I woke up this morning to find an agonised Piglet pacing the glass doors in the study with both Fatty and Gata, our Russian Blue cats pacing with her. Gata had snatched a dove from the air a few minutes earlier and was trying to get back out there to finish the job. Piglet was pacing because she thought that something needed to be done about the mangled bird outside on the lawn but could not bring herself to go near it and look it in the eye knowing it was her cat that did the damage. Fatty was sure there was something going on and he was pacing because everybody else was pacing but actually just wanted his second breakfast.
Enter Schnoozy the Bird Dispatcher!
'whats going on', I asked? 'Cats caught a dove. You have to go and put the bird out of its misery', I was told. Now I am no killer, especially of things smaller than me that would not even be a meal in a time of need, but somebody had to do something. I went out, approached the traumatised bird, picked it up and walked around to the garage down a long passage, not wanting to make a spectacle of the coming execution. The bird had most of its body feathers removed and was bleeding from its neck, back, wings and chest. It was a bald, bleeding living mess.
The dove looked at me with big frightened eyes and its breathing was shallow and fast. I tried hard to relegate its coming death to insignificance in the global and cosmic scheme of things but could not. It was here looking at me, in my hands, it was significant. Then I got the bright idea that since it was breathing so hard, if I squeezed it slightly, it might pass out from lack of air and die from a loving hug. Psychotic killer that I am, I gave it a firm snuggle and it actually started working. The poor creature's eyes opened wider and it opened its beak to try and gulp down its last breaths. As its fate became obvious to the bird, it started feebly struggling for its life for the second time that morning. I stopped immediately, horrified, and popped the poor bird into a cardboard box on a shelf and left in a state of self-loathing.
'Is it done?' asked the Piglet and I shook my head and said that I couldn't do it and that I might need professional help for my dark issues. We put it into a cat travel case since no bird cage was available, popped a bit of water inside and spent the next hour of our Sunday searching for bird seed in the local convenience stores. After securing seed and expecting to find a dead bird at home, we got back and discovered the bird had perked up a bit. It seemed to be more alert and and had drunk a little water. Piglet opened the cage and tried to put a bowl of seed inside. The hunted little dove saw its chance to escape the nightmare and bolted. It hobbled around the room and eventually got airborne, made a wonky beeline for the open doors, flapped for its life and made it into the tree one yard away.
Now I don't know whether the poor guy is dead tonight or whether he is telling his buddies about his twin escape from death. Either way, I am glad he had the chance to live or die on his own terms and not by my shaky, murderous hand. I am happy that he made that break. It must have been one hell of a rush! Mostly I am relieved that I didn't deprive it of that last chance to live.
Good luck, my plucked and mauled little friend and stay the hell away from cats and humans if you made it...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Pigs 1 - Horses 1
Animals are smarter than you think! I say it all the time but every now and then I am lucky enough to see it in action.
I was at a wedding yesterday and it was literally thronging with beasts of every description. Besides the highly evolved primates waffling on about their holy union, there were two pigs, two horses and a whole multitude of less obvious birds, insects and possibly even a few billion bacteria on a sunny little estate in Northern Johannesburg behind a high voltage fence. The story is mostly about the pigs and horses.
Both pigs were bought as the Vietnamese Pot-belly variety that are supposed to stay small and cuddly. It soon became apparent to the loving owners that these porky fellows were not going to stay small at all and they duly grew into handsome specimens of full piggy size. Now in this strange household, the horses and the pigs lived together and at some point during the last few weeks, the immense stress of the wedding got to the one pig, lets call him *Mandibles, and he flew into a porcine rage and savagely bit the leg of one of the horses, lets call him *Sandwich. Sandwich was traumatised and quite badly lacerated by Mandibles' vicious bite and was removed from the stye/paddock and the vet was called in. Many hours of struggling later, the vet stitched Sandwich up and he was put into a locked stable for recovery and reflection. Mandibles, meanwhile was put into solitary to calm the hell down.
That left the other pig, lets call him *Punchbag, and the remaining horse, *Bruce Lee together in the open area in what can only be described as an uneasy truce. Now how the communication worked between horses or whether Bruce Lee simply acted alone, we may never know, but what we do know is that later that day, Bruce Lee exacted a brutal revenge by kicking Punchbag one hell of a shot in the side. Apparently Sandwich whinnied his approval from his vantage point at the stable door. As the Piglet noted (no relation to Punchbag or Mandibles), Horses 1 - Pigs 1.
So now the married couple are trying to piece the family back together which is not an easy thing when you have one horse-eating pig living with a pig-kicking horse and a whole bunch of abused victims that can't talk through their problems. It is not the first time I have experienced family fighting at weddings but it certainly wins the award for the most bizarre!
*Actual names of the animals involved were not used in order to protect them from possible revenge attacks.
I was at a wedding yesterday and it was literally thronging with beasts of every description. Besides the highly evolved primates waffling on about their holy union, there were two pigs, two horses and a whole multitude of less obvious birds, insects and possibly even a few billion bacteria on a sunny little estate in Northern Johannesburg behind a high voltage fence. The story is mostly about the pigs and horses.
Both pigs were bought as the Vietnamese Pot-belly variety that are supposed to stay small and cuddly. It soon became apparent to the loving owners that these porky fellows were not going to stay small at all and they duly grew into handsome specimens of full piggy size. Now in this strange household, the horses and the pigs lived together and at some point during the last few weeks, the immense stress of the wedding got to the one pig, lets call him *Mandibles, and he flew into a porcine rage and savagely bit the leg of one of the horses, lets call him *Sandwich. Sandwich was traumatised and quite badly lacerated by Mandibles' vicious bite and was removed from the stye/paddock and the vet was called in. Many hours of struggling later, the vet stitched Sandwich up and he was put into a locked stable for recovery and reflection. Mandibles, meanwhile was put into solitary to calm the hell down.
That left the other pig, lets call him *Punchbag, and the remaining horse, *Bruce Lee together in the open area in what can only be described as an uneasy truce. Now how the communication worked between horses or whether Bruce Lee simply acted alone, we may never know, but what we do know is that later that day, Bruce Lee exacted a brutal revenge by kicking Punchbag one hell of a shot in the side. Apparently Sandwich whinnied his approval from his vantage point at the stable door. As the Piglet noted (no relation to Punchbag or Mandibles), Horses 1 - Pigs 1.
So now the married couple are trying to piece the family back together which is not an easy thing when you have one horse-eating pig living with a pig-kicking horse and a whole bunch of abused victims that can't talk through their problems. It is not the first time I have experienced family fighting at weddings but it certainly wins the award for the most bizarre!
*Actual names of the animals involved were not used in order to protect them from possible revenge attacks.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Da Super Mudda City
I took a quirky Kulula flight down to Cape Town for 3 days this week and I was impressed - with the city that is. I don't say that as somebody who is qualified to be a judge of such things but I couldn't help noticing some subtle differences to my hometown of Jozi that went a little deeper than the obvious scenery. Cape Town looks like a city on the up.
The first thing that struck me was how clean, operational and viable the CBD is. Not only is it full of beautifully restored old buildings that are fast becoming trendy and classy apartment blocks, but there is no hint of fear in the people who live and work in the city. They walk alone or in pairs, day and night to the restaurants and cafes of which there are plenty. They are of all races and the impression of a working solution to the racial harmony issue is tangible. People mingle, eat and shop together in all areas. I am not stupid enough to think there is no crime in Cape Town but I sense that the balance has shifted onto the leg of the law-abiding and the fight is being won.
The second thing that struck me was how well certain things worked there. Cape Town employs human parking meters that have nifty gadgets that keep track of your car license number and the time you have been parked and charge you accordingly. It is a super flexible system in which you can be approached and asked to pay up front, you can be nabbed as you pop back to the car to collect something or before you leave. Either way, pay you do! Now I tried to dodge the system as it was kinda fun and I am used to doing it with particular car guards that annoy me but I paid every single time. These guys were pros! The system works and it employs people and parking in Cape Town is regulated properly. Oh, and they have a sense of humour and ALWAYS have change for you.
The next thing that struck me was the number of taxis of all kinds trawling the city for business. Many were in good condition, not the heaps of junk you see in Joburg, and although I didn't use one this time, I would take a taxi in future. That's a big statement from a car-owning white South African male. Public transport without fear is a reality there. Tourists and locals alike use it all the time and it works.
I then nosed around the highways and suburbs of the Cape for a day or 2 and once again I was impressed by cleanliness. The open fields and parks were spotless (not sure if its the 120km/h wind that howls through there from time to time or diligent citizens) compared to their equivalent grubby cousins in Jozi or Durbs. I also began encountering the suburban Capetonian
at work and they are pleasant animals let me tell you. None of the aggression that flows so easily in a Joburg meeting with strangers. Granted that is why things take a little longer but I would trade it any day. The people were chillaxed man and service people had that snappy efficiency and a smile to match that is so often missing from the sullen, sulky angrybots you have to deal with here. Quips from Allan, my business partner about being in town to steal the mountain, rock by rock, to take it back to Joburg and that Cape Town is the mother city because everything takes 9 months to get done were all laughed at and parried right back at him in good humour.
Another cool bit was the super-funky low cost housing developments in the Cape Flats. These apartment buildings would not look out of place in good areas and by simply building attractively I think value has been created for people who will take pride in living in those units. Add that and all of the above to the good food and the easy-going traffic flow, even at peak hours, and you have a pretty good idea of what I am talking about. It led Allan to make another interesting comment...'it looks like the money people pay in taxes here is being spent properly'. It also, in my humble opinion shows why the ANC propaganda machine has spun into action against Helen Zille, the DA leader and mayor of Cape Town, just one year before the next elections. In a country where community after community are protesting against abysmal ANC service-delivery to the people, Cape Town has been pretty silent and is showing what can and should be done. There is a pride there and it is driving the place forward. Instead of trying to tear it down because of how it highlights the comparative failure of the rest of the ANC-controlled country, perhaps the powers that be could try emulating it for the good of the people that pay their salaries and put them into the positions that make it possible for them to sign up billions worth of empowerment shares. Just a thought comrades...
The first thing that struck me was how clean, operational and viable the CBD is. Not only is it full of beautifully restored old buildings that are fast becoming trendy and classy apartment blocks, but there is no hint of fear in the people who live and work in the city. They walk alone or in pairs, day and night to the restaurants and cafes of which there are plenty. They are of all races and the impression of a working solution to the racial harmony issue is tangible. People mingle, eat and shop together in all areas. I am not stupid enough to think there is no crime in Cape Town but I sense that the balance has shifted onto the leg of the law-abiding and the fight is being won.
The second thing that struck me was how well certain things worked there. Cape Town employs human parking meters that have nifty gadgets that keep track of your car license number and the time you have been parked and charge you accordingly. It is a super flexible system in which you can be approached and asked to pay up front, you can be nabbed as you pop back to the car to collect something or before you leave. Either way, pay you do! Now I tried to dodge the system as it was kinda fun and I am used to doing it with particular car guards that annoy me but I paid every single time. These guys were pros! The system works and it employs people and parking in Cape Town is regulated properly. Oh, and they have a sense of humour and ALWAYS have change for you.
The next thing that struck me was the number of taxis of all kinds trawling the city for business. Many were in good condition, not the heaps of junk you see in Joburg, and although I didn't use one this time, I would take a taxi in future. That's a big statement from a car-owning white South African male. Public transport without fear is a reality there. Tourists and locals alike use it all the time and it works.
I then nosed around the highways and suburbs of the Cape for a day or 2 and once again I was impressed by cleanliness. The open fields and parks were spotless (not sure if its the 120km/h wind that howls through there from time to time or diligent citizens) compared to their equivalent grubby cousins in Jozi or Durbs. I also began encountering the suburban Capetonian
at work and they are pleasant animals let me tell you. None of the aggression that flows so easily in a Joburg meeting with strangers. Granted that is why things take a little longer but I would trade it any day. The people were chillaxed man and service people had that snappy efficiency and a smile to match that is so often missing from the sullen, sulky angrybots you have to deal with here. Quips from Allan, my business partner about being in town to steal the mountain, rock by rock, to take it back to Joburg and that Cape Town is the mother city because everything takes 9 months to get done were all laughed at and parried right back at him in good humour.
Another cool bit was the super-funky low cost housing developments in the Cape Flats. These apartment buildings would not look out of place in good areas and by simply building attractively I think value has been created for people who will take pride in living in those units. Add that and all of the above to the good food and the easy-going traffic flow, even at peak hours, and you have a pretty good idea of what I am talking about. It led Allan to make another interesting comment...'it looks like the money people pay in taxes here is being spent properly'. It also, in my humble opinion shows why the ANC propaganda machine has spun into action against Helen Zille, the DA leader and mayor of Cape Town, just one year before the next elections. In a country where community after community are protesting against abysmal ANC service-delivery to the people, Cape Town has been pretty silent and is showing what can and should be done. There is a pride there and it is driving the place forward. Instead of trying to tear it down because of how it highlights the comparative failure of the rest of the ANC-controlled country, perhaps the powers that be could try emulating it for the good of the people that pay their salaries and put them into the positions that make it possible for them to sign up billions worth of empowerment shares. Just a thought comrades...
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Citing by the Blind
After a bruising battle against Samoa in the opening match of the 2007 IRB world cup, rugby-watching South Africa was collectively shaken to hear that Schalk Burger had been cited for a dangerous tackle in the air against the Samoan scrumhalf, a full 48 hours after the match. A few alarm bells started ringing then and they seem to be getting louder...
1) The referee and linesman who both witnessed the event in real time decided it was moderately dangerous and gave a penalty, no yellow card was deemed necessary, nobody was hurt and there was enough doubt to assume Burger was not playing recklessly and it was an accident.
2) The game was full of late and crunching tackles, largely from Samoa, the refined essence of which could best be observed in Brian Lima taking the field, pointing to Andre Pretorius to indicate that he was going to hurt him and then hitting Pretorius so hard and late that Lima managed, somewhat moronically, to concuss himself. None of the Samoan players involved in these tackles were initially cited.
3) A hearing was convened and Schalk Burger was banned for 4 matches by an Australian commissioner who, during the hearing, decided to overrule the referee and linesman both of whom stuck to their original assessment of the situation after being able to review the video footage. They both, incidentally submitted written statements in support of their decision, so sure were they.
4) An appeal was then convened at which the SARU had to fly in its own video equipment as the equipment at the original hearing had been so bad, no clear freeze-frames of the incident could be clearly seen. At this time, the IRB panel had realised the call was harsh and reduced the sentence to 2 matches, implying that they had made the wrong call yet probably needing to save face by sacrificing the player for a few games.
5) Upon realising the huge media circus that was now surrounding the whole citing, the IRB decided to cite a Samoan flank for a dangerous tackle on Percy Montgomery - his sentence, 1 match. Schalk gets 4, he gets 1 for the same offence. That's pretty blatant. Oh and by the way, Terry Willis was the official in both cases and his reason for the discrepancy...the Samoan pleaded guilty! What? So by admitting that you tried to hurt the other guy you get a much reduced sentence compared with stating your innocence and that you were NOT trying to play dirty? This is not nursery school here! Guilty is guilty! No prizes for schloeping the teacher. Come onnnnn.
In the subsequent weeks of the competition, Brian Lima of Samoa once again comes onto the field and delivers a late and dangerous tackle on England's Johnny Wilkinson, the darling of world rugby. The tackle was bad but not nearly as bad as the one he hit South Africa's Pretorius with. This time, not only was he cited but banned for the entire tournament. So Lima does it against SA, he gets nothing, he does it against England he gets banned for the entire world cup. Okaaaay, double standards some might say.
The self-same citing whirlwind, Terry Willis, pops up again in a Samoan-Tongan incident in which a Tongan flank, Hale T Pole gets 1 week after being sent off for a dangerous tackle. Again, 1 week vs 4 weeks. Oh and Pole pleaded guilty as well. He probably brought a shiny aple to the hearing.
So feeling fairly hard done by, with cries of foul conspiracy, South Africa headed into another match, this time with Tonga, without their star flanker. The match was fairly even-tempered and a close affair seeing SA win 30-25.
Almost 48 hours after the match and can you believe it, another citing for an SA player today...this time for the evil offence of finger biting! Frans Steyn denied it and even went as far as stating to the press that he was shocked, angry at the accusation and that he did not play the game like that. Regardless, he was trawled through the media mill, pronounced a bad boy of rugby and hauled into a hearing this afternoon. Thankfully, he was found not-guilty by virtue of the fact that there was no recorded evidence of the incident AND (here is the kicker!) the Tongan that had accused him suddenly backed off and said perhaps it happened at another time in the game or maybe he had not in fact been bitten. All this after submitting photo's of his hand to the citing commissioner along with his statement. Huh? You is or you ain't bud!
So what is happening here? Are we just unlucky, are we dirty and fans are blind to the facts, is it a conspiracy to see us lose the world cup? Well for what it worth this is what I think...
There is no simple explanation for the lack of citings for players like Drew Mitchell and Carl Hayman. They were caught on camera, they transgressed, everyone saw it and yet they were not cited. Why? Nobody appears to be able to answer this. Most often the justification is that NZ or OZ play clean rugby, SA plays dirty rugby, that's why our players are cited more often. I think that this world cup has highlighted a prejudice, a false impression and the statistics, through a blatant action that has now drawn micro-scrutiny, are finally showing the real story. I don't believe it is a conspiracy in the form of a dark meeting on a stormy night of all nations besides South Africa but what seems clear is there is a perception that SA are a dirty side and this perception is hampering impartial judgement by referees, linesmen and citing officials. You find what you are looking for but you are missing what is in front of you. The FACTS of this world cup have shown that SA is a cleaner rugby playing side than Samoa, Tonga, England, New Zealand, Wales and Australia and yet we are penalised more for it. That's not right. Love us or hate us as you will but lets be fair. There should be consistency, there should be fairness and above all, there should be respect for the player's careers and reputations that are being damaged by these citing Mongols sweeping across Paris and burning a once great game to the ground.
1) The referee and linesman who both witnessed the event in real time decided it was moderately dangerous and gave a penalty, no yellow card was deemed necessary, nobody was hurt and there was enough doubt to assume Burger was not playing recklessly and it was an accident.
2) The game was full of late and crunching tackles, largely from Samoa, the refined essence of which could best be observed in Brian Lima taking the field, pointing to Andre Pretorius to indicate that he was going to hurt him and then hitting Pretorius so hard and late that Lima managed, somewhat moronically, to concuss himself. None of the Samoan players involved in these tackles were initially cited.
3) A hearing was convened and Schalk Burger was banned for 4 matches by an Australian commissioner who, during the hearing, decided to overrule the referee and linesman both of whom stuck to their original assessment of the situation after being able to review the video footage. They both, incidentally submitted written statements in support of their decision, so sure were they.
4) An appeal was then convened at which the SARU had to fly in its own video equipment as the equipment at the original hearing had been so bad, no clear freeze-frames of the incident could be clearly seen. At this time, the IRB panel had realised the call was harsh and reduced the sentence to 2 matches, implying that they had made the wrong call yet probably needing to save face by sacrificing the player for a few games.
5) Upon realising the huge media circus that was now surrounding the whole citing, the IRB decided to cite a Samoan flank for a dangerous tackle on Percy Montgomery - his sentence, 1 match. Schalk gets 4, he gets 1 for the same offence. That's pretty blatant. Oh and by the way, Terry Willis was the official in both cases and his reason for the discrepancy...the Samoan pleaded guilty! What? So by admitting that you tried to hurt the other guy you get a much reduced sentence compared with stating your innocence and that you were NOT trying to play dirty? This is not nursery school here! Guilty is guilty! No prizes for schloeping the teacher. Come onnnnn.
In the subsequent weeks of the competition, Brian Lima of Samoa once again comes onto the field and delivers a late and dangerous tackle on England's Johnny Wilkinson, the darling of world rugby. The tackle was bad but not nearly as bad as the one he hit South Africa's Pretorius with. This time, not only was he cited but banned for the entire tournament. So Lima does it against SA, he gets nothing, he does it against England he gets banned for the entire world cup. Okaaaay, double standards some might say.
The self-same citing whirlwind, Terry Willis, pops up again in a Samoan-Tongan incident in which a Tongan flank, Hale T Pole gets 1 week after being sent off for a dangerous tackle. Again, 1 week vs 4 weeks. Oh and Pole pleaded guilty as well. He probably brought a shiny aple to the hearing.
The All Black's Carl Hayman was caught TWICE punching an Italian in the face - not even cited! It doesn't get more blatantly dirty than that.
Australia's Drew Mitchell, spear tackle of note against the Welsh - no citing. His coach admitted on camera after the game that he thought he would be cited. Lucky him, especially considering Paul Emery of the USA got a 5 week ban for carbon copy of that tackle against England. Lucky Drew and lucky Australia indeed! Poor unknown USA.
In the same game, Stephen Moore of Australia and Gareth Thomas of Wales both performed tackles more dangerous than Schalk's and neither were cited.
So feeling fairly hard done by, with cries of foul conspiracy, South Africa headed into another match, this time with Tonga, without their star flanker. The match was fairly even-tempered and a close affair seeing SA win 30-25.
Almost 48 hours after the match and can you believe it, another citing for an SA player today...this time for the evil offence of finger biting! Frans Steyn denied it and even went as far as stating to the press that he was shocked, angry at the accusation and that he did not play the game like that. Regardless, he was trawled through the media mill, pronounced a bad boy of rugby and hauled into a hearing this afternoon. Thankfully, he was found not-guilty by virtue of the fact that there was no recorded evidence of the incident AND (here is the kicker!) the Tongan that had accused him suddenly backed off and said perhaps it happened at another time in the game or maybe he had not in fact been bitten. All this after submitting photo's of his hand to the citing commissioner along with his statement. Huh? You is or you ain't bud!
So what is happening here? Are we just unlucky, are we dirty and fans are blind to the facts, is it a conspiracy to see us lose the world cup? Well for what it worth this is what I think...
There is no simple explanation for the lack of citings for players like Drew Mitchell and Carl Hayman. They were caught on camera, they transgressed, everyone saw it and yet they were not cited. Why? Nobody appears to be able to answer this. Most often the justification is that NZ or OZ play clean rugby, SA plays dirty rugby, that's why our players are cited more often. I think that this world cup has highlighted a prejudice, a false impression and the statistics, through a blatant action that has now drawn micro-scrutiny, are finally showing the real story. I don't believe it is a conspiracy in the form of a dark meeting on a stormy night of all nations besides South Africa but what seems clear is there is a perception that SA are a dirty side and this perception is hampering impartial judgement by referees, linesmen and citing officials. You find what you are looking for but you are missing what is in front of you. The FACTS of this world cup have shown that SA is a cleaner rugby playing side than Samoa, Tonga, England, New Zealand, Wales and Australia and yet we are penalised more for it. That's not right. Love us or hate us as you will but lets be fair. There should be consistency, there should be fairness and above all, there should be respect for the player's careers and reputations that are being damaged by these citing Mongols sweeping across Paris and burning a once great game to the ground.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Go passion yourself!
I really and truly hate 'passion'!
From time to time a word like 'passion' falls into the grubby hands of the common language thugs. Instead of morphing the word, incorporating and nurturing it on a new path like 'cool', 'wicked', 'sick' and 'roll', the dirty vandals proceed to thump and bash it and, in a faux-learned frenzy, start littering every inarticulate sentence with it. Such has been the degrading fate of poor old 'passion'. Now I don't think this is just a South African thing, although it has reached epidemic proportions here. It seems to have gone global, pervading the English linguistic zeitgeist and poisoning it from within.
According to that mighty useful thingy called Wikipedia, Passion is the emotion of feeling very strongly about a subject or person. Think about that. The thing you are passionate about MUST raise strong EMOTION deep within you. It comes from the Latin 'passio' - to suffer! Yes, thats right, suffer! Translated that means you have to ache, burn, yearn, long and be consumed by the thing. It must drive you to the edge! You should break down, explode with joy or wail when you think about the object of your passion, depending upon its state at the time I guess. I am not thinking Human Resources Department here people.
Once the domain of Shakespeare, D.H. Lawrence and people who needed a word to really elevate a thought or feeling about life, love or standing for an ideal, it has now become the stock standard payoff line on CV's, in job interviews and well just about everything really. If these people are to be believed, there are bankers out there with a passion for logging hourly exchange rates, drivers with a passion for delivering parcels, passionate gardeners loving the hole they are digging in rocky ground, computer programmers passionate about debugging 10000 lines of code and even lion tamers passionate about scooping up the lion poop at the end of the taming day! Are they aching inside with burning passion for these jobs? I suggest rather that you enjoy gardening, manning the complaints desk at an airline is NOT something you are passionate about (although this one may give you that necessary strong feeling deep within!), its something you can do or at best do effectively. Every idiotic Idols contestant is NOT passionate about making mindless pop music. Regardless of what they all say, there is no fire and ache in probably 99% of the lying rodents. Some like singing, some love singing, most are sold on the idea of making loads of money if anything. 'Passion', however, seems to have become the new benchmark of commitment. If you are not passionate, you might as well not apply. We don't take 'interested', 'keen to learn', good at' or 'like' seriously. Its passionate or push off! Use it or lose out!
When I think about what has happened to 'passion', I see a Klimt on a polystyrene burger box, Mozart in a washing powder commercial, Hamlet in a bad rap song, yo. They would never recover from the association, their souls sold. Well, similarly 'passion' is lost to us forever in a haze of tacky, plastic, insincere associations.
For those of you who don't know what I am on about or, for that matter, what an oxymoron is...'passionate accountant' is one you are free to use! Goodbye oxymoron...
Go 'passion' yourselves!
From time to time a word like 'passion' falls into the grubby hands of the common language thugs. Instead of morphing the word, incorporating and nurturing it on a new path like 'cool', 'wicked', 'sick' and 'roll', the dirty vandals proceed to thump and bash it and, in a faux-learned frenzy, start littering every inarticulate sentence with it. Such has been the degrading fate of poor old 'passion'. Now I don't think this is just a South African thing, although it has reached epidemic proportions here. It seems to have gone global, pervading the English linguistic zeitgeist and poisoning it from within.
According to that mighty useful thingy called Wikipedia, Passion is the emotion of feeling very strongly about a subject or person. Think about that. The thing you are passionate about MUST raise strong EMOTION deep within you. It comes from the Latin 'passio' - to suffer! Yes, thats right, suffer! Translated that means you have to ache, burn, yearn, long and be consumed by the thing. It must drive you to the edge! You should break down, explode with joy or wail when you think about the object of your passion, depending upon its state at the time I guess. I am not thinking Human Resources Department here people.
Once the domain of Shakespeare, D.H. Lawrence and people who needed a word to really elevate a thought or feeling about life, love or standing for an ideal, it has now become the stock standard payoff line on CV's, in job interviews and well just about everything really. If these people are to be believed, there are bankers out there with a passion for logging hourly exchange rates, drivers with a passion for delivering parcels, passionate gardeners loving the hole they are digging in rocky ground, computer programmers passionate about debugging 10000 lines of code and even lion tamers passionate about scooping up the lion poop at the end of the taming day! Are they aching inside with burning passion for these jobs? I suggest rather that you enjoy gardening, manning the complaints desk at an airline is NOT something you are passionate about (although this one may give you that necessary strong feeling deep within!), its something you can do or at best do effectively. Every idiotic Idols contestant is NOT passionate about making mindless pop music. Regardless of what they all say, there is no fire and ache in probably 99% of the lying rodents. Some like singing, some love singing, most are sold on the idea of making loads of money if anything. 'Passion', however, seems to have become the new benchmark of commitment. If you are not passionate, you might as well not apply. We don't take 'interested', 'keen to learn', good at' or 'like' seriously. Its passionate or push off! Use it or lose out!
When I think about what has happened to 'passion', I see a Klimt on a polystyrene burger box, Mozart in a washing powder commercial, Hamlet in a bad rap song, yo. They would never recover from the association, their souls sold. Well, similarly 'passion' is lost to us forever in a haze of tacky, plastic, insincere associations.
For those of you who don't know what I am on about or, for that matter, what an oxymoron is...'passionate accountant' is one you are free to use! Goodbye oxymoron...
Go 'passion' yourselves!
Monday, September 17, 2007
If the pilot is here would you please raise your hand?
Piglet, my long suffering girlfriend/manager/disciplinary hearing adjudicator had to make an emergency trip to London yesterday to buy art at an auction.
So last night I was at Jan Smu...err, Joburg Inter....errr...the ORtiport or whatever that pit of depair is called now, shoulder down savagely head-butting my way through aimlessly wandering, painfully slow, migrating masses of passenger matter when I stole a quick glance at the board for the Piglet's SAA flight. The flight was marked 'cancelled'...huh?
Now delayed I have done, missed even, but cancelled? So, side-stepping the nearest sweaty, chewing passenger in bokkie jersey off to London, bobbing and weaving through the extended muslim family in full battle kit and running headlong through a forest of wrapped and taped slender wooden giraffes, we finally joined the mother of all queue's at the SAA counter. Since Piglet had to be in London for an auction the following day, cancelled was not an option!
Much time passes...
We duly managed, with no less then three ping-pong encounters between airline kiosks, to get the poor soul onto a Virgin flight and got SAA to pay for it. Upon leaving the SAA counter for the last time, I thought I would find out more about the actual cause of cancellation from the only friendly person on duty that night likely to give me a straight answer. The reply was simple but staggering...sir, (wry smile), we lost the pilot. That is exactly how she phrased it! Now I am no PR man but I am thinking...sir, we have had a staffing issue might have saved a bit of face there? I mean would you want to fly with the pilot should they find him, sober him up and prop him up behind the joystick? If this person could not get to the airport from their house, how the hell can they get from Joburg, via lots of Africa to London...at night!
Well within an hour, the flight had been resheduled for 09h35 the next day, all the passengers went home, the time was then duly changed to midnight (found him! Probably at the airport bar) and when, presumably, it came time to board and the poor muddling airline realised that there were now no more passengers to put on the flight since they were all sent home hours earlier, the flight was again delayed until the next day, much to the dismay of two positive thinking, giraffe-toting Swedes who refused to rock the boat and change airlines earlier.
And to add insult to injury, the Piglet tells me today that the entire auction at Sotherbys was cancelled! Reason...someone or something sneakily bought it all before the auction day! Apparently it happens...who knew?
Chance of both happening within 24 hours of eachother...when things start going pear, 100% it seems!
So last night I was at Jan Smu...err, Joburg Inter....errr...the ORtiport or whatever that pit of depair is called now, shoulder down savagely head-butting my way through aimlessly wandering, painfully slow, migrating masses of passenger matter when I stole a quick glance at the board for the Piglet's SAA flight. The flight was marked 'cancelled'...huh?
Now delayed I have done, missed even, but cancelled? So, side-stepping the nearest sweaty, chewing passenger in bokkie jersey off to London, bobbing and weaving through the extended muslim family in full battle kit and running headlong through a forest of wrapped and taped slender wooden giraffes, we finally joined the mother of all queue's at the SAA counter. Since Piglet had to be in London for an auction the following day, cancelled was not an option!
Much time passes...
We duly managed, with no less then three ping-pong encounters between airline kiosks, to get the poor soul onto a Virgin flight and got SAA to pay for it. Upon leaving the SAA counter for the last time, I thought I would find out more about the actual cause of cancellation from the only friendly person on duty that night likely to give me a straight answer. The reply was simple but staggering...sir, (wry smile), we lost the pilot. That is exactly how she phrased it! Now I am no PR man but I am thinking...sir, we have had a staffing issue might have saved a bit of face there? I mean would you want to fly with the pilot should they find him, sober him up and prop him up behind the joystick? If this person could not get to the airport from their house, how the hell can they get from Joburg, via lots of Africa to London...at night!
Well within an hour, the flight had been resheduled for 09h35 the next day, all the passengers went home, the time was then duly changed to midnight (found him! Probably at the airport bar) and when, presumably, it came time to board and the poor muddling airline realised that there were now no more passengers to put on the flight since they were all sent home hours earlier, the flight was again delayed until the next day, much to the dismay of two positive thinking, giraffe-toting Swedes who refused to rock the boat and change airlines earlier.
And to add insult to injury, the Piglet tells me today that the entire auction at Sotherbys was cancelled! Reason...someone or something sneakily bought it all before the auction day! Apparently it happens...who knew?
Chance of both happening within 24 hours of eachother...when things start going pear, 100% it seems!
Friday, September 14, 2007
Up the spout, old chap!
There is something truly beautiful about a 36-0 clobbering of the English, especially when it involves some real clobbering! Something poetic in what can only be described as the combine harvesting of the reigning world champions. Jason 'fairy toes' Robinson was their best player tonight and looked like 'The Grizzly Man' after his infamous encounter with the starved and emaciated bear that used him as a cheap salmon suppliment to survive the winter. Buggered Bru, totally buggered!
And all that with Schalk watching from the bench is his bulging blazer and Jean back at home with Pierre, resting and waiting. Hundred bucks on the Boks to win this whole world cup malarkey!
And all that with Schalk watching from the bench is his bulging blazer and Jean back at home with Pierre, resting and waiting. Hundred bucks on the Boks to win this whole world cup malarkey!
My Virgin Blog
Super, my virgin blog, very excited. Thanks Heike, you and a silly Friday mood were the catalyst. Here goes...
I have a particular conundrum that is both infuriating and quite funny at the same time. My broadband connection moves into a cycle of resetting itself endlessly every time there is rain. At the first sniff of moisture in the air over Joburg's blue skies, the little flashing yellow tick on my modem starts dancing like a zulu on battle day. In fact it is so predictable that I can tell when it is going to rain before the clouds are even evident...dazzled a few people with that little trick, I have.
So, like every internet dependent geek, after putting up with the stuttering connection for a few rainy summer days, I phoned the local service provider and reported the fault one fine sunny morning. The helpful automaton on the other end, after dutifully checking my name, id number and DNA, tested the line and declared that it was working and hence no fault could be reported. I could not argue, the line was certainly working at that point. No fancy verbal jousting was going to convince this lady that I actually had a 'broken phone' when her little computer told her otherwise.
Now, on occasion, I am prone to think that I am somewhat sneaky so I waited for the next spot of rain and phoned again. This time I was fairly certain that the line would go down and I would get top marks on the 'line test'. It all went to plan, I had a self-congratulatory moment, a technician was duly flagged on the system and all I had to do was to be available on a certain day the following week and all would be well again in downloadia.
Yes, you guessed it, said day was bright and sunny, my internet connection was flying, flawless. The technician spent a few minutes poking around and plugging and unplugging things and declared his job done and that it would be fine from now. He lied like a dog! The very next time rain beckoned, down went my precious. I hopped back onto the phone and once again got my booking with a technician for the following week. Same result.
So now I am in the process of trying to book a technician for a rainy day on a rainy day. Its harder than it sounds and no amount of surfing weather forecast sites seems to help. You see, you have to predict, to the half hour, both the onset of rain and the arrival of the technician, both as slippery as wet moss on a round smooth rock. I have had some success in delaying departure of technicians either by engaging them in long conversation or handing out free drinks but, as yet, bribing rain to show up on time has proved tricky...
I have a particular conundrum that is both infuriating and quite funny at the same time. My broadband connection moves into a cycle of resetting itself endlessly every time there is rain. At the first sniff of moisture in the air over Joburg's blue skies, the little flashing yellow tick on my modem starts dancing like a zulu on battle day. In fact it is so predictable that I can tell when it is going to rain before the clouds are even evident...dazzled a few people with that little trick, I have.
So, like every internet dependent geek, after putting up with the stuttering connection for a few rainy summer days, I phoned the local service provider and reported the fault one fine sunny morning. The helpful automaton on the other end, after dutifully checking my name, id number and DNA, tested the line and declared that it was working and hence no fault could be reported. I could not argue, the line was certainly working at that point. No fancy verbal jousting was going to convince this lady that I actually had a 'broken phone' when her little computer told her otherwise.
Now, on occasion, I am prone to think that I am somewhat sneaky so I waited for the next spot of rain and phoned again. This time I was fairly certain that the line would go down and I would get top marks on the 'line test'. It all went to plan, I had a self-congratulatory moment, a technician was duly flagged on the system and all I had to do was to be available on a certain day the following week and all would be well again in downloadia.
Yes, you guessed it, said day was bright and sunny, my internet connection was flying, flawless. The technician spent a few minutes poking around and plugging and unplugging things and declared his job done and that it would be fine from now. He lied like a dog! The very next time rain beckoned, down went my precious. I hopped back onto the phone and once again got my booking with a technician for the following week. Same result.
So now I am in the process of trying to book a technician for a rainy day on a rainy day. Its harder than it sounds and no amount of surfing weather forecast sites seems to help. You see, you have to predict, to the half hour, both the onset of rain and the arrival of the technician, both as slippery as wet moss on a round smooth rock. I have had some success in delaying departure of technicians either by engaging them in long conversation or handing out free drinks but, as yet, bribing rain to show up on time has proved tricky...
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