I’m not necessarily tied by a blogospherical cord to that horrible little plonker Perez Hilton, who is usually to be found feeding at the scummy bottom of the lowest common denominator genepool, but even I have to admit that he’s finally got something right.
Hilton, who recently made the humungously famous Seth Rotherham of 2oceansvibe fame even more unimaginably famous by posting a snap of Rothers out shopping in LA with the almost-as-funny Pauly Shore, has vented his spleen against a new range of toy dolls which demand to be breastfed by small children who then, with the help of a “strap-on nursing bra”, duly “breastfeed” them.
I'm sorry but this sucks!
Heavens to dear old Betsy, this is absolute appalledness overload. I’m opting out right here. Best you read what “Outraged of LA” has to say… feed on this.
It’s all over Twitter this morning. Capetonians tweeting about their Smother City being declared an “independent state”.
And I’m all over the floor, blubbing with uncontainable mirth, my thighs black and blue with the slapping of them. This is too much of funniness.
But, scarily, I think they’re being serious. As usual. Capetonians take themselves very seriously, don’t they? Serious about everything they eat being organic and hydroponically hand-grown up the backside of a vegetarian cow. But I digest, I mean digress.
OK. So their radio station Heart 104.9FM has put out an official declaration that Cape Town is, for the month of August, independent of, um, well, everywhere else. Which will please that nice Julius Malema no end. And me.
Capetonians, forever foraging for new ways to feel good about themselves – and be seen as better than everyone else – have warmed to this theme like a sunny winter’s day in Durban. They’re all over it like a nasty rash. Which is what I get whenever I try to talk with a Capetonian, whose most recent recollection of the sun in winter is only to be found up his or her jacksy.
OK, down to business. Let’s scrutinise Heart’s declaration and pick up on a few facts, as Apetonians like to see them. It breathlessly states: “… the people who inhabit the beautiful city of Cape Town are like no other. According to research recently conducted by OIL, there is a distinct Cape Town mindset that is unique to Capetonians (OK, can’t argue with that). Capetonians were found to be more relaxed and content with their lives than their South African counter parts – it must be the sun and sea air.” Excuse me? Sun? In August? In July? In June? In September? In Cape Town? Come on.
Cape Town in winter. Not exactly ideal Pic: shaunoakes.com
I strongly dispute that Capetonians are “more relaxed and content” than the rest of us. It’s just that they are way too pleased with themselves. “Mountain this, mountain that… wine this, wine that… white beach here, white beach there… blah this, blah that.” Very windy, Capetonians. Very windy, Cape Town.
Check out this howling south-easter from OIL’s Velma Botha, very windily spinning out the “research” done for Heart 104.9FM: “Capetonians generally are found to be happy with their surrounds, other than (sic) in Johannesburg and other cities where people are constantly on the lookout for something better.” Naughty Velma. Not true. Capetonians are RESIGNED to living with gale-force winds, dark days and incessant rain which has just recently flooded parts of the city. Especially the disgraceful Cape Flats shanty-sprawl which, intriguingly, doesn’t appear to have been incorporated into the new Republic of Cape Town. Helen Zille must be giving all Capetonians night classes in “The Art of Spin”.
Notice how Velma’s “research” takes a pop at Jo’burg and “other cities” – presumably including the sub-tropical, sun-all-year-round paradise that is Durban? I don’t need to be a psychologist to correctly interpret this as a sign of mass insecurity among Capetonians, do I?
Winter in Durban: not at all bad... and neither is our World Cup stadium, which makes a mockery of Cape Town's half-sucked Polo Mint confection, doesn't it?
Before linking you with the full text of Velma’s and Heart’s head-spinning propaganda, I’ll leave you with this last little over-polished gem from CapeTownMagazine.com, which has respewed out all of the preceding tripe: “Cape Town’s charm and a combination of factors all work together to enhance the global appeal of Cape Town when compared to other 2010 host cities. World-class beaches, ample tourist attractions and a cosmopolitan night life make Cape Town the must-visit host city for visitors during 2010.” Yeah, right…
Bob Skinstad. Once the Golden Boy of South African rugby, now a smooth-tongued and insightful commentator opposite (and somewhat lower than) the towering television presence of a surprisingly articulate and jovial Kobus Wiese.
Bob is also, now, a sparklingly SA-positive outfitter of shoes for children whose families cannot afford footwear for them. What? Well, it goes like this. Bob has set up the “Bob’s for Good” campaign online (wait, I’ll link to it just now) and for every pair of right tasty moccasin-type pair of shoes you buy off his website, a pair of shoes will be donated to a South African child who is currently trotting around barefoot.
Nice. Simple. A top-notch concept. A flamboyant doff of the Fred Hat to Bob and I’m looking forward to my moccies which are wending their way to me. May I request all my Hatpeople to become good Shoepeople for a day by clicking on Bobs for Good and parting with 600-odd rand. This will get you a stylish pair of shoes and, yes, it will get a poor kid somewhere some nice, comfy footwear in which to walk to school and back.
Above headline more or less courtesy of Laugh It Off.
Justin Nurse. “Carling Black Labour”. T-shirts. You know about Laugh It Off. Clever. Sharp dudes. Brave too. Also Tom Eaton. Hayibo.com. Love these guys.
I don’t love Telkom quite as much. Hellkom and I go back quite a long way. Too long a way. Too painful. Too much of agonyness. So, when I popped into Corner Cafe in Durban the other day to say hello to owner Judd Campbell, eat one of his top-notch Full Glenwoodian Breakfasts and make full use of his wireless connection, I bought a Laugh It Off tee from the Wardrobe shop around the back.
Light blue. With a nice Telkom logo. And the words: “Telsomeonewhogivesashitkom”. Slogan underneath: “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
Sorry about the creases but the 'seriously stressed' look is very in for Telkom sufferers
This T-shirt has caused a mass outpouring in connectnessness among the degenerates at my local, The Bush Tavern in Umdloti. They’ve all been whacked by Telkom. Time and again. Too much of pissedoffness.
There are big, fat and ugly corporations. And then there is Telkom, the biggest, fattest, ugliest and couldn’t-give-a-shittest of them all.
And they have exacted a most horrible revenge for my purchase of Justin’s cool T-shirt. My ADSL has been “down” for the past five days. I’ve phoned Telkom 28 times. ADSL still down.
So, here’s a few words for our great country’s premier telecommunications corporation. I am sure that somewhere deep down in the belly of the awful beast that is Telkom, there are a few competent people. I would like to ask those few competent people to kindly leave the room. Now. Go. Please.
Good. The rest of you stay. Hmmm. There’s a lot of you. OK. Form lots of long lines. Now listen up. This is what I am going to do. I will come up to each of you, look at you in the eyes and… and… tweak your nose. Quite firmly. But, while I execute this rather civilised act of revenge – one that might be considered to be more than acceptable behaviour given the challenges of living in an emerging democracy – I want you to know this: in my mind, what I am really doing, what I so want to do, is swallow 937,412 bullets (one bullet, one Telkom employee – of the incompetent kind), and as I look each of you in the eye, I will vomit over you so hard, so forcefully, that the bullet takes out your eye.
Got it? Are you in full receipt of my drift? Verstaan jy?
Good. Now get somebody to the box at the end of my road and flick that switch. Because I have been wearing my “Telsomeonewhogivesashitkom” shirt for five days now. And I’m whiffing so hideously that the joke is starting to wear a bit thin down at the Bush Tavern.
Australian rugger players, when they’re not getting beaten up by Bok fans outside our bars and clubs, fancy themselves as being quite tough. Well, Aussies generally just fancy themselves, full stop.
So, for those of them who can read, here’s a little something to digest before lights out tonight. Er, that’s light’s out at 9pm at their team hotel, not lights out outside Karma or Jade or the Bang Bang Club at 3am.
With a grateful nod to my new friend and Cape Town funnyman Seth Rotherham of 2oceansvibe fame, I republish this gem about why our Afrikaners are just so blerry big and strong and hard. First printed in, I pork you not, the Wall Street Journal of all media organs.
Yussy, I enjoyed that. Especially the bit where former Bok Tiaan Strauss describes how he used to catch wildebeest to keep himself in shape for international matches: “Sometimes you tackle them, but mainly you sort of catch them by the horn and wrestle them to the ground.”
I like that. Did you like it, Stirling Mortlock? Good. Because apparently Bakkies Botha has been doing a little gentle sparring with kangaroos ahead of tomorrow’s game against YOU and a few of your mates at Newlands. Latest score? Bakkies 36 Kangaroos 0.
Which wouldn’t be a bad prediction to go with for tomorrow.
My dear Hatpeople, please sit back and take a butchers at this (you might want to make a cuppa first, or get your man to shake you up a nice pink drink and drop some of those yummy Caribbean seasalt and balsamic vinegar chips into a bowl?).
Right, on with the show…
OMG! You almost choked on that chip, didn't you?
So much of beautifulness, hey? My Durban Hatpeople require no introduction to the magnificence of the Moses Mabhida Stadium and it’s landmark arch, which can be viewed from virtually every point in the city and inner suburbs, usually after Durbanites have picked themselves up off the floor and, trying hard not to faint again, simply immerse themselves in its architectural splendour.
For the sake of by now emerald-green-eyed Cape Town readers, I could stop there. But I won’t. For reasons which will soon become obvious. Fine with that? OK, so I have seen entire families stop their cars on NMR Avenue (now renamed something like Saddam Suttclivich Lenin Boulevard) and kneel on the grassy kerbside, minds clearly boggling at the stunning sight before them. Any theories that they may have been looking for car keys lost after a Sharks game will be summarily dismissed. And executed at dawn.
Now clap your eyes on this…
This will get UFO-spotters twitching
What the chuff is that? You might well ask. Well it’s not a UFO. And, believe it or not, some higher being has not dropped a humungous and already well-sucked Polo Mint into the middle of Cape Town’s Green Point. It is, in fact, the Smother City’s best effort at providing a World Cup Stadium. I pork you not. You can trust Fred.
And, it pains me to tell you, what you just witnessed is an artist’s impression. Of what it will look like when the infernal thing is completed. Poor artist. Even Turner would have had a job dressing it up to look better. You can only do so much with a Polo mint. It never strays from being white and round with a hole in the middle. Nor, it seems, will Green Point Stadium. And they both suck.
I bet that overpaid ponce Cristiano Ronaldo is praying that Portugal are drawn to play in Durban or even Rustenburg. He wouldn’t want to be seen in that, would he?
My dearest “SA-positive” Hatpeople. It pains me to report that there are those among us who are insisting that the vuvuzela, the South African ‘People’s Choice’ of passion-blowing instrument at local football matches, be dead and buried by the time that nice Mr Blatter brings us our 2010 World Cup finals.
Nobody is more excited than me about WC2010. But why does South Africa have to roll over, have our collective tummy tickled and accept a European-oriented Fifa ruling that our vuvu, which has been blown with fanatical gusto at PSL soccer matches for years, be out-schmarketed at our greatest sporting showcase by elitists who don’t give a toss (of a coin?) for the ordinary man and woman in the street who fill the coffers of the great and the good at Safa week in and week out? Just because some Spanish player (Xabi Alonso) whinged at the Confed Cup that a stadiumful of vuvuzelas wasn’t very tuneful to his European ears?
It makes me violently ill. So it’s OK for the workers to build the new stadia for R2,400 a month (before they protested for an increase last month) but it’s not cool for them to rock up at those self-same stadia (if they can afford a ticket) to “paaarp” on Bafana Bafana at the World Cup finals? Unless it’s with an First National Bank-sponsored “kuduzela”. “How can we help you?” More like “How can we shut you up?”
SA soccer legend Lucas 'Roo' Radebe has been roped in by FNB to promote the lightweight 'kuduzela'. Eish!
What next? The banning of those brilliant outsized sunglasses that Kaizer Chiefs and Orlando Pirates (and South Africa) supporters wear with such feverish abandon? The doing-away with those outrageous home-made, um, headworn billboards that are worn on miners’ helmets or hardhats? Who can forget the mindboggling sight of that soccer fan who wore a gutted fish over his head? Too much of awesomeness! But “Fifa” security suits are going to say to him: “Sorry, Sir, you can’t bring that fish in here. Please eat it now or throw it into that bin with the vuvuzelas and other offensive items.”
Eish. Welcome to Fifa’s sanitised version of South African soccer. Made more palatable for a worldwide televised audience. South African soccer Blatterised. The best opportunity ever to show the world the unique flavour and unbridled joy of our truly, madly, deeply passionate fans well and truly lost.
Allow me to briefly interrupt this protest to bring you a televisual presentation of our beloved vuvu…
Nice. Better than the Scottish bagpipes, hey? Thanks to SuperSport, Matty Morgan and YouTube for that.
“SA-positive” people simply cannot allow their ears to witness the death-rattle of the vuvuzela. Danny Jordaan of the 2010 LOC (Local Organising Committee) and sponsors FNB, and all the other “stakeholders” (how I detest that word!) cashing in on the unique celebration of OUR beautiful game, must be made to see the consquences of their submissiveness to Fifa. And be made to look down the barrel of our collective vuvuzela. Viva Bafana, Viva Vuvu! Paaaaarp!
Despite the existence of Pieter “Die Snor” de Villiers and the resolute resistance of all South African rugby fans to coming up with something better to sing at the stadium than a chant usually associated with Spaniards at a bullfight, the Springboks are undeniably the best rugby team in the world. By far.
It's Mils Muiliana's turn to be smashed. But which Bok is doing the smashing? Your answers in my Comments feed, please! Pic courtesy of SARugby
John Smit’s current Boks are the most complete rugby outfit to have played the “hooligans game played by gentlemen” for some time. You can debate among yourselves as to when last any team played better. Perhaps the Maritzburg College 1st XV of 1974, as created, coached and inspired by Skonk Nicholson? No, I didn’t play in that team. I took the pieces of oranges out at half-time.
So here we are in 2009, out-All-Blacking the All Blacks. Showing them how to play the style of game they invented quite a few years ago. Fronting up, each player putting his body on the line for the badge and for the nation, wrecking the opposition’s gameplan, bossing the scrums and the mauls (I won’t even mention the Matfield-owned lineouts) and generally playing to the very edge of the laws to gain the advantage. McCaw must be muttering “Bloody Boks” into his cornflakes every morning in abject admiration.
OK, so Morne Steyn kicked his kicks. We should be shocked if he didn’t. That’s what he is paid to do. It’s about the whole team. Every one of the 22. And, yes, Player 23 too. They could have made “Man of the Match” out of any one of our heroes who took the field on Saturday. Spies, Fourie, Beast, Smith, Habana, De Villiers, Brussouw, Botha, Smit, Du Preez (perhaps in that order) were simply enormous. I wasn’t going to mention names but my passion simply overwhelmed me.
Anyway, here’s a joyous celebration of our world champions and Tri-Nations-kings-to-be by Shaun Custers of Rugby Rants. Right here. Click!
Unfortunate that Fourie du Preez should be described as “the world’s best SCUM-half” but, hey, “Bok-positive” bloggers push their words out at the speed of Habana. And Shaun does insist that he didn’t “attend any fancy-pants high school”. Nor did I, Shaun, but Pelham Primary did teach me how to spell.
Ole, ole, oh-lay, oy-vey! (Please guys, let’s bring back Shosholoza. For singing out aloud!)
There’s the integrity and bravery of “SA-positive” satirical cartoonist Jonathan Shapiro (Zapiro) and many others around the world… and then there’s the shamelessness and cowardice of Sacha Baron Cohen (Bruno).
Sacha Baron Cohen (as Bruno): coward
Borat was mostly funny, Bruno amusing in places… but the Middle East is not one of those places. I’ll leave it to veteran Sky news journalist Tim Marshall to tell you why Sacha Baron Cohen has sunk to a new low.
Marshall is spot-on. And The New Yorker review of Bruno does hit it on the head: “.. you don’t see dumb humiliation. You see tough weathered types who have met many dunderheads in their time, and this fop is no different – he’s nothing to them, a speck, and they’ll brush him off the instant he leaves the room.”
Meanwhile, Cohen is guffawing all the way to the bank. Somebody, please hit this pathetic plonker on the head. Hard. And stick the vid on YouTube.
Isn’t that just the most beautiful thing you ever did see? Didn’t you love the bit where Mrs Bean titters about turning down a marriage proposal from an adoring fellow Twitterer. Didn’t get her 103-year-old heart all-a-twitter, did he?
No. that’s because Ivy loves me. And I love her. But not like that, silly. I just want to take her her tea and shortcake of an afternoon. And give her a big hug. And, if she’ll allow me, a little peck on the cheek.
Aaaah. There’s no sweeter tweeter than our Ivy. Bless!
