Once again I realise that it's been a while since I last posted but it's been pretty slow. So what have I been doing?
I've now left my old job due to reasons of disagreement, the kind that makes it impossible to work with some people. And now I'm just doing temp work.
Over the past few weekends there has been a lot of international rugby on... and yes, as surprising as it may seem I've watched every game (i think) with the guidance of Kev and Grant as to which ones are worth it.... Sky here had the wonderful idea of showing the England vs Aus and Kiwi vs Ireland games at the same time... which meant finding a pub/bar which was showing both. The one that we found closest to us was Temple Walkabout, but by the time we got there there was a queue about 200 strong waiting in line to get inside..... after discarding that option it was off in search of another bar. We ended up going to Covent garden, where the walkabout there told a similar story. So as per usual the Saffa bar came through for us. We ended up in Bok Bar and enjoyed our Windhoek and Hunters Dry. After the games we were all feeling a case of the nibbles and headed off to Fuel, a small little restaurant in The Garden. One which I came across while doing market research for the company.... 25 bars and not a single drink... so as one can imagine I was pretty grumpy by the time I got back to the office.
Next weekend was a similar story, off to watch the rugby, this time it was England vs Kiwi and SA vs Wales ( once again, I think) we left the flat in plenty of time to get to our chosen venue and get a table.... but due to London traffic, which is a royal pain we ended up travelling about 100meters in half an hour.... so dreading missing the start of the rugby again, we all hopped off and walked.... what we didn't realise was that it was quite a long walk. About an hour if not more after we left the flat we arrived at Zulus in Fulham. Where we found seats and got comfy to watch the games.... much beer was had, along with an inspired idea of boerewors rolls.... just to take the edge off the beer.
After the celebrations of SA winning Kev, Mac and myself headed off to Tim's winter blues party.... where we drank some yakka and more scotch than was wise.
The next day was pretty slow... we meandered around the house, napped on the couch and scrounged some lunch out of the desolate looking fridge (which reminds me, the fridges here are the size of bar fridges back home..... you can only keep about a weeks worth of food in there)
Around 5pm we headed off to South Kensington and the National History Museum. Not to look at what was inside, but rather to go ice skating on the adjoining rink. It's a beautiful place where there are blue lights focussed on the ice and lots of fairy lights in the trees... very pretty. Eric, Kev, Mac and myself were fitted with our skates and we were off. I think ice skating is like riding a bitke, you never really forget how to do it... so after a few laps I was up to speed and having fun. There were quite a couple of divets in the ice, some arguably the size of canada which when hit give you the most awful speed wobble and you really expect to be sliding across the ice on all fours a second later. But luckily not the case. The kids on the ice are maniacs, you see them come haring towards you and then they lose their balance and try to grab the nearest person to avoid falling.... Perhaps being mean but I avoided the mad grabbing of hands and so managed to stay upright. Eric who hasn't skated in 11 years was going quite well, a couple of monster falls, but generally not doing to bad.... Mac got the hang of it quickly and she was off in a blur... Every time I felt a gust of wind go past I looked up and it was usually Kevin acting like the speed demon he is....
So after a while I stopped along the side to take a few pics.. Mac, going past in a blur, Eric very carefully watching his feet, and then the amusing bit, Kev came past and looked up to smile at the camera and managed to stick both skates into one of the aforementioned canadian divets... and went sprawling on the ice... which I also meant to get on camera. Wish I'd had multishot on.... would have made an interesting sequence.
And that was my exciting past couple of weeks, not much, but then again it's getting cold... about time to dig the thermals out of hibernation.
Off to France on Friday to watch the SA vs France rugby match, for which I've managed to acquire a springbok jersey that didn't break the bank (usually about £80 here) and I've still got to get out and buy some OBS to warm us at the game.
So until next time, and hopefully a post with eiffel tower pics.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Friday, November 04, 2005
Week 37 - what is it about home
I realise it's been a while since I've posted anything, but the problem came from the mac at the office, which didn't like the cookies, even when i offered it milk to dip them in (lame joke i know, but it's that kind of day)
I've been thinking a lot about home and all the things I miss, and the list keeps getting longer by the day...but I've just seen the best description of our native folk when found abroad... so i thought i would share it on this brisk winters morning
What is it about South Africans abroad that make them so easy to spot? On
home ground, one looks pretty much like the other (despite some minor
differences in size, colour and fashion sense), so why is it that when
they're overseas they're more conspicuous than a Yank in full
Nikon/Hawaiian-shirt battle-dress?
I've spent many happy hours in airports playing 'spot the sarfeffrican' and,
lemme tell you, my success-rate is pretty damn frightening. I'll catch a
fleeting glimpse of someone in the duty-free shop and confidently put money
on the fact that he/she'll be standing on my foot in the queue for
SAA-whatever in two hours time. I'm rarely wrong.
Impressive as this undoubtedly seems, there's really nothing to it. You just
need to know what to look for.
Let's take Bangkok as an example. Great place. A lot of tourists take
advantage of the stalls along Sukhumvit Road and in Patpong to load up on
cheap clothing and accessories. And why not? Why should anyone pay a
thousand bucks and more for a pair of sunglasses with a fancy 'G' on it?
Fair enough. But only a South African turns up at the airport to catch their
flight home actually wearing every single item of contraband they've bought
over the last two weeks.
Crass clichés of kitsch
Dressed from head to toe in patently obvious knock-off gear, they pose in
the check-in queues like garish advertisements for provincialism, crass
clichés of kitsch.
From his Billabog cap to his Ferrori jacket, his Oakey sunglasses to his Tag
Hewer watch; from his Levin jeans to the soles of his Reebuk takkies, his
ensemble screams out: "Look at me! It's my first time out of Benoni ever,
and I have no taste at all!"
Why do they do it? Is it the shock of finding themselves in a foreign
country and still actually being able to buy anything at all that drives
them to such extremes of counterfeit sartorial madness?
Perhaps the Bellville-Boykie-Westrand-Cowboy gene-complex lurking in their
DNA has mutated out of control in a foreign clime? Whatever it is, it's a
dead give-away, and it's embarrassing, and I wish they'd all stop it.
Immediately.
But, tragically, even if the homeward-bound Sarfeffrican arrived at the
airport in a Saville Row suit with a set of Louis Vuitton luggage in tow,
they'd still stick out like a boep in a bulimia ward.
It's also got a bit to do with size, sure - male or female, black or white,
there's a physical bulk to the children of Africa that few other nations can
match - but it's got far more to do with houding.
Expressions of ferocious purpose
Where fat Americans are normally to be found slouching petulantly along,
bleating and whining like lost sheep, the South Africans charge through the
departure halls like prop-forwards on amphetamines, wearing expressions of
ferocious purpose and certainty no matter how profoundly lost and confused
they might be.
While a Dane will stand at the information desk and painstakingly look up
every word of their query in a well-used Dansk-Thai dictionary, the South
Africans truly believe that English (even Brakpan-accented quasi-English)
need only be spoken very loudly to be universally understood. Thus:
"Sawadee ka, sir. Can I help you, please?"
"JISLAAIK, JA! TELL ME, SISSIE, WHERE IS THIS BLERRIE TERMINAL ONE, HEY? I
TUNE YOU, THIS DONNERSE MAP IS SOMMER KAK, AND NOW I'M MOS GETTING LEKKER
BEFO..."
"Escuse me, sir?"
And so on.
Faces, too, have their stories to tell. Show me a face that looks like it's
been hacked out of an old tree-stump, a face flushed red with the lingering
memories of a million Texan plains and klippies-en-cokes, and I'm not about
to mistake it for any English Rose.
Haircuts that still remember the Group Areas Act; enough jewellery to keep a
coven of chiropractors in profit; tight shorts and ski-pants on butts that
should know better; cosmetics applied with a plasterer's trowel. These are a
few of my least favourite things.
Misplaced manne and dipsy dames
Ja, they're a strange bunch, these misplaced manne and dipsy dames. So why,
I wonder, do I feel a smile threatening to crack the carefully neutral
façade of my airport-face every time I spot one of them? Why do I feel that
much more impatient to get on the plane and fly back to millions more just
like them?
I'll check the time on my Polex, fiddle with my Ray-Cans, and tap my
Nikea-shod foot until they call the flight. Then I'll stand in line, jammed
between Mrs Molefi's 50-kilo handbag and Kaas Visagie's sweat-stained
joggers, waiting for that endless, cramped journey back to my basket-case
country to begin. And I'll be grinning like an idiot. Because it's at
special moments like these that the beauty of an eternal truth comes shining
through:
Be it ever so weird, there's no place like home.
I've been thinking a lot about home and all the things I miss, and the list keeps getting longer by the day...but I've just seen the best description of our native folk when found abroad... so i thought i would share it on this brisk winters morning
What is it about South Africans abroad that make them so easy to spot? On
home ground, one looks pretty much like the other (despite some minor
differences in size, colour and fashion sense), so why is it that when
they're overseas they're more conspicuous than a Yank in full
Nikon/Hawaiian-shirt battle-dress?
I've spent many happy hours in airports playing 'spot the sarfeffrican' and,
lemme tell you, my success-rate is pretty damn frightening. I'll catch a
fleeting glimpse of someone in the duty-free shop and confidently put money
on the fact that he/she'll be standing on my foot in the queue for
SAA-whatever in two hours time. I'm rarely wrong.
Impressive as this undoubtedly seems, there's really nothing to it. You just
need to know what to look for.
Let's take Bangkok as an example. Great place. A lot of tourists take
advantage of the stalls along Sukhumvit Road and in Patpong to load up on
cheap clothing and accessories. And why not? Why should anyone pay a
thousand bucks and more for a pair of sunglasses with a fancy 'G' on it?
Fair enough. But only a South African turns up at the airport to catch their
flight home actually wearing every single item of contraband they've bought
over the last two weeks.
Crass clichés of kitsch
Dressed from head to toe in patently obvious knock-off gear, they pose in
the check-in queues like garish advertisements for provincialism, crass
clichés of kitsch.
From his Billabog cap to his Ferrori jacket, his Oakey sunglasses to his Tag
Hewer watch; from his Levin jeans to the soles of his Reebuk takkies, his
ensemble screams out: "Look at me! It's my first time out of Benoni ever,
and I have no taste at all!"
Why do they do it? Is it the shock of finding themselves in a foreign
country and still actually being able to buy anything at all that drives
them to such extremes of counterfeit sartorial madness?
Perhaps the Bellville-Boykie-Westrand-Cowboy gene-complex lurking in their
DNA has mutated out of control in a foreign clime? Whatever it is, it's a
dead give-away, and it's embarrassing, and I wish they'd all stop it.
Immediately.
But, tragically, even if the homeward-bound Sarfeffrican arrived at the
airport in a Saville Row suit with a set of Louis Vuitton luggage in tow,
they'd still stick out like a boep in a bulimia ward.
It's also got a bit to do with size, sure - male or female, black or white,
there's a physical bulk to the children of Africa that few other nations can
match - but it's got far more to do with houding.
Expressions of ferocious purpose
Where fat Americans are normally to be found slouching petulantly along,
bleating and whining like lost sheep, the South Africans charge through the
departure halls like prop-forwards on amphetamines, wearing expressions of
ferocious purpose and certainty no matter how profoundly lost and confused
they might be.
While a Dane will stand at the information desk and painstakingly look up
every word of their query in a well-used Dansk-Thai dictionary, the South
Africans truly believe that English (even Brakpan-accented quasi-English)
need only be spoken very loudly to be universally understood. Thus:
"Sawadee ka, sir. Can I help you, please?"
"JISLAAIK, JA! TELL ME, SISSIE, WHERE IS THIS BLERRIE TERMINAL ONE, HEY? I
TUNE YOU, THIS DONNERSE MAP IS SOMMER KAK, AND NOW I'M MOS GETTING LEKKER
BEFO..."
"Escuse me, sir?"
And so on.
Faces, too, have their stories to tell. Show me a face that looks like it's
been hacked out of an old tree-stump, a face flushed red with the lingering
memories of a million Texan plains and klippies-en-cokes, and I'm not about
to mistake it for any English Rose.
Haircuts that still remember the Group Areas Act; enough jewellery to keep a
coven of chiropractors in profit; tight shorts and ski-pants on butts that
should know better; cosmetics applied with a plasterer's trowel. These are a
few of my least favourite things.
Misplaced manne and dipsy dames
Ja, they're a strange bunch, these misplaced manne and dipsy dames. So why,
I wonder, do I feel a smile threatening to crack the carefully neutral
façade of my airport-face every time I spot one of them? Why do I feel that
much more impatient to get on the plane and fly back to millions more just
like them?
I'll check the time on my Polex, fiddle with my Ray-Cans, and tap my
Nikea-shod foot until they call the flight. Then I'll stand in line, jammed
between Mrs Molefi's 50-kilo handbag and Kaas Visagie's sweat-stained
joggers, waiting for that endless, cramped journey back to my basket-case
country to begin. And I'll be grinning like an idiot. Because it's at
special moments like these that the beauty of an eternal truth comes shining
through:
Be it ever so weird, there's no place like home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
