to one of the village elders.
“I have seen a demon! I have seen a demon!” the small lad yelled in terror.
Sapien, the chief, heard the commotion and stormed out of his hut to investigate the clamour.
A crowd of people surrounded the strange visitor. They parted in unison as their revered chief moved forward.
The “demon” was unlike anyone they had ever seen before. He sat on the dry dust floor of the village, unmoving. Unlike their own, the stranger’s skin was pale, almost translucent and he had long, flowing white hair that cascaded over his shoulders like a waterfall.
Sapien touched his own crinkly mass of curls in an abstract manner. The stranger did likewise. Their eyes met – the coal black orbs of the Noran chief and the pale blue marbles of the visitor.
Sapien barked out an order to the gathered tribe. The word was quickly passed along until the spiritual elder was informed.
“We have a stranger in our midst. Come quickly.”
Mistre, the spiritual elder, shuffled from his hut as fast as his gnarled body would allow. Standing at his chief’s side, supported on the ceremonial staff of Luciel, he gazed in wonder at the pale stranger.
“Where did he come from?” Mistre said to no-one in particular.
“This boy saw him first,” said one of the villagers, pushing forward the wide-eyed youth who had sounded the panic.
Mistre touched the boy lightly on the head.
“Where did this man come from, lad?” he said.
“He fall from the sky,” gushed the boy. “He just falled from the sky…”
The stranger watched the interchange with interest and smiled.
“Who are you, stranger?” Mistre directed at him. His voice was forceful yet unaggressive.
“I have no name,” the stranger softly replied. The crowd took a pace backwards. That someone so strange should know their tongue was indeed unfathomable.
Sapien turned to his mage and spoke under his breath. “Do you think he is a demon? Do you think he means us any harm?”
“I do not know, lord chief but I shall conduct the invocation at once for the protection of the tribe,” Mistre replied.
Sapien nodded and the old man shuffled away to perform his duty.
The chief then turned to the stranger and beckoned him to rise and follow him.
The pale visitor rose, as if being lifted by a cushion of air, and followed the dark-skinned nobleman.
That was the way of things in those times. The Noran people were hesitant to strike out at that which was unknown to them until they had a better understanding of things. If it was a threat it would be dealt with most severely but in the meantime, the mage would invoke the spirits of the ancestors and long-sleeping warriors would be awakened to take their place in the tribe once more. If the visitor proved threatening, the warriors would despatch him at once.

It proved not to be so. Although the stranger could not explain his origins to the elders, he posed no threat. In fact, he was a fount of information. He told tales of lands beyond the seas that Noran people had only imagined in fable.
In a very short time, the stranger, who became known as Viram, had become part of the tribe. He had no home, had no memory of one and knew the tongue and the ways of the Noran as if he had been there all his life. In a sense that is exactly how it was for he was born at the moment Luciel placed him there in the village with the memories and faculties the god deemed he should require.
Viram integrated into the tribal culture and, in time, was given his own hut. He was, strangely, asexual and stranger still - had no need of food or water. He made no demands of anyone. He was just there.
But the ancestral warriors remained – just in case.
Village life went on as usual.
Then one day, not too long after Viram’s arrival, he simply disappeared.
Although there was talk about these mighty strange occurrences, the tribe went about their business just the same.
All that remained of the pale visitor’s presence was a vacant hut with a neat straw bed in it.
Very soon after Viram’s disappearance, another stranger arrived. This time though – he arrived from the south armour-clad, riding a snorting war-horse and brandishing a wicked blue titanium sword.
This stranger was also unlike anything the Noran had seen before. He was even darker than they, with flashing red eyes and the stature of a giant.
He was, indeed, a demon – an emissary of Gavak and a purveyor of destruction.
The Noran did not know this and thus greeted him at the stockade gate as they would any stranger to their village.
Sapien stood on the ramparts of the stockade and called down to him.
“Hello, stranger. What business brings you to these parts?”
“Oh, Noran chieftain,” the stranger boomed in reply, “I hear tell that you have been invaded by a demon. Another resides in your neighbouring village of Parduk making mischief and sowing discontent…”
Sapien’s ears pricked at his words. He had had no word of trouble at Parduk.
“A demon you say. We have no demon here, stranger unless you account for yourself in such a manner…”
The horseman laughed uproariously, spinning on his bucking steed as he did so.
“Who are those fine souls who stand alongside you, oh noble chief?” the stranger asked, pointing to the ancestral warriors with a flourish.
In truth, at the approach of the stranger, Mistre had invoked more warriors to be on hand in the event of any trouble.
Sapien bowed towards the stranger. “These are our ancestral protectors, sir. Warriors like yourself.”
“And what need do peace-loving herdsmen have of ancestral warriors?”
Sapien considered his response carefully. How had the stranger known of the other visitor? It was clear too he seemed to know the ways of the Noran just as Viram had.
Cautiously he replied: “We had a visitor here, yes. But he was no demon. It is the custom of our people to invoke the protection of our ancestors when all foreigners arrive unannounced…”
“Such as myself, good chief?”
“Such as yourself, good sir.”
“I have no quarrel with the Noran, chief. I wish only to help. Allow me into your stockade and I will present my bona-fides. I bring only protection with the might of my sword against the demons who threaten your villages.”
Sapien bade the stranger wait and convened a hurried conference with the village elders.
The counsel was divided. Six voted against allowing the stranger entry. Six voted the other way, arguing that he may have vital information about Viram and his agenda. It came down to Sapien’s casting vote.
He was suspicious of the dark warrior but not afraid. The warriors of his ancestors and Luciel’s grace had kept them secure for generations. He had faith in that.
He voted that they allow the stranger entry. It was the hospitable thing to do. They were a hospitable, trusting people after all.
The gate was opened and the black hooves of the horse thundered across the drawbridge like a summer storm.
The village was prepared to welcome the stranger into their midst for food and refreshment – an offer which he took up with gusto, quaffing large mugs of grain beer and wolfing near raw meat from the spinning carcasses on the spit.
Once the hospitality had been courteously extended to a degree where Sapien felt he had discharged his rightful duty, he asked the dark stranger about demons.
“Tell us, stranger, of this demon in our midst.”
The giant wiped his dripping whiskers with a club-like fist and fixed the assembly of elders with a penetrating stare.
“Your customs call for warriors to be summoned when foreigners invade – not so? I see many warriors all around me, good people. Not all for me I’d wager.”
“Granted,” Sapien said with a wry smile. “It is our way.”
“You say your visiting demon has gone and yet your warriors remain. Why is that, sir?”“It is our way, sir. They are one with the tribe now…”
The stranger made a dismissive snort and rose to stand in front of the assembly. “I put it to you, Noran folk that this demon remains in your midst – insidious and intent on despair.”
“But look around you. He is not here. He is gone and he was no demon,” Sapien said.
“Invisible to you perhaps,” the giant roared. “But I can smell him. He is here. And some of the villagers know it too. They conceal the beast.”
Sapien stood up now, disturbed by the turn of events. To accuse his people of subterfuge was an outrageous insult.
“Sir,” he said. “I must ask you to leave our village. We shall provide you shelter for this evening but I must ask you to be on your way at sunrise.”
The dark warrior guffawed at this remark and smashed a huge fist down on the table.
“You don’t seem to understand do you? I have a duty to discharge and that has been prescribed by powers beyond your understanding, Noran folk.
“I am here to protect you and for this I must have your co-operation.”
Sapien, even at full height, could not rise enough to meet the stranger’s eyes.
“Who sent you?” he said.
“My bona-fides,” the stranger growled, exposing a medallion from the folds of his chainmail robes. It was the crest of Gavak.
The elders gasped in horror.
Mistre stepped forward.
“We have no need of that foul blasphemy!” he yelled.
“Oh you have need of help, my friend,” the giant replied. “You had better pray for it.” And so saying, he drew his sword and struck in a single fluid movement. Sapien’s head lifted from his shoulders with the savagery of the blow, the chieftain’s body collapsing horribly into the salvers of meat before sliding onto the bench and the dusty floor below.
Women screamed, the ancestral warriors leapt forward engaging the terrible demon in mortal combat. Swords flashed and sparked, limbs parted from their torsos and blood erupted in plumes within the banqueting hut. Never before had any one man acquitted himself with such ferocity and deftness of hand. The ancestral warriors buckled like mown wheat as he hewed his way through their ranks.
Mistre shuffled away from the carnage as fast as his old legs would carry him. He stumbled into his hut and busied himself with incantations for the sake of their very survival. The stranger had been right – there was a demon in their midst but he was neither Viram nor invisible.
The old man struggled to keep his mouth moist as he mumbled the ancient invocations. It was to no avail. As quickly as the royal guard appeared, the demonic giant cut a swathe through them like a barque through a swell.
The ancestral warriors were lost to them. As realisation dawned, Mistre opened his eyes to face the horror at his door. The dark stranger filled the doorway, his eyes wild, his mouth curled into a snarl. The blood of warriors and innocents alike dripped from every part of his body. It ran in rivulets down his arms and gathered in pools on the floor of the mage’s hut. It was over.
Gavak’s charge growled as he approached the old man, now bowed in submission. He raised the sword, two-handed, over his head and slashed down with such force that Mistre was cleaved clean in two. Now there was no more chance of ancestral warriors being summoned to assist.
In a matter of hours, the tribe was cut to half its original number.
Within days, Taztak (for that was the demon’s name), had reduced the village to a dysfunctional gathering of automatons. They did his every bidding but were systematically despatched if it didn’t please him. His appetite for destruction was insatiable. It was his very purpose.
The stockade walls too had been breached. In the night, the opportunistic scavengers dragged helpless babes from huts, mothers wailing into the night after the sounds of cackling hyenas.
Taztak fed on despair and fear. It was what sustained him. The problem was there was no end to the overwhelming bloodlust. It consumed him.
Very soon all the men had been slaughtered. He feasted on their remains and tossed the offal to the circling vultures. Next went the boys until all that remained of the Noran community were the weakest – the women and children.
In less than a week they also met the fate of their loved ones, the last girl child skewered like a bug on a thorn.
The village was no more.
Taztak lit a firebrand and torched the huts as he saddled his war-horse. He had cured the village of its demon all right. He had done as bidden.
As the village blazed behind him, he realised that he had only just begun.
There were many villages ahead of him and they all imagined they had a demon somewhere. When he had coerced them into allowing him in under the pretext of aiding them, they would soon find out who the real demon was.

Within a few days, he crested the hills of Rolak to gaze down on the village of Parduk. Smoke wafted from cooking fires and the general air about the place was one of welcoming innocence.
He knew that Luciel had sent a spirit-walker to this village too. It was ripe for the plucking. Now just to turn the recent stranger into incumbent demon…
The ritual was the same. He spun on the snorting horse while the chieftain hailed him from the ramparts asking him his business.
“I bring you sad news from the village of Rashuk, noble chief,” the demon called.
“How so, stranger? What news of Rashuk?”
“A demon has destroyed that beautiful village I quiver to inform you.”
“A demon?”
“A demon, good chief. A demon such as the one who until recently has been residing in your village with your very own blessing.”
“What are you talking about, man?” the chief asked.
“Don’t tell me that all those ancestral warriors were summoned just for little old me – an emissary of the sacred word and all that is worthy in the name of Luciel.”
The villagers bowed their heads at the mention of their god’s name.
“The last stranger was no demon,” the chief said.
“Then why the protection?”
“It is our custom.”
“Ah yes, your custom. But if there is no threat then what need of warriors?”
“I told you, stranger. It is our custom. They are one with the tribe once summoned. Only a new threat may despatch these warriors. It is neither within my power nor my desire to do such a thing.”
Taztak was becoming agitated at the old man’s resilience.
“I am bound by my calling to offer protection to the plains people of Mavial – protection from the invisible demons that pervade your villages and lands.”
“We have no demon, sir. I thank you but we must decline.”
Taztak snarled, his horse rearing at the sound.
“Can you explain to me where that stranger came from then chief? Or why he was here? Or why he disappeared? Your own actions speak of a threat. Your warriors verify it.”
“We shall deal with our own problems thank you. Good luck with your crusade, sir and goodbye.”
Taztak howled his displeasure, rage rising in him like magma in a crater.
“You fools!” he shrieked. “You worthless fools! You shall pay for this. You shall pay with your lives!”
“I think not, sir,” the chief replied and turned on his heel from the conversation. It was over.
Taztak was powerless. There was no uncertainty or fear here upon which to feed. He could not fuel his lust for destruction. He would perish were he to try.
And so the tiny village of Parduk thrived, its ancestral warriors on hand to deal with any opportunistic or passing threat. The pale stranger’s hut remained empty, as if in anticipation of his return one day. But he never returned.
When the stockade walls crumbled or got damaged the villagers mended them. When marauding tribes laid siege to their village, the spiritual elder summoned ancestral warriors aplenty, many of whom were sacrificed in their defensive endeavour.
But the evil Taztak never returned with his duplicitous treachery.
The Noran had learned from the sacrifice of Rashuk. It is not certain how they found out but you can be sure that a spirit-walker had something to do with it.
This was the way of things back then.
And to tell you the truth – not much has changed at all.

SOUTH AFRICAN IDOLS/IDLES...

2007-09-05T23:14:00.000+02:00

SA IDOLS

Ben Elton recently parodied the whole Pop Idols phenomenon in his caustic, satirical, very funny book, CHART THROB and to be frank - I'm not surprised..
With Elton there is no escape: the character traits of the judges are all there in glorious Yechnocolour even if they are agglomerated morphs of the real individuals. Did I say real?
And that's the whole point of the book. There is no real thing.
The whole screaming match, as in SA Idols, is a bogus, contrived, ersatz, manipulated stage show that bears little resemblance to reality through meticulously staged and edited footage interspersed with Colin Moss voice-overs to help elevate the drama.
The simple mathematics relative to (even the SA version of) the event would place the judging panel in audition-service for years if they were to listen to every single applicant on the list, then ponder still further over their fate.
It simply cannot happen that way but that's certainly the way it's sold. After all, as Elton says: "It's great telly!"
Then one wonders at the theatrics of the judging panel themselves and the gossamer nature of the egos involved, ironically combined with rhino-hide attitudes when Gareth or Randall think they are being upstaged by a godawful singer or someone with enough chutzpah to bite back just a little.
What would really make great telly is a disgruntled contestant/victim striding up to Randall and planting a Mitchell's Plain knuckle sandwich in his condescending, overbearing gob. This who-knows-where-he came-from (or even gives a toss) working-man's clone of Simon Cowell, without any of the conceptual talent of the original, is about as entertaining as toothache on a Friday night. Attempting the sardonic vitriole is all very well but not when it comes out as petulant wank as it most certainly does in Randall's case.
Additionally: what, for example, is Cliff's claim to fame other than being an excruciatingly boring radio jock with a very tired style of delivery exacerbated by a nasal whine? His presence and behaviour on Idols is as predictable as teenage morning erections. Any spunky young gal with even half a voice engenders in him instant saccharin sentimentality and gravitas as he expounds lyrical on her potential stardom if her motives and passion are true. Which is rich coming from him when you can literally see the lecherous twinkle in his eyes as they rove over fresh, ripe young flesh.

He is almost as creepy as that wild-eyed Vodacom meerkat thing. Almost.
And Mara, God bless her. She lights up like a US incursion into nighttime Baghdad when a young black person, with a hint of something (or other - usually beyond my own powers of discernment), steps up to be evaluated. Lapsing into Kwaito vernacular, she praises up the Luther Vandross/Whitney Houston wannabees with words of wisdom and encouragement that only she understands. Conversely,with the same dismissive gestures often adopted by naughty little Randy, she scythes down stuttering aspirants like a shiny black combined harvester. And it may be my imagination but she seems a tad racially biased in her assessment of what's hot and what's not. Although being married to a whitey once upon a time, maybe she's just overcompensating. Who knows? At least she can sing. And if the judging panel outtakes are anything to go by - she's the only one.
And that brings us to Dave.
The only member of the panel who isn't trying to impress us with the proclaimed knowledge and wisdom of his compatriots. Dave is just - well, Dave. And that's truly refreshing.
I can watch and listen to Dave for a while, much more than I can stomach the others. But I can only take so much of the whole grisly package - the amplification of personal pain for tv gain, the dashing of dreams, the freak-show circus as the desperate hopefuls expose their souls only to have them shattered by the barbs and insults fired at them from the safety of the judges' desk.
Though many of the assessments may be true, I sincerely hope the failure of people in this comic cattle show only serves to fortify their resolve to make something of their lives (even if it isn't crooning in front of thousands of bubble-headed adolescents).
To have the balls to do what these victims do on public tv earns them my unswerving admiration.
God bless (in Elton’s words) “the singers, mingers, blingers and clingers”. They have something that most of us don't – courage (no matter how misguided in some instances).
To have tried and (supposedly) failed in the view of Randy, Gareth and crew makes them much bigger people than the self aggrandising tossers who sit in judgement of them.

THE HO-RATIO

2007-08-31T08:03:00.000+02:00

CSI My and Me, Me, Me, Me, Me – the HO-Ratio

I Googled: “I hate Horatio Cane” and got 34,800 results.
This didn’t surprise me, I have to admit.
God, Chuck Norris and Horatio Caine (Cane?) are all in the same league – only I don’t really hate God – I’ve never met Him yet – well not in a form that I can consciously recall. Besides, God is usually too busy supporting Blue Bulls rugby to waste His time with saps like me…
And believe me – I’ve given Horatio a full go. With the fantastic advent of PVR’s in this decade, I’ve taken to selectively recording the programmes that I really want to watch. And was CSI on that list? Yeah, I guess it kinda was for a while.
Grissom, y’see, had launched the CSI ship and his crew were an accessible and likeable bunch to my mind. I could even put up with Gary Sinise’s wooden style in the New York version of the show but when confronted with Horatio and his blonde sidekick with the Canadian accent (? – y’know words like home, road, boat etc. just don’t come out right) – I found myself cringing more than I had ever done through any single episode of The Office. Difference being, The Office styled itself on its cringe factor and made compelling watching - a testament to the genius of Ricky Gervais. But CSI Miami was taking itself seriously and the Ho-Ratio was something I’d never experienced before.
What’s up with that hands-on-the-hips-head-cocked-to-one-side-sunglassy-whisper he’s got going? I mean, Chuck Norris wishes he was Horatio Caine. Ho just assumes the position and delivers the whisper in his all-seeing, all-knowing, harbinger of criminal doom style that involves so much less exertion than a screech-accompanied roundhouse kick up the side of the head.
It’s a wonder the casting director didn’t spurn Morgan Freeman in the God role for Bruce Almighty. If he’d just watched one episode of CSI Miami, he’d have known right there and then the Almighty Incarnate was on the Florida set in the personage of one David Caruso and He fancied Himself as an actor.
The problem is, of course, that God can’t act worth toffee and should really stick to sorting out Universal catastrophes like GW Bush, global warming and Reality TV – stuff He’s qualified to deal with.
I mean He created all of that stuff (although I think GW and probably most politicians are the handiwork of Lucifer, who on second thought was God’s creation anyway so I guess He still has to assume responsibility for it all…)
It would probably explain why the whole planetary shooting match is going to hell if God/David spends so much time on the set of CSI Miami perfecting that terminally annoying fucking acting style(?)
I thought it might just be me until I did the Google thing and found verbose invectives in abundance on the Internet – collective souls who really couldn’t get through an episode of this crud without deleting it from the PVR or pacing up and down outside, contemplating taking up serial-killing (starting with the cast of CSI Miami) or at the very least starting to chain-smoke rather than facing Ho-Ratio's raisin-rumpled visage on the small screen.
I have a theory on David’s sullen, sombre thespian methodology: if he had to crack a smile, I reckon his face would get so lost in the wrinkled, desiccated skin created by this new expression that he’d never be able to revert back to the omnipotent husky sneer without radical surgery or something.
Horatio’s fizhog is the antithesis of Botox expressionlessness and it’s only his fear of moving too many facial muscles around that prevents any meaningful nuances from emerging. Hence his monotonous, monosyllabic delivery, dripping condescension and nauseating screen presence - a combination that makes you wanna just up and trash the tv to be rid of it...
The turtleneck in Ho’s case is no sweater, of course, it’s his actual wrinkly, freckly neck poking out from the oversized shirt collars, themselves encased in dubiously styled suits that look like Sonny Crockett rejects from the 80’s…
Being of the ginger type hair colour myself (but thankfully no actor), I ponder over the correlation between this pigmentation (Caruso, Norris et-al) and the abysmal acting abilities that accompany it. Is it mere coincidence or is it some cosmic law that ginger-haired men are always going to be fucking atrociously annoying actors?
I don’t know.
But you can rest assured that I will never tempt fate in this regard. I, for one, don’t suffer from a God complex.
Now go and do something useful while I practice my tap-dancing routine on the swimming pool…in readiness for my next audition…

DUMBO DROP

2007-08-26T20:42:00.001+02:00

ORWELLIAN TRAGEDY - MANTO'S THEME

2007-08-25T14:24:00.000+02:00

Smileyskull speak with tongue in cheek...

ORWELLIAN TRAGEDY – MANTO’S THEME
(Sung to the tune of Bohemian Rhapsody)

Is it HIV?
Is it just fantasy?
Old Robert Gallo
Didn’t isolate me…

Open your eyes
It’s bullshit and lies
You’ll see

I’m just a concept
Making new history
It’s a gay disease
No it’s not
It’s been sold
And been bought
Any where the bucks go
That’s the truth of HIV……IV…

Pharma just killed a man
Filled him up with AZT
Made it seem like HIV
Pharma what have you done?
Now you’re using ancient toxic meds
Pharma ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh
Did you mean to make them die?
Can you just simply lead them to the slaughter?
Making bucks, making gains
As if nothing really matters?

Cocktails of therapy
Attack the marrow of my spine
Body’s wasting, so’s my mind
Liver and the blood cells go
And the mitochondria are being killed
Pharma, ooh, ooh, ooh,
You’re gonna make me die
I sometimes wish the HIV was real

I am a tiny little shadow of the man
Been reduced, been reduced – just like a scarecrow…
DDI, DDC, AZT are frightening me
Robert Gallo, Robert Gallo
Robert Gallo, Robert Gallo
Robert Gallo, Montagnier – conspirateur
They were the founders of the AIDS dynasty
Sharing the profits of this false prophecy
Based on a flawed test methodology
Malaria, even flu – it will make it glow
Pregnancy – it will make it glow
Hepatitis – it will make it glow
It will make it glow – make it glow
It will make it glow – make it glow
Glow, glow, glow, glow, glow, glow
Tuberculosis, leprosy, herpes as well will make it glow
And all the while it will never find the HIV, IV, IV, IV!

So you’ve stopped all the drugs just to give it a try
And you’re feeling much better like you ain’t gonna die!
Oh maybe…
There’s no HIV maybe…
Just gotta eat right
Just gotta eat right and live clean…

Everything in tatters
Treating HIV
Everything in tatters, when all I’ve got to believe in is me

Any where the bucks go….

COMPLAINT FROM DOWN UNDER - CRASH AND BYRNE

2007-08-25T09:27:00.000+02:00

Wicked Lou's Archive:

You can't get much more down under than a mine down under unless you were engaged in cunnilingus in a mine down under in which instance you would be going down underground down under...if you get my drift.

Here follows the digruntlement of one mine employee who vents his spleen at a well-known Japanese motor manufacturer whose name, when said in a funny accent (like that of the Australians [Strines]) NISSAN MAIN DEALER phonetically almost becomes NELSON MANDELA.

Is that pure coincidence, you reckon, or is there some form of phonetic conspiracy aimed at undermining (pardon the pun) our erstwhile president by cheaply associating his magnificence with this vehicle manufacturer whose service delivery (unlike Madiba's) can be highly questionable. If Mr Byrne's diatribe is anything to go by...that is.

And what reason would we have to question the integrity of our rugby-playing chinas from dahn unda?
______________________________________________
JARROD BYRNE
UNDERGROUND MAINTENANCE PLANNER
BOUNTY GOLD MINE, MT HOLLAND
FORRESTANIA, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
TEL (090) 394 527 FACSIMILE (090) 394 528

NISSAN MOTOR CO (AUSTRALIA) PTY. LTD

C/O 244 WELSHPOOL RD, WELSHPOOL

W.A. 6106

ATTENTION: MR NEVILLE GREEN, GENERAL MANAGER - NATIONAL PARTS

Dear Sir,

I would like to bring to your attention some serious faults in Nissan Motor Co. in regard to parts availability, lead times and pricing.

Currently at this mine we have a Nissan W40 civilian bus that we cannot use to transport staff to and from the mine. The reason this bus is not operational is not labour or condition related, it is because of a denial on the part of yourself and Nissan Motor Co. to adequately supply your clientele with parts. I give you the example of the following items:

ITEM PART NUMBER QUANTITY BEGGED FOR

Nut NI-01211-00221 10

Washer NI-40208-82100 10

Seal-oil NI-48252-32100 2

Wheel rim NI-40800-99071 2

Drum brake NI-40206-T8100 2

Hub bolt NI-40222-J5625 10

Brake shoes NI-43060-T9627 1

Nut NI-40224-J5610 10

Nut NI-48226-J5610 10

Of these I tried to purchase, only 3 are available in WA. It stretches the bounds of credulity that items such as wheel nuts (a consumable in most of the known world) are available with a lead time of 4 days Ex-East. What resoundingly snaps the bounds of credulity clean in half, is that items such as brake shoes are Ex-Japan (6 weeks).

I cannot deny the effectiveness of these components, they not only slow the bus down, they have the ability to stop it stone fucking dead for 6 weeks!

I didn't even bother enquiring availability on such complicated parts such as washers etc. - the only washers in stock would be-washer? Wind fuck out of this customer and tell him it's Ex-East. (Can't say I follow that last sentence but plunge on - Lou)

On the rare occasion we have been delivered parts within an acceptable time period, they have been entirely wrong. It is not that the wrong parts are ordered, it is that some of your parts interpreters are so green, I couldn't set them on fire with petrol.

These are not isolated incidents, they occur every time we try to purchase parts, from $10.00 hoses, at $104.94 each, through to internal gearbox components that are second only to thermonuclear warheads in their capacity to annihilate all that surrounds them.

It is astounding that in this day of interstate air and road transport at least 6 times per day, you peanuts take 4 days to get a part across the country.

May I suggest you stop freighting the parts with Nissan transport vehicles as the 3 week delay in Nissan's 24 hour roadside assist is becoming too much for us to bear.

I could elaborate further on the complete frustration I feel from trying to keep this bus on the road safely. Suffice to say, the bus driver now has a firm belief in the afterlife and we haven't ruled out danger money for the position.

Don't get me wrong, I could handle the first 35 instances of being fucked around, (the apologetic kiss from customer support was always welcome). Now that you've turned it into a bizarre form of sado-masochism complete with scratching and biting, I feel I have to complain......

I look forward to discussing every single frustrating event of the past 8 months with you.

I sincerely hope you cunts never build planes.

Yours in utter amazement,

Jarrod Byrne

CC:

Mr John Costello - Manager, Fleet and Special Markets, Nissan, Australia

Mr Bruce Anderson - Mine Manager, Normandy Mining

Mr Ian Bird - U/G Manager, Normandy Mining

Mr Dean Hughes - U/G Maintenance Engineer, Normandy Mining

Ms Jan Evans - Site Secretaray, Normandy Mining

Mr Robert Whiting - Purchasing Officer, Normandy Mining

Mr Andrew Moses - Owner, Holleton Earthmoving

Mr Peter Cue - Owner, Workforce Plant Hire

Mr Harvey King - Regional Manager, Monadelphous

Mr Alex Cooper - Divisional manager, Monadelphous

Mr Ray Miller - Tech. Support Supervisor, Monadelphous

Mr Rex Andrews - Chief Purchasing Officer, Monadelphous

Mr Eddy Lok - Mechanical Supervisor, Monadelphous

Mr John Eckhart - Fabrication Supervisor, Monadelphous

Mr Patrick McKenna - State Contracts Manager, Atlas Copco

Mr Ted Cordina - Perth Service Manager, Atlas Copco

Mr Gerry O'Connor - Contracts Supervisor, Atlas Copco

Mr Alec Tyrell - Contracts Supervisor, Atlas Copco

Mr Michael gant - Workshop Supervisor, Perth Atlas Copco

AND

EVERY PERSON I TALK TO BETWEEN NOW AND WHEN I GET SOME SATISFACTION

ILL HEALTH - A MONKEY IN SILK

2007-08-15T22:25:00.000+02:00

REPORTED IN THE SA MEDIA:
1. Two years ago the present health minister, Manto Tshabalala-Msimang was alleged to have made an utterance along the lines that she was “going to fix” the ex-deputy health minister, Nozizwe Madlala-Routledge.
2. Two years ago the present health minister was alleged to have bribed hospital staff to bring her alcohol while she was lying in a hospital bed awaiting a surgical procedure on her shoulder…mysteriously all her official hospital records of her spell in the facility have vanished without trace…
3. On the eve of Women’s Day 2007, President Mbeki axed the ex-deputy health-minister for conduct unbecoming her position – a debacle around an unauthorised plane trip.
Google any of the above, selecting “pages from South Africa” and you will see a pattern emerging from the “free” objective media of our rainbow nation.
Not once is there any room for the possibility that Mdlala-Routledge deserved to be fired. Not that I’m saying she did – the “facts” available are sketchy at best and have attracted more spin (from both sides of the debate) than Shane Warne could inflict on a wrong ‘un on his best day at the crease.
Nowhere in our insightful press is there any postulation that there may be some kind of smear campaign aimed at Tshabalala-Msimang, the minister that the media loves to hate. And perhaps there isn’t. Perhaps they’re just lazy journalists. It is the latter possibility that asserts itself as the most likely in my view.
Sure she offers up family-sized chunks of ammunition for a media that cannot see further than the end of its nose when she advocates silly things like nutrition in the fight against AIDS. God forbid, ailing people should try and eat right!
Our investigative journalistic sleuths are so cutting-edge that the best they can dredge up on Doctor Dolittle is two fucking years old! Man, they ought to be working for the government – not criticising it!
Faithfully blind (or fatally ignorant) is the media that skirts the issue of the ARV threat to our nation – yes threat. Even by their manufacturers’ own admission, these toxic chemicals bring on the conditions which they are supposed to be curing. But why on earth would a media fixate on such startlingly dangerous drugs which are being dumped on Africa by the million dollar load when they can slag off the dumpy little doctor who says garlic, lemon juice and beetroot are good things to ingest maybe…even…rather…than deadly poisons.
Nah, tosh and nonsense – how can anyone build a multi-billion dollar garlic and beetroot empire? The little doctor and her loopy employer must be smoking the mountain cabbage and buying into the ravings of ill-advised quacks!
But are they? Are they really?
As far as my research is concerned, Mbeki and the good doctor have listened to eminent scientists, leaders in their field, experts on virology and microbiology – oh sorry – they were up until the point where their research produced extremely unpopular (yet soundly scientific) conclusions. But the media wouldn’t know that now would it? Or if it does – it isn’t saying. And that is perhaps even scarier than a couple of genocidal politicians who just won’t buckle down.
A media that won’t tell the truth or at least offer its readers the entire story allowing us - the financiers of press freedom, the right to informed choice, is a very dangerous mechanism indeed. But who am I kidding? That scenario would only play out if democracy was real. And in a real democracy, people don’t starve to death in the streets or wander aimless and homeless without a penny in their pockets. Ergo – there doesn’t exist a real democracy anywhere on this everloving planet of ours.
This media automatically sides with anyone other than Mbeki or Tshabalala-Msimang in matters of governance or policy-making where the health ministry is concerned. It is so much easier than entertaining the unthinkable alternative possibilities involving detachment, objectivity and God forbid – a little cursory research, blended with a tablespoon of logic, a modicum of valour and just a pinch of integrity.

Resultant dish – hard-boiled ostracism and potential professional suicide for daring to swim against the flow of effluent from the mainstream journalism-by-rote brigade.
Does anyone, other than me, find this all a little unbalanced? Just a smidgeon one-sided? Just a trifle odd?
Anyone?
Let us place firmly on the record that the state of public health facilities – i.e. those deigned to serve the masses, those facilities we wouldn’t be seen dead in, (if you’ll pardon the poor metaphor) is abysmal to say the least. I am not defending Manto’s performance in her current post but the oft-time quoted comparison between this “bad” minister and the Teflon-coated Trevor Manuel is actually starting to piss me off big time.
For a start, the hype (well-deserved for the most part) of Mandela’s release, democratic elections, the dismantling of oppressive structures and the reintroduction of South Africa (the New) into the world economy and the desire to be part of its financial renaissance certainly created a platform for success bolstered by foreign investment, newfound stability and a clean slate for an upwardly mobile economy.
I take nothing away from Manuel’s performance – nothing short of brilliant (mostly) but to compare his portfolio to the challenges facing the health ministry is absolute folly. There are little or no comparisons.
The fact is: government policy and dexterous financial management still doesn’t ensure that surplus funds reach those in dire need. This when there is surplus state money (read: our tax Rands) available!
Yet there is far less chance of a correlation to be drawn between this reality and consequential loss of life when people actually starve to death through abject poverty than the potential correlation of it being a health-related issue.

Interpretational spin: Did this man die because there wasn’t enough nutrition in his system to sustain him or did he die because he couldn’t afford to feed himself?

The answer to the question is simply that both alternatives are correct. But looking at the two departments highlighted in the scenario, it’s far less likely that we’re gonna have a go at old Trevor’s successful department when the other option is headed up by Manto. It’s a no-brainer!
It’s much easier to think they’re dying because their health is fatally impaired – the health ministry is a sick department anyway isn’t it – it deserves the blame – it simply isn’t delivering.
The concept of a high-flying department, such as the finance ministry, turning out impressive figures year after year, isn’t synonymous with an ailing society – the ethos simply doesn’t gel. But that is exactly what the reality may be. A fatally flawed social structure obtains in the halcyon rainbow state and this jars the sensibilities of those who aren’t directly affected by it but who would love to imagine it should be different by now. People in this upcoming democracy cannot possibly be dying of poverty-related factors – that is unthinkable. Yet thousands of homeless, faceless individuals suffer the same fate in established civilisations like the United States of America and the United Kingdom.
And unlike the supporters clamouring for a stake in SA’s fledgling fiscal potential, there were and remain far fewer takers offering to fix the national primary health care infrastructure – far less glamour, far riskier investments and a much steeper, slippier mountain to climb.
I mean, there were millions of previously-disadvantaged (read: poor black) people queuing in their droves for their promised upliftment courtesy of the new democracy. People who had been marginalised under the previous regime didn’t usually make the newspapers. What chance had the invisible poor of the country then? What chance do they have now?
A better one than previously, I’d wager, unless we’re still not delivering a reasonable roof over their heads, potable drinking water, basic hygiene, and a sustainable standard of living.
And in many cases – those basics are not being delivered – a failure on the part of the greater aspirations of the ANC and certainly not the health ministry in isolation.
These were apartheid’s forgotten victims – not those brutalised by the Bureau of State Security in darkened rooms destined for even darker graves – but the ailing masses that the new government were about to inherit along with its congratulations, fanfares, bunting and copious foreign investments.
This was the ANC’s biggest challenge along with dilemma of educating millions more in a hopelessly inadequate schooling system.
These are the Achilles heels of any governments and the departments that the dim-witted media drones love to criticise because they are the ministries most likely to fuck up regardless of who’s at the helm. Newsworthy to say the least – the stories write themselves. Lazy journalism. Path of least resistance. You get the drift.
Enter and exit Nkosizama Zuma, enter Manto Tshabalala-Msimang – enter the media wolves.
Did anyone bother to highlight Mdlala-Routledge’s acknowledgement that she agreed with and was behind the health ministry’s, and indeed the Minister’s, present position on HIV AIDS? It was right there in her press statement along with the “she’s said she was gonna fix me” remarks.
Regardless of whether she was instrumental in getting the health department to that point is irrelevant. She quite clearly stated that she supported where the minister was at. Yet it got downplayed in favour of the other insinuations that would reflect poorly on Manto.
It’s all so tiresomely predictable.
The media cannot wait for Mbeki’s reign to conclude in order for them to sing the praises of some new vibrant health-minister who will most likely accede to the demands of the incoming administration and the weight of popular opinion.
Will it be so?
Or will Mbeki’s legacy offer up a more resilient successor?
I certainly hope so – even if it just to provide another whipping post for a pusillanimous, myopic media still anchored to the echoes of their predecessors – just mixing up the verbiage a little to give it a fresh, new appearance. As Rodriguez once said sublimely: “A monkey in silk is a monkey no less…”
If we have someone like Jacob Zuma to look forward to as our guiding light for the future, then perhaps we deserve all the crap that rains down upon us and perhaps we deserve to remain largely impoverished, while supporting American and European drug cartels who continue to use Africa as a dumping ground for their poisonous obsolescence.
If we can’t and don’t challenge the media on issues such as this until the full story is revealed timeously (not after the fact), then we truly do deserve the bilge our sycophantic media dredges up to us daily.
And if we choose to swallow this selective, expurgated garbage as an ongoing dietary staple, it is small wonder the health of our nation is so horribly impaired.

THE AIDS DEBATE

2007-08-11T10:51:00.000+02:00

Smileyskull speaks:

Coming into a controversial issue like the AIDS debate today, it’s hard to remain objective – very hard indeed.
While this is a subject I have followed for many years; (shortly after its global endorsement as a viral condition in 1984, in fact), I find myself trying more and more to step back from the personalisation of the issue and allow the information to speak for itself.
But what information you may ask? And therein lies the whole point to this debate.
I would ask the reader to suspend judgement of the fact that I have a leaning toward the so-called denialist* perspective of AIDS and to try, as I am doing right now, to remain objective – something the mainstream press seems vehemently reluctant to attempt no matter how much sensible information to which they have access.
But in order to understand how we got to the point where Manto Tshabalala Msimang and President Thabo Mbeki are regarded as having got the whole AIDS thing wrong, we need to understand the history of the phenomenon that has evolved from a potential syndrome to a renamed “disease” now called HIV-Aids.
This has always been an explosive and controversial subject and becomes more so the further we allow the status-quo to remain unchallenged or questioned in any way at all. To do so is to set oneself up for ostracism and ridicule which is why I’ve always been curious to find out why renowned, successful and decorated scientists and professionals would choose to do so. Why Mbeki allowed himself to be “duped” by the lies of these darkly motivated architects of genocide. It simply didn’t make any sense to me then – it makes no sense to me now.
The projected mainstream analysis of such people doesn’t hold water for anyone with the slightest degree of intelligence. How can highly regarded, brilliant people suddenly become fools, denialists and be hopelessly wrong just because their research took them in a certain direction to a specific, logical conclusion?
When that research and those conclusions fitted a particular mindset (the accepted one), it was held in high regard but when it contradicted what people had already been led to believe (regardless of the soundness of its scientific base), it suddenly and inexplicably became nonsense and was rejected out of hand. That would have been hard enough for any objective analyst to swallow if it had remained so, but it went way beyond that when the once-revered (and previously ethical?) scientists were suddenly turned upon and subjected to intimidation, character assassination, professional ridicule and financial hardship as a result of their singular unswerving integrity.
Here follows one of the most interesting and startling pieces on the subject that cuts to its heart.
I must point out to the reader that Liam Scheff is a journalist simply asking the questions and transcribing the answers, he is not writing an opinion. As with all debates surrounding this issue, I respectfully request the reader to digest the subject matter not the background of the transcriber which is irrelevant to the issue. The credentials of the interviewees can be thoroughly verified with the most basic of Internet searches and, in my view, such background research reveals them as experts in their chosen fields (or seemingly so until they reached unpopular conclusions).
Al Gore may have called this subject – An Unpopular Truth; perhaps he subscribes to the mainstream view as well – I have no idea…

(*Denialist - an epithet given to one who does not subscribe to the theory that Acquired Immune Deficiency or the Syndrome associated with this (AIDS) is caused by HIV. Denialists have also frequently been likened to flat-earthists which is strangely ironic when one considers that it was the majority of the world population at the time of Galileo who believed the earth was flat and a persecuted few who postulated that it was actually round. We know who turned out to be right on that particular score…

Incidentally, the Papacy only officially apologized to Galileo in 1992 - real big of The Catholic Church huh?)

The AIDS Debate
The Most Controversial Story You’ve Never Heard
by Liam Scheff

Prologue
In 1984, Robert Gallo, a government cancer-virologist, called an international press conference to announce that he'd found the probable cause of AIDS. He claimed that a retrovirus called HIV was destroying the immune systems of young gay men and IV drug abusers, leaving them open to a variety of both viral diseases and cancer.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, AIDS is not a single disease, but rather a category of 29 unrelated, previously-known conditions including herpes, yeast infections, salmonella, diarrhea, fever, flus, TB, pelvic cancer in women, pneumonia and bacterial infections. The CDC also designates HIV- positive people who aren’t sick, but have a T-cell count below 200, as AIDS patients (T-cells are a subset of white blood cells). The only thing that separates an AIDS diagnosis from any of these conditions is a positive HIV test, which itself is based on Robert Gallo's research.

Gallo's HIV theory, however, was not the only AIDS theory, and according to a growing number of concerned scientists, researchers and activists, it wasn’t the best. For 70 years before Gallo, retroviruses were known to be a non-toxic part of the cell; moreover, no single virus could simultaneously cause a viral disease like pneumonia, in which cells are destroyed, and a cancer like Kaposi's Sarcoma, in which cells multiply rapidly.

These scientists argue that Gallo's unified HIV/AIDS theory is flawed and that treating 29 unrelated diseases with extremely toxic AIDS drugs like AZT and protease inhibitors is at best irresponsible and at worse medical genocide.

They may have a point. Ninety-four percent of all AIDS-related deaths in the US occurred after the introduction of AZT, according to CDC statistics through the year 2000. And according to the University of Pittsburgh, the number one cause of death in US AIDS patients today is liver failure, a side-effect of the new protease inhibitors.

The questions arise: Did Gallo truly solve the AIDS riddle, and are we treating AIDS humanely and effectively?

To answer these questions, I spoke with three prominent AIDS researchers.

Dr. Peter Duesberg is a chemist and retroviral expert. Duesberg discovered the Oncogene (cancer gene) and isolated the retroviral genome (of which HIV is one) in 1970. He is professor of molecular biology at UC Berkeley.

Dr. David Rasnick is a protease specialist and has been in AIDS research for 20 years. He and Duesberg work in collaboration on cancer and AIDS research. Both Rasnick and Duesberg were advisors on President Mbeki's South African AIDS panel.

Dr. Rodney Richards is a chemist who worked with Amgen and Abbot labs in the 1980s, designing the first HIV tests from Robert Gallo's HIV cell line.

The interviews were conducted separately and integrated into a dialogue. Individual points-of-view belong to individual speakers.

How did you get involved with AIDS research?

Rasnick: I’m a chemist and protease enzyme researcher. I design and synthesize inhibitors to stop tissue-destroying viruses and cancers. When Robert Gallo announced HIV caused AIDS, I wanted to work on inhibitors that would stop it.
In ’85 I was at a research meeting where HIV was being discussed. An AIDS specialist was asked how much HIV was present in an infected AIDS patient. He was asked, “What’s the titer of HIV?”

What’s a Titer?

Rasnick: The titer is the number of infectious virus particles in a blood or tissue sample. A titer of live virus is easily obtainable from the particular tissue that the virus infects. A sample from this infected tissue contains millions of infectious virus particles. If you have herpes, the sample comes from a cold sore; if it’s polio, from the intestine; if it’s smallpox, from a pustule; if it’s a cold, from the throat.
When you’re infected with a virus, it infects and kills about 30 percent of the specific tissue that it targets before you get any symptoms. You can take a titer of any infected area, put it under a microscope and see millions of living viruses.
So, the virologist was asked, “What’s the titer of HIV?”
He answered, "Undetectable. Zero."
I thought, how is that possible? How can you be made sick from something that isn’t there? With polio, researchers threw away a hundred viruses before they found the right one. I assumed Gallo had simply gotten the wrong virus, and we’d have to start over.
By 1987, there were 30,000 cumulative AIDS cases. Numbers were not growing as predicted; and AIDS hadn’t left its original risk groups. Six years after the first AIDS cases, 95 percent of infections still occurred exclusively in men – 2/3 gay men, and 1/3 IV drug users. Additionally, each AIDS risk group suffered from specific diseases.
Viruses don't cause different diseases based on gender, sexual preference or lifestyle. Viruses have unique but limited genetic structures, which manifest in a limited but identical set of symptoms in all patients. The herpes virus makes herpes lesions, but never a sore throat. The chicken pox virus always produces skin sores, but never paralysis.

Viral epidemics spread exponentially in the first months and years, killing everyone who can’t survive long enough to develop immunity to it. HIV wasn't growing; it remained in its original risk groups, and it caused different diseases in each. It clearly wasn’t acting like a contagious virus.
In 1988, I came across an article written by Peter Duesberg in the science journal Cancer Research. The article was on retroviruses in general, and HIV in particular. Duesberg was the world’s preeminent retrovirologist. He’d studied and mapped the retroviral genome in the ‘70s. Duesberg’s knowledge of retroviruses was unparalleled. In the article, he laid out, point for point, what retroviruses are, and what they can and can't do.

HIV is a retrovirus; what are retroviruses?

Rasnick: Retroviruses are a subset of viruses that are not toxic to cells. They were discovered in the early 20th century. They're one of the first identified cellular particles. There are about 3,000 catalogued retroviruses. They exist in every animal: dogs, cats, whales, birds, rats, hamsters and humans. Retrovirologists estimate that one to two percent of our own DNA is retrovirus.
Retroviruses are RNA strands that copy themselves into our DNA using an enzyme called Reverse Transcriptase. Retroviruses are passed down matrilineally – from mother to child. They're not sexually transmissible. Lab animals do not exchange retroviruses with each other, no matter how much they mate. But babies always have the same retroviruses as their mothers.
Current research strongly indicates that they're simply a naturally occurring part of us. In 50 years of modern lab research, no retrovirus has ever been shown to kill cells or cause disease, except under very special laboratory conditions.

Peter Duesberg: In 1987 I was invited by Cancer Research to discuss whether retroviruses, including HIV, could cause disease or immune deficiency. I was invited because of my technical experience with retroviruses.
In 1970, I was working in UC Berkeley‘s virus lab. The big program in virology at the time, which we were part of, was to find a virus that caused cancer. There was also a large government cancer-virus program at the National Institutes of Health. Robert Gallo was one of the scientists working on that project.
We began looking at retroviruses because of their unique qualities. Typical viruses kill cells. Their strategy is to enter the cell, kill it and move on to the next one. However, with cancer, cells aren’t killed; in fact, they multiply very rapidly. Therefore a virus couldn’t cause cancer. Retroviruses, however, don't kill cells. This quality made them an outstanding candidate for a cancer virus.
In 1970, I made a discovery that got a lot of attention. I isolated a retroviral gene from a cancer cell, and infected other cells with this gene. The cancer virologists were very excited. They thought this might be the thing they’d been looking for – a retrovirus that could infect other cells and cause cancer. I was suddenly famous. There were job offers; I was given tenure at Berkeley and admission into the Academy of Science.
Of course, if a virus, or a unique retrovirus, caused cancer in the real world, then cancer would be contagious. But nobody “catches” cancer. A "case of cancer" doesn’t go around the office. However, such fundamental thoughts were not on the minds of the virus hunters. Scientists like impressive-sounding proofs, regardless of what we know is true in the real world. The retroviral cancer-gene was just a lab artifact. It didn’t exist in humans or animals in nature. We created it in the lab, and that’s where it stayed. It was purely academic.
As part of the cancer-gene experiment, my associates and I mapped the retroviral genome. We made the maps that today are used as the blueprints for all retroviruses, including HIV.

What do retroviruses do?

Duesberg: In terms of disease, they do nothing. They’re transcribed into the DNA in a few cells, and they hang around there for the rest of your life as part of your genome. Nevertheless, cancer-virus hunters continued to look for a cancer-gene using the technology we created and the retroviral maps we made.

Rasnick: In the mid-‘70s, Robert Gallo claimed he’d found a cancer-retrovirus in the cells of a leukemia patient. He called it HL23V. He found it the same way he would later find HIV – not by finding the retrovirus in the blood – but by looking for antibody and enzyme activity that he claimed stood in for the actual retrovirus.
By 1980, his claim was refuted by both the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Research Center and the National Cancer Institute. Gallo's supposed HL23V antibodies weren‘t the result of a cancer-virus, but rather the result of “exposure to many natural substances” which create antibodies in humans. Today nobody, not even Gallo, claims HL23V ever existed.
In 1980, he tried again. Gallo claimed to have a new cancer retrovirus called HTLV-1, which caused a kind of leukemia in which T-cells multiplied into fluid tumors. T-cells are one of many subsets of white blood cells. Once again, the proof was less than convincing. Less than one percent of people who tested positive for HTLV-1 ever developed leukemia. It was a less-than-successful validation for his theory.

How did Gallo move from cancer to AIDS research?

Rasnick: In the early ‘80s, gay men were showing up in emergency rooms with a variety of simultaneous illnesses and infections. At the time, medical journals speculated that the diseases were drug-related. Gay men had been abusing toxic, immune suppressing and even carcinogenic drugs like poppers, cocaine and amphetamines on a daily basis for the better part of the ‘70s.
In 1983, Luc Montagnier, a French scientist at the Pasteur Institute, claimed to have found a new retrovirus in AIDS patients. But nobody paid attention, because he hadn’t isolated a virus, and he hadn’t found a single viral particle in the blood – remember the titer was zero, undetectable. Seeking some academic support, Montagnier sent a cell sample to Robert Gallo at the NIH. Gallo took the cell-line Montagnier sent him and modified it slightly. Then he did something strange. He stole it.
In 1984 Gallo called an international press conference and together with Margaret Heckler, the head of the Department of Health and Human Services, announced that he’d discovered the “probable cause” of AIDS. It was a new retrovirus called HTLV-III, (later re-named HIV). Later that same day, he patented the modified cell-line he’d originally gotten from Montagnier. He hadn’t published a single word of his research. Robert Gallo, a government-backed scientist, simply announced that a retroviral-epidemic was on its way.
He sold the cell-line to Abbot Labs, a pharmaceutical company that makes HIV tests. The French government demanded that all patent rights be returned to Montagnier. Gallo refused, claiming it was all his work. In 1987, Gallo and Montagnier were forced by President Reagan and French Prime Minister Chirac to meet in a hotel room to work out the HIV patent rights. In 1992, Gallo was officially convicted of theft by a federal scientific ethics committee.

Rodney Richards: At first Gallo claimed he invented the whole process. Now he claims his sample might have been “contaminated” by Montagnier’s.

Duesberg: The NIH itself ran a two-year investigation of Gallo’s HIV claim, and they couldn’t come up with any convincing evidence that he came up with it on his own.

What did Abbot labs do with Gallo’s cell line?

Rasnick: Abbot labs makes HIV-antibody tests out of it. Abbot’s made billions selling HIV tests, and Gallo’s made millions from his patent.

So when we’re given an HIV-antibody test, we’re tested based on what Gallo and Montagnier claim to have found. How did Luc Montagnier find HIV?

Richards: First he looked in his patients’ blood, but he couldn’t find it there. In fact, no one has ever found HIV in human blood.

Right, the titer was zero – so where did he look?

Richards: Montagnier took tissue from the swollen lymph node of a gay man who was a suspected AIDS patient. In an infected person, the lymph tissue will presumably be littered with infected cells.
Montagnier attempted to perform a cell culture with that tissue. This is the lab technique used to isolate viruses like herpes and mononucleosis. In a cell culture, infected cells are mixed with uninfected cells in a petri dish. Separated from the body’s immune system, viruses that are being suppressed can surface. The virus travels from the infected cell to the uninfected cell through the liquid in the dish. The scientist collects this liquid, concentrates it, and spins it through a sucrose density gradient to isolate the virus.
A sucrose density gradient is a tube of layered sugar solution of specific densities. The layers become thicker from top to bottom. The cell liquid is gently placed on top of the sugar solution. This is spun in a centrifuge for many hours to force the viral particles to descend through the density layers. Cellular particles, including retroviruses, have known densities. The known density corresponds to a layer in the test tube. The descending particles stop when they find a density equal to their own. This layer is photographed with an electron microscope. In cultures from virally-infected patients, the photo plate is filled with millions of identical viral particles.
Finally, a new cell culture is performed with the isolated viral particles to see if they are indeed infectious. Once again, the cell fluid is separated, spun and photographed to verify that the same virus appears. This is what’s known as viral isolation.

Is this what Montagnier did?

Richards: He tried to, but it didn’t work. Montagnier took lymph tissue from a suspected AIDS patient, mixed it with cells from a healthy blood donor and performed a cell culture. He removed the liquid and spun it in a centrifuge, but he found no virus. But that didn’t stop him. Montagnier repeated the experiment but added a crucial new step.
He took the suspected AIDS tissue and mixed it with a variety of cells in a culture, including cells from an umbilical cord. Then he added powerful chemicals called Mitogens that artificially force cells to replicate. He found, after 2 or 3 weeks, evidence of an enzyme called reverse transcriptase, a sign of possible retroviral activity.

But he hadn’t found any virus?

Richards: No. He found an enzyme that retroviruses use. But reverse transcriptase is found in many other microbes, cellular components and processes, including umbilical cells, and forced replication. Montagnier then separated the mitogenically stimulated fluid from the culture and poured it into another dish of healthy cells and again found reverse transcriptase activity.
He put this through a sucrose density gradient and found reverse transcriptase activity at the density layer where retroviruses were known to purify. What he did not find was a virus. When he looked through the electron microscope at that same density gradient, he found nothing – but he didn’t acknowledge that until years later.
That's what’s known as isolation of HIV.

How does this prove that an infectious virus was making people sick?

Richards: It doesn’t. This is insufficient evidence to prove that HIV or any infectious virus exists, let alone that it causes disease.

How did Gallo use Montagnier’s cells to prove HIV existed and caused AIDS?

Richards: Gallo cultured the cells, but didn’t find enough reverse transcriptase activity to convince him that Montagnier had found a retrovirus. So Gallo added another step. He mixed cells from 10 AIDS patients together; then he added those to leukemia T-cells from his HTLV-1 retrovirus experiment. At that point, Gallo found enough reverse transcriptase activity to convince him that there was indeed a retrovirus. That's how he claims to have found HIV.

But Gallo had already found reverse transcriptase activity in the leukemia cells. How did he prove that there was a new retrovirus – HIV?

Richards: Many scientists don’t believe that he did prove it.

You said Gallo used a T-cell line to grow HIV. Isn’t HIV supposed to kill T-cells?

Richards: That’s what Gallo initially claimed, but Abbot labs grows its HIV in human T-cells. It’s even called an immortal cell line, because the leukemia cells don’t die. To date, no researcher has demonstrated how HIV kills T-cells. It's just a theory that keeps money flowing into the pharmaceutical approach to treating AIDS.

Rasnick: Gallo patented the leukemia T-cell mixture the very same day he announced he’d found the “probable cause” of AIDS.

What do HIV tests do?

Rasnick: They look for antibodies in your blood to proteins that are taken out of this mixture. Your body produces antibodies as a response to all foreign material – germs, yeasts, viruses, even the food you eat. Viruses are DNA or RNA wrapped in protein building blocks. Antibodies grab onto these proteins, immobilizing and destroying the virus. When these antibodies encounter different viral proteins in the future, they‘ll very often grab onto them, too. This is called cross-reactivity.

Duesberg: Viruses are only dangerous the first time you encounter them. Once you’ve made antibodies to a virus, you have immunity for the rest of your life, and the virus can’t get you sick anymore. This is the opposite of HIV theory, which states: You become infected; you don‘t get sick; you make antibodies; and 10 years later, you get sick and die.

Rasnick: There are two common HIV antibody tests. One is the Elisa, in which a bunch of proteins from the T-cell mixture are stuck in a series of little plastic wells on a test plate. The other is called Western Blot. In this test, the proteins are separated onto individual paper strips. Your blood is added, and if antibodies from your blood stick to proteins from this mixture, you’re said to be HIV positive.

They’re assuming the proteins are from HIV; but they never isolated HIV, so how can they say these tests can diagnose HIV-infection?

Rasnick: They can’t, and they don't. None of the proteins in the Elisa and Western Blot tests have been proven to be specific to HIV or any retrovirus. For this reason the FDA has not approved a single test for diagnosing HIV-infection.

Richards: There are at least 30 tests marketed to test for HIV. None of them are approved by the FDA to diagnose the presence or absence of HIV. Not the Elisa, not viral load, not Western Blot, not the P24 antigen test. The FDA and manufacturers clearly state that the significance of testing positive on the Elisa and Western Blot test is unknown.
AIDS researchers admit that the tests contain at least 80 percent non-specific cellular material – they’re, at best, 20 percent effective. But in my scientific opinion, they contain no HIV at all. The medical literature lists at least 60 different conditions that can register positive on the HIV-test. These conditions include candidas, arthritis, parasites, malaria, liver conditions, alcoholism, drug abuse, flu, herpes, syphilis, other STDs and pregnancy.

Rasnick: It’s very simple to see how you can get false positives. Antibodies cross-react. The more viruses and germs you’re exposed to, the more antibodies you’ll produce, the greater risk you’ll test positive on a non-specific antibody test. If you live in a country without clean water or sanitary living conditions, you're going to have constant microbial and parasitic infections that produce antibodies.
You carry antibodies to all the colds, flus, viruses and vaccinations you’ve ever had. If you’re pregnant, you’re producing antibodies that will react with Abbot’s Elisa test. Pregnancy is a known cause of false positives on the HIV test.
Different races have different ranges of naturally-occurring antibodies. That’s why blacks have a nine times greater chance of testing positive than white Europeans, and a 33 times greater chance than Asians. It doesn’t have anything to do with infection or health. In one study, a tribe of South American Indians was given Elisa tests. Thirteen percent of them tested HIV-positive, but nobody was sick. They just had antibodies that reacted with the test.

If the tests aren't specific, and we can't find HIV in the blood, then what is AIDS?

Richards: According to the CDC, AIDS works like a formula: If you have an AIDS-indicator disease like salmonella, tuberculoses, pneumonia, herpes, or a yeast infection, and you test HIV-positive, then you‘re said to have AIDS, and you’re treated with toxic AIDS drugs. If you test negative or don't know your HIV status, you’re spared the toxic drugs and simply treated for the disease you have.
In 1993 the CDC expanded their definition of AIDS to include people who are not sick at all but who test positive and have a one-time T-cell count under 200. Based on this new criteria, by 1997, about 2/3 of all AIDS cases were perfectly healthy people. As it happens, ‘97 was the last year the CDC told us how many people were healthy and how many were sick. Now they just count everyone who's HIV-positive as an AIDS patient, whether they’re sick or not.

Let me clarify this. When people die of AIDS, they actually die of a known disease. But if their blood reacts with an HIV-antibody test, they’re no longer said to have the disease, they’re said to have AIDS?

Rasnick: That’s how it works. And the sick people who test HIV-positive are put on the most toxic drugs ever manufactured and sold.

What about AIDS in Africa?

Rasnick: It's the same story, even worse. Fifty percent of Africans have no sewage systems. Their drinking water mixes with animal and human waste. They have constant TB and malaria infections, the symptoms of which are diarrhea and weight loss, the very same criteria UNAIDS and the World Health Organization use to diagnose AIDS in Africa.
These people need clean drinking water and treated mosquito nets [mosquitoes carry malaria], not condoms and lectures and deadly pharmaceuticals forced on pregnant mothers.
We’ve put 20 years and $118 billion into HIV. We’ve got no cure, no vaccine and no progress. Instead we have thousands of people made sick and even killed by toxic AIDS drugs. But we can’t just treat them for the diseases we know they have because if we do, we’re called “AIDS denialists.” Treating them for the diseases they actually have would be more humane and effective than forcing toxic drugs down their throats, and it would also save billions of tax dollars. AIDS is a multi-billion dollar industry. There are 100,000 professional AIDS researchers in this country. It's as hard to challenge as big tobacco at this point.

What does Luc Montagnier say about this?

Rasnick: In 1990 at the San Francisco AIDS conference, Montagnier announced that HIV did not, after all, kill T-cells and could not be the cause of AIDS. Within hours of making this announcement, he was attacked by the very industry he’d helped to create. Montagnier's not a liar. He's a so-so scientist who’s in over his head.

Afterword:
In a 1997 interview, Luc Montagnier spoke about his isolation of HIV. He said, “We did not purify [isolate] ... We saw some particles but they did not have the morphology [shape] typical of retroviruses ... They were very different … What we did not have, as I have always recognized it, is that it was truly the cause of AIDS.”
Robert Gallo hasn’t made such large concessions. He has, however, amended his AIDS death sentence. He now believes that it’s possible to live with HIV “for 30 years until you die of old age,” as long as you live a healthy lifestyle and avoid immune-compromising substances.
In 1994 Gallo quietly announced that the major AIDS defining illness in gay men – Kaposi’s Sarcoma, could not be explained by HIV but that nitrite poppers, a drug that had been popular in the gay community, “could be the primary cause.” Somehow, this didn’t make headlines.
Gallo also said that Peter Duesberg’s research into a drug-based AIDS model should be funded. Duesberg’s funding has all but evaporated since he publicly challenged the HIV/AIDS model.

Dr. Duesberg and Rasnick’s articles can be found at: http://www.duesberg.com/ and http://www.virusmyth.net/

The AIDS Debate Part 2
The Gay Plague
by Liam Scheff

Prologue
In 1984, Robert Gallo announced that a retrovirus called HIV was the “probable cause” of AIDS.
In Part 1 of “The AIDS Debate,” AIDS researchers gave startling evidence that retroviruses are, in fact, not toxic to cells, and are too biochemically inactive to cause any disease, let alone the 29 different diseases the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) classifies as AIDS. These researchers claim AIDS was correctly diagnosed in the early ’80s as a lifestyle disease typified by immune damage caused by massive drug use and malnutrition.

Ten years after his announcement, at a 1994 National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA) meeting, Robert Gallo quietly admitted that the first defining AIDS disease in gay men, Kaposi’s Sarcoma, could not be explained by HIV, but that nitrite drugs called “poppers” could be the primary cause. Poppers were a popular, legal drug heavily marketed in the gay community in the 1970s.

Gay men were indeed using poppers and other cell-damaging, mutagenic drugs in huge quantities in the 1970s, immediately prefiguring the first outbreak of AIDS diseases. But the specter of AIDS didn’t stop recreational drug use. Many gay men in the party scene continue to abuse the same drugs, including nitrite poppers.

Now they’re adding toxic AIDS pharmaceuticals to this already deadly cocktail, and it’s costing them their lives. A national study conducted by Dr. Amy Justice, an AIDS researcher at the University of Pittsburgh, revealed that liver failure is now the leading cause of death in HIV-positive individuals taking AIDS drugs. While liver failure has never been an AIDS disease, it is the primary, well-known side-effect of the new AIDS pharmaceuticals.

At the 1994 NIDA meeting, Dr. Gallo said that Dr. Peter Duesberg’s drug-based AIDS theory should be funded and investigated. Taking Gallo’s advice, I spoke with Duesberg and two other health advocates about the first AIDS patients, drug abuse and the new prescription drugs that are killing AIDS patients today.

Peter Duesberg is a professor of molecular biology at UC Berkeley. He is an expert in the field of HIV science and retrovirology.

John Lauritsen is a journalist and gay historian who’s investigated and written about AIDS for over 20 years. In 1992, he uncovered documents through the Freedom of Information Act, which revealed that the toxic AIDS drug, Azidothymidine (AZT), was approved based on fraudulent medical trials. His books include The AIDS War and The Early Homosexual Rights Movement - 1864 to 1935.

Darren Main is an author, holistic health practitioner and AIDS educator. According the CDC's 1993 redefinition, Main has AIDS, though he is not sick.

Interviews were conducted separately and integrated into a dialogue. Individual points-of-view belong only to the speaker.

The gay rights movement emerged as a powerful force in the early ’70s after decades of repression and abuse of gay men and women. What was the gay scene like in the ’70s?

John Lauritsen: There was a marvelous sense of freedom for gay men in the early ’70s. The gay liberation movement after Stonewall [a major turning point in the gay rights movement] allowed men who’d been held back by cultural taboos to come out in the growing gay centers. These were strong, healthy, young men who suddenly had this tremendous freedom offered to them. Using a lot of drugs and having a lot of sex was part of that freedom.
I lived in New York from ’63 to ’95; I was there, right in the heart of it. I lived around the corner from an extremely popular gay club called The Saint. On some nights, a couple thousand men would show up. The main activity was consuming drugs of every sort: ecstasy, poppers, marijuana, quaaludes, MDA, crystal meth, LSD, cocaine and designer drugs. Some drugs only showed up once, like the one they made specially for the club’s opening night.
At clubs like The Saint, there was a drug schedule. Someone would say, “Now it’s time for ecstasy, now it’s time for crystal, now it’s time for Special K,” and hundreds to a couple thousand guys would all do drugs at the same time. This went on all evening. They mixed this with alcohol through the course of the long, long night. A drug called “poppers” was used constantly, because it was cheap and legal.

What are poppers?

Lauritsen: Poppers are nitrite inhalants. The nitrites (amyl-, butyl- and isobutyl-) have a number of effects that made them attractive to young gay men. If used during sex, they prolong and enhance orgasm. Some men became incapable of having sex or even masturbating without them. Poppers were used to facilitate anal sex, because they deaden pain and relax the muscles in the rectum.

How were poppers used?

Lauritsen: They were used ubiquitously. They came in little vials that you’d pop open and snort. Some gay men used poppers first thing in the morning, on the dance floor and every time they had sex. At gay discothèques, men shuffled around in a daze, holding their poppers bottles under their nose. The acrid odor of poppers was synonymous with gay gathering places.

How do nitrite poppers affect health?

Lauritsen: Poppers are an extraordinarily toxic drug. They cause brain damage from strokes, severe skin burns and heart failure. They suppress the immune system and damage the lungs. They’ve caused death from a single use. They’re such an effective poison that they’ve been used to commit suicide and murder.
The nitrites are strongly mutagenic, which means they cause cellular change and genetic mutation. Nitrites produce deadly toxins when mixed with commonly used chemicals like antihistamines, artificial sweeteners and painkillers. Virtually all antibiotics are converted into potent carcinogens by nitrites.

Why were poppers legal?

Lauritsen: Poppers were originally manufactured by the Burroughs-Wellcome Corp. as a remedy for emergency heart pain, but they were replaced by nitroglycerine. In the ’60s, only a few gay men used poppers as a recreational drug.
Poppers found new life during the Vietnam War, sold on the black market to soldiers overseas. When the soldiers came home, they kept up the habit. Reports of blackouts, headaches, blood abnormalities and terrible skin burns forced a reclassification of the drug.
In the ’70s and ’80s, the FDA permitted poppers to be legally sold under the ridiculous pretext that they were "room odorizers" – at the same time that the new gay sex industry blatantly marketed them to gay men as aphrodisiacs, under such names as “Rush,” “Hard Ware” and “Ram.”
Poppers were cheap, as little as $2.99 per bottle, and they were extremely popular. Every single gay publication at the time was filled with full-page, color ads for the drug. In the ’70s, poppers were a $50 million per year business. Gay magazines like The Advocate relied heavily on ad revenue from poppers; some magazines owed their very existence to the drug. They were so popular that there was even a “Poppers” comic strip named after them.
By the end of the ’70s, some of the healthy young men weren’t looking so young and healthy. They were worn out. Their faces were gray. They looked prematurely old. I remember going to a party in the late ’70s and being shocked to see how many men were gravely ill.
In 1983, I began to work with Hank Wilson, a Bay Area gay rights activist, on researching and writing about poppers. We started writing about the dangerous medical effects of the drug and were savagely attacked for doing so. The gay press called us “homophobes” and “gay traitors” because we criticized a chemical.
In the early ’80s, medical reports on AIDS considered it a lifestyle disease. The fast-lane lifestyle of gay men was defined by incessant sex and drug use. These men had constant STD infections – concurrent cases of syphilis, gonorrhea, chlamydia, VD, bowel and parasitic infections – which they treated with increasingly strong rounds of antibiotics whenever they thought they’d caught something. Some doctors gave their gay patients open prescriptions for antibiotics and even advised them to swallow a few capsules before going to the baths. One bathhouse in New York sold black market antibiotics on the second floor, along with all kinds of street drugs.
One of the primary AIDS diseases was Kaposi’s Sarcoma, which is an overgrowth of the blood vessels that manifests as dark purple patches on the skin and face. Doctors speculated that nitrite poppers, a known mutagen, were the cause of Kaposi‘s Sarcoma (KS). Scientists wrote The Advocate with strong warnings about the dangers of poppers, but their letters were rejected or ignored.
The gay community’s reaction to the idea that chronic drug use had anything to do with illness was overt denial. In 1983, The Advocate actually ran a series of ads defending poppers. The series, called “A Blueprint for Health,” falsely claimed that government studies showed poppers were harmless and should be considered a healthy part of gay life. This was for a drug that said, “flammable, fatal if swallowed” on the label.

Peter Duesberg: AIDS was correctly diagnosed by the CDC from ’81 to ’84. They identified it as a probable lifestyle disease caused by excessive drug use and malnutrition. The New England Journal of Medicine published four articles on the drug lifestyle of what was then called GRID (Gay-Related Immune Deficiency) patients. This syndrome was typified by opportunistic infections, pneumonia and KS.
The one factor that all these people had in common was very high use of recreational drugs: amphetamines, nitrite inhalants, cocaine and heroin. The theory was simple. These men had spent a decade destroying their immune systems and were now susceptible to all sorts of infectious disease. This theory was compatible with the non-random distribution of illness.
Until ’84, this was the only credible hypothesis. But when the government supported HIV theory, the lifestyle theory was abandoned, because all the money went into retroviral research. That’s how science works; if it’s not funded, it doesn’t exist.

Lauritsen: The media immediately supported Gallo’s unproven hypothesis, and public health services followed suit. For 20 years, virtually all government funding has poured into Gallo‘s HIV-equals-AIDS theory, with nothing to show for it, while the drug and malnutrition models have been ignored.
In 1994, Robert Gallo quietly admitted that KS could not be caused by HIV. But this was never reported in the mainstream press. Gallo told the audience of scientists and activists at the ’94 NIDA meeting that HIV couldn‘t cause KS and that he‘d never even found it in T-cells, which HIV is supposed to kill. He said, “I don’t know if I made this point clear, but I think that everybody here knows – we never found HIV DNA in the tumor cells of KS. And, in fact, we’ve never found HIV DNA in T-cells. So in other words, we’ve never seen the role of HIV as transforming [cancer-causing] in any way.”
This was in complete opposition to everything Gallo had ever said about HIV or AIDS. But very few people paid attention to his retraction. The CDC ignored it, and continues to tell people KS is an AIDS disease.
When Gallo was asked what, if not HIV, caused KS, he said, “The nitrites [poppers] could be the primary factory” because “Mutagenesis” is the “most important thing.” It's a very embarrassing situation for the AIDS establishment, and they’ve kept it quiet. One of the two hallmark diseases of AIDS is now clearly understood to be totally unrelated to AIDS or HIV.
Take any AIDS diagnosis – there are good reasons why that person became sick the way they did. Take a heroin addict who develops pneumonia or a severe lung infection. This is what science has always expected as a consequence of taking opiates in excess, because opiates damage the lungs and reduce immunity.
If a gay man takes nitrite inhalants and develops KS, the best explanation is that he’s been affected by nitrite inhalants, not an infectious agent. Nitrites are mutagenic drugs that directly affect blood vessels. It’s telling that gay men who developed KS got it around the lips, nose and mouth – the same place he’d inhaled the toxic drug.

Duesberg: The defining symptoms of AIDS are chronic diarrhea, dementia, weight loss and increased incidence of viral and bacterial infection. These are the very conditions that define chronic drug abuse and malnutrition, but no one’s funding this research. Instead, billions of dollars are poured into beating AIDS with deadly drugs like AZT and protease inhibitors.
Many Americans use amphetamines, diet drugs, cocaine and designer party drugs. When you do this for years, you start getting sick. You go to the doctor, who says the first thing you need is an HIV test. You test positive because HIV tests cross-react with antibodies produced by drug use. The doctor puts you on AZT, a DNA chain terminator, which, in high doses, will finish you off in six months.
I’m not talking about a one-time use of a party drug. We’re designed to consume a lot of junk, but we’re not designed to tolerate a gram of cocaine, nitrite inhalants or heroin per day, and we’re even less capable of handling AZT.

What is AZT?

Duesberg: AZT is a DNA chain terminator. AZT kills your DNA. It kills your bone marrow, where your blood is produced; it kills the cells in your intestines so you can't eat.
AZT was designed 40 years ago as a chemotherapy drug to treat cancer. The principle of chemotherapy is simple – to kill all cells. If chemotherapy works, the cancer cells are dead before you are. But it doesn‘t work often, and there’s terrible collateral damage. Of course, chemotherapy is a short-term process. A cancer patient is only treated for a short time, because the treatment is so toxic. But AIDS patients are given AZT daily, presumably for the rest of their lives.

How was such a toxic drug approved for use on sick AIDS patients?

Lauritsen: AZT was approved on the basis of fraudulent research. The Phase 2 AZT Trials were conducted by the FDA in 1986 and monitored by Burroughs-Wellcome (now Glaxo-Wellcome), who manufacture the drug. Incidentally, Wellcome is the same corporation that first manufactured nitrite poppers for heart pain.
The Phase 2 trials were supposed to demonstrate that AZT was "safe and effective." The report on the trials, published in 1987, claimed that AZT dramatically prevented people with AIDS from dying. But these results were based on fraud.

How was fraud committed?

Lauritsen: First, the study wasn’t truly blinded. Doctors and patients knew who was taking AZT and who was taking placebos. In a medical study, one group of patients is given the test drug, the other is given harmless sugar pills. This allows doctors to observe the effects of the drug by comparing the two groups.
In a true double-blinded study, neither the doctors nor patients are supposed to know who's on the drug. This is considered the most accurate and bias-free method for approving a pharmaceutical.
In the Phase 2 trials, everybody knew who was on AZT; the information was shared among doctors and patients. Patients in the placebo group wanted to be on AZT because they thought it would help them, so they got it from other patients or their own doctors. But they were still recorded in the placebo group.
Most importantly, the case report forms were falsified. Patients taking AZT who almost died from anemia were recorded as having “no adverse reactions” to the drug. These patients had to get multiple blood transfusions to save their lives. [AZT causes anemia by destroying bone marrow, where blood cells are produced.]
One patient, who was supposed to be in the placebo group, was actually being given AZT by his doctor. He dropped out of the study but continued to take AZT, and quickly died. The investigators recorded his death in the placebo group, as if not taking the drug is what killed him. If that’s not fraud then the word has no meaning.
On the basis of these tests, AZT was approved and introduced to patients in 1987. HIV-positive men became the focus of a multimillion dollar media campaign from Wellcome. Full-page ads promoting AZT appeared in The New York Times and in lesser publications all over the world. City public health departments echoed the idea that AZT would help people live longer.

Duesberg: Doctors give HIV-positive patients drugs before they‘re even sick. As of 1993, the CDC no longer requires people to be sick to call them AIDS patients. If they have a positive antibody response to the nonspecific Elisa test and a one-time T-cell count below 200, the CDC says they have AIDS. Based on this criteria, doctors are prescribing AIDS drugs to healthy individuals.
This is what I call AIDS by prescription. Imagine that you go to your doctor and are told that you’ve tested HIV-positive. You’re perfectly healthy, but your doctor tells you that you have AIDS because your T-cell count is low, and you’d better take the drugs to stop the progression of the disease. You’re confused and alarmed, but you trust your doctor, so you take the drugs, which destroy your intestines and your immune system. Your hair falls out, you become impotent, and sooner or later you have the diseases you were trying to prevent.
The doctor says, “If you hadn’t come to me, you would’ve had the same problems six months earlier. I’ve added a half-year to your life.”
Now, because so many people died taking AZT, doctors are prescribing lower doses, which simply delays and masks the damage being done to the body.

Who’s taking AZT?

Duesberg: According to the New York Times and Time magazine, 450,000 Americans are taking AZT every single day of their life. Many patients can’t take the drugs because they’re throwing up so badly. But they try to follow their doctor’s orders.

Lauritsen: Ninety-four percent of all AIDS deaths have occurred since people started using AZT in 1987. More people died taking AZT in 1993 alone than died in the first six years of AIDS.

Did AIDS stop recreational drug use?

Lauritsen: No, by the early ’90s, gay men in San Francisco and New York had returned to the levels of drug abuse and promiscuity of the ’70s.
In ’92, several thousand gay men attended a "morning party" on Fire Island, held to benefit Gay Men's Health Crisis. At least 95 percent of them were in a state of extreme intoxication from ecstasy, poppers, cocaine and alcohol. The playwright Larry Kramer described it, saying, "There were 4,000 or 5,000 gorgeous young kids on the beach drugged out of their minds at high noon, rushing in and out of portosans to fuck. All in the name of GMHC.”

Darren Main: Drug use is very high in the gay community right now. Large circuit parties are very popular.

What’s a circuit party?

Main: It’s an event that occurs at a specific location, like the "White Party" in Palm Springs or the "Black and Blue" in Montreal. Thousands of people attend. It’s four to five days of heavy drug use, like nothing you can imagine – crystal meth, ecstasy, special K, designer drugs, poppers.

People are still using poppers?

Main: Absolutely. It’s a real pharmacy. Guys stay up for four to five days, taking drugs and having orgy-like sex. In addition to the big circuit parties, there’s a regular party scene. A lot of guys spend their weekends going to dance clubs and getting stoned out of their minds.
These party drugs are being combined with antibiotics, because these guys are constantly exposed to syphilis, gonorrhea, herpes, amoebic infections and other STDs, which are all on the rise again in the gay community.

This sounds like the first AIDS crisis.

Main: It is. A lot of guys think that that they're protected from infections because they're taking the new AIDS drug cocktails, called HAART (highly-active anti-retroviral therapy). HAART is a combination of the older nucleoside analogues like AZT, DDI and 3TC, and the newer protease inhibitors like Saquinavir and Crixivan. [Nucleoside analogues work by stopping DNA production; protease inhibitors work by stopping protein assemblage in your cells.]

What are common side effects of protease inhibitors?

Main: Protease inhibitors cause lypodystrophy – a deformation of fat. Body fat moves out of the face, arms and legs, which become veiny sticks; the face becomes skeletal. The fat collects into a “buffalo hump” on your upper back. The belly becomes distended and bloated.
And that’s just what’s visible. The drugs cause massive cholesterol increase, which frequently leads to heart attacks. Diabetes and blood-sugar imbalances are also common. Protease inhibitors do the most damage in the liver. As a result, liver failure is now the No. 1 killer of AIDS patients in this country, though it’s not an AIDS disease.
I’ve observed that if you go on the drugs, your symptoms will start with an upset stomach and diarrhea. Within a year, it’ll begin to show in your face. The people I know who’ve been taking the drugs for a few years are visibly altered. There’s no way to know if quitting the drugs will reverse the damage. In LA, San Francisco and South Beach, there are plastic surgeons whose entire practice is based on liposucting buffalo humps and putting in cheek implants.

You consult with people diagnosed with HIV and AIDS. What do you tell them?

Main: I teach them how to rebuild and support their immune systems by doing very basic things: Developing a supportive diet, getting enough sleep, no recreational drugs, no stimulants, and adding supportive supplements. If someone’s on AIDS drugs, I encourage them take a “drug holiday.”
A lot of people are afraid to quit the drugs or challenge what doctors and pharmaceutical companies tell them. I have a client we’ll call “Jack,” whose partner died a couple years ago from drug toxicity. Jack is HIV-positive and takes the drugs. He had a very severe reaction to them – he went blind. His eyes stopped working and began to waste away due to the AIDS drugs. Jack’s doctors confirmed that the blindness was indeed caused by the drug cocktails, not by any virus or AIDS disease. When I met him, he’d just had his eyes removed. He now has prosthetic, glass eyes.

So he finally quit the drugs?

Main: No, he’s still taking them. I asked if he’d consider going off them. He said no, because he didn’t feel comfortable with his T-cell count or his viral load. He felt better losing his eyes than quitting the drugs. Protease inhibitors are slightly less toxic than AZT, but they still can be deadly. It’s a slower death.

You don’t take the drugs, even though you have an AIDS diagnosis. How’s your health?

Main: Perfect – no health problems that I know of. I’ve never had an opportunistic infection or AIDS-defining disease. I have AIDS because of a T-cell count. Mine is 120. According the CDC, that’s what AIDS is; HIV-positive plus a T-cell count below 200. Of course, in other countries, I don’t have AIDS. This is just how the CDC defines AIDS in the US, and only since ’93. But I’m quite healthy. I rock climb, go hiking and teach yoga for a living. Because of my AIDS diagnosis, I’ve been harassed by doctors to go on the drugs. “Hit hard and hit fast,” they say.

According to Dr. Amy Justice of the University of Pittsburgh, gay men are dying taking AIDS drugs. They're taking them even though HIV theory is highly debatable, and more supportive treatment options exist. Why are gay men buying into this treatment option, if it causes them so much pain and suffering?

Main: If you look at the history of the gay movement, you’ll find that HIV and AIDS have, ironically, really brought people together. In the early days, gay liberation was a bunch of guys whose main interaction was partying. When people started getting sick, these guys, who’d been rejected by mainstream society, had to support each other. They took care of each other and developed a real community. They supported each other in a way that they’d never been supported by their own families or society.
HIV and AIDS became the glue that kept people together. We’ve got a lot invested in AIDS – billions of dollars, AIDS drives, thousands of volunteer hours at community centers, full-time jobs and organizations invested in the notion that HIV is killing gay men. It’s very hard for people to let go of something they’ve put their whole lives into – their hearts, their minds and their beliefs. It’s very difficult.
It would be nice if gay men felt that they could find validation, support and community outside of HIV and AIDS. But I think that too many people are too attached to have that happen soon. Which is unfortunate, because that attachment is killing a lot of people.

Organizations dedicated to treating AIDS illnesses without toxic AIDS drugs do exist. For alternative AIDS treatments and action, go to:

HEAL – http://www.healaids.com/
Alive and Well AIDS Alternatives – http://www.aliveandwell.org/
Darren Main – http://www.darrenmain.com/
Act Up San Francisco – http://www.actupsf.com/

Articles by Peter Duesberg and John Lauritsen can be found at:
http://www.duesberg.com/ and http://www.virusmyth.net/

The AIDS Debate Part 3
Africa – Treating Poverty with Toxic Drugs
By Liam Scheff

“As to diseases, make a habit of two things—to help, or at least to do no harm.”
-Hippocrates, 5th Century B.C.E. Greek Physician, regarded as the father of medicine.

According to the World Health Organization (WHO) and UNAIDS, 42 million people around the world are infected with HIV, and nearly 22 million people in Africa have died of AIDS. But AIDS isn't a single disease; it's a collection of diseases. When people are said to die of AIDS, they're known to die of a particular disease or condition, such as pneumonia, tuberculosis, malaria or basic malnutrition. AIDS researchers claim that HIV plays a role in the development of these illnesses, but in spite of this claim, 20 years of AIDS research has failed to prove causation between HIV infection and any so-called AIDS disease (as explored in “The AIDS Debate” parts one and two). So why do we call them AIDS deaths?

In the US, AIDS is defined as a collection of 29 previously-known conditions including yeast infections, herpes, salmonella, pneumonia, tuberculosis and Kaposi’s Sarcoma. These conditions are not known to be caused by HIV. Nevertheless, the one thing that classifies any one of these conditions as AIDS is a positive HIV-antibody test.

But even if HIV was found to cause these previously known conditions, a problem remains. The HIV-antibody tests do not diagnose actual HIV-infection. Instead, they look for non-specific antibody reactions in your blood to proteins in the HIV-test. The test manufacturers claim that the proteins stand in for HIV, but in reality, none of the test proteins have been proven to be specific to HIV. These tests are, in fact, so nonspecific that they cross-react with nearly 70 other documented conditions, including the flu, previous vaccinations, blood transfusions, arthritis, alcoholic hepatitis, drug use, yeast infections and even pregnancy, as well as conditions endemic in Africa: tuberculosis, parasitic infection, leprosy and malaria. Because no HIV test can actually find HIV, not a single HIV-test has been approved by the FDA for diagnosing HIV-infection.

In light of this nonspecific, cross-reacting test, how does the World Health Organization (WHO) diagnose AIDS in Africa?

Simple: they don’t require any test at all. In 1985, the WHO created a new definition of AIDS for African nations and third world countries. The WHO‘s “Bangui Definition” allows Africans with common physical symptoms including diarrhea, fever, weight loss, itching and coughing to be automatically designated as AIDS patients, with no HIV test. But these very symptoms define life for the majority of Africans who lack essentials like sufficient food, safe drinking water, proper sanitation and basic medical care. These symptoms are also synonymous with the biggest killers on the continent: malaria, infectious diarrhea and tuberculosis.

Western AIDS organizations are working to get toxic AIDS drugs into the hands of African governments, but what’s the use of potentially deadly AIDS pharmaceuticals to people suffering from poverty-related diseases like chronic tuberculosis and malaria infection, or to pregnant mothers whose blood cross-reacts with the nonspecific HIV tests?

To answer these questions, I spoke with AIDS researchers who’ve worked in Africa and studied the African AIDS epidemic.

Dr. Christian Fiala is a medical doctor and specialist in obstetrics and gynecology in Vienna. He’s worked extensively in Uganda and Thailand researching AIDS.

Dr. Rodney Richards was one of the founding scientists for the biotech company Amgen where he helped develop some of the first HIV tests. Richards currently works full-time researching AIDS.

The interviews were conducted separately and integrated into a dialogue. Individual points-of-view belong to individual speakers.

How is AIDS diagnosed in Africa?

Christian Fiala: Your readers may be surprised to learn that AIDS in Africa is diagnosed completely differently than in Europe or the US. In Africa, an AIDS diagnosis can be made based on commonly occurring physical symptoms alone. This is ironic, because AIDS is a collection of diseases, and has no uniform symptoms. Even the co-founder of HIV theory, Luc Montagnier, admits that AIDS has no specific clinical symptoms.

How was this new AIDS definition devised?

Fiala: In 1985 the WHO held a meeting in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic. A WHO official, Joseph McCormick, wrote about it in his book Level 4: Virus Hunters of the CDC.
He wrote: “If I could get everyone at the WHO meeting in Bangui to agree on a single, simple definition of what an AIDS case was in Africa, then, imperfect as the definition might be, we could actually start counting the cases...”
This is what‘s known as the Bangui Definition.

How does the Bangui definition define AIDS?

Fiala: There are two categories of symptoms, major and minor. A patient is given an AIDS diagnosis when they have two major symptoms and one minor symptom. The major symptoms are weight loss, chronic diarrhea and chronic fever. The minor symptoms include coughing and generalized itching.

Let me clarify, based on the WHO’s definition, if you have a fever, a cough and diarrhea in Africa, then you have AIDS?

Fiala: That’s correct.

That seems absurd(?)

Fiala: It is. It’s more absurd when you understand how common these symptoms are in resource-poor settings like sub-Saharan Africa. To begin with, less than 50 percent of Africans have access to safe drinking water. Over 60 percent have no sanitation. Most African villages don’t have sewage systems. Human and animal excrements mix with the water supply. People drink this water and ingest infectious parasites and bacteria. As a result, dysentery is endemic.
When your intestines are full of infectious microbes, you’ll likely develop a fever. Your body will try to purge itself by expelling the bacteria as quickly as possible. This is infectious diarrhea, and it's incredibly common in Africa.
Diarrhea drains liquid, salts, minerals and nutrients from the body. It weakens the immune system. When you have no safe water, you’ll have diarrhea chronically. When you have chronic diarrhea, you can’t help but to lose weight.
At this point, you’ve fulfilled the major symptom criteria in the African definition for AIDS. So you need one minor symptom, like generalized itching or coughing. In Uganda, a so-called “AIDS epicenter,” 80 percent of houses have floors made of packed soil or cow dung. An entire family lives on this floor. There are, on average, seven children per family, all living in this room. This is not what we in the US and Europe call proper housing, and it’s easy to see how a problem like “generalized itching” might come up. At this point, an African suffering from itching, diarrhea and weight loss should be – according to the WHO – officially reported as an AIDS patient. The Bangui Definition simply relabels symptoms of poverty as AIDS.
The second problem with the Bangui Definition is Tuberculosis. TB is very widespread in Africa. It’s a bacterial infection that infects the lungs. TB is spread by coughing, and it‘s highly infectious. The typical symptoms of Tuberculosis are fever, weight loss and coughing. This is exactly what is required for an AIDS diagnosis.

So if you have Tuberculosis in Africa, you can be diagnosed with AIDS?

Fiala: That’s correct. According to the WHO, the typical symptoms of TB define AIDS in Africa. Another problem with the Bangui Definition is malaria. Malaria is the most widespread disease in Africa and tropical countries. It’s the leading cause of death in Uganda. It’s spread by mosquitoes, so people are reinfected several times a year. A great many people die every year, while the rest develop a relative immunity, even though it’s wearing away at them. The symptoms of malaria include fever, weight loss and fatigue. If you have a cough or itching, and you have malaria in Africa, you can be diagnosed with AIDS.
As if this wasn’t problematic enough, in some African countries, such as Tanzania, health authorities have decided that a one-criteria diagnosis is all they need. A patient exhibiting just one of the major symptoms – diarrhea, fever or weight loss – can be given an AIDS diagnosis.
This is hardly scientific, and it’s very different from what people are told about AIDS in Africa. The idea that there should be a different kind of AIDS for Africans or Europeans or Americans defies the scientific definition of viral infection. A single virus doesn’t cause different diseases in different people or in different countries. A viral infection doesn’t vary so wildly so as to create pelvic cancer in women, Kaposi’s sarcoma in gay men, and tuberculosis in Africans. But this is what we’re asked to believe about HIV.

What's the treatment for TB and Malaria?

Fiala: The best treatment is prevention. The most effective way to reduce all of these infectious diseases is to improve the standard of living and hygiene for local residents – to provide safe, clean water; plentiful, healthy food; proper housing and basic medical care. This is exactly how the incidence of TB and other infectious diseases was dramatically reduced in the US and Europe.
The treatment for malaria is well known and simple: treated mosquito nets that protect villages; clean, safe, non-stagnant water; and the inexpensive, highly efficient drugs that effectively fight the disease.

Why don’t African Countries have clean water systems?

Fiala: You could’ve asked that question 100 years ago in the US and Europe. Sewage and water systems rely on economic development. We have these things in the West because we know they’re absolutely essential, so we’ve invested money and energy in them.
Many African nations don’t have the money to develop this infrastructure and modernize the villages. The money they have is being re-routed into AIDS. These countries are being pressured by international AIDS organizations to take money out of rural development and put it into AIDS education, condom distribution, abstinence campaigns and toxic AIDS pharmaceuticals.

We’re told that there are nearly 30 million African AIDS patients. This is an enormous number of people. How are these cases counted?

Fiala: The United Nations AIDS organization (UNAIDS) and the WHO use various computer modeling programs to come up with their numbers.

Rodney Richards: When you read about the millions of HIV-infected in Africa, you may notice that the word “estimated” precedes the number in the official publications.

What does “estimated” mean?

Richards: All WHO/UNAIDS reports of HIV-infection in Africa are "estimates" based on HIV tests performed on blood samples taken at pregnancy clinics. These global reports are created jointly by the WHO and UNAIDS.

Why is blood taken from pregnancy clinics?

Richards: In countries with little infrastructure, medical care is very limited, and is generally reserved for the most vulnerable segment of the population, such as infants and pregnant women. Even in the poorest countries, there are pregnancy clinics serving expectant mothers and women who’ve just given birth.
Pregnant women regularly line up at these clinics for a check-up that includes a blood screening for syphilis. Syphilis infection is common in many African countries, and must be treated before a baby’s birth, or the child could die or be severely damaged.
Once a year, UNAIDS researchers collect leftover blood samples from these clinics, and test them with a single HIV-antibody test called the Elisa. The resulting number of HIV-positive results is fed into an epidemiological computer modeling program (Epi-model) at the WHO headquarters in Geneva. The Epi-model program then extrapolates the HIV-positive test results onto the entire population – young and old; men, women and children. When we hear about the number of people infected with HIV, it's this number that's being reported.

How do reported numbers of HIV-infection correspond to actual number of people tested?

Richards: The WHO/UNAIDS tells us that there are currently 30 million HIV-positive Africans, yet less than one in a thousand of these people have ever been tested. In South Africa, the WHO/UNAIDS reports 5 million people are infected with HIV, but this number is based on only 4,000 actual HIV-positive test results from pregnant women.
But even these positive test results are hardly indicative of HIV-infection. The HIV-antibody tests used in these surveys are known to come up positive based on cross-reactions with antibodies produced from malaria, TB and parasitic infection – all common conditions in Africa. The test manufacturers themselves warn that pregnancy is a known cause of false positives.

Fiala: Testing pregnant women for HIV-infection is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but pregnant women are the only people regularly tested for HIV-infection in sub-Saharan Africa.

We're told that 28 million people worldwide and 22 million Africans have died of AIDS. How are AIDS deaths counted in Africa?

Richards: AIDS deaths are also estimates. The number of deaths is projected from the Epi-model estimate of HIV-infections. It is assumed that if a certain number of people are HIV-infected, then a certain number will die of AIDS. This assumption is based on what researchers know historically about disease progression in AIDS patients, primarily from studies done on HIV-positive IV drug abusers and male homosexuals in the US and Europe.

Are these numbers accurate?

Richards: No, the numbers have been greatly inflated. For example, the WHO/UNAIDS says that there has been 2.2 million AIDS deaths in Uganda so far, but the Ugandan Ministry of Health records a cumulative total of only 56,000 AIDS deaths since the beginning of the epidemic. The WHO’s report is 33 times higher than the actual number of recorded, verified deaths.
As of the end of 2001, official government bodies in the developing world have managed to account for only 7 percent of the cumulative AIDS deaths that the WHO/UNAIDS claim have occurred. The Russian Federation can only account for only 3 percent of the UNAIDS estimate of AIDS deaths. India has 2 percent of the UNAIDS estimate. China has only 1 percent.

If I understand correctly, the number of people we’re told have HIV and AIDS in Africa is actually an inaccurate computer extrapolation based on test results from non-specific, cross-reacting antibody tests given to pregnant women?

Fiala: That's correct.

And the number of AIDS deaths in Africa is a projection based on the previous estimation, and is also greatly inflated?

Richards: That is also correct.

What does an AIDS diagnosis mean for an African with TB or malaria?

Fiala: In many African clinics, basic medical supplies like antibiotics are extremely limited. A clinic may only have 10 bottles of antibiotics. AIDS patients are frequently refused antibiotic treatment, because it’s assumed that they’ll die, no matter what. Western doctors have made it clear that AIDS is a fatal disease. Helping them is considered a waste of scarce resources.

What’s the main AIDS organization in Uganda?

Fiala: TASO – The AIDS Support Organisation. They claim to be independent, but they’re heavily funded by the pharmaceutical industry. They’re currently constructing buildings to prepare the ground for massive HIV testing, with this non-specific, cross-reacting test, and to distribute toxic AIDS drugs.
In Africa, 50 percent of the population has no access to clean drinking water and the vast majority lack even basic medical care. And the response from multimillion dollar AIDS organization is to promote HIV testing, give out condoms and to implement treatment with deadly AIDS drugs. These drugs are similar or identical to chemotherapy drugs used in cancer treatment. They work by stopping cell growth. They kill your body from the inside out.

Which AIDS drugs are being used in Africa?

Fiala: Boehringer, a pharmaceutical company, has been doing studies in Uganda with a drug called Nevirapine. The FDA refused approval of Nevirapine in the US for so-called mother to child transmission because it’s ineffective and has deadly side effects, but this is exactly how the drug is being used in Africa – on pregnant women and unborn children.
In one drug trial, 17 percent of patients taking Nevirapine developed liver problems. A US health care worker taking Nevirapine had to have a liver transplant to save his life as a result of drug toxicity. Five women in South Africa died and dozens developed severe liver problems in a combination AIDS drug trial that included Nevirapine.
The manufacturer’s warning label for Nevirapine itself states that patients taking the drug have experienced: “Severe, life-threatening and in some cases fatal hepatotoxicity [liver damage],“ and “severe, life-threatening skin reactions, including fatal cases.”
These are the most toxic drugs known to medicine, and they’re being applied to the most vulnerable part of the population – pregnant mothers, unborn children and newborns – all based on a faulty test, or no test at all, while their actual food, shelter and water needs continue to be ignored.
What would actually help Africans is infrastructure development: proper sanitation, safe water, basic medical care and plentiful, nutritive food. This is simple, clear and logical. What’s astounding is that the UN is recommending just the opposite.
In 1999 the UNAIDS commission gave its official recommendations to a meeting of finance ministers representing various African countries. The UN’s exact recommendations to African nations: to redirect billions of dollars from health, infrastructure and rural development into AIDS – condoms, safe sex lectures and deadly pharmaceuticals. This is not what these already suffering people need to be healthy and successful. This is exactly how to propagate death, disease and poverty.

Afterword:
If the AIDS story in Africa feels like a parody of a bureaucratic blunder, take note: In April of this year, the US Centers for Disease Control (CDC) announced a new HIV testing strategy for the United States. Rather than relying on voluntary HIV-testing, federal officials are urging the testing of all pregnant women in the US, and are implementing measures to make HIV-testing a routine part of hospital visits. The CDC is promoting a rapid HIV-test for use in all federally funded clinics, as well as homeless shelters, prisons and substance abuse treatment centers.

The HIV-antibody tests are known to cross-react with antibodies produced during pregnancy, drug abuse and nearly 70 other common conditions, and no HIV test is FDA approved to diagnose HIV infection. The standard medical treatment for HIV infection is a combination of the most toxic drugs ever manufactured.

“The AIDS Debate” series has explored the scientific and sociological process that formed HIV theory, and the ramifications of a speculative theory enforced upon a trusting, uninformed public.

We must ask ourselves, are we doing the best we can for sick people? Is the best we can offer impoverished Africans AZT and Nevirapine? Is the best we can do for drug-addicted mothers to force more drugs into their systems? And what about people unlucky enough to register HIV positive on these scientifically unvalidated tests. Do they deserve to be told that they have a fatal illness?

“As to diseases, make a habit of two things—to help, or at least to do no harm."

As for human beings, one thing’s for sure. We can always do better.

For more information on Africa and other AIDS-related topics telling the other side of the story go to:

http://www.virusmyth.net/
http://www.aliveandwell.org/
http://www.healaids.com/
http://www.tig.org.za/

DIRTY OLD MEN (comic relief)

2007-08-08T07:44:00.000+02:00

Dirty Old Men
(sung to the tune of "My Favourite Things")

Suave, dapper posers with spray tans and beards
Nipped and tucked features with mouths that look weird
Gold filled front teeth and white eyebrows like wings
These are just some inexplicable things

Oddly shaped glasses for feigned erudition
Little blue pills for their penile condition
Arrogant gestures as if they were kings
These are just some inexplicable things

When the wind breaks
When the hands shake
When they've been exposed
I simply remind them that they're ninety eight
And lucky they're not comatose

From perambulation on frames made by Zimmer
To personal trainers creating old gymmers
A crusty old bastard whose prostate gland stings
Some more geriatric explicable things

That last drop of urine that dribbles in trousers
Ear and nose hair that turns men into schnauzers
Sad sugar daddies with penchants for flings
These are just dirty old men types of things

When the twat drives
When the fart parks
When he's in his car
I'll always abuse the old doddering git
And hope he won't go - too far!

Hands that are thin-skinned and so liver-spotted
Spindly old legs that are gnarly and knotted
A pendulous scrotum that trembles and swings
These are distasteful old physical things

Minds that are willing with flesh that might fail them
Lascivious thoughts for young girls that may jail them
Belching old cars that are covered with dings
These are the last on the list of old things

When the serge frays
When the bowls end
When they're laid to rest
I have to remember my mortality
And know I might soon be next!

Harumph and rhubarb I say!

AFRICAN WORTHLESSNESS

2007-08-06T09:50:00.000+02:00

Smileyskull speaks:

I wonder if you have given any deeper thought to the fleeting references made daily to HIV-AIDS in South Africa as in my, and many people's, view this is the channel whereby the disingenuous Western governments will attempt to anchor their foothold in this continent in their relentless drive for commercial dictatorship.
These are not the ravings of some fringe group or conspiracy theorists; these are self-evident all around us on a daily basis. And although analysis of the evolving African desire for self-sufficiency is, in my view, accurate, there remains the flawed yet deeply entrenched belief within many people in this and other African countries that the American way is somehow superior to our own. This sentiment is driven aggressively into the collective psyche of nations all over the world through the constant barrage of the largely US-owned media and the perpetual assertion that the US and more specifically their implausible leader shall protect us from "invisible" threats and ultimately lead us to salvation doing things "the American way".
This so-called foreign policy has prevailed in varying dilutions through all US presidencies since the conclusion of the Second World War and the establishment of global commercial policy at Bretton Woods. Apart from a system being established which is patently geared to perpetuate the status of Third World Debt as unrepayable, the US has maintained an opportunistic presence in and around the fringes of potentially lucrative countries under the pretext of providing aid and/or protection to regions it was instrumental in destabilising in the first place.
Thanks to the inauguration of GW Bush in the White House (or should one say: "usurper" in light of the original "rigged" election circus staged in Florida), no one person has demonstrated so overtly the disingenuous nature of US foreign policy. Without Mr Bush and his bumbling ineptitude, many people around the world may have remained mindlessly oblivious to America's aspirations of ruling the world through systematic commercial coups in strategic global regions. So, thanks, George.
But just as we have teachers in the guise of dictators like Robert Mugabe and other despotic leaders, none has provided so powerful a lesson as one G W Bush in the art of "how not to do things." He has created such an awareness of the dangers of dictatorship while boldly ranting his bellicose threats against the would-be terrorists of the world - the hidden threat to world peace - consequently missing the mirror before him each time he levels such ultimata. He expounds the virtuosity of his posse of self-styled liberators crusading for democracy (whatever that is) while flagrantly ignoring the democratic requests of the UN who purportedly, at the behest of America themselves, were established to represent the majority opinion of the world.

The most disturbing thing about all of this is, of course, the fact that despite his ridiculous posturing and insincere rhetoric, he seems to be getting away with it. This at the expense of the global community and the resources of the planet itself.
And in the spirit of this policy the US and allied autocrats stand poised to inveigle their way into Africa through the agency of the so-called yet contrived AIDS pandemic here under the guise of knights in shining armour - to rescue once again the desperate and hapless natives in yet another self-inflicted debacle. Given the strength and forced repetition of US-dominated lifestyle marketing, many Africans have been duped into believing that that is exactly what they are - disempowered victims in need of redemption.
This wounded psyche is fertile ground indeed for the planting of seeds of unworthiness and what better vehicle than that of the very health of the continent? The psychological battle has been largely won - Africans believe in their inferiority (to a great degree). This is exemplified by the growing hordes who have turned this very unworthiness into a national begging industry instead of trying to improve upon their station in life. They have embraced it and who can blame them?
This sets up the platform for an impaired physiological infrastructure if one accepts that there is a sympathetic bond between the psychological functions of a human being and his physical wellbeing. Innumerable studies have, as far as most researchers are concerned, proved this relationship beyond doubt. This being the case, the ease with which one can further impair that physiology warrants no more than the lack of reasonable nutrition, the stress associated with the most fundamental survival under extreme impoverishment and a constant reinforcement that you are doomed to die if you have HIV. All of these elements represent a microcosm of the conditions prevalent on the African continent since the very first colonisation hundreds of years ago. The more westernised the continent became, the more disenfranchised the indigenous people became and through the generations that followed, the more removed they became from their unique ethnic identity only to have this supplanted with the dogma of the missionaries and the continual reinforcement that their primitive ways were savage and inferior to the new "white" systems being introduced.
Although styles and semantics may have changed, the trend continues to assail the senses of the new generations of Africans to this very day. Whether we care to admit it or not, the statistical deaths of hundreds or thousands of African people in a single swoop has become, over time, an accepted phenomenon. By extension, coupled with the assertion of lesser worth, there is a common perception among white people that a black life is still somehow less important than theirs. This may rankle the sensibilities of the reader but I have grown up in a country where this perception has been cloaked and disguised in many ways yet still pervades conversations when the speaker thinks he is in like-minded company. As long as this flawed world view persists there will always be less of an outcry at the numerous deaths of poor black people while the comfortable middle-class white liberal hangs on to the belief that he has no responsibility in this regard when in truth he continues to reinforce the imbalance by virtue of his self-serving beliefs. If it doesn't affect me then why should I be held accountable? If the situation can be further removed from the realm of responsibility with the introduction of an agency that emphasises the immoral behaviour of the black man - such as sexual promiscuity leading to the transference of the supposedly deadly HIV pathogen - then that serves the status quo even more. Even if it is a consummate fabrication which, in my opinion (after even the most cursory research), it most evidently is.
Without entering the labyrinth of half-truths, misinformation and loaded agendas that comprise the foreign AIDS business in Africa, suffice to say that this agency serves the policies of the US and her allies most admirably at the expense of African lives. The hand of friendship is allegedly extended to Africa while the other hand roots around in the soil to find the true riches of the continent. The riches that America actually wants - her minerals and natural resources as well as her strategic geographical placement in many instances. This coupled with subservient, inexpensive labour forces willing to serve their masters in return for the rape of their lands and crippling debt is an arrangement that suits only one player in the long term.

However, there are many who see beyond this ploy and recognise the urgent need for Africa to solve her own problems. Thabo Mbeki is one such man - or so it would appear. Alas, as is required in the game of leading nations, he is also political - a positional dynamic that creates its own circular debate until it disappears into its own rhetorical black hole. Or: anyone with any real integrity finds abhorrent the game of politics and yet the only way to change that dynamic is not by voting but by becoming a politician oneself.
Still, he and other like him, are embarking on NEPAD and other African initiatives that take cognisance of the legacy of colonialism and the resultant African dynamic. Mbeki does not reject it, as perhaps I would on analysis, he elects rather to optimise the benefits to be obtained from working in the global economy while setting his own African house in order - an extremely big ask. Any other approach may, in his view, be seen to be throwing the baby out with bathwater. It is more plausible to refurbish rather than start from scratch, although with the decimation of many African nations over the past few decades, reverting to grass-roots level has become a necessity rather than an option.
I only hope that a sufficient number of people recognise what is happening in their own African backyards and take the initiative to look beyond their own noses and their own neighbourhoods at the "success" US foreign policy has obtained. The Nett result has been to reveal Bush and his toadies as the despicable dictatorial despots he would have us believe he is trying to rescue us from. It has succeeded in elevating America and Americans to becoming the most despised nation in the world. It has exposed America's total disregard for foreign cultures, ethnicity and right to self-determination while displaying their blatant hypocrisy for all to see.
However, in these revelations lies a road forward and a lesson bigger than anything perhaps since the more obvious attempt at world domination by one Adolf Hitler not so very long ago. So what remains before us yet again is choice. Which route shall we choose - Uncle Sam or the poor unworthy African?
It's a no-brainer really. But will we make that choice?

BUSH - A WEAPON OF MASS DISTRACTION

2007-08-06T09:19:00.000+02:00

A Bush retrospective...

(In every term of US office, a new revolutionary morality is born - the previous administration taught us that fellatio is not sex and if it's administered secretly by persons other than your spouse - it's not infidelity either. That let a few adventurous men, having a bit of fun, off the hook. This noble incumbent [pictured here with his press secretary, addressing the nation] is teaching us that true democracy is exemplified by ignoring the US electorate and the opinion of the majority of democratic nations in favour of a totalitarian agenda. His own.
My understanding of the purported motivation for "the war on terror" (after they'd stopped looking for Osama and the 911 culprits and suddenly placed Saddam in the frame), was to protect us from a nation that ignores world opinion, perpetrates human rights' abuses and harbours weapons of mass destruction.
The description is surely more fitting to the US than it ever was to Iraq and just like Iraq's invasion into Kuwait [remember Bush Mk I?] - the US continues to give the world the big monkey finger. The same ethos extends to Global Warming.

Believe in natural weather changes if you wish to, perhaps we are in another natural cycle of increased carbon emissions - but does that lead us to conclude that it is therefore justified and moral to continue to poision the atmosphere indiscriminately? Oh, I forgot, it was the industrialists that put the chimp into the Oval Office in the first place.

If there was ever a threat to world peace or planetary stability, it is sitting in the White House right now peeling another banana.)

Here follows: A letter to the London Observer from Terry Jones (yes, of Monty Python fame) that clarified the perspective. And yes, they've been there for 4 years already "liberating the Iraqi" people...

___________________________________________________________________

Sunday January 26, 2003 The Observer

I'm really excited by George Bush's latest reason for bombing Iraq: he's running out of patience. And so am I! For some time now I've been really pissed off with Mr Johnson, who lives a couple of doors down the street. Well, him and Mr Patel, who runs the health food shop. They both give me queer looks, and I'm sure Mr Johnson is planning something nasty for me, but so far I haven't been able to discover what.I've been round to his place a few times to see what he's up to, but he's got everything well hidden. That's how devious he is. As for Mr Patel, don't ask me how I know, I just know - from very good sources that he is, in reality, a Mass Murderer. I have leafleted the street telling them that if we don't act first, he'll pick us off one by one.
Some of my neighbours say, if I've got proof, why don't I go to the police? But that's simply ridiculous. The police will say that they need evidence of a crime with which to charge my neighbours. They'll come up with endless red tape and quibbling about the rights and wrongs of a pre-emptive strike and all the while Mr Johnson will be finalising his plans to do terrible things to me, while Mr Patel will be secretly murdering people.
Since I'm the only one in the street with a decent range of automatic firearms, I reckon it's up to me to keep the peace. But until recently that's been a little difficult. Now, however, George W. Bush has made it clear that all I need to do is run out of patience, and then I can wade in and do whatever I want! And let's face it, Mr Bush's carefully thought-out policy towards Iraq is the only way to bring about international peace and security.
The one certain way to stop Muslim fundamentalist suicide bombers targeting the US or the UK is to bomb a few Muslim countries that have never threatened us. That's why I want to blow up Mr Johnson's garage and kill his wife and children. Strike first! That'll teach him a lesson. Then he'll leave us in peace and stop peering at me in that totally unacceptable way. Mr Bush makes it clear that all he needs to know before bombing Iraq is that Saddam is a really nasty man and that he has weapons of mass destruction - even if no one can find them.
I'm certain I've just as much justification for killing Mr Johnson's wife and children as Mr Bush has for bombing Iraq. Mr Bush's long-term aim is to make the world a safer place by eliminating 'rogue states' and 'terrorism'.
It's such a clever long-term aim because how can you ever know when you've achieved it?How will Mr Bush know when he's wiped out all terrorists? When every single terrorist is dead? But then a terrorist is only a terrorist once he's committed an act of terror. What about would-be terrorists?These are the ones you really want to eliminate, since most of the known terrorists, being suicide bombers, have already eliminated themselves.Perhaps Mr Bush needs to wipe out everyone who could possibly be a future terrorist? Maybe he can't be sure he's achieved his objective until every Muslim fundamentalist is dead? But then some moderate Muslims might convert to fundamentalism. Maybe the only really safe thing to do would be for Mr Bush to eliminate all Muslims?
It's the same in my street. Mr Johnson and Mr Patel are just the tip of the iceberg. There are dozens of other people in the street who I don't like and who - quite frankly - look at me in odd ways. No one will be really safe until I've wiped them all out. My wife says I might be going too far but I tell her I'm simply using the same logic as the President of the United States. That shuts her up.Like Mr Bush, I've run out of patience, and if that's a good enough reason for the President, it's good enough for me. I'm going to give the whole street two weeks - no, 10 days - to come out in the open and hand over all aliens and interplanetary hijackers, galactic outlaws and interstellar terrorist masterminds, and if they don't hand them over nicely and say 'Thank you', I'm going to bomb the entire street to kingdom come.It's just as sane as what George W. Bush is proposing - and, in contrast to what he's intending, my policy will destroy only one street.

Free Trade in the Year 2010 AD

2007-08-05T16:18:00.001+02:00

KING SEPP –

or to owe one ou a king’s ransom

So now we’re not allowed to use the number Twenty Ten (or Two Thousand and Ten) as it has been bought and is owned by FIFA, by all recent accounts…

Maverick ran an article a couple of months back on the limitations that would be enforced against those wishing to derive benefit from the impending soccer world cup without the appropriate legal entitlement; noseweek has just followed on from that in their latest edition (94 August 2007).
I make no apologies for being grossly offended yet ironically amused by this ludicrous state of affairs – the assumed ownership of a number regardless of its obvious marketable implications. Does this mean I can no longer sell a product to someone for an amount of R2010 without getting permission (in case I benefit from the magical appearance of Sepp’s number over and above the profit already factored in)? And having to add another R at the end of the proposed price – i.e. R2010® paying my tithe to King Sepp and the FIFADOM (as noseweek so aptly named it) Give me a break!
Does this mean that the horned one, old Lucifer should have control over 666 and derive royalty benefits whenever this enigmatic figure is written or published anywhere?
If you’re wondering to whom you should address the royalty cheques – try Bill Gates c/o Microsoft – I’m sure they’ll get there.
There must be a whole stack of money owing to Beelzebub courtesy of Madiba himself as it could be persuasively argued that Lou’s moniker appears subtly in Mr Mandela’s old prison number 46664 and that particular brand has been merchandised to absolute death.
I mean let’s be honest – everyone (with the exception perhaps of a silence-vowed ascetic monk living in a minimalist cave in Outer Mongolia – and I’m not even sure about him) knows the interpretation associated with the number 666 as “the mark of the beast”, whether rightly or wrongly, and its supposed link to the Antichrist.
I guess the answer to the Lucifer riddle is: Only if you believe in him.
What if I don’t believe in Sepp Blatter or FIFA?
Come on, people - how can you own a number? Numbers belong to everyone.
It’s akin to asserting ownership of ozone as a component of the Earth’s atmosphere and broadcasting to the world that they have to pay you every time you breathe that component of air.
What happens when 2010 (the year – not the event) itself rolls around? Are we allowed to write dates on cheques without fear of the trade police pouncing upon us in banking malls and frogmarching us to be tried for heresy in the Court of the Football King just in case we are deemed to be taking the piss?
What does FIFA stand for? Financial Interests For Autocrat?
It is patently ridiculous but it certainly isn’t the first time humankind has messed with our governing numerical systems and counters.
For example, if you had been born in Huddersfield on September 3rd 1729 and had wished to throw a humungous birthday bash for your 21st, you would have been screwed. In 1752 when that auspicious birthday arrived, you would have had to throw the do on September 14th – no, not because the village hall was booked out by some chanting wiccan weirdos – simply because there was no September 3rd on that year at all! Nor was there a 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th or 13th – they too had been dispensed with for that year.
Why?
Simply because Britain had decided to adjust their calendrical lag that particular year and “lose” the 12 days that the New Style Gregorian Calendar had imposed upon them by decree of a Papal Bull issued by Pope Gregory XIII in March 1582 – i.e. March 1582 in the old Julian calendar that had supposedly rounded off the solar year to 365.25 days instead of 365.242199 as had been calculated by the mathematical geniuses of the time.
The Poms had 170 years to introduce the “new” system but hey – for a nation that baths generally once a month (whether they need to or not) – who’s counting?
Confused?
Of course we are – and its just such obfuscation that is designed to keep us from asking too many questions – it makes our heads hurt…now move along and let your rulers make the decisions for you – they do know best after all.
The good news? I would have been spared the inconvenience of buying my sister, Norma, a birthday present in 1752 as her birthday would have been shelved in the interests of cosmic mathematical accuracy.
What a dumb species we really are!
Not so much that we wing it and make it up as we go along (which we most certainly do) but more that we buy into the bullshit that we’re dispensed like mind-controlled lemmings in a suicidal race – a-la Sting’s Synchronicity II lyric from the brilliant Police album (circa 1983).
In hindsight, however; if we’d bought into the Mayan calendar of Tzolkins (19 month year) and Haabs (13 month year), these running in parallel with solar cyclical commonality every 52 years, I guess we’d really have been screwed. The Poms wouldn’t have been able to work out how long it would take them to just get to a point where they’d introduce the system let alone actually use the fucking thing. I mean them and the Yanks thought the decimal system was more complicated than Imperial measurements – that 12’s, 14’s and other weird, wonderful mathematical anomalies were better than adding things up in tens. We’ve got 10 fingers and 10 toes – it’s obvious that God wanted us to work in decimal numbers, isn’t it? It’s a divine edict. Can’t you see that?
In the good old days, I would have simply issued a Papal decree on that score and heretical non-decimalians would have been summarily decimated.
But to get back to the Great Scam of 2010 and the damp squib it will prove to be for those who dream of future benefits. Those who aspire to benefit financially from the event would be the merchandising entrepreneurs but they won’t. That’s all stitched up already by the FIFA feudal system. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not about to piss on anyone’s parade – least of all King Sepp’s – I wish South Africans, much more than FIFA, enormous success and benefit from the event. But we all know it is a FIFA moneyraker more than anything else.
I harbour a well-intentioned desire for Bafana Bafana to win the competition but that possibility is as likely as the Mayan calendar being reintroduced to popular society in the near future or Al Gore convincing George that he may have to rethink his carbon emission policies (regardless of the arguments of natural versus introduced global warming phenomena). It does make common sense to not be quite as dirty as we have been in the interests of future generations does it not?
So if Sepp and his minions have licence over the number 2010, can I still have TWENTY TEN - the words or TWENTY TEN - the musical, or TWENTY TEN - the pantomime. In fact, it's a circus.
With Twenty-Twenty hindsight we’ll look back on this all one day and laugh, wishing we had taken out trade restrictions or patents on the number 69.
I was asked once if I could spell cunnilingus and could only admit defeat, adding that maddeningly – it had been on the tip of my tongue only the night before…

PRANA introduced

2007-08-02T18:43:00.001+02:00

P.R.A.N.A. *

(The Psychick Chronicles)
(*Psychic Repairs And Naturally Affordable)

PRANA is a small institute run and owned by a talented medium by the name of Claire Voyant. PRANA is simply an Energy Management Centre and offers all manner of psychic healing and balancing, connections with lost loved ones and the odd (very odd) house-call involving exorcism of those chicken-hearted spirits who wouldn’t move to the spirit realm – poultrygeists.
The institute offers a one-stop service with guest gurus appearing on demand – the bookings are done through PRANA - naturally.

Main Characters:

Claire Voyant:
(Mystic, psychic and crystal gazer)
Claire is a non-denominational seer who believes that GOD is an acronym for:
Gift Of Divinity
And any way that you access that is just fine by her. If you choose to do it through her it will be via her crystal sphere which was given to her by an ancient South American shaman Juan Tin Gonsavez. Her crystal ball is called Orb (Oracle Reading Ball) and like the sacred crystal skulls around the world, Orb also has the memory of its lifetimes. She looks into it and sees her visions through a mystical pool – and as it is a pool within crystal, I guess this would have to be a type of mineral water which explains why it’s sold in quarts(z).

Other characters to follow.... watch this space

CONSUMERISM

2007-08-02T13:36:00.000+02:00

CONSUMERISM
(A satirical look at where we are not)
21st MAY 2001

There are magazines for every aspect of humanity and, as is our choice so often, every aspect of our inhumanity.
In South Africa there is a plethora of men's magazines - some good - some not so good and most of them try and cater for a spread of consumerist needs.
Is that what we are breeding now – is it what we have become - consumers?
Frank Zappa, that marvellous iconoclastic champion of individual freedom, once wrote a diatribe in an album liner note ("Them or Us" was the album, I think), directed against the nation of consumers that the United States has become.
This invective, entitled "Cheese", made me sit up and take note. The similarities between the alleged perceptions and values of the consumerist Americans and those I saw around me in South Africa were marked. Is it a global phenomenon?
Certainly it would be naïve to compare the demographic cross-section of American society with that of South Africa but for a nation that lives in the illusive reality that it has no composite identity, many ethnic groups are embracing an ersatz "culture" based on American consumerism in the misguided belief that it will provide that identity and some sort of essential value system.
This is indeed an indictment on how far we've let our inferiority monkey climb upon our backs - on both sides of the racial spectrum.
And it is a tragic example of our ethnic bereavement and our predilection for anything other than the uniqueness it is our right to claim for ourselves.
Rather than embrace that fledgling New South African ethnicity, it is easier to fall prey to the consumerist disease of wearing the labels of the ultimate marketing machine. The monster that has managed to convince us that we cannot think for ourselves any longer and that distraction into an external system of competitive measurement is the best way to pad our spiritual and moral rectitude.
Let’s be honest – what contribution has McDonald’s made to you, the planet or anything?
Except perhaps to offer yet another avenue to pursue in the parental abdication department.
I wonder how many parents tell their children of the impact Big Mac cattle grazing is having on our global environment?
I wonder how many parents know?
I wonder how many parents care?
Then we have magazines telling us what to wear, how to wear it, when to wear it and when it’s no longer acceptable to the superior consumerists - when to bin it!
We have magazines that tell us how to pleasure each other, what it is that we should be looking for in our soul mate and what steps to take to advance our chances in the consumerist dialogue with a member of the opposite camp.
That's another thing - it is the media that persists in perpetuating the polarity consciousness that has divided our species for over two thousand years. It is various forms of the media that has taken over from where the priestly misogynists left off. And it is the media that has constantly reinforced the schisms between the genders instead of attempting to point out that while there are obvious differences, we have within us the polarity of both sexes and all the ingredients required with which to attain harmony.
No, the consumerist ideology embraces the ethos of competition. The sexes must compete - it is human nature.
What a load of consummate bollocks!
We have allowed ourselves to become so spiritually disenfranchised that we now let journalists and marketing moguls tell us how to think.
What has happened to the instincts that drove us as children, where contentment was real and a “like totally Zen Happening, man”?
We were happy in the moment without looking for some form of external reward for something we had done.
While sitting in a pile of muddy goo playing with an Action Man doll I experienced some of the happiest moments of my existence.
I was the first boy in my neighbourhood to have a “doll” and I didn’t feel one shred of my sexuality being undermined because of it. On the contrary - I derived pure, absolute and pure enjoyment from it and yet miraculously had no yearning to plunder my sister’s cupboard looking for lingerie to wear, nor was I beset by an overwhelming desire to copulate with members of my own gender persuasion. The experience did not make me “queer” whatever the fuck that means.
Why do we have words like “adulterated” and why is this representative of corruption?
Because as the definition suggests – when something is mixed with the adult influence – it loses its purity – it becomes adulterated.
The macrocosmic personification of this “adulterated” society is the consumerist culture.
We do not have to become naïve to become more pure again; we just have to go back to the original formula that dispensed real happiness and fulfillment through an innate faith in everything that was perceptibly outside of our sphere of influence.
In short – the child - the force that still drives us to play, enjoy, laugh and believe in the best in people – that is real human nature.
It is not human nature to go out and steal, rape, murder, pillage or build a personal empire by preying on those that do not subscribe to this flawed philosophy.
It is not a dog-eat-dog world out there and it is not a jungle – those are all the personal choices of insecure, unbalanced, consumerist-driven individuals who make up a paranoiac society of people who are constantly looking over their collective shoulder.
We have the option to make another choice – all the time.
But which choices do we make?
The choices we know within our being to be the right ones from a spiritually ethical point of view or the ones that will serve us better materially and garner more immediate approval from the consumerist hierarchy we have allowed to judge us?
What’s the honest response if we ask ourselves that question right now?
Whose approval do we actually seek when we make such choices and in which realm does that approval reside?
Do we answer to our personal God or do we answer to the Chief Consumerist Guru within our ambit of influence?
In a world where we have had access to so much information it is easy to see where manipulation has played a part in our evolution particularly with regard to organised religion.
But even so – even if you do believe that your way is the only way, it is a pretty moronic individual who will deny that there are many people out there who do not necessarily agree that this is the case.
And even if these lost souls float in suspended animation for all eternity or until God/Goddess/Allah/Wakan-Tanka/the Great Spirit/the Architect of the Universe – or whatever you elect to call the supreme and divine intelligence in which you believe – chooses to allow them entry to heaven or the state of nirvana or the Happy Hunting Ground or an elevated state of being in the realm of the ascended masters – most of us agree that there may well be something beyond this corporeal entrapment we call life.
And yet we live in a manner that defies every principle we hope to teach our children. We tell them that it is more important to have a good house and a good car, buy the right stuff from the right places, educate their kids at the right schools to become the right person at the right time for the right job…
What the fuck is right?
And how we do misuse the word if it is diametrically opposed to “wrong”. What is wrong with just being happy right here right now for the right reasons that your soul dictates and not for the reasons that are provided through a system of measurement dispensed by a society of brainwashed consumerists?
To cut an already long story short, magazines cater for all three of the three aspects of the abject consumerist but only three of the four aspects of the complete human being.
The physical/material aspects are more than adequately dealt with – this is the basest form of consumerism – sport, nice stuff, good food & grog etc - the ultimate distractions.
The intellectual stimulation is there in many forms – interesting articles, puzzles, a smattering of philosophical copy and a crossover to financial decision making etc.
The emotional probing lurks in the agony columns and studies of relationship interactions and such like.
But in any given magazine that purports to cater for the needs of the modern individual – what is being done about the stimulation of the spirit?
Your horoscope?
Give me a break!
How do the former three aspects fit into the bigger picture, if indeed we agree that there is a bigger picture - and most of us do, I think?
Why is this aspect so conspicuous in its absence?
Doesn’t it sell?
Is it not consumerist enough?
Or are the magazine publishers and editors riding the crest of the wave while selling their consumerist souls down the Rubicon of PW Bothaville to turn a fast buck?
Do magazine editors actually give a fuck about what they dispense or are they powerless to dispense what they would like to?
Is it too controversial?
If so – that’s eminently marketable so this negates a previous query.
Why do contemporary “men’s” magazines not cater for the working man’s soul – we still have them you know?
Why are we so hell-bent (excuse the pun) on avoiding issues that probe the very reason we exist just because it might not fit with the packaged spirituality that we’ve been sold?
What are we so afraid of?
Death? Consumerist failure?
In this, the 21st century are we still buying into that hackneyed siege-mentality that would have us cramming all our consumerist goodies into our consumerist lives just in case some other group belief is right and ours is wrong?
Are we fragile enough, stupid enough and so spiritually insecure that we have to gain Consumerist God’s approval before we shuffle off our mortal coil – just in case?
I guess if people are stupid enough to believe that a 3-bladed disposable shaving system costing around R300 per year while contributing to a massive percentage of solid non bio-degradable pollution is an advanced, intelligent solution to keeping your face smooth, surpassing the cut throat razor that lasts an infinite number of generations – then we are doomed to allow the media and the marketing moguls to think for us forever. Not only do we increase non-biodegradable pollutants immeasurably, we lose a skill into the bargain. It’s called evolution, nay – progress in consumerspeak.
I wonder what they are going to do with our souls when we do move on?
Probably work out a disposable solution to sell on to some other species when they eventually inhabit the earth that we have systematically destroyed by being such clever consumers.
We will then have become the ultimate of the species – we will have consumed ourselves out of existence.
In the words of Roger Waters – “this species has amused itself to death…”

AIDS - HALF THE INFORMATION

2007-08-01T22:21:00.000+02:00

VODACRAP

2007-08-01T08:28:00.000+02:00

Once again I sit at the mercy of Vodacom. If it isn't dropped calls, it's the wireless data service casting you into a connectless abyss of no signals.

This time it's their inability to deliver sms number references for Internet Banking...

Here follows a song which I put forward as their new jingle (sung to the tune of Ghostbusters).

VODACOM SONG
When you're being mugged in your neighbourhood
Why you didn't call?
NO COVERAGE
When you can't connect and you wish you could
Wassup wit dat?
NO COVERAGE
When your call gets dropped and you must redial
What's on your screen?
NO COVERAGE
There's a list of spots that you've got on file
What do they share?
NO COVERAGE
When you download mail with your 3G card
Keep losing the link
NO COVERAGE
When these simple tasks become really hard
Wassup wit dat?
NO COVERAGE
I wanna change my account
I wanna change my account
I wanna change my account
Coz Vodacom's a no-go!

When there's millions spent on sponsorship
Makes you think
NO COVERAGE
And the call rate charge is just one big rip
You wonder why?
NO COVERAGE
They've had ten years to make it right
But it's still screwed up
NO COVERAGE
And to speak to them is a fearful plight
It's pre-recorded crap
NO COVERAGE
etc...

I further propose that we kidnap that creepy fucking meerkat and hold it for ransom (with his skank chick too, of course) and we demand better (some) service from Vodacom in return for their safe delivery to the ad set for the next overbudget poor-taste extravanganza that will irk us right in the middle of some worthwhile TV programme... while all the while secretly resolving to send parts of the rancid rodents in soggy envelopes until there is nothing but two small skin rugs that can be used around toilet bases for inaccurate urinaters.

After all, they keep promising us better service but they don't really mean it.

Following the ditty is a letter sent to their (so-called) PR department many moons ago.

Needless to say - it was ignored.

From: Paul Murray [mailto:lol@icon.co.za] Sent: Thursday, March 02, 2006 8:26 AM
To: 'mandla.bembe@vodacom.co.za'

Hi Mandla
Further to our discussion earlier this week and, in fact, on the very same day, I was unable to send any emails via my Vodafone 3G card as your associated infrastructure in the area in which I was working (Paulshof) was offline. Surprise, surprise…
As a result I had to utilize webmail through my ISP, Tiscali – they are very reliable – I know – I maintain their infrastructure in association with DD & Internet Solutions.
This is just one in an ongoing series of mounting frustrations I have with Vodacom. And I could probably get a petition together of hundreds, if not thousands, of people with similar gripes. I kid you not – it’s becoming that prevalent.
I have been a loyal subscriber of your network since its inception but am seriously considering looking at alternatives right now such is the level of my dissatisfaction with Vodacom. The only thing you guys ever seem to get right is your billing. Amazing that, don’t you think – the admin and money is always managed like a well-oiled machine while you oversubscribe all of your (un)available services and fail to deliver anywhere near the same consistency with the service you are contracted to specialize in – cellular/wireless connectivity!
Unfortunately, like the political climate in this country, there is little opposition to choose from and I hear similar gripes from subscribers of MTN and Cell-C with regard to connectivity or lack thereof.
Let’s be honest – you purport to be, your figures confirm it and with the governmental backing you enjoyed through your association with Telkom, you are the market leader in South Africa as far as cellular connectivity and infrastructure is concerned. And so you should be having been at it the longest and having fleeced South African cellular subscribers for the best part of a decade. It is common knowledge that historically South African telecoms (in every sense) ranks amongst the most expensive anywhere on the planet. And please don’t try to spin me out with the old: quantity of users versus infrastructure costs yarn because that one simply doesn’t fly and I’ll demonstrate that later in this mail.
Let me begin there – for with your business partner (Telkom) also ignoring the requirements of people in remote regions (Magaliesburg – that’s really so very very far away from Johannesburg isn’t it – a whole whopping 85 km), there isn’t sufficient infrastructural capacity for land-based telephone lines here for all in need of them. I’m sure it’s all simply based on fiscal viability rather than customer satisfaction, to whit: “We do not see any infrastructure upgrade in your area in the foreseeable future…” or words to that effect. Thus, freelance consultants such as myself are forced to look to wireless connectivity to remain linked to the internet and our customers. Not to mention communicate with them on cellphones exclusively.
So when I first started looking at GPRS connectivity many months ago, Vodacom (our peerless industry giant, having not yet been caught out by the national regulator and still getting away with blue murder), deigned to offer me a service whereby 1Mb (that’s right – 1 single solitary Megabyte) of data being transferred across their infrastructure would cost me the (fairy-tale) amount of R45.00. But, they promised, it would soon be reduced according to demand – a philosophy that no South African business has ever promulgated, as additional demand for a product in every free-market in the world usually dictates an increase in price. That old supply and demand thing again. Besides, who the hell could afford to pay for data transfer at R45/Mb – it was absolutely extortionate. So apart from nicking analogue connectivity where I could from my customers who willingly offered their phone lines for my mailing requirements, I was screwed. Sentech were still not fully up and running and all the other wireless players were still probing the market unwilling to spend too much too soon.
Then within the space of less than 6 months, the rates came down to R350 per month for (wait for it) 500Mb! People didn’t want to subscribe to that because they were sure there was some mistake – there had to be! It couldn’t be that different! There had to be a contract that nailed you somewhere along the line. It just didn’t gel – 70 cents per Mb when just a couple of months back it was 64 times more expensive than that! Previously – R45 x 500 = R22,500 versus R350 for the same (or purportedly more efficient) service per month – even Vodacom had to be embarrassed by that! So all of a sudden Vodacom’s benevolence was coming to the fore? They were giving something back? Or were they buckling to pressure from ICASA and the impending advent of VOIP and the innovation of SKYPE that they’d heard about.
In my view – the latter, given the mercenary nature of South African commerce and the “rake-it-in-while-you-can” philosophy adopted in this country. It prevails in every sector of our community. I think you had to accede to global industry trends and public demands, for no business becomes that efficient in that space of time in a speculative new market.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not complaining about the cost reduction – just the manner in which you still fail to deliver the service.
For the industry leader AND based in the commercial hub of our country – Gauteng AND having been in the business for a decade or so AND having overcharged subscribers for all this time, there is no earthly reason that I can fathom why ANY cellphone call should be dropped ANYWHERE in Gauteng especially: Bryanston, Lone Hill, Dainfern, the N14 highway – ANYWHERE at all! It just shouldn’t happen with the amount of time and money you’ve had to consolidate this infrastructure. But it does – not infrequently – but every single time!
And the erratic nature of the data service anywhere in the region is also abysmal; typically while in the middle of internet access, the light on the tomato-red little MerlinU630 (I know it by name because I see the error messages on my screen so often) flickers between green and blue and back again at will, more often than not dropping the connection as it does so.
I’ve had the hardware replaced. I’ve had it upgraded. I’ve had the SIM swapped and all to no avail. Not only out in the remote barren wilderness of Magaliesburg does this occur, but in Sandton, Bryanston, Midrand, Woodmead, Pretoria – you name it – your service sucks everywhere. Your lack of reliable coverage is consummate.
And don’t even get me started on the 100km I have to travel to get some sense at Vodaworld at your data centre to confirm a fault with the data hardware – notoriously unreliable and subject to upgrades with better products by your own staff’s admission - (20 minutes of time estimated wait there) then 30 – 40 minutes in the queue at the Voda(don’t)care section to be told that the defect will have to be confirmed by a technician because the data centre guys just might be wrong and that will take another hour (it’s usually 48 hours, I’m told by the centre manager after throwing my toys at the counter. I’m doing you a favour, he goes on!) It’s a favour to have confirmed by one department of your business that another department of your business knows what they’re doing and that the customer only has to wait an hour not 2 days for them to do that?! A favour! I was, for once, speechless! But after ten minutes of debate along the lines of this letter, I had my replacement Merlin U630 and was thankfully on my way. It was reminiscent of the efficiency of the dept of Home Affairs or the Randburg Licence Department…
So why, I ask myself, should I put up with it? I won’t any longer – not at the rates I have been paying and continue to pay you.
And unless you guys get off your well-padded corporate behinds and stop hiding behind layers of electronic buffers to protect you from a disgruntled public, your ivory towers are going come tumbling down around your ears. And believe me – I’ll be leading the charge.
Is your motto:
“If they can’t reach us, they’ll eventually give up and settle for the poor service anyway – after all their alternatives are worse than us – har har!”
because that’s the message that comes through?
You sell communications connectivity yet you are the most impossible organizations with which to communicate with any degree of satisfaction.
I would like a response to this mail and some definitive solutions to the problems I have outlined before I escalate this in the media and throughout the businesses with which I deal.
You guys have gotten away with it for far too long.
Fix it or move over.
Sincerely

Paul Murray

RUGBY QUOTAS

2007-08-01T08:16:00.000+02:00

A sanitised version of this article was published in the Sunday Times two weeks back but the gist of the point always seems to get lost courtesy of the editing strokes of the media.

Sick to death of Quotas, Quotes and Quotients

Our Minister of Sport, Makhenkesi Stofile was heard to say, and I quote: “Merit selection cannot be achieved if the playing field of the participants is not level. To pretend otherwise is only to be over-hopeful or to be simply mischievous.”
This pearl of erudition was spewed forth to Reuters’ correspondents not so very long ago. This is, therefore, current news.
Sadly, however, the subject matter is not.

Is it a reflection of how things really are or is it an opinion being proffered loaded with anticipation, hope – perhaps even threat?
Me – I’m heartily sick of the element of threat when, no matter how well intended, it misses the point completely.

If we are to dissect our articulate sporting minister’s words in the first part (the second part doesn’t merit dissection in my view) – I have to wholeheartedly agree. But to drop the stompie and leave it to sputter and die in the gutter is as much use as forcing token players into a national team citing the reason as being a parallel for our statistical population demographic which some morons still put forward as a legitimate argument. First off – it makes the wild, pointless assumption that if the ratio between black people and white people is (for argument’s sake) 40, 000, 000 : 6, 000, 000, or 6.667 : 1, or there should eventually be 7 players of colour to every 1 white player in the national side. Which presupposes all sorts of things that do not belong in the calculation in the first place.

It is impossible to determine how many developing black players should have/could have been playing the game competitively and how many of them have been passed over on unfair grounds. It is a horrible reality, I admit, but attempting to force a quota-system into national rugby selection makes a complete nonsense of the problem, irks black and white supporters alike, exacerbating rather than helping the situation.

“The playing field of the participants” Mr Minister is most certainly not level but the solution is surely not projecting that imbalance, which resides in our junior and development programme shortcomings, into the national arena in the misguided hope that by placing a player of colour ahead of a more proficient white player is somehow going to make the sport grow healthily and ensure that the Springboks win. As much as I philosophically cherish the concept of sportsmanship and “how you play the game” rather than winning at all costs, it would be naïve, even foolish, to believe that that’s what the sporting public, the sponsors and the media networks want to see. They don’t – they want the most competitive side out on that field because that’s the team most likely to produce the goods and draw the bigger crowds. It’s a no-brainer really. But how do you measure that with the knowledge that the game’s development is not where it should be?
The answer, in my humble view, is quite simple - take the spotlight off the administrators who just love to see their names in print and channel those copious amounts of money through the levels where they are needed.

If SA rugby development had the appropriate focus and priority, there would be a troop of coaches (all with the same level and degree of training themselves) distributed throughout the school rugby programme thus ensuring a level playing field for kids intent on playing rugby whether black or white.

It is patently apparent that any levelling of the previous imbalances in rugby development is going to take time. That’s not a mantra of a rugby-supporting white man hanging on to the hope the sport will remain all-white – no. It’s a mathematical reality no matter how much we would all like it to be different.

But if we have the same level of coaching at all schools and varsities, clubs and provincial organisations and the money is spread according to real demand rather than elitist principles, we have a very good chance that the emerging black and coloured talent will eclipse the emerging white talent simply in a matter of time – the time it takes. At that point the numbers should take care of themselves because each keen youngster will have had the same grounding. If the black kid is better that the white one – by all means pick him but not ahead of the white kid if it isn’t the case. The pool from which the talent is being extracted will, at that stage, ensure that there is a majority of black players if that is how the popularity and enthusiasm for the sport develops.

If development is being hamstrung by racial overtones, no matter which form that takes, then knock it on the head there and then but for rugby’s sake don’t extrapolate the desired future scenario into the current situation for political gainsay and a cheap attempt at redressing the horrific injustices of apartheid. It is neither beneficial nor appropriate and it will surely lead to poorer rugby playing standards, disgruntled players, supporters, coaches and administrators. The only boost gained will be that of the egos of the fatcat politicos with their names emblazoned across banner headlines as we devolve into one rugby crisis after another.

Let Jake White and his team get on with the job at hand, sourcing players from our Currie Cup, Super 14 and similar competitions.
If players are good enough to play competitively in such tournaments then these are the guys who would have arrived there on merit regardless of their skin colour.
Let it be. Let it happen.

True rugby lovers have as much affection for Breyton Paulse, Bryan Habana or Akona Ndungane as they do for Jean de Villiers, Bobby Skinstad or Percy Montgomery – as long as they are there because they deserve to be, not as a result of political pressure and a racial motivation that belongs in the past with the unjust system that those very precepts helped depose.

How I Got Here

2007-07-31T22:36:00.001+02:00

Most people write up a CV. I drew mine - up to the time I left Jozi for Cape Town (and have been up and down like a whore's knickers ever since)....

Oddly enough, I don't make my living drawing funny pictures. Maybe I should - this is a helluva funny place after all - amid the madness and the despair - there is light and hope and always humour.

The Mandelas (once upon a time)

2007-07-31T22:16:00.000+02:00

Now as Chris Rock said (and I paraphrase): Nelson Mandela did twenty seven years hard labour, sweated his ass off in solitary confinement with few prospects of parole and yet he stepped up to the plate and did his time like a man. A true hero - the true hero of the struggle. He took everything his captors could throw at him with the possibility of capital punishment hanging over his head - he suffered long and hard.

He did all that!

Yet he wasn't out for more than six months when he said, "Fuck that! I can't live with that crazy bitch! Winnie - I want a divorce!"

Winnie Mandela - woman - a force much more powerful than the entire apartheid regime.

Amen to that.

A cartoon that I originally published in Loslyf - when the censorship laws were being peeled away and the new democracy was being born. Millions of South African men became suddenly aware that nude models did not have stars tattooed on their nipples - they'd been led astray by that pernicious Scope publication for all those years.

DISTRACTION

2007-07-31T21:35:00.000+02:00

The inceptual posting on this blog, written sometime in 2002 but relevant.
Why this posting?
I don't know. But it works.

Distraction

I am forty three years old and more observant than I’ve ever been. Thing is, I’m observing myself more than ever and strangely enough, I’m beginning to grow a firmer friendship with the person I’ve found.
Something else occurred to me a while ago but has become even more pronounced the more I observe it. It’s the phenomenon of distraction, a neo-syndrome that walks hand-in-glove with rampant materialism.
I sit on an exercise cycle in the gym and look around me, aware that I am here to focus on physical wellbeing and my own body. I am here to help empower myself a little more. It’s not about narcissism or large muscles – I think I’ve outgrown much of that. Not to say I don’t have an ego and want to look good – I do but it’s much more to do with the way it makes me feel rather than what I want to present to the world for external validation.
The more I thought about this, the more I realised that the world we’ve created is just loaded with external distractions even when we’ve supposedly made decisions to focus purely on ourselves - become quietly introspective and perhaps ask telling questions of ourselves.
The point of my exercise regime is to focus on what my body feels like when I’m performing the work and at what level it’s performing and if it’s performing more easily than it did last time. To do this I need to set up the bike the same way I’ve done before and gauge myself over the same time. I need to be looking at the machine in concert with my mind and body. And this is what I do.
Then I glance up at my surroundings.
There are four other people on cycles around me – two women, two men. Both women have their towels draped over the control console of the machines and are pedalling as if this was laundry time – a necessary chore. They don’t want to be here for this. One of them is reading a book – a text book. Studying perhaps while her legs spin with little or no effort until…? Until the buzzer goes and she moves on to the next chore, the next dumb machine. They don’t want to see how they’re performing at all – they certainly don’t want the machines to communicate with them in any way.
I think: why bother? If they believed it would do any good, they’d send their maids to do this for them and pay them a bonus for the burnt calories. Cynical, I think, but that’s how it seems.
The men are different. They are working at a more strenuous pace and only one has the console hidden. But they are both watching TV – the sports channel. Another distraction. The cricket’s on.
I think to myself: You are distracted too – you’re doing a survey. But at the same time, I’m changing resistance levels, checking my cadence, standing in the saddle to do the hill climb and regularly sipping water when I take to the saddle again. I am aware of my performance. Are they? Do they want to be? If not, why not? It’s their choice, I guess. Am I competing with them? I consider this and decide – no I don’t think so.
Is it any wonder, I think, that we have bred a generation of attention deficits? We want our children to perform in society and succeed (whatever that means) and to be focused on their goals yet we surround them with distractions. We have taught them how not to be focused. We spend our own leisure time distancing ourselves from who we are. We watch movies, drive cars, eat to quell persistent hunger, smoke, drink alcohol, buy bigger houses and nicer cars, compete with our friends and peers and hope like hell our rugby team will win the Super 12 (now 14) or the Currie Cup. Oh sure, we read as well. But what do we read? Something that will remove us from this reality for a while or something that arrests us enough to look at ourselves.
Distractions.
And what have we created with these distractions?
A world and an identity that is validated by everyone and everything but ourselves. We look in the mirror and we wish we were different but we don’t bother to continue the dialogue.
What is it that I want to change about myself?
How do I go about it?
What are my strong points?
Where can I improve at a real manageable level?
No, we generally walk away from the mirror just a little more frustrated. We can take it out on Bush and Blair – the Blair-Bush Project in Iraq. We can find fault with other people – there are plenty more people out there against whom we can measure ourselves. That’s got to be easier than actually doing something about our own shortcomings. And that’s what we do.
And when we see it in our children we are appalled - even surprised. We don’t ask them to just be the people they truly are, we ask them to be better than the others around them because that’s how you succeed. By being distracted from yourself. Instead of being yourself.
Even our humour is so often at the butt of someone else – we laugh at another’s misfortune. It shifts focus from ourselves. That’s fine if we can still laugh at ourselves though. But can we?
We want to be noticed but we don’t want anyone to look. We only want the world to see the shiny, polished, presented bits of ourselves. Is that normal? Why is everyone so afraid of the warty bits when it seems to be the most common thread that all of humanity shares?
I don’t know.
And as I reach the allotted time set for this particular session, I realise that I’ve achieved something more easily than I did last time.
I know my diet has had a lot to do with it. I know that getting a bit more sleep has also helped. But I was aware of an improvement in this performance before I even looked at the machine’s console for confirmation. It is an inner knowing. And it’s more than enough to inspire me to continue to ask questions of myself.
It’s not about bigger, better, faster, more – it’s about knowing who I am – that’s all.
Who are you?