Ode to Everyone

Director’s Note:

Your script has been written. The path has been set out and confirmed. You might not agree with it; you can choose to make alterations, you can improvise.

Some of you will choose to follow the script set out for you. You will take notes, you will memorize, you will be dedicated.

Some of you will be dissatisfied; you will look at the script and think, “But I don’t agree with this.” You will want more, you will want spice; spice you have construed on your own, without any help.

I’m not saying that I think either stand is right or wrong.

Your improvisations might perfectly complete your particular scene. It might take you to places you didn’t think you could go. It also might get you alot of opposition, perhaps even alot of ridicule.

Following the script is always the safe path. You will not be questioned about your new idea, you will not need to know anything other than what you have been told. It is not a bad thing.
It is simply predictable and sure.

There is no right way to go about this, people. You can do no wrong. What you need to ask yourselves is, “What is the right path for me?”

Many have taken both paths before you and will continue to take both paths after you. This is not a new thing. This is not a surprise. This is not a new revelation.

Fulfillment is something that I search for; maybe you do as well. Maybe you aren’t bothered and are content to not be surprised or taken aback by a new and different prospect or opportunity. Maybe fulfillment for you means working your 9-5 office job, or your 10h-2300h pub job, or your 15 hr a week parttime job. Maybe you enjoy the routine and the assuredness of your job. Maybe your reasons for working at this job are understandable, unavoidable; maybe even completely necessary.

Time keeps going though, people. It keeps ticking irritatingly, keeping you awake late at night. Why do you think that clocks and watches are so 2005? Because no one wants to be reminded of how quickly time is moving, how fast its little feet are racing us all towards an end that we may or may not feel satisfied with.

This is not intended to make you all feel as though you are wasting your life doing what you are doing. This is not to imply that I even have a fucking clue.
This is a thought-provoker. Be provoked or don’t be provoked.
Either way….tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock……


You killed it, you killed it!

Do you know what you’ve done?
Do you want me to tell you?

You’ll read the words,
Your brain will register them.
Your mind will understand,
You might even grasp the concept.

You killed it, you killed it!

You took it in your hands,
(I tried to stop you.)
You held it in your hands,
You contemplated what to do.
You didn’t hear my protests,
You ignored my ‘logic’.

You crushed it, you murdered it!

You walked right past it,
You didn’t even glance at it.
You stepped on the mangled remains,
You treated it like serviceable pavement.
You smiled because you don’t think.
(I bleated briefly twice, then stopped.)

You fool, you wastage!

Now what will we do?
Now how can we go on?
Now you’ve found new things,
Now you’re good at being happy.
Now I have to be as well.
Now I have no choice.
Now I am silent.
Now I live.
(It’s not life, but it will have to do.)

I apologize for the bitter content. This isn’t poetry

Excuse me God, but it appears my mental hard drive has crashed..?

Not slept a wink,

Cannot sleep a wink.

My wrecked mornings become a work morning thing,

The buzzing in my ears little more than a ring.

I don’t stop, till I drop,

Making it all a circular fervor of blurrrr…

You know those mornings where you are kept awake solely by the strong force of your extremely active mind?

Your body’s system that is keeping you awake has pretty much imploded. It’s decided to shut down with or without your cooperation.

But just as you throw your keys down onto the coffee table and look hungrily at the bed sitting there, seducing you with it’s soft duvet, you feel this spurt of energy.

Your mind says very clearly and firmly to you: “Sorry, my night’s not over yet. I’ve had to give you party banter thoughts all freaking day, perhaps some stimulation is in order. And for God’s sake, limit the amount of time you talk to people of colour, if at all possible.”

(No people of colour read my blog.)

(That I know of, anyway.)

(Hmmm, I didn’t take into account politically correct people.)

(Oh wait, I blocked all those people, that’s right; along with the PETA people and the vegans.)

London is beautiful in the sharp, early morning.
The air is deceptively fresh and the rush to work peak hour on the underground is interesting when you realize just how little you have in common with people who have grey skin and read the Hendon Press. Then you see the guy with huge headphones and 3/4 length pants and subtle bass booming from his direction.You relate to him, he hasn’t slept either and is probably on his way to work or to sign on at Jobseekers.

London understands its people.

It knows we want to sit in the sun at 7 pm on a summer evening and drink cappuccinos and lattes with cream. It knows we will have a great time with friends if we order that tasty, tender lamb cubes with oregano dish and have an espresso at the end. It knows that there’s nothing better than a frosty pint of Stella after work; the sun beating down and reddening everyone besides you in the beer garden.  (JK, I’m white too.) It knows that we are happy to pay exorbitant travel fees but that we appreciate a kindly bus driver at 5:20 AM, when our oystercard has run out.

London makes you angry when the queues are long and multi-racial and extremely loud. But it makes you smile when you see a posh British businessman stopping to help a family of French tourists find the London Eye.  “See over there on the horizon, past the stoplights; take a right then just straight ahead. You can’t miss it, it’s about 443 ft high.” London makes you want to cry when you go to the cinema and you learn more about the love lives of the people watching the film around you, rather than the actual love story in the film. But you’re touched when you see the plain young man 4 seats away, hold his plain young girlfriend’s hand all unaware that he’s not attractive and neither is she. The popcorn is good and the basicness of the film doesn’t detract from the simple enjoyment of an inexpensive just-for-two outing.

The escaping from the grimness of it all is when you realize that it wouldn’t be the same without the dark greyness to contrast the beauty.

The tired looking old woman could have spent my 1.50 on booze/crack.

But I’m going to choose to believe that she spent it on something hot to drink or a sandwich.

–> I Love London <–

So the rain comes a-pourin’ down.
Lightning crashing, hail even decides to be an event on London’s evening schedule tonight.
Facebook fan-group worthy. (Become a fan of ‘Summer Showersz!!’)
Before this intense event, I was on my way to Sainsbury’s with my sister, Jules. She had been called by her boss to do a last-minute shopping for the pub she works at.
Now I’m thinking “This should be a really simple thing. Onions, cheap beef burgers, steaks, mayonnaise, chips. What else could a pub possibly need for their kitchen?”

As it turns out, the shopping list was long. I couldn’t really read it, because some of the things we had to buy had been written on top of something else, so that everything could fit on the A4 paper.
We make a quick stop at M&S (teehee, we all know what only XXX minds think when they read that..) to buy some premium Highland Lochmuir potatoes and steaks lavished with peppercorn butter (£5.50 a piece).

As we (i.e I) am bogged down heavily by the ‘small’ M&S shopping, I am left, with the shopping, to park outside the Sainsbury’s (park my booty, not a car) as Jules runs into the Sainsburys (I say run…).

Typically, I am hit with the sensation of the game that everyone around me is playing with each other.
It’s called the Eye-Aversion Game. People play it alot here. It’s a national thing. Involving rules, prizes, media coverage.

In the Eye-Aversion Game, the rules are simple.

1) Do not glance/look/stare in the vague, general direction of ANYONE.
(looking them in the eye/nipples/cleavage/thigh

s is an absolute no-no.)

2) {For men:} Do not look up when a (hot) girl is passing.
(if you have a girlfriend, you’d better remark on how she walks/looks like a man FAST.)

3) {For women:} Look up when a (hot) guy is passing.
(if you have a boyfriend, it will make him ragingly jealous. but he won’t be able to say anything because he’s totally not in love with you just yet, man. win-win.)

4) If something out of the ordinary happens, do not show even the slightest reaction (like a cringe/stifled laughter)
(especially when it involves someone ingloriously slipping and falling ungracefully, possibly right in front of you).

5) NEVER. EVER. EVER talk to someone you don’t know or have never met.
(even if you have seen them around a few times and spoke to them while roaring drunk in that pub over there. absolutely no exceptions.)

A few hundred moons and 7 cigarettes later, Jules emerges from Sainsburys with a trolley full of shopping. The weather had already progressed from light spizzle to bad-premonition-for-our-plans rain.
We shoppers all thought nothing of it.
After all, there was so many of us, possibly 76+ of us, with mountains of shopping and children to cook dinner for, boyfriends to cook dinner for and maybe an entire family of 12 to open cans of meatballs for.
So it was obviously just a quick summer spizzle.
Obviously. Right?

Naught 4 minutes later, it was LITERALLY pissing down.
Now, I hate the term ‘pissing down’ as much as the next guy with a brain but I’m afraid there is no other term to describe just how hard and heavily it was pouring.
Gushing down would sound nice but it makes one think of someone crying after a break-up. Break-ups, good times lol.
So let’s stay on the pubspeak pogostick for the time being.

Eventually the people who had been inside the Sainsburys on what had promised to be a pretty normal evening for all, were gathered outside, waiting with trolleys and anxious faces. Some were inside, clearly to avoid the atmospheric quality of rain. Clearly.
These were the people with suits and rolexes. Ironically the people with small children were all outside.
There were heartwarming fathers with 4 delightful, M&S-fed, football-team-clad children who decided to dash into the rain. All together. Squealing excitedly with British accents.
How heartwarming is that?

A few other people decided to dash out into the rain. They could have been heartwarming too, if they hadn’t been dared to do it, or 9 years old.
So, yes… I was dared to run out into the rain. In that corny way, where you dare the other person to dare you to do something reckless and wild. As soon as Jules’ sighed “Yes, go on..” to my self-dare, I ran out into the pissing rain and became soaked within a matter of villiseconds.
It evolved into an SA wet t-shirt party moment for me. (All SA people, I have two words and a symbol for you: Shannon & Shane.)
So who else thinks that Shannon & Shane have totally earned their ‘&’ instead of a plain old ‘and’?
They’re like Mary-Kate & Ashley Olsen, Marco & Cephas, Seth & (insert token Van Ouuttsishrorrrn brother), Ben & Jesse, Phil Traas & GN, Tiago & Angie, Alisa & admittedly hot photos.
I could go on.
GBY all!

So, back on topic here.
Panic was starting to slowly seep through the crowds of stranded shoppers. If you were just passing by, (like the studly, hardcore young men who were totally fuckin’ not bothered by some little bit of fuckin’ water, like shit, just strollin’ through here, ladies) you would have thought it was Independence Day 2 being filmed at the Sainsburys, judging by people’s faces.
Posh 40 somethings were panicking. Lightly fixing their permed hair, they repeatedly called their exasperated, handsomely rich husbands to va va voom their way towards the Sainsburys with their sleek car.

Young couples bickered, clearly aroused. The see-throughness that pervaded the general clothing of all involved was hard to ignore.
Most importantly, the Eye-Aversion game was beginning to crack.
Hot boyfriends were looking at girls that were not their girlfriend. Looking at their long, rain-spattered, perfectly fake-tanned legs. My legs were not fake-tanned, but sun-tanned and were also looked at alot.
Old, single men were striking up conversations with old, single women. They didn’t last very long, obviously. One can break the Eye-Aversion game rules but it doesn’t usually go on for more than 5 minutes. Because then it changes from a quick, friendly, bonding-over-the-situation chat, to a man accosting a woman he doesn’t know from Adam.

Jules and me were starting to slightly enjoy the situation. Our voices rang out as we joked about the people around us and the stereotypes they all fit neatly into. The couples, the old people, the Eye-Aversion game, the posh 40 somethings, the fun young people with bright, orange plastic bags tied around their heads.

Eventually Jules’ ride arrived; a friend who was going to drive her and the mass amount of shopping to the pub. Running out to the car, my overall sogginess was completed to the fullest extent.
I dashed ahead, leaving Jules behind. I was holding alot of things, so I held them up in protest and as proof of my inability to help her. She screamed at me to come to her aid, but then the man came out of the car and held an umbrella over her head. It was all gonna be okay in the end.
I half ran, half leaped home, barefoot.

When I got home, I removed my clothing and placed everything I’d had on my person as far away from other people’s laptops as possible.
Then I had a light lunch and did some other things later on.

I Love London.

How to get Free Entrance into clubs around the world.

– London club:

1) share your joint or give entire joint to bouncer (extra points if you put it in his jacket pocket smoothly)
2) be a group of 7 girls wearing absolutely nothing ( extra points for writhing and biting lip coyly)
3) be on the guestlist for the lock-in orgy at 5 am (extra points if you’re of the cappucino variety)

– Swedish club:

1) have an inordinate amount of gel in your hair (extra points for sexy modern hairstyle preferably freshly cut 17 hrs before)
2) wear provocative clothing (extra points if clothes are expensive and flawlessly styled)
3) have a firm sexy body (extra points if inner thigh/top of nipple is showing or if you’re a model)

– Spanish club:

1) make sure 60% of your group is white (extra points if they’re very white i.e american/australian)
2) come over pretending to be white (extra points if you bond with the bouncers over just how white white people are)
3) flash large amounts of american dollars/british pounds briefly (extra points if you throw handfuls of it in the air ‘accidentally’ throwing them all on the bouncer)

– Thai club:

1) be over 50 and male (extra points if you have severe sunburn and an aroused glint in your eye)
2) have a large amount of cash to spend (extra points if you have multiple credit cards and piles of bills spilling out of your large middle-class wallet)
3) be deeply involved in the moving, transporting and general dealing in large quantities of sweet-scented red string stuffs (extra points if you are in a deep mental state induced by your product)

– French club:
1) be young, trendy and up for a good time (extra points if you are wearing crotchless lingerie under party outfit)
2) be absolutely naked (extra points for casual shoes and jewellry to enhance just how naked you are)
3) know at least 39 french cheeses and wines (extra points if you know in which villages these superior premium products are produced)

– Welsh club:

1) bring an animal (extra points if the animal is naughty and fluffy in a sort of cotton way)
2) have a 20 box of cigarettes (extra points if you plan to gloriously
throw them out to the crowd)
3) be tolerant of welsh people (extra points if you can resist the aching temptation to tell that really funny welsh joke all night)

– South African club:

1) have a backpack with you (extra points if it has drakensberg mountain dust on it)
2) wear minimal clothing with your deep tan (extra points if shoes are removed early on)
3) learn afrikaans a month in advance (extra points if you can understand pointless intense accenting on certain words)

– American club

1) have fake boobs (extra points if your nipples poke fiercely through the thin fabric of your shirt)
2) have extremely blonde hair (extra points if you touch/lick more than you talk)
3) be sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll in all ways (extra points if you do the fuck yeah’ hand signal in a sexy way)

What do you call a humanist? Nothing cos you don’t know any humanists.

Finding. To find. To search. To fail. To feel you’ve failed. Searching. Found?
Was it even lost?

Those who stop to think are the most burdened. The ones who let their minds wander to places they don’t usually like to go; to that circular line of thinking that always ends up back at the same conclusion: “I’m still not sure.”.

That’s why we say we’re not alcoholics but drink ourselves into oblivion. That’s why we say we aren’t weed smokers but that we “do weed”. That’s why we call get-togethers bonding when in reality it’s just pure fluff being oozed out creamily by the alphas of the group.

In reality, these distracting escapism-centred experiences are exactly what we want. To have the most pressing decision at hand to not be between fulfillment and money but merely between which type of kebab to buy en masse for a horde of party animals behind you.

That’s why it’s the easiest thing in the world to shut your eyes tightly, force yourself to believe that what makes up the ins and outs of your life are worth the trouble, the hours of work for a payday that would only make a Pole happy. And even then, they would look at it with a slight expression of suspicion that would only last a moment. Because we all know that they are hired, work for a year with no pay under the label of “training” and eventually get a meager paycheck when they happen to casually mention there hasn’t been anything in the house but Polski beans for the last month.

Maybe we hate the Poles because they’re so satisfied. How fulfilled are Poles? They go to electro raves and they stand around in pubs with big pints of Tyskie and slowly become more and more Londonized. They eagerly attempt to reach the point where you can buy a plasma TV and actually put it in a house and not a cubicle-sized studio flat with a map for where there is space to walk.

Speaking of luxuries, I myself am guilty of the shallow indulgence in niceties. Or should I say the appreciation of such things, seeing as the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought is a pair of boots in Debenhams (and even then I was calculating how much I could have bought in terms of travel and cigarettes). We all look up to those people that pass us on the street. Those beautiful people that are clad in beautiful wrinkle-free suits, wearing sparkling beautiful watches and slowly floating their way towards their beautiful lamborghini. They look at you and with their eyes, they seem to say gleefully “Recession? What recession?”

You know when you have those deep conversations about the meaning of life and some people try to come across all psuedo-intellectual and say things like “It’s all relative”, “It all depends on your EQ”, “Relativism vs. Culturalism”, or just “ism” if they’re a bit blank at that moment. Do you notice how those monologues never stay on a logical thread for very long?
That’s because, we feel the need to have these conversations regularly. Some of us are shallow and do it solely to appear deep (‘ism’ people…you know who you are). Some of us have a gnawing feeling of fear in our stomaches when we think about what we have achieved (nothing), what we have yet to achieve (career/studying) and, at the end of life’s road, where it’ll all leave us.
So we speculate about the meaning of life and argue about atheism and Godism and secular humanism.

I have to go, cos Matt is pressuring me to decide whether I want a lamb shish or a chicken doner.

My introduction to the neat blog I just created.

There’s alot of things that I am really tempted to say.

That I always hated blogs (which I did), that I just scribble garbage so don’t bother with this blog (which you shouldn’t) and that it’s 29 C today.
But we all know that temperatures are soaring, shooting up at a speed so fast that even Louis Hamilton is taking notes.

So here I am, in my livingroom, the mere atmospheric quality of the sun tanning me in all the wrong places. And here I am, writing an introduction for a blog I never thought I would make.

A lot of people will tell you I am a hypocrite (which I am). (To be fair.) I swore up and down on my life that I would never make a facebook account. My close friends, intimate friends, annoying friends, relatives…no one was spared my scathing criticism of Facebook.com.

Needless to say, I now have a facebook account. Let’s leave it at that.

I didn’t have as much of a hatred for blogs, seeing as I did faithfully follow my sister and her husband’s blog, along with a good number of other blogs, some of which belonged to people I had never met. They just had to be witty and interesting and if they ever involved a detailed account of someone’s day, I would hire my good friend Amos Odhav to send virii to their computer.

Ok, so I didn’t do that but maybe I will later. (PS: Amos Odhav didn’t send virii for me and doesn’t. As a rule.)

Then again, Lee Harvey Oswald would have said he doesn’t shoot presidents, as a rule. Sometimes you just have to be judged by your one-offs.

(I can’t take credit for this sparkling gem of wit. All credit due to Nick Hornby, you hilarious old bastard. Give us budding fledglings a chance to be arsesome, would you, Nicky?)

So… a few hundred words of fluff later, this introduction is nearly finished. Tune in to a news broadcast about this blog now:


I will not delete any comments.


Oh. Yeah.

This blog will have articles in it about food, public transport, club chicks, the recession, the COG, etc.

I will write them and sometimes Amos Odhav will write them; he just doesn’t know it yet.