By now, you’ve probably read about the child pornography ring that has been brought to justice, and the Christian Social Council that stood back and didn’t do a fucking thing to intervene, when they could have done so MONTHS, NAY YEARS!! ago. If they did their homework and follow-ups like ALL social workers should, they could’ve detected the abuse earlier on, and the exploitation of those children could’ve been avoided.
I understand that the so-called Christian Social Council is not responsible for the actual sexual and emotional abuse of these children, but isn’t the greater evil at play here the indifference of supposedly good men and women?
My colleague drafted a letter to the CSC board, check it out below. And feel free to give the Christian Social Council a buzz and ask them to drop the Christian and the Social from their title, they don’t seem to bear any of the qualities
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9 December 2010
For the attention of:
Rev JH van Loggerenberg (Chairman) Fax: (012) 333-0424
1. Regardless of whether you personally stood by and did nothing whilst the most abominable evil under this sun was perpetrated against little children, I can only pray that you have been propelled into action by the damning reports and letters such as mine to take decisive and swift action against those who were involved;
2. That you are reviewing your governance structures and processes to ensure that NEVER again will this be allowed to happen in any institution that you are personally involved with.
According to your website “Our main aim is to give hope to people in despair’ Edelweiss Schieke, Director CSC North.
As a mother I am sickened that any child has to endure what these children had to endure, but most of all I am completely and utterly mortified that a so-called Christian centre that has been set up with the purpose to ‘ truly give hope to people in despair’ has seemingly been achieving the direct opposite.
This is truly one of the saddest situations that I have ever had the misfortune to learn about. I could not be part of this evil by simply standing by and doing nothing. I hope that my letter, as insignificant as it seems, would find a touch point within your board and somehow add impetus to you doing the right thing.
Disclaimer: Some names have been changed to protect (myself from) others (who will most likely try to sue me for sharing this).
I’m sommer going to use the names of the Charlie’s Angels actresses. I would use the character names, but speaking fondly of a Dylan or an Alex might give y’all the wrong idea. Mind you, Cameron and Drew aren’t much better either… Ag, just go with it. I’m the only man in this story. The only real one, anyway.
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Men and women. God love ‘em. I can’t speak for the female populace, but I can speak for most men when I say that we really enjoy seeing someone of the opposite sex nekkid. Preferably in the flesh. Preferably with her consent. Preferably without paying (*cough* *cough*, Baber!)
A few years ago as I started my illustrious career as a rad public relations consultant, I went on holiday with a bunch of girls. It was my sister and two of her friends, me and two of my girl-friends (Note the hyphen to indicate the accursed platonic state of things). That’s five in total for those keeping score at home. Fun. Especially considering that 80% of these girls were single. And not my sister.
The New Year was around the corner, and on the 30th of December we made a bevvy run. We. All 6 of us, piled into a 1979 Volkswagen Jetta, the model before the Fox. Remember that car? If you’re thinking ‘small’ then you’re thinking of the right car. And with 6 of us in it, I almost had to resort to steering the thing with my Johnson, but back then it wasn’t that talented yet (Yeah, like it can do any tricks other than the hula-hoop thing…)
Aaaaaanyway, I went into the Protea Drank Winkel (liquor store), and it being a long queue, started a holiday convo with the chap behind me. He was friendly enough. He caught me outside to say cheers, and like any/most men would, I pointed toward my car filled with bikini clad women (and my sister, who was wearing her church clothes) and said, “I’m going home with them” He scoffed, so I added, “And can you believe, only one of them is my sister.”
The chap politely asked where we lived, but it was my turn to scoff, which I did, got in and drove off.
Unfortunately we couldn’t help ourselves and had a huge kuier on the 30th, which meant that we all had a bit of a babbie1 on the 31st. No New Year’s party for us. I wasn’t too bummed, I mean, I still got to spend the time with my friends, and that’s all they are after all; friends. No devious scams that I could blame on the New Year’s Eve festivities, I’m just not that guy. Still, everyone felt bad for bailing on the night one is supposed to party one’s lungs out, so we decided to go have our own little New Year’s jollie patrollie2! Well, as soon as we could stomach the idea of binging – that took about a day.
While my sister and one of her friends decided to stay home and watch movies, I loaded the car with the other three buxom beauties and off we went to Hermanus, about 30km from where we were summering. The bar slash club we ended up at was the Gecko Lounge, or something like that. Schalk Burger, theSpringbok/Stormer/WP rugby player was also there on the evening, and I knew I was going to talk to him sooner or later, I just needed to get some alcohol in my system. I gave myself a two-drink limit before I switched to soft drinks, I was driving after all.
My second drink, aptly named “Zombie”, contained a formidable mix of all sorts of 43 percents. Thing is it also had Stroh Rum in it, but you don’t taste it, hell, the Zombie tasted like koeldrank3! Needless to say I started ordering some for my touring party.
The Zombie gave me the liquid (read: Dutch) courage I needed to go and have a chin-wag with dear old Schalk and perhaps make a happy memory. I walked up to him, introduced myself and wished him a happy new year. Then I told him that I’m going to be on the front page of Die Burger4 the following day. He asked me WHY I was going to be on the front page of Die Burger, and I laughingly replied “Want ek gaan vir jou bliksem!5” Thankfully, Schalk laughed with me instead of making me swallow my own teeth and we met a few of his friends. They were lovely people and the four of us had a fantastic night out. The Zombies helped too.
We hit the road well after midnight, intrepid travellers, 30 klicks from our destination.
On the drive back, Lucy saw a sign for Botrivier, a small town not too far down the road, but in the opposite direction we were headed. She asked, “Ali, can we go to Botrivier?”I raised an eyebrow in disapproval, (also known as Die Valkoog6) and gave her a stern glance in my rear-view. “What do you want to do in Botrivier at this time of night, everything’s closed” I said in a tone that I kinda hoped would put her off the idea.
“I want to go swimming!” she continued. “Swimming? There’s no way I’m driving to Botrivier at this time of night for you to go swimming”
Die Valkoog
“But we’re ALL going to swim” Lucy said with a sparkle in her eye, obviously brought on by the Zombie(s). Though I wanted her to enjoy her vacation with me, I also really didn’t want to drive to Botrivier, so I said the only thing a sober, calculating, evil genius would say. You know, that thing that no matter how it’s answered, you win:
“The only way I’m going to swim now is if we all swim in the buff”. I hadn’t even finished my sentence when all three of them sang along in agreement.
There I was, driving along a dark road in the middle of the night, an obscure song blaring on KFM, somewhere between Hawston and the Kleinmond turn-off, with three girls ready to rid themselves of the terrible burden that is their clothes. I thought I should check my hearing, perhaps give myself a pinch or a slap (on the cheek face… /valkoog ). I turned to Lucy and Drew in the back seat “Ok, but it’s kinda pointless to drive 20km out of the way for a swim, plus we don’t have towels and I’m guessing you three are going to be cold once we’re back in the car, perhaps it would make more sense to go swim in Kleinmond?” With smiles as big as the one I had in my mind, the three agreed yet again.
We parked as close to the shoreline as possible. The local municipality installed cricket-like spray lights on the one side of the lagoon, the effect of course being that looking out at the ocean you had an absolutely brilliant and clear view, but looking back towards the lagoon/parking lot/dunes you could only see bright lights and silhouettes of everything else. We left the cellphones and wallets in the car and gallantly walked down the beach. It was about 1:30 in the morning and nothing could beat that bracing sea breeze. Well, one thing was about to…
When we walked far enough down the shore, confident that we wouldn’t be giving anyone a special show (especially if they haven’t paid their TV licence – ROOFKYKERS!) we stood in a little awkward circle, casting questioning glances at one another. Being a (read: THE! Oh yeah, high-five) man, i started to disrobe – I was only wearing three articles of clothing, but thought it a good idea to turn around and, at the very least, try and create that illusion of privacy. The girls followed suit and pretty soon we had the makings of the best Timotei ad ever!
I instructed my cohorts that we’re going to hold hands, because I’m not going to run in and have them admire my manly behind, and perhaps chicken out. So, in the most gentlemanly fashion, I pointed my chin towards starlit sky, offered them my hands, and the three of us galloped into the ocean, giggling like a bunch of tweens that discovered the vibrate setting on their new cell phone.
The water washed away the underlying tension and we all started splashing around and having a grand old time, getting knocked over by the waves, laughing, splashing, admiring what there was to admire in the moonlight… Good times. Well, until Lucy got knocked over, and when I helped her up she said, “I saw something moving at our clothes”. My immediate response was a playful, “Aww Fuck off! You’re imagining things” But she insisted she wasn’t. I whipped around, purely because this nightswimming was Lucy’s idea (technically), why would she ruin it if she wasn’t genuinely concerned? I cast my gaze towards our garment pile, slowly making my way out of the water, trying to catch a glimpse of the goings on over yonder, but the spray lights made it impossible to see anything other than a huge outline.
I couldn’t figure WHY the pile looked so big, I mean, how much clothes were we wearing? It was when I finally reached the edge of the water that our clothes pile got up and made a break for it.
Without thinking, I bolted after our clothes and the little thief trying to make off with it.
Unencumbered by, well, anything, warmed up from the nice swim and lubed to the crack with seawater, I started gaining on the young vagabond. Although we didn’t run a marathon, there were a couple of thoughts going through my mind:
1. Some people stand in the darkness, afraid to step into the light (My mind sometimes makes connections in a very obvious way)
2. I wonder what my bumly bum looks like to girls behind me.
3. What the EF am I going to do if I catch this punk? Blap him? (Google it)
4. Who are those two silhouettes he’s running towards? /Valkoog
5. Screw my belongings, I just want my watch
So I screamed after him, “Please, just leave my watch!” And I’m guessing he got a fright when he heard how close I was and dropped the pile. I quickly stopped to at least put a pair of pants on before continuing the pursuit, but as I turned to pick up the pile, Lucy SHOT past me like a lightning bolt, obviously intent on whooping a mini motherfucker’s ass. “WAIT!” I shouted, not knowing who the other two individuals ahead were. Thankfully, she did. Drew and Cameron came jogging up and we started to rifle through our shit to make sure we had everything. I looked up to see that there was no one on the beach anymore, not the short-legged burglar or his accomplices on the edge of the lagoon.
“Are you guys ok? Do you have everything?” I asked and surprisingly, my companions were ok. I’m guessing it’s probably because they were still running on Zombie fumes which softened the blow. We could find nearly all our belongings, save Cameron’s watch and glasses, Lucy’s WonderBra and one of Drew’s sandals. Remember, we went out, so it’s the fancy bra and the pretty sandals.
We walked up and down our tracks, eventually kicking up one of the sandals, when we saw a man with a flashlight approaching from the parking lot. We were deeper in and the spray lights caught him, we could see he didn’t really pose a threat, so we continued with our search at what was slightly after two in the a.m. The lone traveller from the parking lot walked up to us, “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re looking for something, can I help?” he asked politely “Sure” I said, “We’re looking for a watch and a WonderBra”.
“A watch and a… A WonderBra?” he asked, probably checking his hearing like I did an hour ago “Ja, a wonderbra. It’s a long story”
Before long, we found the WonderBra and decided to do the ol’ heel-toe out of there. We laughed our asses off on the way home in the realisation that this is a story that will be told for years to come. I mean, what if that little creep got away with our clothes? The car keys? How would we get home? Sure, it’s only 2km from the beach to our house, but doing that naked at 2:30am? Not so sure that was an option.
We all slept peacefully that night, all’s well that ends well, after all. And again, i think the Zombie helped…
We never found the watch though. I think the ocean claimed that for a prize, the price for our debauchery. A price we happily paid.
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1: Babbie, short for Babelas or Ababelas, Afrikaans word for “Hangover”
2: Jollie Patrollie – Having a party or a good time.
3: Koeldrank – Soft drink / cold drink.
4: Die Burger – a daily newspaper in the Western and Eastern Cape.
Disclaimer: Just so you know, this post is not funny at all. This is my blog and I’m talking to myself about movies. Feel free to skip.
There are thousands of religions in this tiny world of ours. It is the opiate of the masses after all.
Instead of going into a brief exploratory paragraph on world religions and its deities, let me tell you about mine – believe me when I say I’m keen to hear all about yours!
I love films. I love movies so much that I cannot be friends with anyone who doesn’t rank The Shawshank Redemption in their top 10 favourite/best movies of all time at the very least. In fact, I once asked a person what their favourite movie is, when they replied “Mean Girls” I turned around and walked away. Rude, I know, but what the EF do I have to say to someone whose favourite movie is Mean Girls?! (And yes, I watched Mean Girls, so suck it, Lily!)
In fact, after listing the things I look for in a woman, like sense of humour, intelligence, open mindedness (that one’s rather important as I have many quirks), all of these are part of the negotiable column, I just want someone who is at least 10% as interested in film as I am. She can be a toothless humpback whale that accuses me of stealing her hemorrhoid cream and using it as bagel schmeer, as long as she digs movies, that’s ok. That way I know how to shut her up for two hours should push come to shove… Alas, I digress.
My sister and I have been collecting movies since the second half of primary school, and by the time we were almost done with high school, we had filled six bookcases with close to 800 movies. Of course, the digital age fucked it up for everyone and the 800 odd movies had to be converted to DVD. I lost count when we broke 1000, and that was almost seven years ago.
Our latest project is to watch all the movies on IMDB.com’s Top 250 list. (For funsies: http://www.imdb.com/chart/top )
But if film was a religion, who would be its god?
There are a few directors I follow/watch (for lack of a better word) religiously. The likes of Clint Eastwood, Tony and Ridley Scott, Quentin Tarantino, Frank Darabont, Martin Scorsese, Stanley Kubrick, Spike Lee, Paul Thomas Anderson, Wes Anderson, Jason Reitman, Steven Soderbergh and George Clooney. After watching (500) days of Summer, I added Marc Webb to the list as well, but his next film will make or break his position on the list.
If you have a penchant for the old stuff, you can never go wrong with Orson Welles, John Huston, Jean-Luc Godard and when I’m in the mood, Roman Polanski. Some of Woody Allen’s flicks are good, but again, you have to be in the mood. These are just a few of my favourite directors; okes who can MAKE movies. And it’s not hit and miss, everything they make is magnificent, even if it’s not necessarily popular at time of release (Shawshank made more money on video than at the box office).
What excites me is that I still have so many directors to get acquainted with, like Sergei Eisenstein, Akira Kurosawa and Ingmar Bergman; I know exactly what they’ve made, but you try finding it on DVD in South Africa (Thank you Amazon!)
But you can’t really refer to these fine gentlemen as directors, can you? They are filmmakers. They have their preferred DoPs, they have their editors, they usually work with the same producers, and has Spielberg ever used anyone other than John Williams when it comes to scoring his flicks? When has Tarantino used anyone other than Sally Menke to edit his masterpieces (RIP Sally)? Isn’t cinematographer Wally Pfister and writer/director/producer Chris Nolan the most magnanimous marriage in recent film history? These gentlemen are involved in every aspect of the story they want to tell, and you can bask in the glow of their unique influence from beginning to end.
In my brief time on this earth, there is one filmmaker that has outperformed his peers in my heart and mind, and that is Mr. Christopher Nolan.
The first Nolan movie I saw was Memento. The neo-noir masterpiece sparked my interest in the genre and I subsequently fell in love with Chinatown (Polanski), The Killing (Kubrick), Double Indemnity (Wilder), Touch of Evil (Welles) and the Maltese Falcon (Huston). Films it would’ve taken much longer to consider if it wasn’t for Memento. At the time it was groundbreaking (for me!) I mean, I was familiar with non-linear story lines, a la Pulp fiction (Tarantino) and Bande à part (Godard), but the way it was done was so bloody effective, especially considering the protagonist’s mental condition. Good grief, just thinking about it gives me the sensation of huffing paint thinners – you know, that high, warm and fuzzy feeling? (Never tried it, so don’t judge me prematurely! Perhaps a better metaphor would be like diving into a swimming pool filled with declawed kittens… no?) Mr. Nolan captured my imagination with Memento, and managed to do the same with each of his subsequent projects.
After the goodness that is Memento, Nolan directed Insomnia, but I don’t like counting that under his films. What sets Insomnia apart from the others is that he wasn’t as involved in the conceptualisation and story formulation and writing like all his other films.
Take Tarantino as a shining example for my reasoning – he has a director credit for Four Rooms, but during the opening credits of Kill Bill Vol 1, it read “The fourth movie by Quentin Tarantino”. It’s not that he disliked Four Rooms, but it wasn’t his in its entirety (Personally, I think the only thing he wrote that he wasn’t a fan of was Natural Born Killers, Oliver Stone fucked it up. Tarantino doesn’t count True Romance either, obviously, Tony Scott directed, but I think Scott did Tarantino’s screenplay justice). Insomnia, although a decent film, is not 100% Nolan’s like Memento, the Batmans, Inception or The Prestige.
Following Memento (incidentally, ‘Following’ is also a Nolan movie I haven’t seen yet, but thanks to us living in a global village, it will be delivered between 18 and 20 November – Merry Xmas Me!) Nolan brought us the gritty, somber, meticulous masterpieces that are Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, melting faces the world over.
His Batmans left the preceding 4 Batmans an unwatchable mess; just thinking of them makes me want to gag and throw up at the same time. Those flicks will make anyone gavomit. And I say that with the greatest of respect for Michael Keaton and Tim Burton, but with slightly less respect for Joel Schumacher, who did an ALMOST JUST OK job with Batman Forever, but Batman and Robin? Schumacher did to Batman what the Khmer Rouge did to the Cambodians; ‘twas a celluloid war crime. The man nearly destroyed the franchise, and let’s face it, Batman is awesome.
Speaking of the Batmans, I’m not going to lie, when I first read that Heath Ledger was going to be the Joker, I shat a brick. Heath Ledger? You mean the chop from 10 things I hate about you and that Knight movie? Don’t get me wrong, I liked him, but as the Joker? ESPECIALLY after the earth-shattering reboot of the franchise, a la Batman Begins? I was unsure. But Nolan said, and I quote, “He’s fearless”. Then I watched the Dark Knight – of all the performances of all actors in all movies of all time, Ledger’s Joker will forever be the benchmark for sheer, unequivocal brilliance. (RIP Mr. Ledger, you were one of the most incredible talents of our time, and the world is a poorer place without you.)
These days my axiom is “In Nolan I trust”. I read rumors about there being a Robin in the next Batman, and let’s not kid ourselves, Robin has *NEVER* been cool. Never. In fact, Robin has always been a bit of a wanker. But I’m not worried because in Nolan I trust. If Robin features in the next Batman, I have no doubt he will be every bit as rad as he possibly can be. However, I kinda doubt that we’ll see a Robin in ‘The Dark Knight Rises’, Nolan’s second greatest talent is secrecy and sowing misinformation.
His latest work, the glorious eye- and mindgasm inducing Inception, is my number one movie of all time (It’s mine, it doesn’t have to be yours). I’m not selling out Shawshank, its right up there with Inception… holding hands… God, wouldn’t those two have beautiful babies?
Watching Memento, Batman Begins, The Prestige, The Dark Knight and finally Inception, each film is better than the next. I am concerned about the 2012 Batman, The Dark Knight Rises. I am concerned that it is going to be so good, that it might kill me. I don’t know if my heart or my mind is geared and ready for another Nolan, especially when I’m still getting over Inception – I just bought the limited edition blu-ray boxset, shooting script and spinning top this morning. That’s probably why there’s a 2 year gap between his movies, not because he’s working, but because he doesn’t want to kill us with an overload of awesome.
The discipline this man brings to work every day, the talent, the creativity, the imagination and the intelligence, these things are what makes him my god. I watched the Dark Knight nine times in the past 10 weeks, because it’s not just a movie, it’s an orchestra of sheer overwhelming awesome, from the moment the Warner Brothers’ logo appears on screen, you get absorbed by the finely crafted, painstakingly-pieced-together story. First a brief bank robbery that kicks dust in the eyes of some of the greatest screen heists, then onto the caped crusader that hurls himself onto the roof of a moving van four stories below, a sort of crashing ‘fuck you’ to the chops who were emulating the Bat and still asks him, “What gives you the right? What’s the difference between you and me?” Despite having incapacitated an entire gang without any weapons, and of course hurling himself onto aforementioned van, as if THAT wasn’t answer enough, Bats replies, “I’m not wearing hockey pads.”
When I watched Pochahontas in Space Avatar back in February, the technical achievement of that film shocked me into silence. I couldn’t say anything until I got a drink in me. By contrast, Inception makes Avatar look like it was made by a bunch of drunken four year olds. (Hey, this is my blog and my opinion, you don’t have to agree, I’m not writing this for you, I’m writing this for me, and I’m writing this for the man who will never read it, my god, Christopher Nolan.)
This blog post is not drafted as a poke in the eyes of believers and I apologise if I offended anyone I may have offend by equating religion to film. Now why don’t you buck up and get over it – at least I’m being serious, unlike the flying spaghetti monster nonsense. I wrote this entry to exclaim my love and passion for film. I’m a Nolan fanboy, and I don’t care if you tease me about it – at least I’m not a mac/PC or Xbox/PS3 fanboy clone.
I take movies very seriously. Perhaps too seriously. I love a good flick and I adore a good filmmaker, but calling what Chris, Emma, Jonathan and Wally have created in the past 12 years ‘good’ is such a gross understatement that it’s more of an insult than a compliment.
If Nolan would let me, I’d quit my job, fly to England/America and just spend the rest of my life carrying him everywhere he needed to go, bad back be damned.
Mr. Nolan, I salute you and congratulate you on your future Best Director Oscars. And BTW – Doodlebug was AWESOME!
Editing copy for my dad’s website. People would always ask what my dad does for a living, and i can never give a clear answer, purely because i don’t know, or rather, i’m too stupid to explain it.
Here’s a short profile of my dad and his experiences, i know I’m biased, but you’ve got to admit, it’s pretty impressive – i have a long way to go before measuring dicks with this chap.
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In his 32 years as a business consultant, Jan de Coning has opted for “radical and dramatic change” in all the work he’s undertaken. Not surprisingly he’s been taken hostage in a mineshaft for 11 hours, brokered peace between feuding political movements and helped turn “loss makers” into “best of breed” companies.
He cut his teeth with the former South African Defence Force when he was contracted to facilitate the formation of the South African Medical Core as a fourth arm of the Defence Force. South Africa was the second country in the world, after Belgium, to adopt this system. From there he moved to Anglo-American to assist in the rationalisation of Amcoal from 28 collieries throughout RSA into 13 internationally competitive operations.
Having developed a taste for high conflict work where fast change was required, Jan turned to transformation of a different sort. He became involved in the implementation of the United Nations Resolution 435 prior to Namibian independence where his job was to resolve conflict in the Eastern Caprivi Strip between the Mafwe and Basubia tribes, SWAPO and the administration of the time. At the same time, Jan was training Sasol group members in influencing and negotiation skills.
This “political” experience honed his sense of timing, of knowing the right moment to roll-out change. After independence, Jan saw the need to help companies reposition themselves for the new Namibia. He worked with organisations such as the Namibian Broadcasting Corporation (then SWABC), AGRA, the agricultural co-operative, the Academy of Namibia (a tertiary education institution), the Municipality of Windhoek’s integration after independence, and the First National Development Corporation of Namibia.
Back in South Africa in 1986, Jan was employed as an organisational development specialist for Finansbank and his projects included the privatisation of Iscor. When Nedcor bought out Finansbank it “laid the table” for Jan to become more involved in the repositioning of commercial companies, such as Reumech, which switched from making armoured personnel carriers to trailers and tractors amongst other things.
Jan feels his seven years in merchant banking gave him the opportunity to become more integrated in his approach. In 1992 he joined Barry Venter and formed Organisation Development International (ODI) and took it from a two-man company to 12 senior consultants. When the focus changed towards a greater concentration on right-sizing approaches, Jan opted out and formed IBFN (International Business Facilitation Network). His introduction to the aerospace industry came in the mid nineties, and he helped Kentron (now DAS) with their strategy. One of biggest success stories of that time was when he and Mike Crause took Kentron UAV’s from a department on the verge of closing to a vibrant business with an order-book of over R500 million. The other was with AMS where he assisted in the management buy-out and assisted with the marketing strategy to ensure a very favourable exit strategy for the then management through the take-over of AMS (Aerospace Monitoring Systems) by SAAB Grintech.
Jan has also been involved in AngloGold Ashanti South Africa, and the turnaround of the Mponeng mine. His relationship with Anglo’s Gold mining operations started in 1995 and is still going strong with AngloGold Ashanti to this day.
He assisted Anglo Platinum initially with the establishment of the Modikwa Platinum mine and then with the implementation of their “Fit-For-Future” strategy and is still involved in assisting individual mines with strategy and roll-out processes.
He had a strong association and love for the mining industry as his clients also included Alexkor, Xstrata, Lonmin, and others.
Some of his projects in the tertiary education industry included the strategic repositioning of Technikon SA as well as the preparation of Vista University for absorption into the new tertiary education landscape of South Africa.
The Klein Karoo Agricultural Co-op’s repositioning into a commercial group structure was the highlight of his work in the Agricultural industry.
Jan assisted in developing globalisation strategies for Italtile and Ceramic Industries as well as the turn-around of Betta Sanitary Ware and the strategy and potential optimisation of the new state of the art Pegasus tile factory
In 2005, I went to the New Orleans Mardi Gras, mere months before Katrina fucked it up for everyone. I was there for a week, and trust me when I say that I have enough stories from that week to entertain you for an entire evening, but there is one story in particular that I am going to share with you today; The story of Seth and Jinny on Fat Tuesday. I don’t particularly *WANT* to tell this story because my dad and my uncle both read my blog, and they will most likely lift a brow in concern. Then again, I only have one person to answer to, and I already told Jesus I’m sorry back in 2005.
Let’s kick off by learning something, shall we? If memory serves, Mardi Gras is the French for “Fat Tuesday” and it signifies the end of the carnival season. Fat Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday, Ash Wednesday (for all you heathens)is the first day of Lent, and Lent, of course, is the 40-day period you have to give up a vice or indulgence, like cigarettes, red meat or porn.
The Mardi Gras is effectively a suip* session of note, folks overindulging like mofos because come Ash Wednesday, yo’ ass has to keep itself pious for 40 days (46 including Sundays). We were there for seven days, arrived on a Friday, left on a Friday. A one week period is 168 hours long. Of the 168 hours spent in ‘Merica, we were sober for about 90 minutes. I can assure you that that is by no means a boast, but you try staying sober with over a million drunk, randy idiots around you, it’s annoying, and we could only take about 90 minutes of it.
Incidentally, I discovered the best remedy for Gout – keep on drinking. Seriously. I went into a drug store and asked the bird behind the counter for Gout medicine. The attendant, who (in retrospect) probably had no pharmacology training of any sort, was perplexed by my condition, “Gout?” she queried. Absolutely smashed out of my fucking mind at 5am on the morning of day 2, I eloquently responded, “Yes, Gout. When the acidity level in your bloodstream is so high that it results in severe joint pain, typically brought on by high acid intake – in my case too much wine and beer”. “Aisle 7” she said. Aisle 7 it is. There was no Gout remedy in Aisle 7. Apparently, she only took one thing from what I said, probably ‘high acid intake’ and sent me to the heart-burn products. And that’s exactly what I bought, acid indigestion medicine, stuff that would do absolutely NOTHING for my Gout, but if you’re going to eat and drink kak for a week, Pepto Bismol and Zantac 75 could come in quite handy at some stage.
Sorry, I’m getting side-tracked. Still don’t know what the Americanese is for “Gout”. Where was I? Oh ja, Fat Tuesday. In New Orleans, Fat Tuesday is a city wide costume party. I bought a pimp outfit, had the hat, coat and cane and I looked hawt! Think about it this way, beauty is in the eye of the beerholder – 90 minutes sober? That’s more than anybody else in New Orleans in the same time period. It’s a place where even a Rosie O’Donnell would have some sort of appeal. Lol, Rosie O’Donnell… Appeal… (Pienaar is probably the only chap that’ll get that)
Shit, I completely forgot to introduce my friends from Austin Texas! Ok, put Fat Tuesday on the backburner for now.
The view from the balcony – The streets look quiet in this picture, compared to the night-time activity
As guests of Southern Comfort (A big shout out to Joffy Senekal and Ken Rose – two of the awesomest gentlemen in the history of the universe. Hey Joffy, DJVIJPI) we had access to the SoCo balcony. Now balconies are the place to be. They’re open for 24 hours, the food and booze is free, its two meters above the screaming, horny, drunken crowd, and this is where you chuck beads to the judgement-impaired beauties in the street. Balcony tickets can’t be bought, you have to be invited. Having access to the balcony, as well as the power to invite anyone up at any time, automatically makes your Johnson three-inches longer.
It was on the SoCo balcony that I met Seth and Jinny over the course of the first weekend, a beautiful young married couple from Austin Texas. They were great people with wonderful accents, I mean, you’ve heard it in movies, but a real life southern accent (especially when inebriated) rocks the Kasbah. Being the heterosexual stud that I am (ladies) I spent more time with Jinny than with Seth – he was stuck to the railing, tossing beads to the flashers down below, and I got kinda bored with that. Yes, men, you can get bored with boobs, I never thought it possible, but anyone who spends an evening on a balcony in New Orleans during the Mardi Gras can probably back me up on this point. So ja, Jinny (who was probably also gatvol of the ocean of breasts just outside the door) and I had a lekker kuier inside – I can assure you that my motivations and intentions were pure, but I can’t say the same for Jinny…
Cue Fat Tuesday. What an absolute fucking debauchery. You know those images you see on the internet that make your jaw drop? Yeah? Well, let me tell you one thing my brother, them pictures are tame in comparison to the shit that was happening right next to us all day. This is by no means a complaint, I loved it, what a surreal experience! My jaw dropped in awe on quite a few occasions as we were walking through the dorp**. Picture the uncensored version of the parties Maryann hosted in the second season of True Blood. Rof en onbeskof. Lekker!
The ginger no one would fuck with
The crazy afternoon was followed up with a crazy evening, the millions below trying to go as mad as possible before going to mass the next morning. The town was alive. Mad. Depraved. Awesome.
Seth and Jinny were on the balcony again. My Margarita-swilling ass just had to say hello to my new friends – they were drunk and pleasant as usual. Jinny and I started comparing costumes, she was dressed like a slutty-something, I was dressed as A-Pimp-Named-Slickback (you have to say the whole thing), with my purple suit with zebra print fur finishing. Fancy. For some obscure reason, Jinny and I decided to trade hats. Now, for the life of me, I can’t remember what I said, but when Jinny put my hat on, I paid her a not-so-innocuous compliment, which is roughly about the time she lunged at me, sucking my face off, just as Seth turned the corner. I was drunk, but not drunk enough to forget that she was married to the chap looking at us. I pushed her away in a bit of a panic, gasped for air, turned to Seth and exasperatedly, yet politely, asked him not to beat the shit out of me for kissing his bride, raising my hands ever so slightly to fend off any potential attacks, actively searching the room with my peripherals to find any one of my three South African comrades to come and save me from a fatal beating. Without missing a beat, Seth just said, “Don’t worry about it” stepped closer and kissed me.
I pushed him off, stood there frozen for a second, just glaring at the two of them. Without a word, I bolted. I went to my room, my bathroom and splashed cold water in my face. “Did that just happen?” I asked the Alex in the mirror. I had no idea what to do, but I was definitely not drunk enough to participate in whatever those two had in mind. But it’s Fat Tuesday, the maddest day of the entire year, even crazier than New Years. There’s no reason for me to hide in my room, I’m a grown-ass man with back-up, I’ll go back down to the balcony and suss out the situation, no reason I shouldn’t enjoy the festivities at the very least. When I got to back to the balcony the bartender called me over and said “If you want your hat back, they’re in room XXX” and gave me the Royal Sonesta keycard for room XXX.
There I was, on the balcony, my friends with their own agendas, either tossing beads to the eager flasher-gatherers below, or chatting up anyone who’d care to listen (and on Fat Tuesday, everyone will listen). I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only rational thing any man would, I ordered another drink.
I look back on my short life, and I can’t fault any of the learned men who stated, in no uncertain terms, that you regret the things you don’t do more than the things you do. I can happily say that I have very few regrets, but every Halloween, when I decide what costume to wear for the party, I regret that I don’t have a hat to go with my awesome pimp suit.
* Suip – To imbibe copious amounts of alcohol.
** Dorp – Small town, in this case, the French quarter of New Orleans.
