The dler, Wednesday, May 25, 2011

BOOM! It's varsity rugby

MY FIRST inkling of varsity rugby was when an explosion rattled the classroom windows at school one winter's afternoon in days of yore. Maritzburg were playing Durban in the inter-college at Jan Smuts stadium just down the road. The Durban students had blown up the Maritzburg mascot with something they'd cooked up in the chemistry lab.

Yes, there's something special about university rugby. Its flavour is recalled in a glossy booklet that's just come out to celebrate the rugby portion of the centenary of tertiary education in this province.

The Time Of Our Lives: 100 years of rugby at Natal University and UKZN has contributions by Springbok (and Natal) captains Tommy Bedford, Wynand Claassen and Gary Teichmann. Also Joel Stransky, who kicked the winning drop goal for the Boks in the 1995 World Cup. Plus Craig Jamieson, who skippered Natal to that first-ever Currie Cup victory at Loftus, in our centenary year. Plus many others.

It's not quite clear who organised this book (just as it never was quite clear who manufactured the explosives to demolish the Maritzburg mascot) but it's lavishly illustrated, a collector's item, and on sale for R130, the proceeds to go toward varsity rugby, which has had a welcome resurgence in recent years.

I understand some celebratory centenary matches will be played in August. The chemistry labs in Durban and Maritzburg must be getting busy.

Story in parts

READER Steve Ashworth recalls a time when the Nissan car company - then known as Datsun - used to distribute parts to Africa from a large warehouse in Toulouse, France.

As one shipment was being flown to Johannesburg, the aircraft encountered difficulties and the captain had to jettison some of his cargo over the Sahara.

"What's happening?" asked a bewildered young Bedouin as car parts crashed to the ground about he and his father.

"Son, people in our village will talk for generations to come of the day it rained Datsun cogs".

A-a-a-a-rgh!

Pacifist veteran

THE WORLD'S last known combat veteran of World War I has died in Australia, aged 110.

Claude "Chuckles" Choules, lied about his age to join the Royal Navy at the age of 15 and went on to serve in HMS Revenge.

He emigrated to Australia in the 1920s and served as a chief petty officer in the Royal Australian Navy until 1956.

What makes him extra unusual is that, having served in two world wars, Mr Choules became a pacifist and refused to join the Anzac Day commemoration parades.

After two world wars and 38 years in the service, I guess he had the right to decide.

Bosman

LAST week's piece on the Herman Charles Bosman revival at St Clements said nobody these days reads his original stories the way Patrick Mynhardt used to.

It seems I was wrong. Ria Hackland tells me Barbie Meyer, acclaimed actress and vocalist,"our very own home-grown beautiful blonde", has been telling Bosman stories to appreciative audiences on the lower South Coast for some time and has had rave reviews at the Grahamstown Festival.

That's nice to know. Do we go to Margate or does Barbie come to St Clements?

Officials say 'Neigh!'

THE BRITS are nutty about dogs but they draw the line at ponies. A man accompanied by a small white pony arrived at the railway station at Wrexham, in Wales, and tried to buy two tickets to Holyhead.

He was told the pony could not travel by train, at which he took it down to the platform in a lift, no doubt planning to board anyway.

Railway officials intervened, at which the man and the pony went away, leaving on the platform a couple of steaming mementoes.

No pony express in Wales, it seems.

 

Tailpiece

 

A PHARMACY stocks knowledge pills. One small pill and you're guaranteed a first in English literature. Or history, economics, psychology or whatever.

 

A student asks for a mathematics pill. The pharmacist produces a pill the size of a tennis ball.

 

"What's this?"

 

"Well maths always was a bit difficult to swallow."

 

Last word

 

It is not bigotry to be certain we are right; but it is bigotry to be unable to imagine how we might possibly have gone wrong.

G. K. Chesterton

GRAHAM LINSCOTT

The Idler, Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Footballer who never was

IS THE LAW an ass, as maintained by Dickens character Sam Weller? The Brits seem to be trying their best to make it so. In recent times celebrities have taken to applying to court for injunctions against newspapers publishing details of their lurid love lives. The injunctions – "super-injunctions", as they have been dubbed – even forbid the newspapers, and other media such as television, reporting that the injunction has been applied for.

The latest injunction has been granted (or so we guess) to a nationally prominent footballer who is alleged to have had an affair with a reality television starlet. Nobody knows about it or the court application, of course – except that the thing has spread virally over Twitter and everyone who has any interest at all knows everything about it.

The footballer has now tried to come down on Twitter and its clients in terms of the injunction but, whether he succeeds or not, the cat is out of the bag.

The newspapers, radio and TV tell us all about the case – except they're still not allowed to name the footballer.

Now the Sunday Herald, in Scotland, has published a photograph of the footballer on its front page, arguing that the injunction was granted by an English court, while Scotland is a separate legal jurisdiction. Nobody applied to the Scottish courts for an injunction.

Now this latest development is on television and in the English newspapers – but still not the footballer's name or photograph.

Yes, the law is beginning to look a bit of an ass. Even Prime Minister David Cameron seems to think so.

Will the injunction now be dismissed by the courts as futile? Will the footballer withdraw his application seeing that everyone knows anyway? Will the English media be allowed to publish?

If only the issue were real, meaningful censorship; something a little more elevated than whether or not a celebrity footballer got his leg over a celebrity starlet. But such are the times we live in.

 

Publish, be damned!

IT'S DIFFICULT to tell from a distance whether or not the Sunday Herald actually published the name as well as the photograph of the footballer because TV zoom-ins on the newspaper's front page have all the detail blanked out. Injunctions, y'know. It seems not.

Which gives this column the opportunity to crash through this barrier of legally contrived censorship.

Step forward, footballer Mickey Mouse! Publish and be damned!

 

The Profumo case

THE ABOVE involves the individual's right to privacy, as against public interest. Many of us in the media side with the individual's right to privacy, and newspapers in this country mostly respect that right. It is only when private actions are to the detriment of the public interest that the public has a right to know.

But there's a confusion. Public interest does not necessarily mean something that will interest the public – secrets of the boudoir and that kind of thing.

The best example of public interest coinciding with what would interest the public was the Profumo case in Britain in the 60s.

John Profumo was Minister of War. He was sleeping with a callgirl named Christine Keeler. That was absolutely his own affair, not a matter of public interest.

But Christine Keeler was also sleeping with the Soviet naval attaché. This raised a security risk. This was a matter of real public interest.

And boy, were the public interested as the evidence came out in court! High society orgies, two-way mirrors, voyeurism. It led to the gag about Christine Keeler's newspaper order: Two Mirrors, six Observers, eight Spectators and as many Times as you like.

 

Tailpiece

THE IRISH computer virus: "Top o' de mornin to ya! My name is Paddy. Kindly pass dis e-mail on to everyone on yer e-mail, because in a few minutes you will no longer be able to share de virus wit yer friends. Now kindly delete all of yer documents. Next, format yer hard drive. Tank ya fer ya kind co-operation. Wishin ya a wonderfully lucky day!"

Last word

 

Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.

Flannery O'Connor

The Idler, Monday, May 23, 2011

Apocalypse not quite yet

THIS really is too much. Californian preacher Harold Camping has let us down. Here am I slaving at the keyboard again, even though Pastor Camping told us the world was definitely going to end on Saturday, May 21, 2011. Deadlines, deadlines … nothing has changed.

Okay, he got it wrong before, in 1994, but all the same there was quite a vibe this time, especially in Russia where posters all over the place predicted the Apocalypse.

I suppose most of us are rather pleased the Pastor got it wrong again, in spite of the unpleasantness and wickedness of so much of the world these days – noisome politicians, nauseating celebrities and the wretched performance of our rugby team. We would rather soldier on in spite of it all. On the whole, I would rather be slaving at the keyboard.

But what if I had taken Pastor Camping seriously? What if I had, in the run-up to the supposed Apocalypse, bought a Rolls Royce on tick, run up a huge bar bill at the Oysterbox and proposed marriage to a girl, believing I would never be held to account for my responsibilities?

I say Pastor Camping is guilty of gross irresponsibility. Give me any day the ecclesiastics of the 17^th century, such as James Ussher, Anglican Archbishop of Armagh, and Dr John Lightfoot, Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge University. These worked with clarity, precision and a sense of responsibility, Ussher calculating that the earth was created at nightfall on October 23, 4004 BC and Lightfoot adding that man was created at nine o'clock in the morning next day.

This was sensible and responsible research. Nobody was induced to buy a Rolls on tick, run up a bar bill or propose marriage.

This modern world … where does it end?

All bases covered

MEANWHILE, the Corner Cafe was covering all eventualities. A blog to customers last Friday read:

"Dear loyal customers who are about to die, the opening times are very simple. If the world ends tomorrow as predicted then we will be closed for the day.

 

"The good news is … I'll open another coffee shop in the next life. That's right, we will call it "Apocalyptic Cafe" and I won't make the same mistakes as this time round. We will not stock decaff, it will be a kid free zone, non-smoking, - and I'll hire only ex-Hooters girls."

"We are expecting a last minute rush today just before we close, so get here early."

The blog attracted a couple of interesting comments:

·         "Why don't you stay open and be the restaurant at the end of the universe?"

·         "So can I bring 10 friends in later and pay you on Monday? I am short of cash as I'm going to hire a Ferarri and crash it into a tree."

I presume this is the Corner Cafe in Glenwood – but I suppose it could be a Corner Cafe anywhere in the world, such is the all-encompassing nature of the blogosphere.

 

Follow instructions

 

READER Gray Braatvedt says he's still recovering from the stiffness occasioned by last week's municipal election.

 

"When I got to the ballot box I read a sign saying: 'Fold in Four'. It was awful, I'm so unfit I can hardly touch my toes!"

 

 

Changes

VOICEMAIL message: "I'm not available right now, but thank you for caring enough to call. I'm making some changes in my life. Please leave a message after the Bleep. If I do not return your call, you're one of the changes."

Tailpiece

A middle-aged woman is in a pet shop, looking for something to keep her company. She recoils in horror from the ugliest frog she has ever seen. But then the frog winks at her.

What the heck! She buys it and puts it on the passenger seat of her car to drive home.

As they go along, the frog croaks at her: "Kiss me and I'll turn into a handsome prince."

What the heck! She kisses him. And, sure enough, the frog turns into an absolutely gorgeous, sexy, handsome young prince.

Then he kisses her. And suddenly the middle-aged woman feels herself transforming.

What does she turn into? A Holiday Inn, what else?

 

Last word

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some hire public relations officers.

Daniel J Boorstin

GRAHAM LINSCOTT

The Idler, Friday, May 20, 2011

Grand Old Duke of York MISSION creep – the thing developing into something absolutely unintended – is a concern being voiced in Britain as "advisers" go into Libya to organise the rebel forces. Satirical magazine Private Eye puts it this way, under a newspaper masthead "Nursery Times" and the headline: "GOVERNMENT TO SEND TEN THOUSAND ADVISERS UP HILL." "The Government has today hotly denied any 'mission creep' in the intervention over the Hill. Said a spokesman: 'These men from the Grand Old Duke's Regiment are not troops. They are there merely to give marching advice to the local Hill forces.' "He continued: 'The ten thousand advisers will go up the Hill, do their advising and then withdraw down the Hill. There may, of course, be an uncomfortable moment when they are neither up nor down the Hill which may go on for a very long time – possibly forever and a day.' "Said the Grand Old Duke of York: 'This limited intervention vis-à-vis the Hill is a very different operation from those we undertook on Hills in Afghanistan and Iraq.' "He concluded: 'The idea that there is a mission creep is nonsense, as evidenced by our code name for the whole operation which is Mission Creep.' "On other pages: ·         Yellow Brick Road closed indefinitely due to Munchkin Arsonists – 2. ·         Badger gassed by unrepentant Toad. Poop! Poop! – 3. ·         Hare claims 'I would beat tortoise with AV' - 94." Lovely stuff! Sobering too. Party coming up PAUL McIlroy, of the Blarney Brothers Irish band, sends in some information. This year July has five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays, he says. This happens once every 823 years. It is known in Chinese Feng Shui as "Money Bags". Also, this year we're going to experience four unusual dates: 1/1/11; 1/11/11; 11/1/11; and 11/11/11. And that's not all. Take the last two digits of the year in which you were born - now add the age you will be this year. The result will be 111 for everyone in the whole world. This is the year of the Money, Paul says. The Feng Shui proverb goes that if you send this information to eight good friends, money will appear in the next four days. Readers might want to clip this out and send it to eight good friends. Perhaps I can already claim eight friends among readers. If it works, Paul can nominate where we throw the party.

Essence of Essex

PHWOAR-R-R-R … Essex girls! Two blonde bombshells from Essex have posed topless, and with not much else on, for a tasteful men's magazine known as Nuts.

Sam Faiers, who stars in the reality TV show, The Only Way Is Essex, posed for Nuts with her sister, Billie.

As the London Daily Mail puts it: "The sisters, who co-own Minnies boutique in their native Essex, have stripped off for a steamy photo shoot for Nuts magazine – cashing in on their newly found fame.

"Sam, 20, and sister Billie, 21, posed in extremely skimpy outfits and even go topless as part of the raunchy photo shoot to please their growing army of male fans."

Is there any point to all this? Not really. Except: Phwoar-r-r-r!

 

Tweet

BUT DON'T run away with the idea that Essex girls are airheads. Here's the tweet left by Sam as she left with her sister for a party at a nightclub called Sugar Hut to celebrate wrapping up the second series in The Only Way Is Essex.

She told fans: "Ready and on way to the wrap party with Billie :-) can't believe series 2 is over x x sugar hut !! Wohoo x"

Tally-ho!

Getting rich

AS WE AGE, our net worth increases: silver in the hair …gold in the teeth … stones in the kidneys … sugar in the blood … lead in the feet … iron in the blood … oil in the arteries … and an inexhaustible supply of natural gas.

How did we accumulate such wealth?

Tailpiece

I was explaining to her the idea of reincarnation. You die but come back as a different creature.

She: "I'd like to come back as a cow".

Me: "You haven't been listening".

Last word

 

Defining and analysing humour is a pastime of humourless people.

Robert Benchley

GRAHAM LINSCOTT

The Idler, Thursday, May 19, 2011

Oranges and lemons …

THINGS move on apace at St Clements, the spot on the Berea where literati and various other genteel degenerates gather of a Monday evening for readings of poetry and prose, a glass or two of vino and some nosh.

The other night we had local raconteur Pat Smythe (aka Spyker Koekemoer) entertaining us with letters to Oom Schalk Lourens, in the Marico. Oom Schalk is, of course, the narrator in Herman Charles Bosman's wonderful stories, and Pat – who mimics all kinds of accent – has currently immersed himself in the platteland Afrikaner idiom and accent. His characters have names like Diktak Taljaard and Dikpens van Zyl and they do things like spike the drinks of the kerk diaken.

Pat in many ways continues where the late Patrick Mynhardt left off in his public readings from Bosman. Can it be long before he gets around to reading the actual Bosman stories as well? Nobody else seems to be doing it.

Meanwhile, in celebration of the winter solstice on June 21 – the shortest day of the year – St Clements have launched what they call National Short Story Day. People are invited to submit short stories, the winner to receive a case of Wildekrans Estate wine. Entries will be judged by poet Kobus Moolman.

But these stories have to be really short – the limit is 100 words. It's a new art form. Entries should be e-mailed in 14-point Times New Roman typeface to kwasuka1@mweb.co.za by June 13 and should show the author's name and the word count.

 

Some examples

 

THE COMPETITION is based on a similar one in England. Some examples of the 100-worder produced there:

 

·        I am looking at the old-fashioned, gold trimmed card in my hand: an invitation to a girls' night in. I've thought long and hard about going; there will be gossip and food and drinks. And that's the trouble:

There'll be drinks. Cocktails, champagne, white wine, red wine, rosé.

By the bottle and by the glass. Phil doesn't like to smell drink when I come home. I'm going to the party, but I'll be sober. As usual.

I hear a taxi pulling up out front. I pick up my coat. I'm going. My name is Caroline and my husband is an alcoholic.

·        She left the office with plenty of time to get there by six. She checked herself in the shop window and added a spring to her step. She counted the park benches lining the walkway as she passed: one, two, three.

On the fourth sat a portly man picking his nose while reading a newspaper. Her hand moved to her collar, grabbing swiftly.

The village clock chimed six times as she passed. He shuffled his paper aside and adjusted a flower in his lapel.  She walked on, head down, letting a red carnation fall to the ground as she went.

 

·        If I were to tell you the story of my life it would span the last ten minutes. They were spent meeting my wife, called Wendy, I think. She held up a mirror and showed me that I am John. I look old.

I see lines on my face I don't remember forming, experiences that never happened.

I touch Wendy's face and her eyes fill with the sadness of a broken heart. I feel it, too.

I have a wife but I never married her. We are old together but I was never young.  Apparently I loved her very much.

 

·        A man took trillions of cats and dogs to the moon to create a world record for animals on the moon. At first everything was fine and they all had plenty of room.  As we all know, the moon starts off big and round, and then shrinks a little every night. You can see it happening in the sky.

As it shrank, they became more squashed and uncomfortable. The man wriggled and pushed a dog.  All the animals began to push against one another and eventually fell off.  The earth people were amazed to see it raining cats and dogs.

 

 

Tailpiece

A MAN FINDS finds his wife in bed with his friend. He draws a gun and shoots the friend dead.

 

Wife:"If you carry on like this, you'll lose all your friends."

 

Last word

 

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

GRAHAM LINSCOTT

The Idler, Wednesday, April 18, 2011

It's the cabriolet election

EVERY election has its theme, its dominating issue. This time it's the cabriolet toilet. Has there ever, anywhere in the world, been an electoral contest where cartoonists depict senior political figures sitting on the throne?

But there is a slight echo from the past. It never actually became a hot election issue, but there was another time when the government's provision of toilets provoked a lot of anger, mixed with hilarity.

Reader Ernie Robbertse reminds us of the bad old days when apartheid tenderpreneurs (yes, they were around then too) delivered toilets by the hundreds and thousands for township developments. They were properly built, it has to be said, and properly enclosed. Nothing shoddy about the toilet broeders.

The problem is, the apartheid planners often got it wrong. They forgot to organise with the builder broeders for the houses to be supplied. Stretches of otherwise bare veld had row upon row of toilets – "like beehives", as an incredulous judge once said when the matter came before him – but nobody to use them.

"It was amazing," says Ernie. "Thousands of toilets standing there in the veld. Not a single house built. The pictures were all over the newspapers. People forget those bad old days."

The issue is, of course, slightly different today. People yearn for the staid old sedan toilet. The cabriolet is just a little too sporty.

Official stamp

Various readers have sent in a warning, that has been going round by e-mail, that voters must be sure their ballot papers are stamped on the back with the official IEC imprimatur. If they are not stamped they will be disallowed. It comes, apparently, from somebody who worked at the ballot count in a previous election.

A senior IEC official confirmed on the radio that this is the case, the e-mails make a valid point.

So before you make your "X", check for that stamp. Then double-check before you slip the ballot paper into the box. Otherwise you could be just wasting your time – and your vote.

Here today ...

AS THEY used to say in the bad old days: "Stem vroeg! Stem Nat! Stem dikwels!"

And where are the Nats today?

Dreadful virus

NEWS arrives by e-mail of yet another of these dreadful computer viruses. Even the most advanced programs from McAfee and Norton can do nothing about it. This one causes you to:

·         Send the same e-mail twice. Done that!

·         Send a blank e-mail. That too!

·         Send e-mail to the wrong person. Yep!

·         Send it back to the person who sent it to you. Aha!

·         Forget to attach the attachment. Well darn!

·         Hit "Send" before you've finished. Oh no, not again!

·         Hit "Delete" instead of "Send." I just hate that!

·         Hit "Send" when you should "Delete." Oh No!

It's known as the C-Nile virus. My informant asks if he's already sent this information to me – or did I perhaps send it to him?

Lekker, cool

CERTAIN academics have objected to use of the expression bunny chow to describe a Durban delicacy. It seems the term offends some obscure code of animal ethics because it suggests bunny rabbits are being devoured whole.

Sally Bosch puts them in their place.

Bunny chows are lekker,
Bunny chows are cool.
Bunny chows give Durbanites
The right to say we rule!

If you want to change the name
To something more banal,
You'd better have a brilliant plan,
Or leave it be, my pal.

It's in our constitution,
It is our ethnic right.
We love to chow our bunnies,
Mutton, beans - allright?

Why pay?

MICROSOFT has bid $5 billion for Skype, according to this news snippet. Obviously nobody has told them they can download it for free.

 

SABC bias

 

IAN GIBSON, poet laureate of Hillcrest, responds to complaints that SABC coverage of the municipal elections has been biased in favour of the ruling party.

 

What to do about the SABC,

With its strong bias for the ANC?

Switch to e-News,

For more balanced views,

Or to any other service you fancy!

 

 

Tailpiece

THE IRISH have joined the Nato operation in Libya. They've sent in three ships – two laden with sand and one with cement. It's for a mortar attack.

Last word

He can compress the most words into the smallest ideas of any man I ever met.

Abraham Lincoln

GRAHAM LINSCOTT

The Idler, Tuesday, May 17, 2011

To the polls we go

AS WE PREPARE to go to the polls tomorrow, a story doing the rounds seems apposite. It concerns a politician who is knocked down by a car and killed. His soul arrives at the Pearly Gates.

"Welcome to Heaven," says St Peter. "But before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official. We're not sure what to do with you."
"No problem, just let me in."
"Well, I'd like to, but I have orders. What we'll do is have you spend one day in Hell and one in Heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity."
"Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven."
"I'm sorry, but we have our rules."
And with that St Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to Hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him. Everyone is very happy and in evening dress.

They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had getting rich at the expense of the people. They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.
Also present is the Devil, who really is a very friendly and nice guy and has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realises, it is time to go. Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises.
The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on Heaven where St Peter is waiting for him. "Now it's time to visit Heaven."
So 24 hours pass with the politician joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realises it, the 24 hours have gone by and St Peter returns.
'Well then, you've spent a day in Hell and another in Heaven. Now choose your eternity."
The politician reflects for a minute, then he answers: "Well, I would never have said it before, I mean Heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in Hell."
So St Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to Hell.
The doors of the elevator open and he's in a barren landscape covered with waste and garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above.
The Devil comes over and puts his arm around his shoulder. "I don't understand," stammers the politician. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened?"

The Devil smiles. "Yesterday we were campaigning ... today you voted."

All quiet …

SO FAR, SO good. The politicos have been badmouthing one another, but so far political violence seems to have been minimal.

It was not always so. Reader Ron Legg, of Hillcrest, writes in remind us of the tension that seized the country at election time in the old South Africa.

 

He spent the mid-50s in Burgersdorp where he recalls Nat and United Party families at best not speaking to one another during election season, at worst getting into fierce punch-ups. A woman he knew always took a nine-inch hatpin with her to political meetings, to defend herself when things got ugly.

Yes, it's quite true. People fought with bicycle chains and threw chairs about up in Northern Natal. A schoolmate and one of the masters shared a police cell after they turned the firehoses on a Nat meeting in the Pietermaritzburg City Hall. Verwoerd was on the platform at the time.

Days of sturm und drang – but no longer. Just as long as it's not the calm before the storm.

 

Tailpiece

THE ART DEALER went bankrupt. He ran out of Monet.

Last word

 

Human beings are perhaps never more frightening than when they are convinced beyond doubt that they are right.

Laurens Van der Post

GRAHAM LINSCOTT