Sports headlines

Murray put up a good show today. I particularly liked the bit where he cried... but not because I'm happy to see him lose (well, a little bit). Mostly because he actually showed some range of personality. A touch of any emotion other than ugly, open-mouthed screeching (which I've realised he gets from his mother).

Credit where credit's due - he put up a good fight, and he is a great scrambler. He returns some amazing shots and when he develops a bit more mental stamina and consistency, he's going to win a grand slam. Probably. One day.

I've also realised what bothers me so much about his looks: his physical similarity to the latter half of Beavis and Butthead. And that's all I'm going to say on Andy Murray... until next time.

I cannot believe Togo have been both fined and banned for two years from the CAF Cup. This column offers a bit more insight, as well as good summation of my general feeling in his opening statement.

What the hell? While I can almost understand the argument that the Togo government was involved (indeed critical) in the decision to withdraw the team, how can you punish the team - and the fans - with such a heavy ban? Fine them. That much I could accept. Make a point about governmental involvement (hahahaha, I'm trying not to snort when I think about the complete lack of governmental involvement in ANY national sport in SA).

All I can think about is the obvious analogy of victims of crime being further victimised and villified when they require trauma counselling. So I'm going to stop thinking and am going to bed.

Why I hate Andy Murray

Truly, I don't know where to start.

1) He is a Scottish twat. Not that I have anything against his nationality. Some of my best friends are Scottish (I'm that open-minded). If he were British, he'd be a pommie twat; Australian, aussie twat; American, yankie twat... I just wanted to throw in an additional adjective before twat. Forgive me.

2) He is annoying, on court and off. During play, he falls into that bracket of unnecessary noise-makers. But, further to this, he also shouts encouragement to himself when his opponents make unforced errors. Fine, psyche yourself up when you actually win a point through your own game (because I will begrudgingly admit that Murray can play good tennis - when he's not being an asshole). But when your opponent mishits a ball it doesn't mean you psyched them out. Subsequently shouting "Coooome ON!" to yourself is unsporting and undeniably twattish.

3) His pre- and post-match interviews show no sign of personality, other than arrogance. Which does not equal confidence. There is a difference - something he would've learnt from friends at school, if he'd had any. He likes to talk himself up and more than not, it goes down on record as a great big pile of blag. And when that happens, I do a bum-shaking jig of unrequited joy in my living room. Because humility is so much more attractive, Murray. Just ask Fed - he's the one who gets all the big sponsorship deals.

4) Because of his face. Seriously. I can't stand it. You know how there always seems to be one kid in class whose doting mother has told him that he's a lady killer and he therefore carries with him the misguided air that he is far superior in looks and physique to every one else? That's what Andy's mom did about twenty years ago and he is still dragging this around with him.

Unfortunately someone must've told him to stop wearing black socks, so I can't complain about that part of his wardrobe any more, which deflates me somewhat. But I truly hope that someone (preferably a loved one, which may convey more sincerity) will tell him that he does not have the body of Adonis.

Yes, you are MORE muscular than you once were, but let's be honest when you're working with twigs and sinew there's only so much you can do. My boet has a similar physique and the closest he got to being seriously buff was when I photoshopped his head onto a cover of Men's Health. It's funny because it's true.

Let's take a moment for a biology schematic:

Also, he has vampire teeth. Seriously he should get that seen to before he inadvertently puts out someone's eye, or jugular.

5) The unapologetic adoration that the British press lump on him. I think this is the main reason. Like an adoring parent who won't stop talking about their precious little pumpkin and how clever/beautiful/special they are - you end up hating the offspring more than the product. The poms delight in nicknaming him "Supreme Murray", "Magnificent Murray"... excuse me while I go eat something just so that I can throw it up.

Murray is through to the Semi-finals in the Aussie Open. Here's how the headline should read: "Murray through after Nadal withdraws". Yet here's how the fawning Brits put it: "Brilliant Murray brings Nadal to his knees". Completely glazing over the fact that he was playing a limping opponent, no no... Murray defeated him with his strength, wit and dastardly genius. In short, he was so brilliant that Nadal capitulated, faking an excuse just to get off the court and away from the incandescence that is Andy.

Last year, when Murray got knocked out of Wimbledon the BBC - that pinnacle of unbiased reporting - went with something along the lines of "Murray sets his sights on winning the US Open". Not, "Federer/Nadal/[whoever is actually still in contention] set their sights on winning THE CURRENT grand slam".

In fact, the only reason that Murray hasn't won a grand slam yet is simply because he is just too damn good. He outplays himself. I think this sums it up. Really. Just read it. I don't even have the words to deconstruct it.

I'm surprised we haven't seen a wave of Chuck Norris style internet jokes.

- Andy Murray is so fast, he can return his own service.

- The only person who can beat Andy Murray, is Andy Murray.

- Andy Murray is such a giant twat, he gave birth to himself.

... hmmmm, I might be on to something with that last one.

Here's a schematic recap:

Let me paint you a picture

I'm sitting at my desk. Fortunately I have my own office because I am currently wearing slippers. This is not unusual, after trekking into work through the ice and snow I have taken to keeping slippers next to the radiator under my desk. When I put those warm puppies on, my toes have a little party in their socks. The three people who see me on a daily basis don't care and the people who I deal with via email and telephone don't know.

I'm also wearing jean-pants (standard) and a zip up tracksuit top (not so standard). My more work-appropriate tops (all three layers today) are currently hanging over the aforementioned radiator under my desk.

The K-Way tracksuit top has two zips, one that starts at the bottom and one that starts at the top. I've got it unzipped at the bottom - exposing bare flabby tummy - and zipped all the way to the top (in a pathetic attempt to maintain warmth).

Why am I baring my midriff in such a slovenly manner?

Well, thank you for asking. The reason is simple. I tipped a cup of freshly boiled water down my front and the skin on my stomach did not take this well.

It's not the first time - and it's unlikely to be my last accident. More often that not, when I tip something (generally liquidy in nature) over, I tend to pull it towards myself.

Mills recently admitted that one of the things he finds most fascinating about me is my "belligerent refusal to learn from my mistakes". So why should I start now?

I can say this much - you soon forget about the sub-freezing temps outside when you're frantically clawing scalding clothing away from your torso.

Two completely fictional characters, not based on reality at all

Two people, let's call them M and K, are enjoying a cold but gentle saunter around The Hague. Suddenly, M takes a slightly bigger step with his left foot while his right knee seems to buckle somewhat... but then he's back in stride as if nothing has happened. K notes this, finds it rather peculiar but she generally finds him rather peculiar so mentions nothing of it.

A few metres later, M does it again - the same abrupt, slightly longer stride that looks like an aborted half-lunge. And then, back into step as if nothing has happened. Again, K says nothing because she is starting to look forward to this move. On the third such step-lunge, K collapses into incapacitating giggles (usually reserved for precarious balancing chores, such as when they are trying to rotate the sleeper couch and M is bearing most of the weight).

Bemused, M queries this sudden outburst of laughter. K asks what the new goose-step is all about. M explains that the bottom of his jean-pant keeps getting caught underneath his right heel, so instead of doing the foot-out-shake-it-all-about dance, he opted for the jolt-lunge-step. "I thought it was more subtle," he concludes.

"It's not," K assures him, demonstrating her delight with sporadic limp-step-lunges the rest of the way home.

Another little M+K walkabout incident -

M and K go to the shops on a busy Saturday afternoon. After an hour and a bit, while standing in one of the swankiest stores on the swankiest shopping street (M and K don't usually shop there, but sometimes they like to pretend they belong), M happens to look down and finally notices why things were a bit breezier than they should be.

M: Aaaaah crap... my fly is down.
K: Oh ja, I noticed when we were leaving the flat.
M: WHAT? Were you planning on telling me, like, ever?
K: Sure... but then I got distracted and forgot.
M throws his head back in exasperation (while surreptitiously trying to redress himself)
K: Whaaaat... how many people have actually studied your crotch in the last ninety minutes? No one cares.
M: Except me.
K shrugs: Except you.

Some may ask why M puts up with K.
M asks himself this regularly.

Zulu Warriors

Do you remember the South African song we learnt as kids? That little camp fire round that had no reason, just rhythm..?

Izika zumba zumba zumba
Izika zumba zumba zay
Izika zumba zumba zumba
Izika zumba zumba zay

Hold him dooooooown, you Zulu warrior
Hold him down, you Zulu chief (chief, chief, chief)

Repeat... Repeatedly.

I don't know the correct lyrics and couldn't find anything official on the web, so it's guaranteed that my phonetic spelling is probably way off from what the actual Zulu words should be. Also bear in mind that I learnt this song, as a whitey at Brownie camp (yes. Brownies. Feel free to point and laugh now), while growing up under the wagging finger of PW Botha and his predecessors. Probably not the best starting point for learning non-European ditties.

Based on what little remains of my high school Zulu knowledge, I think the lyrics should probably be something closer to "asika mzimba", which would mean "he/she/it/they cut the body". I think. Which is what a bunch of Zulu warriors would likely do to someone/thing/it they are holding down. In theory.

Is there a point to this blog? Not really. It's more a semi-educational sojourn down memory lane for anyone who grew up in SA.

What I really wanted to do is get that song in your head(s), just like I've had it for the last 36 hours.

Mwaahahahahaha.... [phonetic attempt at evil maniacal laughter].

Did it work?

Three most annoying questions, in no particular order

1) So, do you want kids?

Okay, this question in itself is not that annoying. It's a query based on biological prerogative. I get it. What actually irks me is the follow up comment, generally from people who I have just met or hardly know me...

Person: "So, do you want kids?"
Me: "No."
Person, tilts head and smiles patronisingly: "Aaaah, but you are female and in your twenties. Therefore, you will one day. I predict within the next four months."
Me, pretending to contemplate this banality thus lulling Person into a false sense of security before flicking them in the forehead: "I'm sorry, that action was triggered by my biological clock. It doesn't like presumption."

2) So, when are you getting married?

Answer: when every person on earth has asked me that. Including children as yet unborn and those too young to speak.

Look, it's not that I have anything against marriage. I don't. I'm happy for my friends who get married. I have no problem with people formalising their relationships. And weddings are (generally) awesome reunions for friends and family. I love the idea of a wedding... which is effectively just a party, gifts and everyone telling me how pretty I look. Sounds great. Who needs a groom for that? I can understand if kids are involved, then it's important 'cause both parents get equal rights and tax purposes and blah... blah.. blah. What irritates me is when people presume that you cannot be in a committed, monogamous relationship if it has not been validated with a marriage certificate.

Person: "how long have you been with your boyfriend?"
Me: "Seven years, or so."
Person: "Wow. That's a long time. When are you getting married?"
Me, suppressing urge to power-flick: "No plans. No wedding bells."
Person, tilting head with concern: "Oh... hasn't he asked yet?"
[note: "he" is always emphasised, I think this is because they are trying to insinuate that it must be something wrong with him; to make me feel better. "Yet" is optional - presumably in order to give me some hope after seven years of clearly unfounded anticipation]
Me, through gritted teeth due to imminent head implosion: "No, because he actually knows me. I'm bored of this conversation. You're dismissed."

3) So, when are you coming to visit us in London/Cape Town?

Very good question. When did you last make any effort to visit us, outside of London/Cape Town? Both are fantastic touristy cities (and of course, if we're turning it into a competition between the two, Cape Town wins. Hands down) but for some reason it seems that when people - native or not - move to either of these cities, actual physical acquaintance can only be considered within the respective city's borders. Don't get me wrong, I want to see these people and I love visiting both cities... I think it's just the qualifying location in the question that actually bugs me. Seldom are there other options, like, "Hey let's meet up in Swansea/Springfontein or somewhere in between." Generally it comes across as, 'you come to us or we don't see you. Kapish?'*

Person: "Hey! How you doing... great to hear from you! So when are you coming to visit us in Cape Town/London [delete appropriate]?"
Me: "Dunno. When are you coming to visit us in Joburg/The Hague [delete appropriate]?"
Error... Does not compute. Error... Does not compute. Error...
Me: "It's okay, relax, I was just kidding. We're coming next month. See you then."

*To the friends who have made an effort to visit us outside of Cape Town/London/Benoni and/or Boksburg: I love you and you are still on my Christmas card list (which may actually get sent one of these years).

Excessive

Wow - it must've been a really weak pool for Best Motion Picture Drama at the Golden Globes this year. I haven't seen Precious, Up In The Air, The Hurt Locker or (sad, but true) Inglorious Basterds, but I have seen Avatar... and I cannot believe that it actually won an award for best drama. It's a compelling movie - I enjoyed it, it's got heaps of action and little splotches of humour. Not laugh out loud stuff, but then it didn't bring me to tears either.

So, sure, it had traces of drama in it. But the best? Really? And let's all get a grip... it did not bring me to the brink of suicidal contemplation. Is this why it got Best Drama? Because of the amount of idiots who've supposedly been so severely affected? I think Avatar deserved Best Drama about as much as Obama deserved the Nobel Peace Prize. But aaaaanywho, putting that rant down and moving onto something closer to home...

"Everything in moderation. "

That's what my mother used to say (probably still does), over and over again... mostly applied to food. It's a little adage that probably would do wonders in the fight against obesity. And quite good to keep in mind, as these days it seems you can't pick up a fork without someone pointing out that WHATEVER you are about to consume will increase/decrease your chance of weight gain/weight loss/heart disease/longevity/brain tumours/brain activity/brain cancer etc etc...

So this one's for you, Mum.

Mills and I went out for sushi last night. It's 'our' thing. We love sushi, as much as our budgets can afford, and there's a great restaurant around the corner that does all-you-can-eat deals. You can order basically as much as you like and you can do this for up to 8 rounds per table. Eight rounds filled largely with rice and very very salty soy sauce (we're pretty sure they proactively add salt to make sure you're filling yourself up on liquid in between rounds). However, if you do not finish everything that you have ordered, you will be charged for the remaining pieces. Fair enough... waste not, want not.

I figure two, even three, rounds is a good effort but Mills sees the "8" as a target. So even if we are both full - absolutely stuffed - he must order more. Must. Eat. More.

It always gets to the point where I won't help him. That's it. I am full. End of. Mills was ordering round 3 when this happened last night. "We can't let them win!" he cried. 'Them' being those dastardly restaurant owners... if Mills was a gambler he'd be trying to beat the system in Vegas right now. I emphasised that I would not eat any more. He lambasted me for being a quitter. I called him an assortment of names. I raised my eyebrows then and shut up, because a) he's a big boy and must suffer the consequences and b) I like a good 'told you so' situation as much as the next girlfriend.

As we waited for HIS order, the rice began to expand in his stomach and his brain latched onto the fact that a fair amount had been ingested. "Oh dear... I am feeling a bit full now..." he conceded, shortly before they placed another 25 pieces of sushi on our table. Yup, I bet you are. You warthog.

After my celebratory "I told you so" song and dance, I suggested that maybe he should just pay up. But no, paying up would mean that 'they' win. And we could never let that happen.

So the real entertainment began. I watched my boyfriend slowly binge himself on chopstick-laden mouthfuls. It wasn't about the food, or paying. Oh no, it was a game of strategy. In between labouriously chewing, he would muse about ways to hide the sushi. "Hmmm, what if I break this piece up and hide it under the lettuce? How much do you think the people at the table next door would pay for these pieces? Maybe I can stuff the last pieces into my cheeks... do you think they'll notice? You'll have to ask for and pay the bill then... I can spit it out once we're outside."

This is just one reason why we don't, and can't ever, have children. After seven years of dating, we still end up playing "hide the veggies from mom" (alternatively known as "hide the raw fish and rice bundles from the beady eyes of the Japanese matron").

ps. He ate it all... I think I helped with all of two pieces. He ate the rest. Unbelievable.

Pocahontas II

WARNING: THIS BLOG CONTAINS SPOILERS

Have you heard about the new James Cameron movie? If you haven't, you clearly do not live on this planet. Which is, in fact, a real planet. Knock him all you want, but Cameron is a creative genius. The man can turn a flammable reel of single-frame images into a big, fat pile of shiny gold.

Terminator (times three, or four, or is it five?) >> ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Titanic (just the one, but it felt like three) >> ka-ching.
Avatar >> ka-(still waiting for full results, but likely to be yet another resounding)-ching.

In short, Avatar is a movie set on a planet called Pandora. On Pandora there is a material called "unobtainium". Everyone wants to obtain this stuff, because as the name so cryptically states, it's not very easy to come by. The planet is inhabited by a race called Na'vi. These are giant, blue alien-type people. This info can be gleaned from the trailers alone, and from what I've heard there's not actually much more to the movie (which I have not seen). But I feel the need to share something anyway. This is where the gigantic spoiler comes in. Look away now if you don't want to know...

....James Cameron made it all up.

He created this world in his imagination and then he turned it into a movie. Apparently, the portrayal of the planet and the creatures on it is breathtakingly spectacular - so he must've run out of creative juice when it came to names for everything (Pandora? Unobtainium? Excuse me, I just threw up a little on the cheese factor). But back to my point, this planet does not exist. It is a setting for a movie, created by human imagination and computer graphics. Otherwise known as "science fiction". Or more simply put... "play-play", "pretend" or "make believe".

So anyone who complains about post-delusional depression and suicidal tendencies because "they long to enjoy the beauty of the alien world Pandora" deserves to be stripped naked, doused with a bucket of water (or better yet hosed down with fire fighting equipment) and shoved head first into the snow. We will call it ICE BUCKET / WELCOME TO REALITY treatment. If you find anybody suffering from similar delusions in the warmer southern hemisphere, please feel free to strip them naked, douse with hot oil and then shove them head first into a nest of fire ants.

One sufferer, called Mike, "even contemplated suicide, thinking that he will be rebirthed [sic] in a world similar to Pandora and everything will be the same as in Avatar." Do us all a Darwinian favour, Mikey. Please. I hope you haven't reproduced yet, but judging by that comment alone I would guess that you are probably still waiting for your Klingon mail-order bride anyway.

Pssst... Star Trek is made up too.

And while we're on the subject of Avatar, since when are we supposed to care what the Vatican thinks about a movie? It's been centuries since humanity shrugged out of the dark ages and the Roman Catholic Church no longer dictates what books can or can't be seen (weeeeell... unless you buy into the Da Vinci Code, but let's put that down before it leads to another tangle in this already bewildered blog). So why should we suddenly care what they think about a secular movie? How does a Vatican movie review hold any weight in the news? Is this their way of trying to 'stay in touch with the popular culture'? Surely they should stick to how the Bible is being interpretted (yes, interpretted - because it is not a factual textbook) or more pressing issues, like the attempted firebombings of churches in Malayasia (another point I'm going to put down before I go on yet another rampaging tangent).

The only way the Vatican should be sharing a headline with Avatar is if the Pope was suffering from post-Pandora delusional depression. Now that would be newsworthy.

I haven't seen the movie yet, but I do intend to. I'm a sucker for big action in 3D. And I'm sure Mills will be happy to oblige with an ice bucket if my grip on reality starts to slip... any further.

You are not unique

Similar to most people in the western world, I work for a big international company. We have big international mailing lists. These are for corporate communications such as: new CEO; annual reports; marketing updates... and, apparently, a mid-level manager's baby announcement.

Some guy I have never met, never heard of and will never hear from again, has decided to inform everyone of the birth of his new son. I am so, so very tempted to reply:

Dear Harry

You did what over 100 million people did last year. It is not an exclusive club and does not count as news. Believe it or not, mammals have been doing this - without fanfare - for several thousand years. You are not special and neither is your kid.

Congratu-fucking-lations. I don't care.

I can feel the rage pulsing through my fingers. It's good to be back.

I masticate, you masticate, we masticate!

I have a new best friend. Her name is MK. She is Moroccan - and 10 years old. Little MK came to the Netherlands with her mom in April this year. She could not speak a word of English. She could however speak Arabic, French and Spanish. She picked up the language quickly, as children do, and now converses casually in English and can also say a few things in Dutch, with near-perfect accent. It's unbelievable.

So her mom has asked me to help with her English development. I don't speak down to her, she really is incredibly bright (or is it just that all children soak up information so easily?). She's come from a very conservative household in Tangier to the far more liberal culture of the Netherlands, which has opened her eyes (and her mother's) fast. Even so, she is still very naive compared to other children of her age.

Shortly after dinner on Saturday, MK was told to get ready for bed. As she was leaving, the adults carried on with the banter around the table which at that stage was focussed on (of all things) how well do you really need to chew your food. Now, every time I have an opportunity to use this word, I use it. It's funny. It gets a reaction. A lot of people don't know it, and it sounds like something else. So, in my usual unthinking mode, I announced that it's "always important to masticate". This got the desired reaction - one guy laughed, Mills called me out for being a show-off, MK's mom wanted to know what it meant.

MK stopped on her way up the stairs and with a proud grin, loudly proclaimed, "I masticate! You masticate! We masticate!"

I shrivelled.
Mills glared at me.
MK's mom and her partner tried not to make a big deal of it, while at the same time tried to focus her on other tasks, in the hope that she would soon forget this word.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

What is it about children that makes them pick up - immediately - on the words that they shouldn't? Seriously, I had thrown tons of words at her over a friendly game of scrabble earlier that afternoon and THIS was the one she chooses to commit to memory? How do you explain to a young innocent girl that this is just a silly word that she really doesn't need to remember and that she really shouldn't shout out in the playground, because it sounds like another word which is not so silly, which some of her classmates probably already know and will either get her into trouble or laughed at because they sound so similar. Omigod, please forget that word. Instantly!

Crap.

HelLA, baby

It's been a while. I know. Again. Sorry.

So. I started a new job. I'm travelling 3 hours a day to work, but I love the new job so it's worth it. It helps that they flew me to LA to meet the team that I'm currently working with on a daily basis (well, on daily rotation, considering that they get into work at 6pm my time). I was in the land of fake buildings, fake boobs and Californication. I got to meet a few schlebs, which was quite cool. Sort of. And I can confidently state this much - Michael Jackson isn't dead. He has multiplied and is strutting his white-socked stuff for tourists, on every block of Hollywood Boulevard.

My new boss also got to learn that I'm a klutz. This is something I had managed to keep hidden throughout the hiring process, largely by ensuring that my former employer made no mention of previous exploits in the flammable/falling/breaking department(s).

The first clue for my new boss was when I dropped a colleague's wedding pictures in the soy sauce over our sushi dinner. Why, why, why would you bring these out after everyone (i.e. me) has had a few glasses of wine? Especially as I had spent all evening politely refraining from dousing myself - or my colleagues - in condiments. My coordination basket was empty. I didn't know there was going to be a surprise test at the end of the meal. She put the pictures away very quickly after that. Whoops.

The next day, in front of other colleagues, I managed to walk into a glass door. Not too spectacularly - I thought it needed a push when in fact it needed a pull. But my pushing (crunching) into it apparently jammed the lock mechanism, leaving us stranded out there until someone came from the other side to release it. It was during this awkward wait that my boss stated the obvious. "Omigod... you're a klutz."

Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.

So, by the time we got to the set of NCIS (I love this ensemble show. Like, totally, LOVE NCIS) he was getting an inkling of what I was capable of, especially as the first thing I did was fall over a prop. Who puts them in the middle of the floor anyway? I got to watch some of the filming which was really cool and spent a large amount of time pretending to look professional and aloof, while in my head I was jumping up and down and screaming "OH MY GAAAWD!" like every contestant on Extreme Home Makeover.

Everyone was talking and getting on with their work, I was standing out of the way when Mark Harmon insisted that I pull up a chair. There weren't any chairs remaining so he insisted I sit in his cast chair. You know, those high ones with the 'talent' names printed on them. I didn't put up too much of an argument. My internal monologue had gotten over the hysterical screaming and had now gone into a muted whisper of "omigod, Mark Harmon's chair. I'm sitting in Mark Harmon's chair."

Then with a *crack* my internal monologue changed to, "omigod, I just broke Mark Harmon's chair."

As surreptitiously as possible, I looked down. Yup. There was now a crossbar hanging at an angle below my feet. That hulk of a man sits on the chair every day, but it breaks when I reverently place one butt cheek on it. Great. I didn't move again, praying to god that the chair wouldn't completely collapse. At least not while the cast were hanging around. Finally, they went back to filming and I slipped off the chair, relieved that it was still (at least visibly) in one piece. I diligently pointed it out to a crew member, who quickly reassembled where necessary. Easily solved.

I spent about 3 hours on that set, talking to cast and crew, and I couldn't tell you what was discussed. All I can remember is my internal horror repeating over and over again, "omigod, I just broke Mark Harmon's chair. Please don't collapse. Please don't collapse..."

Screw the shrimps

It's been a while (again), but there's been good reason for that. I just have a few nights of sleep and some correspondence to catch up on now. In the meantime, I had to bring your attention to this little treat. Yes, it's dated to the beginning of this month, but some pearlers are just timeless.

On a recent visit to Mexico, the Crown Prince of The Netherlands gave what he thought to be a erudite speech:

'Let me conclude by giving you a Mexican proverb: Cámaron que se duerme se lo lleva la chingada, or in English: a shrimp that sleeps gets carried by the tide,' the prince said.

However, the translator used the word chingada rather than corriente - so the prince actually said the shrimp got screwed.

To make things worse, while chingada is considered everyday language in most of South America, in Mexico it is considered extremely vulgar, a fact the Argentine translator was not apparently aware of."

Poor Prince Willem-Alexander... he thought that he was being all philosophical, but instead he was bamboozling his audience with misdirected connotations worthy of a script from 'Allo 'Allo.

Not only did he screw the shrimps, but he insulted them while doing it. Perhaps even more embarrassing is that his wife is of Argentine origin. It really does seem that someone on the prince's team should've picked that up earlier.

Political whoopsie, to say the least.

Meet Priscilla

I'm getting quite good at this cycling lark. I cycle to the station and back every day in the rain, sun or wind (the former and the latter more often than the mid-der). I hop on and off a still-moving bike with confidence... an amazing progression considering that I used to stop my bike, disembark and turn it around a corner manually. Now I love my bike, I talk to her. I've started calling her Priscilla - Prissy Priscilla - because I think she likes it.

When I first arrived in the country, I thought that Dutch women had an aversion to make up and hair stylists, now I realise that there's just no point. If you're cycling (no matter how far) chances are your hair is going to be mussed up and your make up smudged due to the afore-mentioned wind, rain and related watering eyes. So now I'm the same. Don't bother with straigthening the hair, get the station, give it a brush (optional) and do the make up on the train (again, optional).

I park my bike in the multi-storey parking lot and yes, I have lost it on ocassion. It's fine if you remember which level and on which side you parked. At least then you know where to start looking. I generally try to park on the same side, on the same level and try to remember which light/sign/distinguishing mark is closest. Sometimes I'm in a hurry and I forget. Fortunately, by the time I get home in the evenings the bikes have thinned out a bit, so I have less options to wander past before I get to mine. There is no reassuring 'bloop bloop' or tail lights flashing as you hit the remote key. I've found that calling out her name doesn't help either. Some people don their bikes with fake flowers, or paint it with flourescent colours. I can't say it's a bad idea.

Last night I got home to find that someone hadn't bothered to actually find a rack for their bike. They were clearly in too much of a hurry to actually park, so they just took their bike and RAMMED it in next to mine. When I got back to the my station, I found that Prissy was being indecently molested by some vulgarity. I had to wrench them apart and console my poor traumatised bike while I untangled the bike stand from the pedal (which had been wedged due to unnecessary roughness).

Once this was complete, I was free to go... but not before I took the offending bike (still locked by the back wheel - but this doesn't mean you can't pick it up and walk) and moved to some where completely different. Different level, different side, different rack.

Moral of the story? People park like dicks whether they're on a bike or in a car. Bikes are just easier to move.

What constitutes discrimination?

1. In the darkness of winter, some colours are harder to see at night. That's why the council of Limburg has decided to donate safety vests to refugees of a darker hue.

2. Then, this column brought my attention to the fact that some gravitationally-challenged folks are claiming they are targetted because of their weight.

Sooo... are the Dutchies discriminating against darkies in Limburg? And... should victimisation of fatties count as discrimination?

I know how I feel on the latter and am ambivalent about the former. I don't have an objection to safety vests being given to the immigrants. What makes it an issue is that the people of Limburg have actually specified that only black immigrants will receive this freebie. Completely disregarding the fact that most people - black, white, local or otherwise - wear black or dark colours in winter. I'm about as pasty pale as you can get, but in the middle of winter all you can see of me are my eyeballs - as the rest is smothered in hat, gloves, scarf, coat, boots etc. So I guess, well-intended and misguided though it may have been, I think the Limburgers discriminated.

Now onto issue number two. The one that I feel is black-and-white. I am a fattist. Or a weightist. Or an adipophobe (new word I'm trying out... "fear of excessive adipose tissue"). I really struggle to sympathise with the obese. I know that some people are just bigger, much bigger. Some people have hormonal imbalance and medical reasons for why they rapidly gain weight and then cannot lose it. But I think for most, weight gain is something that is just too much effort to consider fighting. A former colleague of mine is 5'6 and weighs over 100kg. He constantly complained about his discomfort, his heart pains and his sweating. He's 28. One particular meal I saw him put away - fast - was a full plate of fries topped with 500g of minced meat and cheese. Then he would tell us that he didn't know what to do about getting healthier. Lose the fries and try eat a tomato or two, for a start.

Weight you can do something about. Skin colour (Michael Jackson aside), you can't.

Here comes another airline rant

I just booked our tickets for Christmas in the UK - had a look at a few different websites and decided that jet2 was the most competitive. I'm not stupid. I know that's not going to be final cost, but yes please, I'll take two for Christmas Eve, return.

Click.

120 base fare, times two.
Plus taxes. Times two.

And before you know it, you're up to 388 total.
Right, now we need to check in a bag - it being Christmas, and us hoping to bring home a loot. Just the one bag between the two of us. That'll be 26 euro extra. For wanting to bring luggage on holiday.

Then we get charged for the option of online check-in. 11 euro for the both of us. But wait, it's not actually an option... it's just a charge. They did away with their front desk, AND they're charging for the lack of service. Suck on that!

That's 212.50 pp, in case you're keeping count.

Oh but wait... are you wanting to sit down on the flight? Cos that'll be another 6 euros per actual seat (no ma'am, sitting on one bum cheek will not half that cost... snigger). So add another 24euros return for the - mandatory - luxury of sitting down.

Before you know it, the tickets of 120 pp have shot up to 224,50 pp. Oh, plus 10.50 from the credit card company and... always love this one... 16 euros booking cost - for using their website and paying for my own paper and ink when I have to print the obligatory boarding pass (confirmation code can be found hidden somewhere on page four, after several pages of legal jargon, full colour pictures and adverts encouraging me to book affliated hotels, rent cars and buy orphans from Bulgaria).

Low cost, s'foot. That said, the total cost was still lower than KLM (a.k.a. Satan's Porthole).

News snippets

Snippet of news from the Netherlands: Massive drug bust
However, my favourite part of the story is not the amount of houses that were searched or subsequent percentage of plantations uncovered. It's the following paragraph:

Police moved in at 7.45am, placing the Kastelenbuurt neighbourhood under emergency rule and only allowing people to leave their homes if they had to go
to work or take children to school.

Emergency rule doesn't sound so scary... Sort of sounds like normal everyday life, really. So you can't leave your house, unless you have to do some errands. Probably a bit inconvenient, but police tend to cordone off everything within 3km of any incident so it's not unusual to trip over or around chevron tape on your way to the shops anyway.

Another thing Dutchies don't do right... Strike. Sounds threatening right? This one could've been a real bitch for me, seeing as it already takes me 90 minutes to get to work by public transport. But don't worry, the court said NO. So the employees shrugged and agreed to get back to work.

How bout that? I don't know whether to be proud of a functioning legislative system or whether to send over some toyi-toyers to show them how to bring a country to its knees. To be honest, it was going to be piss poor strike - intended from 7 to 8.30am. Seeing as most people only start work at about 9.30, it probably wouldn't have been so crippling.

Crisis

Since I was about 17 I've looked older than I was. Or people have just thought I looked older than I was. Whatever, either way the only time I got asked for ID was when I was standing with particularly young looking friends. It was cool. Everyone wants to look older than they are... when they're a teen.

Ten years (or so) later, it's not so cool. I've just started a new job and am getting to know the new colleagues. I was talking about being in my late-twenties and the big 30 looming in the next few years. "Really," said a co-worker without so much as a smirk, "I thought you were at least 33, or closer to Nellie's age!"

Nellie is 37. Are you kidding me, bitch?

So that's what prompted me to spend excessive amounts on Nivea products earlier today. Standing with my shoulders slumped in the facial product isle, Mills recognised that I needed a supportive hug. Do I really look like I'm in my mid-thirties? Is it these dark bags under my eyes? I thought I'd be able to hit thirty before I had to buy eye cream or wrinkle-free anything.

Poepie.

Greek woman don't mess around

I have a friend affectionately known as The Greek (which is not such an effective nickname when actually visiting her in Athens). She is gorgeous - great figure, beautiful olive skin and dark hair... brains, scathing tongue and wit to balance it all off.

And I just can't help picturing her in this story, reported on BBC website. Although, 'my' Greek would have been more likely to castrate the man with a scrotum-shrinking comment. A less physical, but equally scorching, tactic - and one that I have had the delight of witnessing on occassion over the years. Good times.

Back to the story on the Beeb... I love the fact that the woman is reported as the 'attacker'. It couldn't be construed as an 'alleged attack', or possibly, a 'retaliation'. I know some women can be slightly, um, expressive.. but I don't know many women, all nationalities considered, who fire off precious cocktails as liquid ammunition with no provocation whatsoever.

But my favourite part is that the loving father claims his innocent, assailed son did nothing to provoke it. Hands up anyone (anyone?) who buys that. Sorry to be that person who lumps all people of a certain gender, of a certain age bracket, of a certain nationality in one basket, but I've seen and dealt with enough drunk pommie prats on holiday (Red Light District anyone?) to call shenanigans on that. Slappers back home may be up for some over-the-bra action, but that's not going to fly with the locals on the Med.

Unlikely that we'll find out what actually happened (and I don't care that much to actually try to follow the story further), but here on my top three conjectures:

1. He was drunkenly harrassing anything with ovaries, she flipped her drink on him and (as she claims) stalked off. One of her friends (or a fellow harrassee) saw the opportunity to further ignite the situation and took a lighter to his loins.
2. He (the attackee) was so persistant in his groping, or eventually did something so reprehensible, that she threw him with a cocktail of molotov consequences.
3. She flipped her drink on him in front of his mates (they tend to travel in packs) and stalked off. In a drunken attempt to save face, he tries to turn the public rebuffal into a party trick and sets fire to his own crotch.

Personally, I'm more inclined to the third option.

Girly Gumption

A few weeks ago, I was in London. While there, I was attempting to get from my lodgings in NW to central London. The easiest route was via the Jubilee Line. What I wasn't counting on was getting stuck in throngs of (drunken)(sweaty) Ashes cricket fans as they left after the day's play.

What I also wasn't counting on was the Jubilee line being closed to an unfortunate 'body falling onto the tracks' (read: drunken cricket fan), and me being stuck on an underground platform with several thousand Australian and English sporting fans rehashing the good, the bad and the ugly of the second test. Now would probably be a good time to indicate that the function I was going to had a pink theme. So I was wearing pink nail polish, pink accessories and pink lipstick and killer heels. Fitting right in with the play-weary cricket fans.

With the Jubilee line closed, I filed out with the rest of the people on the platform and tried to figure out a Plan B. I calculated that following the crowds wouldn't help. There were just so many people trying to get back into London. So I walked in the complete opposite direction. And walked and walked and walked. I was now over an hour late for the start of my intended party and so gatvol that I figured the first cabbie I saw, I was getting. Unfortunately, two other gentlemen just in front of men were having similar thoughts about their own trip into London.

This is where Mills tells me I am pathetic. Because this is where I consciously decided to play up my "me, girl... lost" *blink*flutter*flutter*. I struck up a conversation. They were British and obviously picked up on my SA accent quickly.

Did I live in London, they asked? Me - hell no (truth), in fact it's my first time to London (bare-faced lie). I have no idea where I am (half-truth). We established that they were also trying to get into Central London, not too far from where I was going (not that I would know that, of course... it being my first time into London and all). They suggested that we share a cab - if we could find one - into town. I concurred.

A short while later, the first cab appeared in the distance. I was not the only to spot it, unfortunately. Fortunately, I was the only one dressed to kill in heels. With a coy flick of my hair, I made sure I got the cabbie's attention. The cabbie, in turn, made sure to blatantly ignore the three pissed cricket louts in the process of jaywalking to his cab.

True to my word, I asked the cab driver to wait for my two new found friends. Mostly because they were nice enough blokes, but also because I was pretty sure I would get out of paying the cab fare if we travelled together.

What? It's true. I knew it, they knew, the driver knew it. I put up with their touristic spurts of information as we drove through the London West End. Wow, really? The theatre district? Cool.

I got door-to-door service (well, technically streetwalking-to-door service), and they got to perve a little bit longer before I got out of the cab. I was younger than them and dolled up to the nines. They were wearing beer goggles and happy for some eye candy after waiting on a smelly platform for a tube that didn't arrive. See, it worked out for everyone.

Mills thinks that this story is pathetic - I am pathetic - for consciously flaunting myself as a naive and helpless damsel. I have no such compunction. To (mis)quote a wise ol' friend... sometimes it's handy to play up to the type cast.

"Me, girl, lost" got me to my party much faster than "Me. Woman. Independent." ever would've.
We all know it's true.