R.E.M and me(me).

Oh I am so very very tired right now. I saw R.E.M. live in concert last night and am still in a daze at how awesome it was. I love Michael Stipe and his shiny head. They played every song I thought I could ever want to hear live, and more. It was the best ever.

I have no brain to write a post of my own now so I shall do this meme from cybersass who got it from shebee.
* Two names you go by:
1. B
2. Po (other nicknames give too much away!)

*Two things you’re wearing right now:
1. Ahem, what I wore last night :( R.E.M. t shirt
2. Bench jeans

* Two things you want very badly at the moment:
1. for my body to be well again
2. to be able to climb again

Two things you did last night: (significant)
1. Went to see R.E.M. live at Twickenham, London
2. Met lots of really nice random people

* Two things you ate today
1. Actually nothing since I only woke up recently. groan.
2.

* Two people you last spoke to:
1. My mom
2. G

Two things you are doing this weekend:
1. nothing
2.recovering

Two longest car rides:
1. Cape Town to Durban.
2. Botswana (Jwaneng) to Durban.

Two favorite beverages:
1. Coffee!
2. wine

If you read this and you want to, you can do it too. If you don't want to, I don't mind. I won't even know.

That's ROYAL Leamington Spa to you, what-what.

Interesting facts about Royal Leamington Spa: (this being the little town in the English midlands where I presently reside)

1) Leamington Spa is the birthplace of the antichrist.

 Well, it's true. Aleister Crowley, the self styled "Beast" was born here. Apparently his evilness and reputation as "the wickedest man in the world" is somewhat exaggerated. He was a member of the occult group "The Golden Dawn" and came up with all sorts of theologies and magicks of his own, but to me he sound more of your renaissance man, a general all rounder, in every sense (quite an experimental guy! You shall have to read of his exploits here). He named his first daughter Nicole Ma Ahathoor Hecate Sappho Jezebel Lilith Crowley. Indeed.

That fact is interesting enough for a town as small as this but I shall continue:

2) This place used to be a rocking spa town, popular with royalty and the upper echelons of society. Sadly these glory days are gone and the only foreigners to come here are students going to Warwick University. And those who are lost while trying to find Stratford upon Avon, where the Bard was born.

3) The band Nizlopi who sang that JCB song come from here. Bit of a one hit wonder though.

4) This town is about as far away from the sea as it is possible to be in this country. The nearest sea is nearly 4 hours away in good traffic. This sucks big time. I love the sea.

That my friends is about it for this quaint little town. Like I said before, it is really rather beautiful in parts, however, I live in the ghettos with the various mafias and generally dodgy types. As I have been told by colleagues, if you are South African, you are dodgy by definition. 

Regarding poo, nothing has changed, this is still the most poo town I have ever seen. Someone's dog had diarrhea all over the pavements the other day, and although I was literally retching at the sight, my eyes for some reason would not stop staring. Hate that. 

And as to the dodgy neighbour, he is in jail AGAIN and as we speak his family is ripping the flat apart and renovating it to be sold. So no more screaming and smashing windows at 3am and no more mysterious bikes appearing from nowhere. IT's the end of an era.

Where in the world are YOU?

This is an experiment which may fail miserably, and that's ok.

If you ever happen to stumble upon this post, won't you do me a favour and write down where you are from and whatever else you feel like saying, in the comments section? If you don't wanna, well obviously you won't and I will be none the wiser :)

Even if you find this post years after it was posted, it would be cool to hear about other bloggers out there, so please post. 

Can anyone tell that I am feeling a little lonely out here in the blogosphere?

I shall tell you in case you haven't figured it out: I am from South Africa (Durban to be precise). I lived in Cape Town for 5 years. I have also lived in Botswana. Right now I am living in the UK.  I am sure I will be moving somewhere else in the world at some point. I think I am one of those people who feels that moving will solve all her problems. I know it isn't true, but worth a try, no?

(pic is of Boulders Bay, Simonstown, Cape Town. Copyright of Po).

Cricket schmicket another wicket?

I was at the cricket at Leeds on Friday. Yes we lost. It felt lonely to be a little South African in the midst of a swarm of very happy English supporters. My little flag was a miniscule speck of colour in a sea of navy and red. 

They are very strict about those flags, has it always been this way? Only wave your flag when your team scores a 4 or something. Why? For health and safety reasons. Pardon?

Perhaps what this means is that if you wave your (oppositions) flag too much in the midst of a drunken home crowd you will get pounded. I wasn't going to test this theory however.

The crowd was hilarious. At no time did they pay any attention to the cricket. They played down downs, they sang songs, they built towers of beer cups, the police came, they removed the beer cups,  the crowd would boo, a new tower would go up, the crowd would cheer, someone would get escorted out, booing again, a mexican wave would be attempted, would fail, more booing. Cups got thrown, more police, more booing etc etc. The poor players must have been so confused because the booing and cheering had nothing whatsoever to do with the state of the game. I had fun observing them and ignoring the fact that we were losing.

After being surrounded by pure Englishness all day, what did I hear ringing out into the night as I left the stadium?

"Jou ma se po- (you know the rest)."

Ah, the beautiful lilting refrain of a scorned mens van die Kaap.

You can't get more South African than that, even with added Mrs Ball's.

Are you there Freud? It's me Po(Margaret).

Issues, issues. I have issues. I think. I am 90% sure I have lots of issues. 

Don't we all.

Yes but I would like very much to deal with them. But I don't have the foggiest clue where to begin. I may even be too old; maybe I am beyond repair?

The obvious solution is a shrink. But here in the UK, unless you are diagnosed with something serious you are unlikely to be referred to a specialist on the NHS. Which leaves a private practice. Even if I were working I could not afford a private shrink on a regular basis. Could I somehow convince my GP to send me to an NHS shrink? From previous NHS experiences I can foresee the process:

ME: Doc, I have issues. I need to see a shrink.

DOC: Take these painkillers. If the symptoms persist, come back in two months.

ME: But I don't have any pa-

DOC: sorry your 10 minutes is up, please make a new appointment.

2 months later:

ME: Doc, same problem, symptoms still around, need shrink.

NEW DOC: Um, who are you? Look, if you really feel the same way in 6-8 weeks                     then come back to me okay?

500 million years later (dinosaurs once again roam the earth, but are vegan and gluten-intolerant):

ME: still same old same old.

DOC 3: Okay, phone this number. They will give you an appointment.

After 4 days of trying to get through to the number, I get an appointment for 8 months later.

SHRINK: How can I help you?

ME: Actually, forgeddaboutit. I bought some Bovril, a weedwhacker, a slinky, a        man's entire life, a vintage postcard with sexual connotation, an ant farm, a worm farm, a seamonkey kit, and some lederhosen on ebay, and I feel just fine.

So yes. Perhaps a book? I have a feeling that a book will not work for me for obvious reasons: I have to be the one who self diagnoses and actually does what the book says. What if one of my issues is that I am a lazy unmotivated drifter?

I have come to the point that I acknowledge that my issues are affecting my life and holding me back. But perhaps I am not committed to solving them yet. The thought of actually talking to a shrink makes me want to scream/run/eat slugs. I can't cope with talking about stuff until at least 12 years has passed since said stuff occurred. I am a clam.

I know for sure that my low self esteem, negative thought patterns, general fear of everything, and probable suppressed pain/anger/confusion are wreaking havoc upon my life. Euugh. But what to do?

What the fuck to do?

Free sports

I remember when SA was allowed back into international sports (am I showing my age here or what?). Everyone at my primary school was so excited that they set up TVs in the hall, the woodwork room, the needlework room  - wherever there was space. (Was there really a need for subjecting young girls to hell on earth in a special room? It's a bit dubious: the needles, the isolation. It was so they couldn‘t hear our screams…) When we had a free lesson, or, to be honest, whenever we really wanted to, we could go and watch whatever game was happening. The teachers were all watching anyway. It was kewl.

Sadly I went to an all girls' high school and most of the teachers were women. Now many of the teachers and many of the girls liked sports, at least at national level, and wanted to know scores. But because we were an academically obsessed school that held the premise that women did not care less about scores we did not set up TVs. This was dumb because no one did any work when there was a match on, as we were all wondering what the hell the score was.

Girls schools are all about denial and repression and secrets and desires. So we denied our repressed desires to follow sports. And followed them in secret. We had an underground network system, our very own bush telegraph. Certain girls and teachers had radios or even TVs hidden in their classrooms, and our system ensured that anyone who wanted to could know the score without publicly acknowledging an obsession with sport. Our teachers used to phone each other for occasional updates. Sweet. 

I have a feeling that the initial fever over our sporting endeavors had faded somewhat. It was exciting when we were new and winning. Now we are old hats, and our star has faded a bit, but I am always looking forward to new exploits and great moments. Sport has the ability to inspire even immovable underachievers like me.

Impossible hangover

Is it possible to be hungover without having actually imbibed any alcohol?

It clearly must be, because I have a pounding headache, aching body, nausea, miserable liver, and yet I had no alcohol yesterday  or today. Whatsoever. This makes no bloody sense.

Other people at least get to have some fun before they have the consequences. Hmm. Maybe I caught someone's hangover. Maybe some evil bastard drank like the devil and passed his hangover on to me. Like a cold.

The last time I drank even a smidgin of alcohol happened to coincide with my deciding to eat sausages that had been in my freezer for over a year. Don't ask. It seemed like a good idea at the time, when I was starving. I threw up for a day and a half, and now my measly brain associates that terribleness with alcohol, when in fact I hadn't drunk enough to make a monkey feel funky. So I cannot really tolerate alcohol at the moment anyway.

I don't quite understand what I am being punished for right now, but it has something to do with the fact that we lost the cricket to England. I spent the whole of yesterday in Leeds in somewhat icy conditions watching us lose, and now I am hungover. My scientific brain sees the glaring rule of cause and effect right there. The English crowd were, well, pissed; are English crowds at sporting events not pissed by definition? Maybe I am hungover off of their fumes.

Going to go curl up in a ball now and moan softly.

(pic from fundraw.com)

whack job attack - part 3

This is my last whack job attack.  It was only for one day (thank the  little leaping leprechauns) when I was working for a temp job agency.

Vegetable chopping factory.

Me. Hairnet, gloves, plastic sleeves, plastic slippers. Walk into factory. Go immediately blind. Eyes burning. Nose pouring, eyes streaming. Earwax dripping freely.

Room full of chopped onion. 

Taken to conveyor belt. Handed knife. Knife??! Cannot see. Eyeballs suspended in vat of acid. Onion also makes me sneeze. Am shown little area for wiping and washing eyes. Regulars don't need to use it as tearducts have withered. Have to visit this area every 5 seconds. Spent entire day cutting bits off tubers with knife while totally and utterly blind. Did not lose one single limb. Colleague did and got sent home. Have never felt so much pain in eyes. 

Spent every minute of that day begging for it to end. Was the longest day in the history of this world. If I wasn't crying so much from attack of killer onions I may just have cried from emotional trauma instead.

So that is it folks. Now remember, stay in school, don't do drugs, and above all, don't do what I did, and everything will be fine. Mostly. Respect mah authoritah.

(If you have an express wish to be Cartman, do you think you may need some sort of counselling/straitjacket/sex change/visit to fat camp? Just asking. Hypothetically.)

Prodigal sun.

Here is a little free piece of advice from a seamonkey that has spent 5 years in the UK:

The weather here really really does suck. It is not exaggeration or whingeing. It bites. 

If you are a person who appreciates the sight, the hint of sun (ie a normal human/sea monkey) then do not live here. It's not that the sun never ever shines, but it is not worth the suspense, hope and begging with god of choice, because the chances are you will go an entire summer without its cheery presence.

Just a warning.

Whack job attack - part 2

This was my worst job in the UK, in fact ever:

Apple sorting.

Picture if you will, a cold, grey land. Temperatures are Siberian. You are living in a mobile home/caravan/trailer/whatever the hell it is called. All around you the only language being spoken is Russian. No you are not in the former Eastern bloc. You are in the South of England, and you are miserable. 

I sorted apples at this place for exactly 3 weeks, and it was the longest 3 weeks of my life. We worked 14 hours a day. Of course, because we were working with apples, it was again necessary to be working in a North pole simulator. Everyone working there was very very unhappy. There were many reasons for this.

At the time, many of the Eastern Europeans who can work legally in the UK now, could not. And so the ingenious UK government created this special visa so that they could exploit cheap, eager labour. It is some kind of student visa, supposedly for students of agriculture from Eastern Europe to come over and gain working experience. Whatever. It is a way for farmers to legally pay people less than minimum wage. Bastards. Of course, in those days, the puny wage they were paid was worth loads in their countries. 

Anyway, the staff of this packhouse were all from Eastern Europe, had all been there far far too long, and all had one thing on their minds: money. They all spoke to eachother in Russian, no matter where they were from. We called them "the Russians", although not one of them was actually Russian. They all hated G, me, and any other "foreigner" with a fiery passion and went out of their way to make our lives difficult. 

We, being legal, got paid more than them. We were new and slow. They didn't want to talk to us and explain stuff to us. They were tired. Working with us was like being sent to purgatory for them, and I can safely say the reverse applied too. 

I have nothing against anyone from Eastern Europe, because after this awful experience, I had the opportunity to work with many lovely people from this region. It was the working conditions that did it. But still. These people were quite mean. Two of them threw my stuff at me while I was showering in freezing cold water. 

If my colleagues were miserable, the superiors were worse off. They were terrified of the big bosses and screamed at us all day long. We spent the day staring at apples to check for bruises, and discarding bad ones. Man that shit makes your eyes ache. 

A usual day would proceed something like this:

Line manager: Why did you let this apple through? Don't you see this mark? (Points to black dot size of amoeba).

 

5 minutes later, bosses wife comes in:

Bosses wife: why did you reject this apple (with amoeba dot)? You are wasting our money.

WOTEVA.

Good grief. My life was sleeping, eating pot noodle, and spinning, examining, and carrying apples. One day when the line manager was telling me constantly how uselessly I was spinning my apples (to check for bruises) when I was doing it the same way I did it every day, I just cracked. The woman was clearly terrified of getting in trouble and so had to be seen to be a disciplinarian, but why take it out on me? Cos I was the only one who spoke English and wouldn't sic the Russian mafia on her?

At tea break, I left and never went back. G and I took the next train outta there. Like, I am not normally a quitter, but there are times where you have to ask yourself if there is a valid reason for living in hell, and we most certainly could find jobs better than that.

The worst part of all this is that I don't even eat bloody apples. Considering my measly pay I could have at least scored a free meal, nyet? 

Thoughtbite 3 - Lost

I am not of this earth

I am not of this space

I am designed for another time

and place

I encapsulate longing

for a sense of belonging

for a way to fit, a way to find

home.

Whack job attack - part 1

I have had many whack jobs, especially during my 2 year working holiday visa in the UK. G and I dutifully obeyed the requirements of the time that said no working in your profession. And so we did mad, bad stuff for dough. Not selling our bodies or anything.

I figure that if you want a successful career in life, if, as they say in South Park, you want to "have a good time", then you can use this as a "how not to" guide. Don't do what I did, and you will be fine, kay?

The first whack job I shall discuss was by no means the most unpleasant in terms of the working environment. We were not screamed at, we were paid fairly, and the work was clearly explained. There was a nice cafetaria. But still. 

This job was known by us as: 

Flower Plonking.

We worked on and off for a few months at a flower factory. No we were not manufacturing flowers, we were putting together those bunches of flowers you can buy at supermarkets. The supermarkets in the UK have  a huge range of flowers to choose from. 

Because we were working with flowers, we had to work in "chilled" (read arctic) conditions. At peak times (Christmas, Easter, Mother's day etc) the place operated 24 hours a day and we did up to 14 hour shifts, sometimes working through the night.

What we were required to do was to put flowers on a conveyor belt. Each person had a different type of flower and we stood in a line. Person 1 say, had the roses (poor bugger, we are talking blood and cuts), and his job was to put a rose say in the left hand corner of each slot of the conveyor belt. Person 2 had the petunias and her job was to put 1 in the middle, etc etc. This was not the most intellectually stimulating of jobs. In fact, it was around this time that I found brain leaking out of my ears. The worst part is that I met people studying bloody PhDs who were doing this for spare cash. 

After a month or so, I got promoted to a very high calibre job. I had to stand at the end and perform "chryzling" (I am not sure of the name but it was something like that). As each bunch came by, we had roughly 7 seconds to whack an elastic band on the end, whack it in its covering, whack on a flower food sachet, and then perform a manouevre that requires much skill and practice, a kind of wrist flick that allows you to whack sellotape around the end in one easy sweep. See how it was a whack job? If you took longer than 7 seconds, you missed the next bunch, and got black looks from the person behind you who had to take the wrap (pun intended). It was bloody stressful, I tell you. Some days I wished for the peaceful times of plonking. 

At least we were working with beautiful, colourful things, which did help I must say. A look round the factory helped to cheer me up. And I met people from every nation you can think of, except the US (sensible folk).

But I sure do not miss standing in one spot in a freezer getting my hands ripped to shreds.

Silver jumper

Oh my god, yes. Finally. I thought we were gonna go home empty handed.

Congrats Khotso Mokoena, for your long jump silver, you are the man and more.

*

Hammered hamsters and dassies on Tassies

I have never actually had an inebriated rodent pet, but I thought it made a good title.

I have had a three-legged hamster though (not quite "legless" but close). She was not born with three legs. She started out with all four. Her name was Steroid. No, really. The reason for this was her manic obsession with her wheel, which let me say, squeaked like a bitch. I somehow trained myself to sleep through the squeak, which took military discipline and explains why I can sleep with no problems in my current pub-glutted neighbourhood, while G uses earplugs.

So the hamster loved her wheel more than any hamster we had (and we had many). My sister gave her to me after her "male" hamster Bart gave birth to 5 babies. The names of the other hamsters were, wait for it: Favourite, Running, Fluffy and Baby. The names speak for themselves really, I mean, Running really liked to run, and Fluffy was...fluffy.

Genius. Anyway, my hamster damaged her back foot in her evil wheel. The vet said he could AMPUTATE, but that the chances of my little hamster surviving the anaesthetic were slim. Wah. Little Steroid went in for surgery, and came out, not only living, but, the very same day she came out, she gave birth to a tank load of babies. This hamster was truly on steroids.

I am not too sure who the father of the babies was, obviously one of her horny brothers. But the hamster saga gets much worse, and this is all my fault. One of my sister's other hamsters died in childbirth soon after (God, this was a hamster breeding ground) and in our state of panic for the little babies I somehow thought it would be a good idea to give the new babies to Steroid to look after with her own brood. (It doesn't work like that, I know, but it was too sad to watch the little things die). I put the babies in Steroid's cage. When I next checked, Steroid and her entire brood of babies were no longer in the cage. The door was closed. What the hell? Now my panic was extreme, I had no idea what had happened to my houdini hamster and her sprogs. Sadly the other babies all died. 

A few days later, I heard a strange scrabbling in one of cupboards where I kept old school notes. Steroid and babies had made a nest in my cupboard after getting spooked by alien spawn. I never figured out how they got out of the sealed cage!

Little three-legged Steroid kept running on her wheel as if nothing was missing, stump and all.

My sweet hampie went through a lot. We won't mention the incident with the bird of prey just yet. She lived to tell that tale too.

I know you are thinking I was the worst pet owner ever. I swear my next hamster lived a peaceful and uneventful life of eating and being cute. 

It must have been all in a name.

Climbing the way to Olympic gold

Indoor climbing - why is it not in the Olympic games?

Indoor climbing competitions have been popular since the 80's, and the discipline has its own World Cup and Championships in the difficulty and bouldering, as well as in the more recent addition of the exciting speed climbing competition.

The competition structure is firmly in place, scoring systems are well established. In many ways it is an ideal Olympic sport, more so than some of the team sports already included in the games. The aim is to climb the highest, the fastest, or do the most difficult problem. These are ideals that any audience can relate to, even if they are not fans of the sport. In some ways indoor climbing can be compared to gymnastics (although not nearly as spectacular to watch) in terms of the weird body contortions required to pull off the moves. Technique, power, endurance and grace are required in combination with concentration and focus. 

It is a relatively safe sport; harnesses, ropes and equipment ensure falls are caught safely.

The problems I can forsee with the inclusion of the sport at the Olympics are:

1) The cost of setting up walls. Although there is a cost in setting up fake rapids and the like for the kayaking events. I am not sure of the comparison with the cost of rigging up the walls.

2) Audience appeal. This sport, while technical, can be boring to watch unless you are a climber yourself. But the same can be argued for those long distance indoor cycling races (kay, G and my dad watched an ENTIRE 100 lap cycling race which seemed to be based upon some incomprehensible scoring system and I nearly died of boredom. Surely climbing is more exciting than that?)

Those are the only objections I can think of really. So bring it on.

Outdoor climbing is another sport altogether. There are no championships required. The best are those who climb the hardest routes (based on various grading systems) and we know who is best because of the informal telegraph that keeps everyone up to date with who climbs what. It is an honour system that works well and is in line with the mentality of the sport.

The indoor climbers are great athletes and competitors and deserve their spot in the Olympic limelight. It is an awesome sport in my horribly biased opinion, and horribly difficult too.

Come on Olympic official people, you know what you need to do.

(photograph copyright of Po)

Parlotones-Barfly-moving earth.

When the Parlotones played at the Barfly in Camden last night, the earth moved. No, really though. The wooden floor was bouncing up and down and my drink got distributed amongst the clothes of those around me (read ON me). Lucky them, free alcohol, just go home and suck your shirt.



The venue was packed, and there were hactual English people there too, it wasn't 100% Saffarised. Saffas were recognisable by the Clockwork Orange eye make up that mimicked Kahn Morbee's mad style.

I am not that familiar with all of the Parlotones' music, being a pariah who has been away from SA for 5 years, but this was the kind of music that you didn't need to know to enjoy. And they saved the best til last. Here comes a man caused a small earthquake in the greater London area as everyone went mad and sang (screamed) along, and I gave out free drink to my neighbours.

I had a really good time, and it was the music that stood out. Why aren't these guys huge already? Just give them time, us Saffas are trying to spread the Jozi love to the UK, and they are listening.

Just gotta go hunt down all their music now...

I am a Thoughtfollower

I am so new to blogging, I only discovered the blogosphere in February of this year, when I somehow ended up on Michael Trapido's Thoughtleader blog. It was a good introduction. It inspired me. I wanted to write about things that would make people think, that would catch people's attention, possibly even inspire someone. I wanted to be a Thoughtleader.

Um, since then I may have downgraded this ambition somewhat. It seems that my opinions and thoughts have been thought and voiced by hundreds of other people, and they do it so eloquently and are factually accurate. It appears that I am a Thoughtfollower.

This blog was going to be fairly intellectual, but I realised early on that I wasn't breaking any boundaries. So I resorted to a kind of memoir style, writing about the weirder things that have happened to me. 

Now it has morphed to pretty much anything goes. I am not up to much, intellectually, at the moment. My brain is rebelling after roughly 7 years of tertiary education. 

So, yeah, maybe one day I will go back to being an intellectual wannabe, but for now, I am enjoying writing so much, just for the sake of writing. Whatever comes up, I will write about, sorry if it doesn't exactly push the envelope (why pushing envelopes, that  doesn't sound very challenging? Pushing trains, now that is impressive).