Wednesday, January 31, 2007


Yesterday, Mumsy and I were stuck in traffic on our way to Pretoria when we noticed lots and lots of helicopters flying towards and over the capital city.

There is a military air base in the area, so in our boredom while stuck in traffic (is there ALWAYS traffic on the PTA/JHB road?) we were speculating about the nature of the aircraft… practicing for an air show was definitely an option, but from our inexperienced eyes, the dozen or so helicopters spread out across the skies looked like they were actually sweeping the area.

Next thing (still stuck in traffic on the N14), we were suddenly swamped by police cars screaming past in the emergency lane. Oooookay – the cops are either on their way to watch the air show, or they know something up ahead that we don’t. We waited for something to explode, like it does in movies, but we were bitterly disappointed.

I found out later in the day what was actually happening… A serious case of broken telephone.

“There were red faces on Tuesday when a misunderstanding resulted in dozens of heavily-armed policemen, wearing bullet-proof vests, storming into the Pretoria High Court…

It later came to light that their manoeuvres were prompted by an innocent conversation between a policeman on duty at the trial and a police buddy. The one told the other over a police radio something to the effect that the Boeremag was "on the move", intending to convey that the trial was going ahead as normal. The conversation was apparently overheard by someone else on the radio frequency, who thought this meant that there were big problems and that the Boeremag accused were on the run.

Within minutes of the word getting around, all units were put on alert and rushed to court. Some of the marked police vehicles were parked half way up the pavement in front of the court building as the officers rushed to get inside.”

Monday, January 29, 2007

Rocking social life

I went out this weekend. Yes, this is ground breaking. A big step forward. Because it is the first time that I’ve actually gone out to a pub/club… well, this year anyway. My grandmother has a more active social life.

We went to Pete ‘n Jerry’s in Strydom Park. It’s a random place in the middle of nowhere – literally. It’s decidedly dodgy from the outside, lack of secure parking, imposing bouncers checking for weapons… but once in the door, you’re bombarded by random fluorescent signs all over the walls. The patrons varied from an 8-year-old girl and her family, to a couple of bikers and back round to table of middle-aged women having a girl’s night out.

The idea of this place is No Rules, Anything Goes. Dance on the tables, on the chairs, pretend to be Tina Turner (like my brother) or Shakira (like my brother’s girlfriend).

I particularly liked the fact that they check everyone for weapons on arrival, but if you order a steak for dinner they supply the table with the meanest utensils I’ve ever seen. These knifes would definitely not be cleared for airline cutlery. If nothing else, in a No Rules bar, at least they make sure everyone has a fair start.
Anything goes, including the music – this too varied from the above-mentioned Tina and Shakira, to flashbacks of the 70s (as well as the Spice Girls) all the way through to the politically-questionable De La Rey song, which had a few of guests from Pretoria standing to attention, fists firmly clenched over their hearts, enthusiastically belting out the lyrics. I took pictures – I would share them, but the camera wasn’t actually mine…

As you walk in there is a big glass cupboard stacked with hats – cowboy hats, Mexican hats, beach hats, mafia style hats (if the mafia wore pink and baby blue), farmer hats, mining hats… all free, up for grabs for the evening. It gave the overall impression of a Village People convention and certainly adds a touch of je nay se qua. If you have issues with head hygiene this is probably not the place for you.

It was an awesome jam and definitely worth going back – and the food was even surprisingly good.

Another first for this weekend was that I played tennis. I haven’t played in a while, but about four times a year (around every Grand Slam tournament) I get inspired and decide to play tennis. I get on a court and go hell for leather and then have a very sore arm for a few days... after which I don’t play until the French Open or whichever tourno comes next. This time, I managed to develop a blister on hand, burst the blister and then develop another blister on top of the burst blister. Quick learner.

Koekie's recruitment policy...

All hail the foolproof DNA test.

Friday, January 26, 2007

Super Hero

You are Supergirl

Lean, muscular and feminine.
Honest and a defender of the innocent.

Wonder Woman
The Flash
Iron Man
Green Lantern

Click here to take the "Which Superhero am I?" quiz...

Ps. Stupid layout.

Pps. Green Lantern??

Family dinner

I know, I know… it may seem like I’m losing interest in this blogging joint. It is slightly frustrating that I can’t access my blog at work. But that’s really my bad because I just can’t stop swearing. Stupid work webmarshal. Thinks he can control my web access. Hah.

Anywho, so last night we did family dinner with Joyces. The Joyces are the family that we’ve chosen to call our family. Does that makes sense? If not, you’re not alone in your confusion. Boet and I refer to the two girls as our sisters and they refer to us as their siblings. Very confusing when we introduce them to people who’ve known us for years...
“But Koekie, I thought you only had one brother?”
“I do. And these are my two sisters…”
We’ve known each other since birth, we went to school together, any serious relationships have been forced to run the ‘extended’ family gauntlet. If they handle a dinner (in public) with the two families, they are permitted to stay.

I digress. So we went out for supper with the Joyces. Did you know that at Bright Water Commons (formerly known as the Randburg Waterfront or Drugs Haven), there is a Greek restaurant that serves sushi?

Seriously, this is an amazing find – a restaurant where I can eat seaweed and then break plates while people cheer and shout OPA! It’s like they had me in mind when they made the combination.

The sushi itself wasn’t the best I’ve had, but they’re Greek and all the right elements were there. I give them points for trying. Having made friends with the big greasy Greek, they put on Zorba The Greek and (after a round of sangria and ouzo) we attempted a touch of step-step-hop-step-hop Greek dancing. It was messy. Ours was probably more like step-hop-*hic*-hop-step-*hic*…

And then we got to break the plates. A seasoned plate-thrower will do this with a touch of style: a flick of the wrist (puts nice spin on the plate in mid-air), a casual and unenthusiastic ‘Opa’ just in case anyone is listening, while knocking back a shot of ouzo with the other hand. Boet went for the less conventional double-handed smashdown… raising his plate above his head and enthusiastically smashing it down on the ground, then jumping up and down on it just to make sure it was broken. Spectacular.

So, a restaurant where you can sushi, sangria and break plates. Multinational. I think we should nominate them for the next UN convention.

Right at the end of the evening I went to the loo… don’t worry, this not going to be one of those overshares. I returned downstairs to an empty restaurant. Not just empty. Lights off, tables packed up and put away. I was pretty sure I hadn’t been THAT long…

I looked outside, there was no sign of the rest of the party. Surreal. I started strolling along in bewilderment until I spotted my family – the whole bloody lot – hiding underneath tables and behind pillars, stifling their giggles.

Seriously people, this is dinner with the Joyces.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007


First: escalators…

Does anyone else have a problem with these moving contraptions? Am I the only person who struggles to coordinate alighting or disembarking from these things?

For some reason, gravity loses interest in me and I struggle to stay on my feet. As I step on to escalators I wobble dangerously. And as I near the top of the escalator, paranoia grips me… “Do I step now? Or now? If I make my move now will it result in an extra big and awkward step?”

I trip over the top of the escalators often. Of course, if I move too soon, I manage to look like the escalator spat me out, right into the food court or in front of Stuttafords, or somewhere similarly populated. And don’t even get me started on broken escalators… how is possible to get motion sickness from a moving-item-that-isn’t-currently-moving? Am I alone there too?

To be fair, I’m nothing like Loesch, who managed to get her untied shoelace stuck in the top of an escalator, resulting in a very unladylike dismount… but that’s another story entirely.

Then: bicycles…

This morning my father woke me up at 5:30am (AM. The birds hadn’t even taken their first poep) to ask if was interested in going for a bike ride. I need at least 12hours warning for such invitations so at first I was disinclined to acquiesce to his request. But then I decided I was awake, so what the hell…

And hell it was.

Not that we went far. It’s not the distance that’s the problem – I’m fine once I’m on the bike. It’s getting on the bike that I struggle with.

Let’s re-visit why I’m even trying to ride a bike... I’m (hopefully) going to be in the Netherlands soon and I’m (definitely) going to be required to ride a bike. In order to not look like a completely foreign arse, I would like to be able to alight and dismount from a bike with relative ease.

Dutch cyclists don’t do the whole push-start thing. They don’t place their butts on the saddle and then push themselves forward. They jog gently next to the bike and then swing themselves when it’s already in motion. Effortless and graceful.

There is an exception to the rule, when they’ve got another person sitting on the back of the bike, because obviously, swinging graceful leg over bike would entail knocking passenger from their mount. But – note to self – as the passenger, you’re actually not supposed to sit like a princess on the back of the bike while it’s still stationary.

This is what’s supposed to happen: cyclist does the hop-hop-swing dance to get bike going; passenger jogs along next to bike and gently plops their butt down at the appropriate time. Perfection.

This is what happened with me and my friend’s boyfriend when I was visiting them in Amsterdam: he went hop-hop-swing and pedaled gently, waiting to feel my weight landing on the back of his bike. After about 100m he turned around to realise that I was still standing where he’d left me, staring in disbelief. He turned around, stopped bike, I sat down, and he was forced to push-start, dragging both my weight and his weight. Inertia is a bitch.

Anyway, back to this morning. So I’m not quite waxing the whole hop-swing-thing. First, you get the bike going, then you place one foot on the (corresponding) pedal. Then you balance for a bit, then you swing leg over bike. Simple.

Here’s my problem: I keep putting my damn right foot on the left pedal and vice versa. As my dad points out, this would suit me well if I was in the circus and training to ride a bike backwards, but…

Let’s just say, I’m not a natural on two-wheels.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Corporate intelligence

Yes, it's a forwarded email, but I think we've all worked for bosses who've said something similarly tasteless/insensitive/imbecilic.

And here are the top ten nominees for quotes from real life Dilbert-type managers:

"As of tomorrow, employees will only be able to access the building using individual security cards. Pictures will be taken next Wednesday, and employees will receive their cards in two weeks." (This was the winning quote from Fred Dales, Microsoft Corp. in Redmond,WA)

"What I need is an exact list of specific unknown problems we might encounter." (Lykes Lines Shipping)

"E-mail is not to be used to pass on information or data. It should be used only for company business." (Accounting manager, Electric Boat Company)

"This project is so important we can't let things that are more important interfere with it." (Advertising/Marketing manager, United Parcel Service)

"Doing it right is no excuse for not meeting the schedule." (Plant Manager, Delco Corporation)

"No one will believe you solved this problem in one day! We've been working on it for months. Now go act busy for a few weeks and I'll let you know when it's time to tell them." (R&D supervisor, Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing/3M Corp.)

"Teamwork is a lot of people doing what I say." (Marketing executive, Citrix Corporation)

My sister passed away and her funeral was scheduled for Monday. When I told my Boss, he said she died on purpose so that I would have to miss work onthe busiest day of the year. He then asked if we could change her burial to Friday. He said, "That would be better for me." (Shipping executive, FTD Florists)

"We know that communication is a problem, but the company is not going to discuss it with the employees." (Switching supervisor, AT&T Long Lines Division)

Thanks to Boet for the email.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Ginger nuts

I was going have a rant about Home Affairs (which I am finally done with, as of today) or about models and their lack of individualistic thinking ("Mom, who is my inspirational role model?" Quick note: if you're calling your mother to ask that, save us all the hassle and put down 'my mother')

But I'm not going rant. Instead I'm going to direct you, yet again, to a random internet link....

London - Red hair may be the genetic legacy of Neanderthals, according to a new study by British scientists.

Researchers at the John Radcliffe Institute of Molecular Medicine in Oxford were quoted by The Times as saying the so-called "ginger gene" which gives people red hair, fair skin and freckles could be up to 100 000 years old. They claim that their discovery points to the gene having originated in Neanderthal man who lived in Europe for 200 000 years before Homo sapien settlers, the ancestors of modern man, arrived from Africa about 40 000 years ago.

Rosalind Harding, the research team leader, told The Times: "The gene is certainly older than 50 000 years and it could be as old as 100 000 years.

"An explanation is that it comes from Neanderthals."

It is estimated that at least 10 percent of Scots have red hair and a further 40 percent carry the gene responsible, which could account for their once fearsome reputation as fighters.

Neanderthals have been characterised as migrant hunters and violent cannibals who probably ate most of their meat raw. They were taller and stockier than Homo sapiens, but with shorter limbs, bigger faces and noses, receding chins and low foreheads.

The two species overlapped for a period of time and the Oxford research appears to suggests that they must have successfully interbred for the "ginger gene" to survive. Neanderthals became extinct about 28 000 years ago, the last dying out in southern Spain and southwest France.

It's not by any means, but it is verified on So there you have it folks, Gingers are the missing link.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Ikea and noombies

In case anyone was wondering, Boyfriend is alive and well (if a little wet and cold) in Den Haag, The Netherlands. He’s progressing in leaps and bounds – and has even had the pleasure of experiencing notorious shitty Hollandse service (don’t be fooled, it’s not just in Africa).

Good news – he’s found a flat to rent for us, effective immediately. Bad news – our furniture will only come out of container next week, so Boyfriend had to buy a bed to sleep on. Off he pottered to Ikea, well known for its homely factory warehouse atmosphere.

He ordered – and paid for – a single bed, to be delivered on the weekend. Weekend arrived and as promised Ikea delivered a bed. Well, half a bed. I mean, Boyfriend didn’t explicitly state he actually wanted a mattress AND a frame. Surely that’s too much to ask.

So the driver promised to return on a second trip with the rest of Boyfriend’s bed. But… didn’t. After a number of phonecalls to Ikea, Boyfriend eventually made another 1hr journey back to Ikea to explain his complaint in person.

“We’ll deliver the rest of your bed… that’ll be 35 euros please.”
“No, no.” Explained Boyfriend. “I’ve already paid for my bed, including delivery.”
“Yes, now we have to make another trip so you have to pay for another delivery…”

Boyfriend informs me that he eventually managed to explain that the bed could’ve been delivered in one delivery, but wasn’t. He didn’t pay another 35 euros.

The poor bugger has finally got a whole bed, after spending a few nights on a bare mattress. See pic of (our) cosy room. Now he just needs to buy a hammer and a few tools to put the bed frame together…
Back to me.

Who wants my job? I spent the whole day on a shoot with 27 scantily clad models. Lots and lots of perky boobs and g-strings. My job – amongst other things – was to cover the models in a shimmering spray, so that they looked as shiny as a twisted pile of tag-teaming WWE wrestlers. Big noombies popping out everywhere. I was the envy of every penis within an eyeball radius.

Every guy in our department stopped past for a visit, "Hi Koekie... I just to wanted to ask you a random question that couldn't possibly have waited until you were back in your office...” while swiveling their eyes out of their sockets as they tried to look in every direction at once.

At least it beats fighting with Facilities about my broken aircon…

ps. now i'm blocked from my blog again because I wrote about nip-nips and pee-pees. Oops, naughty Koekie.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007


I’m the first to admit I don’t have a huge social life at the moment, which is why I was slightly pissed off when I was invited to three functions last night. It was also the last night of my Australian relatives’ visit.

Being the family girl that I am (and because I actually enjoyed their company, unlike other family members), I cut my other plans short and chose to stay home for dinner. Unfortunately, we hadn’t counted on a visit from an old acquaintance who wanted to bring her kids around before the Ozzies jetted off.

Kids… that’s not really the word I should use. A troop of marauding monkeys – possibly. 15, 13, 10 and twins of 8. This woman has been prolific. Admittedly, I’m not much of a ‘child’ person. I tend to pat kids on the head with trepidation and call them Snotface. Even though I don’t want kids of my own, I can understand popping one sprog. Accidents happen. Two – okay, you slipped up twice. Three…you’re not a quick learner are you?

But when you fall pregnant a fourth time, you deserve twins for getting knocked up so often.

So, D brought her kids around “for a quick visit after school” at 2:30. But well after 7pm they were still there and she was showing no signs of leaving. ‘Popping by after school’ means you’ll be gone by 6ish. Possibly even before that to get the kids home before rush hour… surely to god this is a universal understanding? Everyone in our house was doing their best to get her out, falling just short of “will you PLEASE fuck off and take your brats with you?”

The twins, by her own admission, like taking things apart – just to see whether they do indeed come apart. I walked into the TV room to find one trying to dismantle our computer chair. The other was fiddling with my dad’s laptop from work. The 10-year-old was playing our piano – without much finesse. I suggested using individual fingers for each key, rather than a clenched fist.

I had declined three very enticing social functions to stay home with my family, and I was dealing with the genetically-mutated spawn of Satan. I whipped out the first (of many, no doubt) Big Sulks for 2007.

They left after 8:30 and we did end up having a very nice family dinner. But I decided that any children I do have will be meek and mild in nature – or heavily sedated.

So far this morning, I’ve fought with Telkom about getting Boyfriend’s land line disconnected (as requested at the beginning of December 2006). I also had the pleasure of educating a Telkom employee in European geography – yes, it is true, the Netherlands are indeed a country OUTSIDE of South Africa.

I’ve had a conference call/fight with IS Response and Facilities helpdesk – neither of whom want to accept responsibility for the fact that my department doesn’t have a working printer. All three are broken and have been broken since last year. Facilities blames IS, IS blames Facilities… “I don’t care whose fault it is, I need access to a printer. I don’t care where it prints or how it prints. I need access to a printer. Would you like me to cry on the phone? Because I can, and I will.”

I got access to a printer. Anybody else wanna fight? Bring it. Now where the hell did I put my tranqs…

Monday, January 15, 2007


Zebra crossing. Get it?
I kill me.

Before I even start typing, I can tell you now… this is going to be a monster. I'm sorry if it gets boring or monotonous, but I need it… I need to rant. Spending five days away with my extended family has left me with a lot to say, especially as I was biting my tongue for most of it.

I don't people to believe that I don't love my family. Sometimes I might not feel like I do – especially after camping with them for four nights – but I do. So print this out if you must, use it as toilet reading material. Do with it what you will.

Day One:

The families converged on Nelspruit in preparation for our trip to the Kruger Park. There was granny and her three daughters, and the three daughters' daughters – plus my brother and my uncle. I felt desperately sorry for our two men trying to play Alpha-male while braaiing in front of ten very strong, opinionated females ranging from 8-years-old to 75.

Then we met my 19-year-old cousin's boyfriend. He's 28. I don't have a problem with his age, besides the fact that he looks 16, but as I met him, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my brain just gave a simple, "Uh uh. I no like." I didn't know why. Maybe it was the fact that he looks like Crispin Glover at his creepiest. Or maybe it's because he does odd jobs at Nelspruit airport and I'm a city dwelling snob, thinking that he's clearing not big on ambition.
It definitely had a lot to do with the fact that my cousin and this guy could not stop touching each other. Anyone who knows me, knows I am not a fan of PDA (public displays of affection, for the uninitiated). It's as good as scratching nails down a black board. If I want to see people slobbering all over each other's necks, I can go to Manhunters to watch 15 year olds dry-humping on the dance floor, or if I'm really lucky, point and laugh at some of my 30 year old friends having a momentary lapse in clarity. Or I can watch etv porn. I do not need to watch it while I'm trying eat at the dinner table. Keep your tongue in your mouth, sex fiend. Don't get me wrong, my cousin and her boyfriend can shag themselves silly as far as I'm concerned. Pork each other until their little faces turn pink… just keep it to the bedroom.
They went to the bathroom together, and then waited for each other once they were finished so they could walk back together. If you called one, they both arrived holding hands... or more to the point, they both ignored you and walked away.

Argh, and they called each other "My Babe"… the whole… fucking… time. They say it so much and so often, they've managed to make it into one syllable. I've tried, I can't do it.
"What do you want to drink, m'babe?"
"I dunno, m'babe, what do YOU want to drink?"
"I dunno, m'babe, I was thinking I would maybe have a beer, what do you think, m'babe?"
"I think I'll have a beer too, m'babe, but only if you're having one."

And so on and so forth. I spent a lot of time with my 8-year-old cousins, because they had more to add to the conversation. One even asked if the M'babes were mating like the buffalo we saw. That was awesome.

(You may or may not have noticed that I did not include M'babe when talking about how many males were with us. The man is wetter than a sea anemone and has less personality. Seriously, grow a back bone - only then will your balls be included in the census.)

I was sharing a tent with mom, Boet and aunt. Then Auntie mentioned that the M'babes would share a bed in our tent. My mother and I couldn't get the words out fast enough – "not while I'm there" from her, and "not a fucking chance" from me. And the family tension started. But the M'Babes slept in another tent, no doubt about that.

Alright, more on the M'Babes later. Now for some wildlife…. Our camp was situated right by the electric fence. My tent was literally 10m from the fence and as I said something cocky like, "do we even want to know what's out there?" I swung the torch up – and directly on to a hyena staring straight at me, not 20m from the fence. I almost pooed. Always good in a crisis, I dropped the torch and got the giggles, backpedaling up the hill to where the others were braaiing. When they went down to check my story, they discovered that the hyena I had spotted was actually the furthest one – there was another just on the other side of the fence that I hadn't seen. Almost as creepy as M'babe, but not quite.

Day Two:

Putting family tension aside, we all put on our brave faces and prepared ourselves for a day couped up in the sweltering heat of a crowded kombi. Another bone of contention from the M'Babes was that they were so wrapped up in each others' arms that neither could help unload, unpack or set up for each meal – but both were first in the queue to help themselves to food when it was ready. By the fourth meal steam was rising out of my eyeballs… I needed my tranquilisers.

I calmed myself down by documenting the process. I have a number of pictures with everyone setting up, and M'babe-1 picking a scab on his knee, while M'babe-2 flicked something out of her belly button. It's not for lack of asking them to help out – they completely ignored any request. Made eye contact and then looked away. Although, they do both work at an airport, so are over-qualified in giving people the lazy eye and then turning away. I eventually asked M'Babe if he had a back ailment that we should know about, which was possibly preventing him from any heavy lifting. He ignored that too.

And back to the wildlife – There was a hawk circling above us at lunch (technically a yellow-billed Kite). Boet found a small – and very dead – puff adder and decided to do his best impression of feeding the wildlife. With much enthusiasm he tried to fling the dead snake into path of the large bird as it circled closer and closer. Eventually the bird got close enough to actually snatch the prey of the ground before Boet could reach it to throw it in the air again… and boy did Bru beat a hasty retreat when he realised they were both racing for the same tasty treat.

Boet in mid-air trying to feed our pet hawk:

Day Three, four, five:

More of the lesser-spotted, commonly annoying M'Babe tits. More family tension as everyone tried their best not to be the catalyst to verbalise a WWIII type blow out.

I played five hours of "The Quiet Game" with my hyperactive 8-year-old cousin. That might have lead to some of my frustration, listening to the mating call of the M'Babes and not saying ANYTHING. Every time I tried to speak, I got a tap on my shoulder from 8-year-old cousin, chastising me with her finger on her lips. Talk about dedication. Five hours, people. I didn't talk for five hours. That's probably another reason why this post is so long.

This morning:

I forgot it was my parent's 30th anniversary. Then, at work, I went to draw money and completely forgot my pin number. Blank. Complete blank. I had to borrow money from my boss for lunch.

I think my brain has atrophied, my babes.

On a final note - this is my favourite rest stop on the way to Nelspruit... Belfast to be exact. How many toeriste come out alive, do you think?

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Trying is trying my patience. And stupid people try my patience. Do they see me coming? Can they hear, as their phone rings, that they will be able to torment me with the first utterance of wasted breath from their lips?

Last week, I phoned someone at work – let's call her Mary. Mary's phone was answered by a guy, who informed me she was still on leave. I asked who else I could speak to regarding this matter. He gave me another extension to call, which I duly did.

Phone rings. Same voice answers.

Me: Hi, I'd like to find out how… hey, didn't I just speak to you?
Same voice: Yes.
Me: Are you still in the same room?
Same voice: Yes. You need to send an email with your request.

Is it just me, or could we have cut down that process by one phonecall? I phone Mary's extension, he tells me (via Mary's extension) that I needed to email my request.

Yesterday, I went on a crusade to find out why I haven't been paid for December. Christmas is expensive without an income.

I call Helen in Payroll. According to her records, I have been paid. According to my records, I haven't. We take our debate to Ally in Finance. She confirms that I have been paid – into a Nedbank account. I question how it is that they paid into a Nedbank account, seeing as I entered banking details for my ABSA account.

"Oh, we found your information on the system from when you were working for us (in another office for a total of three weeks) in 2000…"

I point out that was seven years ago – and if they still had me on the system in the first place, why the hell didn't they say so when I handed in my invoice for December. At the end of last year, they informed me that because I was on a new contract they required my full banking details, a copy of my ID, a birth certificate, a chunk of hair and a harvested egg from one of my ovaries.

Then they magically found me on the system, with a bank account that is no longer used and chose to use those details instead. Ignore current bank account, current phone details, current anything. No need to update. People don't change once every seven years. Just use what's on the system folks!

Fekking idiots. I'm going to the Kruger Park for the rest of the week. I'll look out for the missing link while I'm there, but I think enough evidence has already been found in the corporate world.

On the upside yesterday, I also got to watch Baywatch Hawaii… The Movie. Thong-clad kwality entertainment.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007


Have you heard about Sealand, formerly known as Roughs Tower? "The population of the facility rarely exceeds ten, and its inhabitable area is 550m2…" Why didn’t my parents bother to fight off the squatters and lay claim to their own coastal principality?
Roy and Joan Bates have been referred to internally since the foundation of Sealand as "Their Royal Highnesses Prince Roy and Princess Joan of Sealand"… Their son is known as "His Royal Highness Prince Michael". Michael Bates has been referred to as the "Prince Regent" since 1999. In this role he apparently serves as Sealand's acting "Head of State" and also its "Head of Government".
“…Have been referred to internally…” i.e. By themselves. They have their own stamps and coins. They even have sporting representation:
For the past two seasons, Sealand have been represented on the World Mini-golf Tour by Anthony Pope and Peter Emmerson who finished 23rd and 15th respectively in the 2006 World Crazy Golf Championships held in Hastings, United Kingdom.

The Sealand national football team is represented by the Danish team Vestbjerg Vintage Idraetsforening. In 2003, Christian Olsen received a letter by the personal secretary of Prince Regent Michael Bates, who appointed the football team to represent the Principality of Sealand.
The gall! This guy declares himself prince of a non-existent country and then approaches one of the most established nations to inform a local team that they are blessed with the privilege of representing his family internationally. I love it!

Although, every time I read the surname Bates, I think of poor confused Norman in Psycho. To be honest, I don’t think these guys are tipping the scales towards sanity either.

And now the principality is up for sale – for a mere ₤65,000,000!

ps. on another note entirely, I just received this email at work: "FW: Hanlie Koekemoer's Koekie News".

Maybe I should start a newsletter to compete? "This week, in Koekie's Corner, we discuss the feasibility of declaring your piece of land a sovereign state..."

Sunday, January 07, 2007

The Wedding

The night before the wedding, KJ and her three bridesmaids got together for some last minute female-bonding… which for guys means: underwear party and pillow fights; for girls means: face masks and pedicures.

But before that could start, we had one tiny detail to sort out. NJ had locked her keys in her boyfriend’s house. We needed the keys to get ready the next day. So at 9pm on the night before KJ’s wedding, the four of us were plotting how to break into her boyfriend’s bedroom. First step was explaining our intentions to the guards at the boom… “Hi, we’ve locked our keys in the house at number 7. We’re just gonna get them out – in case you see people with torches wandering around, okay?” Complete incomprehension from security guard. Okay.

We were able to get through the garage and around the house because, along with locking keys in the house, NJ had also forgotten to set the alarm. Unfortunately, as with most Joburg residences, every window was protected by burglar bars – inside and out – and we’d left our power tools and blowtorches behind. So being resourceful of nature, we chose a golfball retriever and several pieces of wire as our tools.

We got to Mike’s room and managed to pry a fanlight window open. By the light of our handy torch (I had extra batteries in my back pocket – consider me armed and dangerous) we could see the keys sitting promisingly on the desk near the window.

With the use of the extended golfball retriever and wire we were able to hook the key ring. Halfway through the operation, KJ got the giggles. At this stage, I was pulling the shrubbery back from the window, so golfball-retriever operating KJ could stand on the ledge, with NJ hovering behind her holding the torch to guide her – and Mink (fresh from Scotland) was clutching one of the spare batteries in an attempt to arm herself from every noise in the darkness.

So that’s what we did on the night before KJ’s wedding – broke into her sister’s boyfriend’s house.

We were up early the next morning – the BIG day. KJ set the tone by choking on toothpaste. Turns out that not only should you not swallow toothpaste, but chances are that you actually can’t swallow it. Before we knew it, we were trying to get the bride to cough it up or spit it out while her eyes watered and she gasped for air.

Apparently toothpaste really burns as it goes down – not advised for ingestion. Poor KJ was burping fluoride freshness for most of the day, although I think she got most of it out by the time she walked down the aisle.

The wedding itself was beautiful – as every wedding should be. Unfortunately the bridesmaid dresses, although pretty in colour, were not great in shape. They gaped on the chest and were cut at an angle, so the left was short and the right point almost touched our ankles. They also weren’t very fitted on the waist… we were effectively wearing very pretty potato sacks. Last night, a friend tried on my dress. She is a 36EE. I am a 32A. She fitted into my dress. It was a tight squeeze but I think my point is proven.

Back to the wedding – I found a new boyfriend… although I will have to wait quite a few years until he is legal. His name is Thai and he is beautiful. He is also the 5-year-old cousin of the bride. He was my biggest fan, waving at me shyly as I stood next to the betrothed couple. Very sweet boy – almost makes me want to have kids… if it wasn’t for the fact that his three-year-old sister is the sulkiest creature alive.

Wedding done, we moved indoors for the reception. My seating ‘partner’ was a pairing of convenience, as one of the many cousins also had a long distance partner – back in London – so the two of us were the leftovers at our table. Dom and I knew each other as kids, and our last encounter was about 12 years ago… when I managed to knock a glass of raspberry juice all over him. Not much has changed – although this time, it was him flinging fettucine pasta at me. After a few table-orders of whiskey suitcases, all was forgotten and we hit the dancefloor for some serious sokkie-sokkie-ing.

As far as I’m concerned, any group gathering is a great excuse for name-throwing – and with my dress effectively pinned and tied in place I was once again feeling dance-off confident. I would have hated for all the relatives from the Netherlands and Australia to go home without being treated to some Koekmeister dance moves. That would’ve just been wrong.

Weddings are awesome – I intend to attend many, but will stay as far away from the organisation as possible. Over the Christmas holidays, three more of my friends got engaged. The dropping of the flies has started.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Wedding and more on Fatty

It’s KJ’s wedding tomorrow. Tomorrow. Crisis.

Her flowers were finalised yesterday. On Monday, she decided that she wanted to bead serviette ring holders – by hand. So four of us sat on the floor around a tray of beads, like good African women, and beaded over 100 serviette rings.

She has hand-made her Thank You note paper, and has hand-written Thank You’s on her Thank You note paper.

Mumsy has made and is icing three mammoth cakes today to sit on the three-tiered mammoth cake stand – which was only initially going to be one layer.

The bridesmaid dresses are kind of done. The third bridesmaid arrives at 3pm this afternoon – she hasn’t had one fitting. Yesterday, KJ informed us that she would like us to give a speech. Yesterday… Wedding tomorrow.

I used to joke that I didn’t want a marriage, I just wanted a wedding… a big party where people bring me presents and I get to wear a princess dress and a tiara and everyone tells me how pretty I look. Now I don’t even want that.

Weddings are a mission. Avoid at all costs.

Latest on Fatty (god, I hope she’s not related to anyone reading this):

“Cango Cave management and emergency services officials say they plan to discuss the policy of ‘fair discrimination’ regarding overweight visitors to the popular site. This after an obese woman was trapped in one of the tunnels on Monday.

It took a team of some 30 rescuers from nearby Oudsthoorn, George, Mosselbay and Knysna about 10 hours to free the woman and the other 22 people trapped behind her. The 37-year-old Durbanite will not be charged for the rescue.”

No, really… I don’t mind paying tax to rescue stupid, overweight people from natural heritage sites. According to 702 radio, Fatty was advised that she would be too large for the tour. Fatty’s husband kicked up a stink because officials were discriminating against her size (Weightists). This brings me great sorrow... this is a fat – and stupid – married couple. Chances are, they’re breeding.

People should have to apply for procreating rights, and I should have the power to clear or veto them. Call me Hitler.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007


The first post for 2007 was going to be my disgust regarding the publicised, trivialised and sensationalised hanging of Saddam Hussein. I predict this year's best seller to be "How to turn your enemies into martyrs: For Dummies" By George W. Bush.

I think sums it up nicely. 'Nuf said.

Then I heard about Fattie getting stuck in the Cango Caves. Never mind the fact that someone should have pointed out that she was probably going to be too large to get through the tour, how about a sense of self-awareness??

"Hmm, I am obsese. I am not as agile as the nubile youth next to me. It is unlikely, that in the event of the tunnel narrowing, I will be able to turn around and retreat. Maybe this is not such a good idea..."

Now, thanks to Fattie, a part of one of our natural wonders had to be CUT AWAY FROM THE WOMAN because she couldn't put down the last piece of turkey pie. How embarrassing.

I apologise for this rant. Everyone has their predujices. I am a weight-ist.

...Or maybe it's just because my New Year's weekend was a disaster. Stay tuned for more.

Seeing in the New Year

Short version of the weekend:
1x car dinged (mine)
1x burst ear drum (not mine)
1x mild concussion (not mine)
2x flat tyres
2x cars abandoned in the rain
Lots and lots of rain.

On about Wednesday last week, my family decided to go to the game farm for the weekend. We have family friends visiting from Australia, so we took them with. I started my weekend by picking up the Aussie girls in Joburg – and scraping the front of my car in the driveway while I was there. It was a good effort too.

Got to the farm just before the heavens opened. It rained. Hard. Braaiing was out of the question, but we can all handle a little bit of rain.

The next morning we woke up to overcast and cloudy weather. There go the sun-tanning plans, but still, not a problem. Unfortunately, Aussie Andy’s ear drum burst overnight, so an impromptu trip into Rustenburg Medi-clinic was needed. Half the party went to Rustenburg, half stayed on the farm.

I was in the half that stayed on the farm. We went for a game drive… and got stuck in another deluge. Monsoon season in the North West. I’m not talking highveld thundershower of 10 minutes and then clear skies. I’m talking heavy, solid rain for hours at a time. Meanwhile, other half of family were now stuck in Rustenburg – in the luxury sedan that was looking less and less likely to make it back on the flooded sand roads.

With much slipping, sliding and skidding, we managed to get the landie back to the house, where we discovered that there was no power. Now we couldn’t braai, and we couldn’t cook (well, I can’t cook in the first place, but electricity is always a start).

We called the other half of the party to let them know not to even leave Rustenburg. Then, in the distance, I spotted Mike from the other house on the farm walking down our driveway – absolutely drenched and muddy. The monsoon is still tipping down, by the way. Their suburban 4x4 was stuck in a mud bank about 1km down the road and they need the landie to try get it out.

About half an hour later (still raining), they were back – the landie wasn’t helping so now they needed to bring out the big guns… the tractor. Then we couldn’t get the damn tractor started. By the way, it’s still raining. Hard. We’d managed get the power back on so at least we could offer tea and coffee to our sodden guests.

Finally the rain started lessening – a little bit – and Mumsy called, they were on their way back from Rustenburg but they wouldn’t be able to negotiate the flooded clay and sand roads. So, Daddy-dahling had to go pick them all up in the landie – abandoning the Merc to the elements at the farm’s gate.

But Monsoon Abigail wasn’t quite finished. By the time everyone got back to the house, it was tipping down again and we were all very, very sick of the weather. It was now 3pm and looking unlikely that the rain would ever stop. A group decision was made to move all the cars from the farm house to higher ground – at least if it didn’t stop raining we could then wade our way to the cars at a later stage.

Moving the cars entailed driving one car at a time, with someone following in the landie… to bring the driver back in the rain, and to help out if a car didn’t make it through the mud. I refused to drive any of the cars so my father had to do it for me. I think if I felt the back of my car sliding out while I frantically tried to maintain control of the direction I would’ve gone into hysterics. Watching them fishtailing away was stressful enough.

Cars moved to higher and somewhat drier ground, we decided that this weekend at the farm was not so much fun, especially when it was established that the landie had developed a puncture. This meant Daddy-dahling and his friend had to change the wheel… you guessed it… in the rain. A group decision was made – we would sit out the rainy night and head home after breakfast on the 31st… if we could negotiate the roads by then.

Then my mother walked into the glass sliding door… like the rain, hard. Now we had a burst ear drum and a mild concussion. It just gets better, huh?

I woke up early on Sunday morning to beautiful blue, clear skies – and a howling wind. Mother Nature was giving us no reprieve: it was definitely time to leave the farm. We went to get the landie out of the shed – to discover that the spare wheel had gone flat overnight.

Once that was sorted, we then had to transport everything – and everyone – from the farm house to where the cars had been moved. It was not a very relaxing weekend. New Years Eve was spent with the same people, in the urban comfort of Jozi. Not a muddy sand road in sight.

Meanwhile, down in Morgs, Boet was having an awesome time as well – as he was on the receiving end of a misplaced punch from a brawl that broke out behind him.

Happy 2007… At least I didn’t get stuck behind Fatty in the Cango Caves.