Planning ahead...

As a relatively newly married couple, the GoodWife and I seem to be on the tips of so many people’s tongues in terms of expectancy. In the greater scheme of things, life takes a progression that is almost predetermined: Meet, date, engaged, married……kids.


Honestly, if I had a buck for every person who asked us the question: ‘So…when are there going to be some little Roets’ running around?’, I would be able to start decorating the nursery! Seriously, maybe I should. I can picture it now – the Smiths and the Jones’ would have paid for the crib, the in-laws for the paint and decorations, the Woodalls would cover the clothes and the Thompsons would have the first months putty-disposal-devices all wrapped up!

PEOPLE, we aren’t havin spawn just yet!



Please don’t get me wrong and not with wanting to sound vain, but I think we would make fantastic parents…when the time is right. I suppose the time is never really right to have kids, but at the moment we want it to be wrong. Both the GoodWife and I are really keen to enjoy each other as a married couple first, before having to worry about whose turn it is at two in the morning to silence the screaming offspring. I like my sleep too. We want to do things together, enjoy our hard-earned money on ourselves for a bit, travel and just be silly! Children are a massive responsibility and, finding it tough to look after each other is not going to be made any easier with a halfling in the mix.

At the other end of the scale I applaud all people who are thinking of, having, or have had children. They really are fantastic little creatures.

This takes me back to when I used to teach swimming to little tiny tots. They really do have such fantastic characters, uninhibited and trusting beyond any measure of doubt. Each child is different taking a little slice of each of their parents’ personalities and using that as a base for their own. You have to love their inquisitive eyes and probing questions, their fumbling fingers and brave steps. There is a rainbow that touches down on every child’s head because I am sure they are all tiny pots of gold. I look forward to having kids, and no, before you ask it, not yet. I understand my attitude seems to have changed through the course of this post. It may appear that I have convinced myself that maybe kids aren’t such a bad idea after all – I never said they were. They are fantastic, and I look forward to having my own, just not yet.


In the mean time everyone, let’s just keep asking. I think I will demand a buck next time.


Yours in reproduction



Brado

P.S.  Congrats to Nat the Fat Rat on her baby to be!
P.P.S.  Cheers to http://www.sangrea.net/ for their wicked free pic...
 
 
 
 
 

Daydreamer...

Here I sit… trying to conjure up a witty and somewhat funny post for this haphazard blog. As I stare at the blank screen I come to the conclusion that there is not too much happening in my mind at the moment. I am sure that many university students at the same stage in their various academic years would wish that they could also have the bliss of my ear to ear breeze. If I sit long enough the lack of thoughts in my skull seem to start to resonate like the feedback on a microphone. I must admit though, the whine of the silence is far more tranquil than the rush-hour jam of thoughts frantically trying to be processed, sorted and stored in preparation for examinations!

I think I’ll go for a walk…clear my head.

Keep it really real

(Pic ala-Google)

En-route entertainment - break out the popcorn!

We often sit in it and even though it brings no pleasure at all there is mostly nothing we can do but continue to sit there, in the traffic!


Please, all you clever scientifical people out there – all the rocket scientists, levitation specialists and people with more brain than they know what to do with…I’d even go for time travel…make something that can get me where I am going without the headache of having to wait!!! A rocket powered time-sled pulled by beautiful Nubian princesses, now we’re talking!

This definitely reminds me of an earlier post of mine, (A passion for the open road – chips the cones…) the traffic part, not the Nubians.

The GoodWife and I went off to Johannesburg to the wedding of a really good friend of mine, TheGough. Johannesburg, or JoBurg to the locals is about 450km (280mi) from our little house and is a far cry from the beautifully serene plot that we call home. The concrete fingers tickle the smog-laced sky and the cars are pumped around a network of black veins. This city is sick though. It has high cholesterol and its veins and arteries are clogged. The lifeblood of this bustling metropolis is being forced to a standstill as red flags are waved to warn you as you approach the road maintenance crews. The JoBurg city council has invested something silly like R510 million into the upgrading and widening of the highways around the city in lew of the upcoming 2010 World Cup to be held in South Africa.

FANTASTIC!!! I’m all for improvement, but the poor sods that have to sit in the jams while they are happening are the ones likely to have the coronaries!

On our way home after a fantastic weekend we were on one of the two four lane highways that merge to form one six-lane highway out of the city. This Gillooly’s interchange is a nightmare at the best of times. Now, however, with those six lanes down to just two the nightmare becomes mind altering!
As we inched (literally) our way out of the city, people in the cars beside us became the objects of some serious amusement! I saw a man pick his nose and then try and flick the gremlin out the window while his wife was preoccupied in the back seat trying to breastfeed a screaming newborn. So many children with their faces glazed to the window burning furrows into the tar with their stares. And then, the pièce-de-rèsistance – the moment I thought I would just park the car where it stood and walk the 450km home because it would be way faster, I saw it. It was a sign, and like an oasis in the desert it shone and sparkled in the distance. It was nestled on the grass verge between the two directions of the highway up ahead. It was a fantastical sign of rather epic proportions fifteen feet across and about ten feet high, mounted on a trailer with its own generator to operate the thousands of tiny lights that would illuminate in a predetermined pattern to spell out its message.

Then I felt it creep up on me it started with a little tickle in my belly and before I knew it, it had built into a humungous chortle that guffawed from my face. My laugh caught the attention of the man in the truck next to me. He followed the line of my pointed finger to the same sign and he too started chuckle. And so the laughter spread through the few cars within eyeshot of the sign.


Well… this is what it said:

In bright orange letters the sign warned us:



ROADWORKS AHEAD…SLOW DOWN!

A taste of home...toilet paper to chill please...

I grew up in the costal city of Durban in the province of Natal in South Africa. The Durban harbour was the home to the Dutch East India Co. which brought many Indian nationals to the province to work in the sugar cane fields during the 16 and 17 hundreds.


The car licence disks for vehicles in and around Durban now bear the prefix ND…Newest Delhi as Natal has the highest population of Indian people outside India! As we all know the Indian culture is famous for its curry as much as the Italians for their sports cars, and Natal is no different. Natal Indians are aggressive in their use of spice and even have a special powder/power mix called: Mother-in-Law-HELLFIRE! When I received this e-mail a while ago, it sparked a knowing laughter in me that could only be quelled by a pint of milk…you will soon see why. Enjoy!

There is an annual Curry Cook-off inabout June/July. It takes up a major portion of a parking lot at the Royal Show in Pietermaritzburg, a small city just inland from Durban.
Judge #3 was an inexperienced food critic named Frank, who was visiting from America.


Frank: "Recently, I was honoured to be selected as a judge at a Curry Cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking for directions to the Beer Garden when the call came in. I was assured by the other two judges (Natal Indians) that the curry wouldn't be all that spicy and, besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted".

Here are the scorecard notes from the event:


CURRY # 1 - SEELAN'S MANIAC MONSTER TOMATO CURRY...

Judge # 1 -- A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.
Judge # 2-- Nice smooth tomato flavour. Very mild.
Judge # 3(Frank) -- Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that's the worst one. These people are crazy.


CURRY # 2 - PHOENIX BBQ CHICKEN CURRY...

Judge # 1-- Smoky, with a hint of chicken. Slight chilli tang.
Judge # 2 -- Exciting BBQ flavour, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
Judge # 3-- Keep this out of the reach of children. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich manoeuvre! They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.


CURRY # 3 - SHAMILA'S FAMOUS "BURN DOWN THE GARAGE" CURRY...

Judge # 1-- Excellent firehouse curry. Great kick.
Judge # 2-- A bit salty, good use of chilli peppers.
Judge # 3-- Call 911. I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drain Cleaner. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting pissed from all the beer.


CURRY # 4 - BABOO'S BLACK MAGIC BEAN CURRY...

Judge # 1-- Black bean curry with almost no spice. Disappointing.
Judge # 2-- Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a curry.
Judge # 3-- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Shareen, the beer maid, was standing behind me with fresh refills. That 200kg woman is starting to look HOT...just like this nuclear waste I'm eating! Is chilli an aphrodisiac?


CURRY # 5 LALL'S LEGAL LIP REMOVER...

Judge # 1-- Meaty, strong curry. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick. Very impressive.
Judge # 2-- Average beef curry, could use more tomato. Must admit the chilli peppers make a strong statement.
Judge # 3 -- My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chilli had given me brain damage. Shareen saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if I'm burning my lips off. It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw them.


CURRY # 6 - VERISHNEE'S VEGETARIAN VARIETY...

Judge # 1-- Thin yet bold vegetarian variety curry. Good balance of spices and peppers.
Judge # 2-- The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. Superb.
Judge # 3-- My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulphuric flames. I am definitely going to shit myself if I fart and I'm worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Shareen. Can't feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone ice-cream.


CURRY # 7 - SELINA'S "MOTHER-IN-LAW'S-TONGUE" CURRY...

Judge # 1-- A mediocre curry with too much reliance on canned peppers.
Judge # 2-- Ho hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chilli peppers at the last moment. (I should take note at this stage that I am worried about Judge # 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably).
Judge # 3-- You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with curry, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava to match my shirt. At least, during the autopsy, they'll know what killed me. I've decided to stop breathing- it's too painful. Screw it; I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air I'll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.


CURRY # 8 - NAIDOO'S TOENAIL CURLING CURRY...

Judge # 1-- The perfect ending. This is a nice blend curry. Not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
Judge # 2-- This final entry is a good, balanced curry. Neither mild nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when

Frank farted, passed out, fell over and pulled the curry pot down on top of himself. Not sure if he's going to make it. Poor man, wonder how he'd have reacted to really hot curry?

Judge # 3 - No Report.________________________________

 
 
heh heh heh heh heh......... ooooh, I think I'm gonna cry!
 
Later - Brado *out*

A Tribute:

To the stories that opened my imagination and to the old man who told them.
This post is dedicated to my great grandparents,Robert Adam and Gwendolyn Florence Law. Married for more than 73 years AND STILL RELATIVELY SANE!
The two most inspirational people in my life. Nana and Pops…


Pops would sit in the lounge of the flat that he has lived in for the past fifty-odd years and tell stories of ‘the old days’…when men were men and – well, not quite! There were the tales of his childhood and all the mischief that they caused in their little neighbourhood in Brakpan. (a gold mining community near Johannesburg)

• Now, I was one of the smaller boys and that leant me to being the key part in much of our fun. The toilets back then weren’t waterborne sewerage like nowadays. They were of the bucket system. There was a big bucket under a ‘seat’. There was a heavy flap that opened to the street so that the sewerage men could come along in their truck and empty the buckets in the evenings. On a stiflingly hot highveld night we would sneak out of our houses, a whole group of us, and go for a swim in the public pool. I would have to lift the flap in the street, slide the bucket to one side, hold my breath and worm my way, head first up and through the toilet. It was the bigger boys who couldn’t fit through the toilet and had to scale the wire fence that alerted the guard one night and sent us sprinting off into the shadows before even getting our toes wet!

Living on and around the mines in Brakpan, meant that there were a whole pile of labourers who you shared the general surrounds with.

• The bigger boys all had bicycles and they would get their dads to weld a little extension onto their rear axles. Just big enough for a little squirt like me to stand on. At the mines in Brakpan, all of the mineworkers would live in shanty-type settlements near to the mines. In the evenings, before all of the men got home all of their wives and girlfriends would cook supper on large fires outside their homes. These barrels of flame were our targets as the streets were lined with them. The bigger lads would ride as fast as they could down the alleys and as we passed these cooking fires the chap on the back would stick his leg out to the side and kick over the drums. We would howl with laughter as we rode off, women frantically trying to put out the spread of burning coals and cuss at us at the same time! As their arms flapped in desperation we would line up the next target. I think back now…it probably wasn’t very kind of us to do that…

These are just two of the many that he told me. He is a crumpled up old man now, but he still sparks a fire of life in me every time I speak to him and of him. I sometimes hear him laugh as I do…and that makes me laugh even more!

I found this pic when I was mooching in one of the old drawers at his apartment and came across it again the other day. It’s Pops in the good-ol’-days, twenty-something and playing tennis in a belt and button up shirt. I will admit, I distinctly remember him flipping out the first time he saw Andrè Agassi wearing black at Wimbledon, so I suppose a white belt be the reason why!! He is a fantastic old crooner and he is supported by a woman with a cast iron will and a heart of fudge, Nana. They have been married for 73 years this year. Yes, seventy-three, LXXIII…sorry reiteration is a flaw of mine, but that is a VERY long time. I’d be chuffed simply to live that long. Well, it’s a challenge then: even if  my good wife and I come half as close, I reckon we will have made it.

Love you lots Nan and Pops.

STudy BReAK @... NOW!

I have the end of my degree fast approaching and the drive to actually engage brain and begin the slow process of osmosing the information into my skull seems to be waning about as fast as Hammy on Red Bull! Oddly, my mind is so pre-occupied with the thoughts of plans and schemes to not work that if I used this energy to study, I’d probably be done by now. SIDETRACK: Yes, everything possible has been done to delay the onset of the study bug. A list of some of these would be a good idea!


• Convincing myself that my collection of “How I met Your Mother” needs to be rewatched because you never catch everything the first time you know.
• I really have been meaning to clean the windows in the house, they really are looking grubby, I’ll start learning after that.
• I tell you, every time I walk into this bedroom, see clothes lying around. I had better pick them up before they get walked on…and while I am here, the closet is pretty messy, I think that could do with a tidy.
• Paint, yes I must paint. Who could I paint for, yes a picture of a camel for my mate in Dubai. But how would I get it to him?

Maybe I should get up now… no, five more minutes.
And this is how my mornings have started for the last two weeks - with the intent to study, but then a barrage of reasons to postpone the start gun. It’s no wonder I am exhausted before I even get to think about my coffee, I have done the strategic planning of a small African country before even lifting my head from the pillow. And all of this just to decide to do nothing!

Who are those people who are able to get up at four am and then study for three hours before breakfast and then still face a day at work before coming home for an hour or two on the book before bed?!? Hello, R2D2 and C3PO are missing their cyborg, ol’-buddy-ol’-pal. I am a firm believer of last minute pressure. It has worked for me in the past…to some degree. I need that pressure to thrive. If there is no pressure – I tend to make it for myself, it’s quite easy really. If there are three weeks to do something, why work for three weeks??? Smash it in the last two days. 48 hours solid and a tanker of Super-Java for fuel!. The pressure will produce!

Somehow now the pressure seems to have built enough. And it’s just occurred to me that this degree has been building here over the past four years. Four years worth of pressure into three weeks of exams. Damn…that is enough pressure to make my eyes pop!

People - learn, study, swat! Just get it in your head. The windows will wait and the clothes will be fine on the floor, just make sure the coffee is in hand and the pages are open! It’s time to aim for that A…hold thumbs for me.

Later!

Spidey...

Staring at the ceiling while my good wife reads her soppy novel before bed, I can only but wonder what in the world that odd little dot is that keeps appearing at the same time of night in the same place on the ceiling, night after night. Is it a beetle? Or is it a spider? It must be some kind of bug… oh well.

This is great and well, seeing it, wondering what it is and then rolling over and falling asleep. But the “oh well” turns into a “holy crap!!!” if that little dot so much as moves an inch.

I am convinced that if that bug were somewhere else in the house, say the lounge or the kitchen, the reaction would be exponentially less adrenalin filled. I am quite convinced that the reason is something that forces us to protect the place we sleep, the place that we will be so totally vulnerable in for a number of hours. If your house is burgled, the main place to protect is the sleeping area. When a security company does the assessment of your home, they will almost always separate the sleeping areas from the rest of the home with a portcullis type gate, heat seeking missiles and into-personnel mines. The truth is we are vulnerable when we are asleep and so inspect the integrity of our sleeping area before we doze off. Now that area being invaded by that most stealthy of predators…the arachnid…unacceptable!
Did you know that a person, on average, will swallow eight spiders while they are sleeping, during their lives? I wonder what little Spidey would hope to find in there. Perhaps the leftovers of your soup supper that contained a fly. The fly which you asked your waiter about? Perhaps there was more than just the one that you saw?

What is this weird phenomena that something so small can stir such unease in one person that they are forced to stealth out of bed, choose a badly selected piece of weaponry and smash said bug to smithereens?! I think most of us are convinced that the spider, with it’s ninja-like skills and complete lack of fear and sense of self preservation will just launch itself at your face just to spite you. Will he do this just to laugh at your terrified face as he free-falls towards it? Highly doubt it……but who knows, he might……

Sleep tight!

www.natthefatrat.com

http://www.natthefatrat.com/ is a seriously rad blog, and you should all check it out.  I hope my blog has similar character when it grows up to be big and strong with a pimple on it's bum!

Have the fun times!

Happy-House-Husband

Finally, after months of waiting, we have a new job.
In actual fact, my wife has been well employed for the past few years, it was just myself who was starting to wonder if there really was any point in furthering myself. You must admit that when things get cushy and comfortable, when life is at the least relatively stable, there is no real reason to uproot and search for something better.
Having been an intern at Michaelhouse for the last five years, there have been no real pressures, other than those of a few exams and meeting the deadlines for the ten sports comments due at the end of each quarter. I have been able to play the happy-house-husband for the past year and have actually enjoyed it to a certain extent…getting home early enough to do a really bad impression of the late great Floyd and surprise my good wife with a severely tanned piece of toast with some remnant of… yes, well - supper.

It is a phenomenally rewarding and satisfying feeling that follows when you see that look on your wife’s face as she arrives home after a long day and there are flowers and supper waiting.  It does, however, absolutely, completely, totally, utterly and utterly (another one for effect) and utterly nothing for the manliness that now dribbles weakly through my veins. I want to be the provider and the bread winner, not the bread burner. I want to go out and earn the money, kill the lions and provide the family with fresh meat every day… sorry, that cave-man scene tends to be a powerful attractant of any thoughts masculine!   But this is what every man was wired to do. Any man, however liberal he claims to be, will eventually break down into that testosterone driven provider with his fists clenched, the correct buttons just need to be pressed.

The old adage: God saw it fit to bless men with two heads…but only enough blood to run one at a time, rings true in every man, sometimes it’s just hiding.

I am definitely one of those men…I need to provide, and with me just being a student teacher, I was unable to earn the cash that would satisfy, not my wife, but me. I needed to have that cash to give. This lack of man-money led to me feeling like a bit of a collared monkey – an extension to my wife’s handbag.

Well, the degree is now nearly gotten and the job secured and yes, before you ask it, I still earn less than my wife. But I feel just a little more manly now.

The 'Why?' according to me...

This oddly simple, but yet weirdly complex question is the only question that always – and I mean always demands a serious explanation. There is no simple answer to the question: Why?

The explanation as to why we as human beings ask: ‘Why?’ is rather Darwinian in its definition and we do therefore need to define Darwin. (This statement comes at a wickedly controversial time, due to the fact that there is all of that nonsense going on in the US over whether it is right to teach evolution rather than the creation theory to school-children.) Quite simply, Darwin states that he reason why the human species is the dominant species on the face of this little planet is due to the fact that we question everything that is around us. In fact, we question our very own existence with a question way more potent than: ‘How?’ or ‘When?’, but with, my favourite: ‘Why?’

Why are we even here on this planet? Why are we the dominant species? Why were we given, or did we develop the ability to ask why? Well, I am glad we did whatever it was that we did to deserve it, because I simply cant imagine what an incredibly exciting life, let’s say, a cow has:

• 0500 – wake up to someone pulling on your nipples
• 0530 – start eating
• 1200 – lunch time! Eat some more…
• 1300 – have a drink…yummy, water…
• 1310 – fertilize the grass
• 1311 – eat some more
• 1600 – lick some salt
• 1800 – go to sleep

All the time – BORING!!!

I much prefer the intensely complicated way of even the most boring human day, our complex thought patterns, emotions, likes, dislikes. Even the worst feelings and emotions are better than a complete lack of them, they let you know that your brain is still alive. No really, life is not all doom and gloom. Understandably, we don’t tend to enjoy unhappiness as much as we do the opposite, but we do need to embrace the emotion. It would be rather odd if there was no such thing as unhappiness. Impossible actually, seeing as the entire universe is an entity that relies completely on balance, without which the spinning discs of existence would fall out of the nothingness in which they hang. Much the same in the world of emotions: in order for us to fully appreciate the beauty of happiness, there needs to be an equal amount of unhappiness. If there was none of the negative, we would have no idea how tooth-rottingly sweet the positive can actually be.

And so again, I ask: Why?

Why are we here again? Well, there are many theories for you to choose from, some more believable than others. Just pick one and stick to it. It will be in this belief that you will find your contentment. Make sure you smile while you are doing it and remember: the beautiful rose grows at the very end of its thorn covered stalk. Don’t be a prick while things seem tough, just be patient.
I know why we are here...do you?

RUGBY FEVER – A lot of rucking pressure!

A school master’s prerogative is to protect the child or to use the archaic term be ‘in loco parentis’ (in the place of the parent). This is the foundation that allowed my mother and many mothers since, to sleep at night knowing that little darling was in the safe and capable hands of a school that was being paid in blood, sweat and beer money from hubby. A school that was forming and moulding her little lump of child into a man worthy of showing off at office parties, introducing to prospective business partners – and his daughter – and knowing that there would be no eminent embarrassment to have to try and clean up. I know I, as a future father would be more at ease allowing my future daughter out on a date with a well groomed fine young gentleman rather than a long-haired, gum-chewing slang-slurring bloke…’My broo’!
This is why parents pay a considerable fortune – something similar to the gross domestic profit of a small African country – to send sons to high school. Sorry I nearly forgot, there is also the education factor, but that is the little cork floating in the waves of the stormy Atlantic that is RUGBY!!! We all love rugby. Next to soccer it is probably the most supported sport in the country. Yet when it comes to the selection of schoolboy players and the so-called support of their coaches, rugby season becomes somewhat of a blur. I have in my experience watched normal, well rounded schoolmasters transform overnight into tormented, testosterone oozing monsters of focus the instant rugby season starts. Coaches swear that much more often, because it seems to ‘focus’ the boys more. They need to be pushed like that if we are to succeed. Boys don’t understand you if you aren’t tough on them. “Bollocks!” After a spate of bullying incidents in schools around the country being dealt with and parents, outraged at how this type of incident can be allowed, they stand on the touch-line throwing fuel on the fire by placing so much emphasis on the game of rugby. It is suddenly alright for masters and coaches to do things on a rugby field that they would never dream of doing in any other arena.

“You will attend at least two practices and one fitness session a week if you want to have a chance at selection.”(this, stated one week into the first quarter…still January!)

Timmy is in matric and a keen player who will definitely play in the second fifteen, but does have a real chance at the firsts if he works hard. He plays in the first eleven cricket too. Timmy has cricket practice two afternoons a week and rugby practice two afternoons a week. Only two rugby practices are compulsory, the other two are voluntary, but then according to his coach: so is selection! Captains practice is on a Friday and rugby fitness on a Wednesday morning. Fitness testing has to be fitted in too. If he doesn’t do his rugby gym program he probably won’t make the squad. There is a cricket match on Saturday afternoon and his girlfriend is coming to watch with his parents. There is also matric to worry about, one or two A symbols are needed if he is to gain access to his degree course of choice. Oh, wait…he also needs to be a boy and have friends and enjoy life! Midlife crisis at seventeen retired at nineteen! How fair is it that we place so much emphasis on so much in such a short space of time on our boys?

Granted, rugby is not the only arena where this type of pressure occurs. Coaches and parents alike live their youth’s failed aspirations of glory onto their shiny-eyed players and athletes. Aspiring to teach what they could not do. Do we consider that when boys are in our care that they cannot make their own choices? They aren’t too young to make their own decisions. I made up my mind at the age of three that I did not like brussel sprouts – didn’t much care how good they were for me. The same for sport; let the child decide. If he is happy in the D team, be happy with him in the D team. Encourage, don’t pressure!

Too much pressure turns you into that playground bully. Now how parentis is that?

Electoral entrance fee

I wrote this a while ago...notably, before the elections...you get the idea. Enjoy!

Elections are nearing almost faster than the Zim dollar falls and many people it seems are still sitting rather complacently in their armchairs moaning at the state of the country. We regularly hear interviews and reports of grievances being harbored about how the government has done nothing about the state of the country since 1994 and how all of the exciting promises made have since been found to be hollow and worthless.
Heed this my fellow South African: Without want of being self righteous – was it not we who voted the current authority into power and who continue to re-elect this rule of lies and fallacious hope?

Driving between Harding and Richmond a few days ago I was struck by the distinctive beauty of the slopes of the hills. So South African – the swells of green, seasoned with the stark pinks, blues, yellows and greens of low cost housing. It struck me that there is only residential demarcation in these areas, perhaps a school, a soccer field and the occasional ‘spaza’ shop. Where is the infrastructure to employ the few thousand people who live here? Do these people eek out a splinter of living by leeching off of the few members who are able to commute the sixty-odd kilometers to work? I think these people and so many others are bone idle! What happened to wanting to contribute to society, even if it is with a small menial job, or even starting your own empire? If you want it badly enough, there is always a way. We are all too happy to sit and moan. The electoral campaigners plough through these low income areas with their propaganda, leaving a furrow of brainwashed individuals believing that their water will be flecked with vitamins and their bills pre-paid just because their vote went in the right direction. Fact is: yes, these people are South African citizens, and yes, they all have a right to vote – but should they? Now I really need to state that I firmly disagree with the fact that South African ex-pats living all over the world feel that they have the right to vote for a government in a country that they left for somewhat rainier pastures with long white clouds overhead. I’m afraid if you leave, you lose out. Voters need to be contributors! If you child attends ABC secondary school and you pay fees to this school, do you have any say in the matters of XYZ High School? I hear a resounding NO from the harmonic choir.

There are 48 million people in South Africa wanting services, provision and to have their voices heard. However, only about 4 million are willing to contribute in the form of taxes. I salute SARS for tightening the screws on the rich evaders with their billion rand bank accounts, but it is the many million minimum wagers who should also be paying no matter how small the amount!
People who live in these sprinklings of low cost housing developments receive free lights and water and do no pay rates or taxes – “Forcing them to pay is in violation of their basic human rights.” What about my human bloody rights? If I don’t pay my utilities I get cut off – can I then sue the government? Are these housing developments cunningly placed as voter villages, boosting the numbers of voters in specific areas? Obvious.
Ranting aside, I am and likely sure many others are tired of having our wallets sucked skinny by the majority of the country while they stroll the streets and enjoy a sponsored holiday. Our only sin as taxpayers: having a conscience and doing what is necessary and right. Contribute and have your voice heard. Taxpayers have their voices heard, cast your vote and be proud. Partygoers, the kegs are running dry and the lights are coming on and it’s only eight o’clock. The bar is open till midnight next door, but there is a cover charge.

Pedal power pests

There is such reward in the fact that the few of us who are blessed enough to live in or near the Natal midlands are so close to some of the most fantastic cycle routes in the country. The Midlands is quilted with forest estates, private farms and a little bare, unclaimed land. Perfect for the mud and dust powered mountain bike enthusiast.
Chickens are lovely – they are great to eat and are probably the most sought after source of livestock in the country, the most accessible any way. The one thing I am not too fond of is the bi-product of their lunch. Many a midlands farmer will disagree with much disdain as many have entered into agreements with local chicken houses to remove this stinking slosh as awesome fertilizer. Yes, it works well and we happily eat and export the mielies that flourish in this crap. There should however be a rule laid down to these farmers that the poop should IMMEDIATELY be turned into the soil. Why? You ask. Here’s why: The number one attractant of the common irritation that is the housefly is, apart from everything, poop! As our crop handlers let their poop-handlers spread the much on their fields (they would never do it themselves, it’s far too foul) the plagues of buzzing bombardiers arrive.

Now, most of the tracks that most mountain bike enthusiasts ride are, at some point, bordered by agricultural land – covered in poo – and attracting flies all the way from central Africa. I would not class myself as an elite rider, I am, however, by no means a hill-walker. I am able to ford the bush at a relatively steady pace. The only time I start to think that I may down to the fumes is when I am travelling so slowly and for so long that a fly is able to settle on my beaded skin. This has, since the arrival of the poo, changed somewhat. On a ride last week I was keeping a steady speed of around eighteen kilometres per hour when I noticed an inordinate amount of buzzing behind me. Flies; and there weren’t just a few. They were in my helmet and behind my glasses and in my ears. One even became a mid ride protein snack, much to my and its surprise. Going faster was my secondary defence after swatting myself senseless: “How fast can a fly fly?”

As I accelerated they all swooped into a low diamond peloton behind my head using my slipstream to go faster than thought possible. At wits end and tired of feeling like a piece of turd myself I took a turn down a steep hill.

“Surely, even in my slip, they won’t do fifty…”

And then bliss, just the wind.

So short lived.

Stopping to admire the view of the hill I had just scoured down I heard another sound. The swines had smelt my sweaty stench streaming off my back and were now rebounding into my body as if they had been attached by tiny little bungy ropes the entire time.

They are hideous creatures. I have yet to meet a person who relishes the thought of a house full of flies. In fact I would go as far as to say that they are more disliked than cockroaches. We take pleasure in seeing them buzz their lasts on a sticky fly strip, flattened under a swatter or explode in one of those electric zapper things. We have invented so many sprays, traps and other countermeasures against this pest that a US military outpost would be proud of the arsenal. Yet we persist in activities that attract them. Make up your minds – no, actually don’t – just wack ‘em!

A passion for the open road - chips the cones....

Commuting is a genuine South African pastime. Depending on your locale, some do considerably more than others. For instance, Durbanites cringe at the thought of a two hour slog to their holiday destination, whereas a person living in Jo-burg doesn’t even need pad-kos for the one hour, four kilometre trip to work in the morning. The more time we spend on the arteries of our commuter infrastructure the more likely we are to encounter the idiocies that are our roads and the arch-villain: ROADWORKS!

Travelling on a road in the Natal midlands I passed a sign – and no it was not temporary – stating the following message: Warning! Potholes 4km. Now road signs are ingenious inventions with their reflective surfaces that work equally well in the wet and in the dry. Their large size to improve their visibility, not to mention the tree that was felled to keep it off of the ground; all of this adds to their cost.

Massive roadworks are taking place on the N3 and at the start of each section, where the artery of three lanes is narrowed to a capillary of just one; there stands a man or a woman in expensive reflective gear waving with much enthusiasm: a red flag. New applicant for world’s most boring job. Surely someone in an office would see it fit to move that poor, flag bearing sod to that four kilometre stretch to fill the potholes rather than spending money on a sign warning motorists that they should engage their traction control for the next round of dodgems. I suppose the evasion of the ever increasing number of road hazards does add to the excitement of driving on our roads. Some mornings on my commute to work it seems as if it’s a race to see who arrives at work alive never mind first.

The road workers seem to want to continue with their jobs. I worked this out upon the sighting of a sign that says: “Pease don’t kill us!”. Well, for heavens sake man, the only reason I’d want to kill you would be because you are busy making our roads boringly flat and smooth! I must however applaud the men and women who stand out in the cold rain and baking sun toiling away their days on the asphalt for days and months and years…on the same stretch of road! Must it really take so long? Investors have pumped millions of Rands into the upgrade of a stretch of road. Now there is only x amount of cash. Would it not be in the best interests of all parties to work harder, finish sooner and get the same amount of pay in less time? I would personally rather receive pay for amount of job done, not time spent farting around doing nothing but stand around waving a flag with eight of my mates while watching one poor bloke wear the skin off his knuckles trying to dig a trench on his own. So South African.

It seems logical to finish the work at hand fast and well so that the other many thousands of kilometres of deteriorated roads can be fixed and mended rather than do the bare minimum possible to be able to draw salary at the end of the week.

As we bottle-neck our way into the choke of yet another stretch of road maintenance lets just keep calm. Turn up the radio, wind down your window and feel the wind in your face. Rest in the thought that when the chevrons and cones end, you can slip out from behind that cane truck and cut off that taxi that has been examining the dirt on your rear window for the last while. Dodge that!

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