The Idler, Friday, August 12, 2011

A Clockwork Orange – live

 

HERE'S horrorshow fun! The droogs running riz-raz through the high streets, the krovvy flowing when some stupid veck gets inna way. Prestoopnick stuff like carrying off whatcha want from the like electro shops. Nuffink the millicents can do about it!

 

It's as if A Clockwork Orange has come alive. It's almost 50 years since Anthony Burgess wrote his brilliant satire of a dystopian Britain where teenagers from the sink estates have embarked on a terrifying, violent – and totally guiltless – rampage.

 

High on drugs and eager for aggro, they are capable of anything. They speak a teenage argot that is impenetrable to outsiders. Note the stream of barely intelligible invective that comes from the few hooded figures from the sink estates who have been briefly interviewed on television.

 

All right, Burgess had his feral teenagers speaking Nadsat, a mixture of Russian and Cockney rhyming slang that brilliantly made a kind of sense in spite of being nonsense, while today's rioters speak a kind of Caribbean slang (whatever their actual ethnic origin). But it only reinforces the sense of alienation, their coming from a different world.

 

Burgess – who for my money was one of the greatest writers of the 20^th century – had it on the button. The hopeless, dehumanising existence of the inner-city sink estates; the potential for evil in any individual from whom the restraints of conscience have been removed (what the church calls original sin).

 

It is not a pretty picture. The great pity is that many saw A Clockwork Orange as a glorification of violence, especially after it was made into a film. It was anything but that, it was a very serious bit of moral writing.

 

As the politicos try to figure out what's being going on in Britain's inner cities, they could do worse than blow the dust off A Clockwork Orange.

 

New York tweets

 

ESCAPES by the denizens of zoos in New York seem to immediately set up an inane twittering process worthy of one of the birdcages.

 

An Egyptian cobra escaped from the Bronx Zoo earlier this year, which prompted an immediate setting up of Twitter accounts in the snake's name and tweets such as: "On top of the Empire State Building! All the people look like little mice down there. Delicious little mice!"

 

Now a peacock has escaped from Central Park Zoo and perched on a fifth floor window ledge.

The tweets have followed: "My feathers are fabulous" and "I'm on the window sill, looking out. If I turn my back to look inside, they may pull a fast one from behind".

What prompts this less than immortal wit? Has tweeting become some sort of psychological compulsion?

Unfallen into

A CHINESE tightrope walker almost came to grief when he lost his footing 100m above the ground and with no safety net at a place called Xingjian, in Hunan province.

Saimaiti Aishan lost his footing as in high winds he attempted what is known as Dawazi – a traditional high-wire walk - on a 15m-long steel cable stretched between two hot air balloons. But he managed to grab the cable and cling on for dear life as the balloons slowly came down to the ground.

The incident recalls the time in England when a high-wire mishap led to a memorable newspaper headline. This editor had a fixation with his own home town. If any report mentioned his town, its name had to be in the headline.

Hence: "Bolton crowd fallen into."

In this case: "Xingjian crowd unfallen into."

Tailpiece

 

BRUCE the Aussie garbage collector is driving his truck along a suburban street in Sydney one morning, collecting from the wheelie bins lining the pavement .Then he comes to a house with no wheelie bin. He goes up to the front door and knocks. The door isn't answered at first. After more knocking, it's eventually opened by a Japanese gentleman.

"Hurro."

"G'day, Where's yer bin?"

"I bin sittin onna toiret"

"No, sport, I mean where's yer dustbin?"

" I dust tord you - I dustbin sittin onna toiret"

" Oh, dear. You don't understand me. What I want to know is: Where's yer wheeliebin?"

"Ah!" says the Japanese and, with a slightly embarrassed smile, he leans forward and whispers: "I wheelie bin having sex wirra sista of my wife!"

 

Last gasp

The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can't help it.

Leo Rosten

 

The Idler, Thursday, August 11, 2011

We rugged sex symbols

THOSE of us who are of the thinly-thatched fraternity (an alternative description is super-streamlined) will not be particularly impressed by the development by one Dr Adolf Klenk, of Germany, of a calculator which predicts when a man will start losing his hair.

Dr Klenk's gadget also converts a current photograph to show how a bloke will look as baldness takes over.

The chaps should rather be patient, let nature take her course. Dinstinction and rugged sex appeal will come in their own good time.

Baldness is, of course, caused by an excess of testosterone. We of the fraternity do not waste our hormones growing hair. That is why it's the height of fashion these days for a young fellow – long before the onset of the thinning process – to shave his entire head to a bald egg. Keep the gals guessing.

I suppose there's no harm in people like Dr Klenk playing around with their gadgets (so long as they don't cause despondency in young fellows by telling them they've a long time to wait). We thinly-thatched sex symbols know where we're at.

 

 

New lingo

 

LANGUAGE is dynamic, ever-evolving. Lylie Musgrave, of Durban, sends in some new words and phrases that have entered the English vocabulary:

 

·         Blamestorming - Sitting round in a group, discussing why a deadline was missed or a project failed and who was responsible.

 

·         Cube farm - An office filled with cubicles.

·         Prairie dogging - When people's heads pop up over the partitioning when someone yells or drops something loudly in a cube farm. (This also applies to applause for a promotion because there may be cake.)

·         Salad dodger - an overweight person.

·         Swamp donkey - A deeply unattractive person.

·         Percussive maintenance – The fine art of whacking the blazes out of an electronic device to get it to work again.

·         Oh-no second - That minuscule fraction of time in which you realise you've just made a big mistake. (eg: You've hit "reply all").

·         Monkey bath - A bath so hot that when lowering yourself in, you go: "Oo! Oo! Oo! Aa! Aa! Aa!'

·         Mystery bus - The bus that arrives at the pub on Friday night after your 10th pint and whisks away all the unattractive people so the pub is suddenly packed with stunners.

·         Tart fuel – Alcopops.

·         Tramp stamp - Tattoo on a woman.

·         Picasso bum – When a girl wears her knickers too tight and it looks as if she's got four buttocks.

 

Poetic confusion

 

HELP, I've done it again! I've confused Ian Gibson, poet laureate of Hillcrest, with Sir Ian Gilmour, the British MP who co-chaired the Lancaster House talks in London that ended UDI in Rhodesia and saw the transition to Zimbabwe.

 

Why I keep confusing the names Ian Gibson and Ian Gilmour is a mystery, just one of those things you can't explain. This time Gibson has his revenge.

 

Ian Gilmour's a mystery poet,

Lives in Hillcrest but does he know it?

Appears in your column,

His verse light or solemn;

Perhaps he's embarrassed to own it!

 

Right, I get the message - no more confusion! And my fulsome apologies to Sir Ian Gibson, of Hillcrest (though isn't it time he had another crack at sorting things out in Zimbabwe?)

 

 

Tailpiece

 

AN ELDERLY lady is taking a stroll on the promenade deck of a transatlantic liner one clear, starry evening. She notices an incredibly bright star. She stops a passing crewman and asks: "Young man, what's the name of that star?"

Patrick looks at the star and says: "Dear lady,I wouldn't be knowing. But Oi'll tell you what, Oi'll ask de chief officer on de bridge - he knows about dem tings. You wait here ma'am an Oi'll be back."

Patrick goes up to the bridge and explains the problem to the chief officer.

"Patrick," the chief officer says pointing to the star "That is the constellation of Orion. It has the brightest star in the firmament and that is Sirius. You tell that to the lady"

"Tank you, sor." Patrick trots down to the promenade deck

"Ma'am, de chief officer says dat is de constipation of O'Brian. He has de tightest ass in de infirmary - and it's serious!"

 

 

Last word

If all the world's a stage, I want to operate the trap door.

Paul Beatty

 

The Idler, Wednesday, August 10, 2011

London burning THE STREETS of London seethe with violence as hooded youths torch buildings, loot shops and menace firefighters, stopping them from dousing the flames and rescuing victims. These are pockets of anarchy, a waking nightmare. Can one make any kind of sense of it? One observation could be illuminating. In an account of the disturbances at Clapham, one shop escaped unharmed, it went unlooted. It was Ovenstones, part of a chain of bookshops. So these rioters are not great readers. Surprise, surprise! Unfair stacking   HARDLY have we celebrated National Women's Day when a formulation comes this way that highlights how matters still are unfairly stacked in favour of men.   For men: Your surname name stays put. The garage is all yours. Wedding plans take care of themselves. Chocolate is just another snack. You can never be pregnant. You can wear a white T-shirt to a water park. You can wear no shirt to a water park. Car mechanics tell you the truth. The world is your urinal. You never have to drive to another petrol station toilet because this one is just too icky. You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt. Same work, more pay. Wrinkles add character. Wedding dress R20 000. Suit rental R200. People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them. New shoes don't cut, blister or mangle your feet. One mood all the time. Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat. A five-day holiday requires only one suitcase. You can open all your own jars. You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness. If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend. Your underwear is R24.95 for a three-pack. Two pairs of shoes are more than enough. You are unable to see creases in your clothes. The same hairstyle lasts for years, even decades. You have to shave only your face and neck. You can play with toys all your life. One wallet and one pair of shoes; one colour for all seasons. You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife. You can do Christmas shopping for 30 relatives on December 24 in 25 minutes.   A man will pay R10 for a R5 item when he needs it. A woman will pay R5 for a R10 item that she doesn't need but it's on a sale.   A man has six items in his bathroom: toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of soap and a towel. The average number of items in the typical woman's bathroom is 337. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these.       A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the rubbish and get the mail. A man will dress up only for weddings and funerals.   Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed. Women somehow deteriorate during the night.     A married man can forget his mistakes. There's no point in two people remembering the same thing.   All that is no doubt true. But let's get things into perspective. Does it make it a man's world? Who wins the arguments? The woman, every time.       New alert   A NEW health warning has been issued.   Vodka and ice will ruin your kidneys. Rum and ice will ruin your liver. Whisky and ice will ruin your heart. Gin and ice will ruin your brain. Coke and ice will ruin your teeth.   Ice is not good for you. Warn all your friends to lay off the ice!   Spot the flaw The government has announced that it is to create two new commissions whose tasks will include fighting red tape, investment analyst Dr James Greener notes in his latest grumpy newsletter "There is something oh so wrong about this idea," he says. Tailpiece KOOS van der Merwe is seated on a flight beside a stern-looking gentleman of the cloth. The attendant comes down the aisle offering drinks. Koos orders a rum and coke. "And you, sir?" the flight attendant asks the clergyman. "I'd rather be savagely set upon by a dozen whores than let liquor touch my lips!" Koos: "Hey, me too!" He hands back his drink. "I didn't know we had that option."

 

Last word

This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.

Dorothy Parker

 

The Idler, Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Something deeply amiss

IT'S MOST distressing this story about the Durban art teacher who was locked in a police cell after her dachshund, named Napoleon, bit a security guard.

Distressing because it sketches something deeply amiss in our society. As anyone knows, female art teachers are about the most dangerous anti-social malcontents we have. When this is combined with ownership of vicious dachshunds named after notorious warmongers with imperial delusions, we are in deep trouble. Dachshunds today, rottweilers tomorrow!

And then she was acquitted on the charge of "keeping a vicious dog".

Tut! Tut!

No beer

A MARITZBURG reader tells me she went to the post office the other day to buy stamps. She was greeted by a large sign: "We have NO stamps – out of stock."

A post office without stamps is like a pub with no beer, but this seems sadly true of so much in our capital city these days. Perhaps it's just the equivalent of Eskom's regular electricity outages.

 

Bushbaby

THE ONLY previous occasion I can remember a post office running out of stamps was in Nongoma, way back in the sixties when a school friend spent a glamorous gap year working there.

They kept the stamps in a large book on the counter. One morning a client came in with a pet bushbaby on his shoulder. Next thing the bushbaby had jumped off his shoulder, clung to the brass grille and widdled all over the book of stamps.

Some of the stamps were ruined, some not. But word gets around fast in a small town and nobody was going to lick a stamp that came from the Nongoma post office. They'd rather drive across to Vryheid.

The Nongoma postmaster had to send the entire book back to Pretoria and request a new one. It took some time as the incident sent the entire bureaucracy in Pretoria into shock. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

I wonder if anyone with a pet bushbaby was in the Maritzburg post office? There just has to be a logical explanation.

 

Patrician liberal

STILL with Maritzburg, an unusual book has come this way. Titled Simon Says, it's a collection of the speeches, book reviews and other writings of Simon Roberts, who practised as an attorney in the capital for many years and was a leading light in the worlds of music, art and architecture. He died at an advanced age only about a year ago.

A product of Michaelhouse and Cambridge University, Roberts combined a patrician liberalism with a wry humour and a wonderful turn of phrase, which made him a much sought-after speaker at all kinds of occasions. His secretary, Caryl McMorran, kept all his speeches and other writings and his widow, Joy, has now published them.

They provide a rewarding trawl. For instance, when he addresses the annual dinner of the Natal Flyfishers Club, he draws on the Book of Job: "Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a fishhook or press down his tongue with a cord." Very funny.

And when he addresses the Bushman's Nek Diners' Club (is there still such an organisation?) he pleads eloquently for the preservation of Victorian architecture – "Natal English", as he calls it – as an expression of the values and confidence of the Victorian era. "In my belief, these Natal English buildings, as I have chosen to call them, are a valuable contribution to the overall fabric of our culture and if we allow them to disappear, we do so at our peril. It is for this reason that I regard the preservation of both the Cape Dutch and the Natal English buildings as a matter of concern to all of us."

Roberts served in the South African Navy during World War II and spent almost his entire professional and personal life affected by what happened after the shock Nat election victory of 1948. The book has the kind of stuff that future historians in a calmer age could find useful in analysing what the real values were of the community he moved in, and their contribution to the greater fabric of society.

 

Tailpiece

THE TELEPHONE rings in the police station.

"Police? I want to report a burglar trapped in an old maid's bedroom!"

"Who's speaking?"

"This is the burglar!"

 

Last word

Never confuse movement with action.

Ernest Hemingway

 

The Idler, Monday, August 8, 2011

Very un-English it is

 

BRITAIN'S Spectator magazine, has a chippy editorial headed "Our winning side", in which it sets the success of the England cricket side against the gloom and horror of the economic position.

 

"Andrew Strauss, the captain, and his young team possess a rather un-English gift; the ability to win. Unlike many of their predecessors, players such as Stuart Broad and Matt Prior seem to perform best under pressure."

 

Er, yes. But there's something else un-English about them. Two of the three players mentioned have their origins in South Africa. Okay, Strauss grew up in England but Prior grew up in South Africa (until age 11) and learned his cricket here. So did Kevin Pietersen (product of Maritzburg College). So did Jonathan Trott. So did Craig Kieswetter. So did Cornelius van Hoogstraaten and Bertus van Deventer (Okay, only kidding – I made up the last two).

 

It gives rise to the gag: Where do the England players stay when they tour South Africa? At home with their parents.

 

But let's not begrudge the Brits their counter to the economic gloom and doom. Let's rather lend them Trevor Manuel and Nicky Oppenheimer.

 

 

Oddity

 

ALL THE SAME, it's odd how many South Africans end up playing for England. Lots of Aussies, Indians, Pakistanis and West Indians play English county cricket but I can't recall any of them going on to play for England – not in recent times anyway.

 

Piers the lad

 

FLEET Street's phone hacking scandal continues to spread. Now they're after Piers Morgan, former editor of the Daily Mirror, because Heather Mills, former wife of Beatle Sir Paul McCartney, claims – fairly convincingly, it must be said – that at the time of the break-up of her marriage, a Mirror reporter was hacking into her telephone conversations.

 

Morgan, who is something of a pretty boy – he is often described as "laddish" - was editor at the time but is now with CNN in America.

 

Satirical magazine Private Eye always used to refer to him as Piers "Moron" Morgan. More recently they have been calling him Piers "Morgan" Moron. It's not clear exactly why they switched. Perhaps we should follow Private Eye to keep track of Morgan's fortunes.

 

Meanwhile, anyone who is shocked at the suggestion that the red-top tabloid Daily Mirror used the same phone hacking methods as the red-top tabloid News of the World would no doubt be absolutely astounded to be told that bears defecate in the forest.

 

 

Keeping score

 

THE BEST wood in an amateur golfer's bag: the pencil.

 

Bible story

 

A LITTLE boy was being read the Bible story about how Lot was warned to take his wife and flee out of the city, but the wife looked back and was turned into a pillar of salt.

 

Little boy (with concern): "What happened to the flea?"

 

Times are tough

 

IF WE THINK economic times are tough, consider this despatch from America:

 

·         My neighbour got a pre-declined credit card in the mail.*

·         CEOs are now playing miniature golf.

·         Exxon-Mobil laid off 25 Congressmen.

·         I saw a Mormon with only one wife.

·         If the bank returns your cheque marked "Insufficient Funds," you call them and ask if they meant you or them.

·         McDonald's is selling the 1/2 ouncer.

·         Angelina Jolie adopted a child from America.

·         Parents in Beverly Hills are firing their nannies and learning their children's names.

 

·         A truckload of Americans was caught sneaking into Mexico.

·         A picture is now worth only 200 words.

·         When Bill and Hillary Clinton travel together, they now have to share a room.

·         The Treasure Island casino in Las Vegas is now managed by Somali pirates.

Oh boy, the American dream!

 

Glee movie

British troops in Afghanistan have scored a hit on the internet with a video, set to music from the show Glee, which opens with a (technically decent) shot of them jumping up and down naked behind the batwing-type doors of their shower cubicles.

The video, made by men of 29 Commando, scored 55 000 hits in just a few days.

That's nothing. Wait until the Wrens (Women's Royal Navy Service) get in on the act. It'll go stratospheric.

Tailpiece

 

GOLF is better than sex. A below par performance is considered damned good!

 

Last word

 

Television is a new medium. It's called a medium because nothing is well-done.

Fred Allen