Thursday, June 18, 2009

More than just the game

So, plan was to go out with a couple of buddies to watch Bafana. To watch Bafana make good on 13 years of empty promises. And they didn’t just win, they were sexy. Sexy football. As I watched the game, I had what I like to call an eyegasm.

But the plan was to go out and watch Bafana.

So I’m chilling at host-buddy’s place with driver-buddy, while waiting for broken-watch buddy to arrive. Broken-watch buddy came so late that pissed off buddies had to watch the first half at home. But we accepted it like colon cancer and moved on.

So not wanting to travel tooooo far for one half of soccer, we tried out the only pub in the extremely dry suburb of Pinelands, affectionately known as God’s Waiting Room.

“It can’t be that bad can it?”

So, expecting a nice vibe from a bunch of drunken football fans, we were not so pleasantly surprised to walk in on…

FUCKING KARAOKE NIGHT. It was, for lack of a better phrase, an absolute fuckshow. And the football was on silent.

At this shitheap of a pub, there were some interesting people. There was white Serena Williams manning the karaoke machine. There was the Nancy-boy who winked at another guy as he walked off from his sterling performance (and I tell you no word of lie – he was wearing a United jersey). Then there was the drunkard sleeping by the mandatory slot machines who woke up every 5 minutes to flash his nipples in front of the projector screen. The projector screen that showed the silent football.

But the icing on the karaoke/football cake was Lionel Richie. Lionel Richie sang a song. On the stage. At the karaoke. He had a mullet, just like Lippe himself – I swear to Oprah it was him. But wait, there’s more. If you call now, you’ll get a second Lionel Richie. And we did. A second Lionel Richie hobbled up to the stage to sing a real Lionel Richie song. No word of lie.


All we needed was one more and we’d have once, twice, three times a Lionel. I’m sorry.

All of this in 45 minutes plus extra time.
Naturally, we left and went to the centre

Monday, June 1, 2009

Don’t save the whales

For anyone who may have been holidaying in Eastern Europe (with no access to South African TV or newspapers), this is what happened in Cape Town this weekend:

A couple of Pilot whales thought it would be a good idea to chill on the sand for a change, so they decided to beach themselves in Kommetjie. A couple of hippies tried to send them back into the water but they kept returning. So the cops/chops decided to shoot them in the head and dress it up as Euthanasia.



The hippies were understandably upset. Just a couple of points for them to consider before they get out their placards:

Firstly, saving the whales is very 70s. These days, people are more worried about important things, like saving the planet. So recycle your paper and buy green stuff rather.

Secondly, if they’re beached, they’re beached - it’s natural. Don’t shoot them, don’t send them back, it was meant to be. You can hold a memorial service for them if you like, but leave them alone (and shooting them wasn’t the right thing to do either).

Thirdly, do you run around trying to save springboks from becoming lion chow? I don’t think so. Dying is natural. It’s the way the ecosystem and the food chain work. (There are the people who hunt and kill springboks with their big-boy rifles, which is also goes against what nature intended, but that’s not for here.)

And just something to think about: if they’re Pilot whales, surely their ‘navigation’ should be a lot better?

Just a thought.

I’m not siding with the cops, I’m not siding with the hippies – I’m on the fence.

Don’t save the whales, leave them alone.