Food is personal. 

Nothing proves this more than the the latest shitshow courtesy of the Department of Land Reform, Agriculture and Rural Development’s (DALRRD) Food Safety Authority (FSA). In a naming scandal that could rival the proposal to change Cape Town International Airport to Winnie Mandela Airport, the department is targeting the labelling of plant-based meat substitutes. Up until a few days ago they were actually threatening to seize these products using the product names “prescribed for processed meat products in terms of section 8 of the Agricultural Product Standards Act 119 of 1990…” 

There is definitely an agenda here. I’m certain that the issue isn’t that consumers can’t fathom the difference between pork and plant-based sausages. I’m also absolutely sure this isn’t about “safety,” despite the looming presence of the FSA. What it comes down to is naming, and naming issues are always a veritable hotbed of politics. In South Africa renaming and naming things is a bit of a national sport, and boy-oh-boy does it ruffle feathers.

The labelling of plant-based foods is opening a can of plant-based worms. Loose terms such as meatballs, nuggets, ribs, sausages, and even mince (according to some articles) have been flagged, and then there are the more descriptive terms like “chicken-style”. However, nothing is making okes want to moer each other more than disputes over South African specific words like “biltong” and “wors”. These foods are genetically hardwired into any “National Braai Day” stalwart, and no doubt the common or garden red-blooded South African khaki-wearer would rather make wors out of his trusty Jack Russell than braai a plant-only version.

Here’s the thing, food names can be lank complicated– sweetbreads, head cheese, Welsh rarebit/rabbit. In America there’s a famous Southern dish called “chicken fried steak”. Any guesses as to what you’re going to get? Clue, it’s not chicken. In the UK, if you ordered Glamorgan sausages you’d get menu envy if you expected porky treats. These sausages were originally meat based, but the recipe changed during WWII rationing.

Wartime Britain was a tough gig for foodies. Horrible recipes were invented by the Ministry of Food to keep the morale up, and despite their heinous “mock” recipes, no one took the ministry to task. Mock travesties included pork meatloaf masquerading as “mock duck”, and a devastating combo of margarine, milk powder, and sugar dressed up as “mock cream”. And what’s interesting is that while all this mock food might have made people mock charge, no one was bamboozled. No one. 

The world constantly evolves, and language adjusts.

Naming politics comes down to ownership and power. Who owns meaty terms, and who decides what constitutes steak, sausage, mince, milk, or butter?

I remember being horrified the first time I heard about cauliflower steak. But, I got over myself. Things can be more than one thing. If cauliflower wants to have multiple identities and troll us as pizza and bread, I say, “Bravo you cunning beast of a formerly neglected vegetable!” 

Things being more than one thing is great for choice. And, we’re helped to navigate choice because supermarkets are organised in specific ways. This is why we aren’t confused by the ingredients in Baby Oil, and why people aren’t spreading shea butter on their toast. Plant-based foods are found in a very specific section of a supermarket, far away from the butchery. What’s more, the boxes and packaging literally shout “Plant-based!” “Vegan!” “Hug the bunnies!”

My concern is if you battle to navigate a supermarket and are befuddled by “vegetarian”, “plant-based”, or “vegan”, then you’re going to be up shit creek in the chocolate aisle. Speckled eggs, creme eggs, Easter eggs, it’s a minefield. This is made more tricky because I defy anyone to locate eggs in a supermarket they’ve never visited before. I’m convinced there’s a conspiracy. Honestly, it’s not unimaginable to think that poultry eggs could be assigned to the chocolate aisle, especially since I’ve seen them next to the Handy Andy before.

The chocolate aisle is a rogue unit of shapeshifters. Chocolate pasta, chocolate prawns, chocolate cigars, chocolate nuggets, chocolate mushrooms, chocolate salami. It’s a helluva thing.

So don’t insult my intelligence by saying that plant-based labelling is about confusion and safety. The worst case scenario of being “hoodwinked” into buying a box of chicken-style nuggets, thinking they’re actual chicken, is a mistake you’ll make only once. And the consequence? Perhaps pissing off your carnivorous children? That’s literally the worst case scenario and to my knowledge no one has died from the disappointment of eating a chicken-style nugget.

What’s really going on?

Anthony Bourdain spoke a lot about the politics of food, and his food politics were simple, “You eat what you’re given”. This belief informed his views on vegetarians and vegans, he saw them as fussy eaters who must duck. I can let Bourdain’s dogmatic beliefs slide because he absolutely lived his food politics. He ate everything that was served up. I don’t consider myself a particularly fussy eater, but I will pick the onions out of potato salad, and I won’t eat armadillo, warthog anus, fermented shark, or maggot fried rice, no matter who is dishing it up. So I think the new rule should be that if you’re not prepared to eat maggot fried rice then sit in the corner and pipe down about what other people are eating.

There’s a culture of viewing vegetarians and vegans as a nuisance and fussy. From what I’ve seen on comment threads, these beliefs inform a lot of the discourse around this food labelling issue. In fact the attitude is that this food labelling wouldn’t be such an issue if the bunny huggers just stuck to the fruit and veg section and ate the rabbit food they love so much.

Plant-based eating is a lot more nuanced than that though. Veganism started gaining popularity in about 2010. Before this most of us were skeptical of meals that weren’t firmly centred around meat. This was a hummus-free world, a world where frozen veg was just as good as the real thing. Non-meat eaters were an anomaly, usually met with a scowl and a plate of chips. I remember sometime in the early 2000s being on kitchen duty at the Hilton Hotel and I drew the short straw and had to make the “only-option-vegetable-platter” for a vegetarian.

Let me tell you, he did not thank me for it. And to be honest, I don’t blame him. 

Most of us actively avoided vegetables, and most of us still suffer from PTSD because of how our mothers and grandmothers would boil the living shit out of veg. The narrative was “eat your vegetables, they’re good for you” and delicious wasn’t even on the table. It’s unsurprising then, that when people actually opted to eat only vegetables, we labelled them as weirdos from the wrong side of the Lentil Curtain.

People on the other side of the Lentil Curtain have the bad rap of being sanctimonious. Or, they are seen as militant and aggressive. You may remember those radicals who stirred up a culture war at UCT in 2015. That caper didn’t do a great job of shedding the “Veganism is for privileged whities” lark, and the issue became heavily politicised.

But, have you ever noticed that vegans and vegetarians can’t eat a meal without having to justify and argue their food politics? They’re bombarded by incessant terrible jokes– you know the one about chicken and salad being the same thing? Top that off with the disrespectful host who says things like, “They can just pick the feta out of the salad and eat that”.

It feels like a lot of this heckling is generational and it’s as if “oldies” are associating a plant-based diet with wokeness. Well, here’s food for thought, the World War II diet was predominantly plant-based, and it’s widely accepted that at this point in history, Britain had never been healthier.

The generation that followed these plant-based patriots, the “Boomers”, were fuelled by caffeine and cigarettes for the most part. This was also the generation that fed kids tartrazine and frozen food, so it’s a bit rich for them to say they’re experts on what constitutes enough calcium and protein. No judgement here, I’m hardly a paragon of virtue, but I cannot fathom how anyone could look at a plant-based bowl of delicious grains, legumes, and vegetables, and argue that there aren’t enough nutrients? Particularly because a bowl of Fruit Loops is credited with having “everything a growing child needs,” and no one bats an eyelid.

It’s not only generational, there’s also a pervasive gendered element to food. Did you know that it’s way more acceptable for women to be vegan/vegetarian?

Of course you did.

The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1984) boldly stated that men are “the natural meat eaters”. I have him to thank for the time I went to a wedding and was served the dry chicken breast while my partner got the delicious looking sirloin. 9.5 times out of 10 a waitron will assume the man is having the steak and chips and the woman is having the Caesar salad. There are also rules about what “real men” eat and the belief that real men like their meat advertising laden with sexual innuendos and scantily clad women.

A 2011 study by social psychologists showed that meat and masculinity are directly linked. Vegetarians are seen as less masculine and more sensitive, hence more feminine. Research also shows that men are embarrassed to eat vegetarian or vegan food in public.

What’s actually embarrassing is how much meat we’re eating and how bad this is for the environment. I’ve heard all of the counter arguments but the heaps of scientific studies don’t lie. The fact is that in fifty years meat and dairy production has gone up more than four times. Every guideline advises limiting our meat intake yet 84% of the country is going heavily above these recommendations.

For the skeptics among you who’re wondering where I’m “cherry-picking” my facts about the environmental impact of the meat industry from? Here’s the deal – The United Nations, and an Oxford University study published in the highly reputable and aptly named journal, Science. And if you’re worried about the fact that maybe these homies haven’t done their research, in the Oxford study the research covered 40 000 farms in 119 countries. One of their key findings was that plant-based meat is up to 10 times better for the planet than meat.

Should I drop the mic or are you still Googling that one study you like to copy and paste into social media comments from that random journal funded by Meat Eaters Monthly?

The South African government is on board with the research and they wholeheartedly agree that industrialisation and agriculture need reform. This is a small start to paving the way towards “reducetarian” diets. And, although less than 5% of the South African population is vegetarian, about 20% are trying to limit meat intake. Maybe this statistic is at the root of what’s threatening the psyche of the South African meat industry?

Food evolves and so do diets. And the limited view that only vegans and vegetarians eat plant-based products is absurd. Furthermore, the view that if you give up meat you shouldn’t want to eat anything resembling meat is a sign you haven’t engaged with the myriad of reasons why people limit meat or stop eating it altogether.  

Going back to the crux of this… What the meat industry, DALLRD, and the FSA want us to think this about, is naming and confusion. So to bury that logic once and for all, let’s go straight to linguistics. And to drive my point home, I think my favourite scene from The English Patient does this better than I can. Katherine (Kristin Scott-Thomas) is presented to Almásy (Ralph Fiennes) and she says, “Jeffrey gave me your monograph when I was reading up on the desert, very impressive.”

Almásy, a man of very few words says, “Thank you”.

Katherine continues, “I wanted to meet the man who could write such a long paper with so few adjectives.”

Almásy jumps in, “A thing is still a thing no matter what you place in front of it. Big car, slow car, chauffeur driven car…”

At this point Jeffrey, Katherine’s husband, interrupts. “Broken car?”

“Still a car,” says Almasy.

Katherine then chimes in, “Love. Romantic love, plutonic love, filial love… quite different things surely?”

And with that Almasy is stumped, “Now there you have me.” [End]

Things can be more than one thing.

Today these two gorgeous young whipper snappers came into the gallery and “found it really interesting”. For context when they first arrived it was like they’d just been listening to Eye of the Tiger on repeat for premium ampage. There was a lot of running around and I was dubious about the “30 minute immersive audio-visual experience pitched at the older crowd,” and how long it would be before their frazzled mom packed it up and called Time of Death on Culture. 

I got down to some editing, thinking, “any minute now”. 

The minute didn’t come.

I love being surprised. These kids were magical. Afterwards, we had a chat and it turns out they love art and are en route to buy canvases and art supplies from, let’s call it “Bonkers Bazaar of Plastic Shit”. Apparently, they’re going to “buy the whole shop”. It made me think back to my school holidays and that feeling of being able to hunker down with Judy Blume and a cold glass of Clifton (because it’s holidays).   

Kids just look happier when they’re not in school uniform. It’s a fact. Or maybe it’s just that they feed off my happiness and can’t be threatened by my resting bitch face? 

And it’s not that I didn’t love school. Laddsworth was the best. Things just started to get a bit ropey in high school. Which is kind of where this story comes from. It also comes from Hilton Chat. 

Yesterday a rad dad posted this absolute cracker… Photos of his two girls going science befok. Apparently, their holiday pursuit is fixing broken electronics. Judy Blume and heaped teaspoons of Clifton just don’t cut it anymore. Rad dad says they have a 50% success rate, which I find astonishing. I’ve had maintenance work done and it’s a helluva mixed bag of Bertie Botts… I mean, when my mum accidentally programmed her dishwasher into Lithuanian or Latvian or whatever it was, she basically had to install Duolingo to fix the problem. Honestly, learning a new language was more straightforward than dealing with the hoards of “Mr Fix-Its” who crossed the iron curtain into her kitchen.

So there I was, 38 years old, looking at Facebook and thinking, “Jeez Dorothy we are not in Kansas anymore;” I’m Toto in case you’re wondering. Here are these two young girls buzzing off their collective nerdery/genius, and I reckon they’re between 9 and 11 going on height. I understand height is a stupid measure of age because I’ve been the same height since I was 14. But, my poor measure of height is by no means the dumbest thing about me. I’m loaded with stupidity. I call left and right “up and down”, and I constantly dazzle Jono with my inability to name colours correctly. His blue jumper is actually green, or maybe it’s the other way round, and today I told him to take the red pills. They’re pink. You can imagine how my colour deficit annoys an artist? Not to mention the real danger he has of killing himself accidentally by taking red pills instead of pink ones.

Which leads me neatly to one of my favourite stories about how thick I can be for a nerd. It’s 1998 and I’m in Grade 9, or Std 7 as I call it because no amount of Judy Blume could make me adopt the American system. I’m in “General Science” and the word “project” gets thrown into the ether. At this stage of my life, I’m terrified of Science and my creative brain just thinks it’s all connected to magic, and there’s no explaining that shit no matter how assertive your Science teacher is. This was before I listened to podcasts on magic and learned how David Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear. Anyway, I can’t remember what the assignment details were, but it involved a poster (yay!) and research (not so yay). Sadly my poster-making skills were not enough to save this absolute car crash of a shitshow.

The research question I carefully cooked up: Are Ants Colourblind?

I can still imagine my poor Science teacher’s face, as she looked at the calendar towards her now-early retirement vision. 

Here’s how my rigorous research went down, in case any of you would like to replicate this study at home. 

First, you will need sheets of coloured paper (number of sheets and colours not specified).

OK, so you know I was bossies for making posters? Well, I had shit loads of colourful paper. I had rainbow-coloured pads busting with pastels and neons and good old primary colours. It really is a fucking wonder I can’t tell pink from red, or green from blue. Oh yes, cream is a universal colour for anything from beige to light brown. 

You will also need sugar (I used granulated white, the amount left in the Huletts bag)

So get out your best colourful paper, and go straight to the kitchen to grab the sugar. 

Identify a popular ant zone. 

Then make your way to the pool area because this has a “high incidence of ant activity”. Sadly, my proficiency in English and adopting the “bullshit baffles brains approach,” was not enough to save me from this horror show of quantitative research. Armed with paper and sugar I began. 

Randomly place sheets of coloured paper all around the pool. 

Place an unmeasured amount of sugar on each piece of paper. 

Return to the lounge to watch Echo Point and wait for ants to gather. 

After a few hours of K-TV, it was time to record my results. A few pieces of paper were in the pool, and the red, or was it pink, paper had the most ants from what I could gather. Green also had a lot of ants, which makes sense because nature is green, and ants like nature. I didn’t count the ants because I was on an advert break and the results… well this was hardcore academic rigour. The results spoke for themselves.

Or did they?

Obviously I didn’t have Google in those days, but this will blow your mind… ‘Ants do not have color vision and are red-green blind (able to detect only yellow and blue). However, their ability to distinguish between contrast levels is greater than that of humans. They can also differentiate ultraviolet light which helps them find food.’ (misfitanimals.com)

If you’re looking for a Science tutor for your struggling child, my Science teacher described me as “original,” I’m that good. 

The other day I emailed my hero. 

I was thinking about Jono and my vision for Hilton, BOOMTOWN, the gallery, and storytelling. Who’s the landmark writer that I want to attach to a mural? 

Only one name came to mind. A writer who can capture a space, bottle it, shake it around, make it fizz, and then pass it to an unsuspecting human as the ultimate thirst quencher. 

Ivan Vladislavic. 

Open the bottle. I dare you. 

I’d been avoiding writing to him, because we’re told to never reach out to heroes. 

Apparently they’re always a hot mess of disappointment.

Or they ignore you. 

Or worse, they provide a short perfunctory response. The kind of response where you don’t have to be part of the Bletchley Circle to read between the lines. They’re not actually delighted you’ve reached out. Fans are an annoying and necessary evil. And the “luck with future endeavours” they bestow upon you is about as genuine as Balenciaga’s socio-political statement.    

Anyway, luckily for you, and the purposes of this story, “throw caution to the wind” I do not. So taking a note out of my hero’s book I began writing…

Dear Prof Vladislavic… 

It takes only a few words to start something. The spotlight shines brightly, you’re alone on the stage. Self doubt over sounding like an asshole starts to creep in. It’s best to continue and go with it. Wit is there in the background to make a cameo appearance. Reflection settles down the nervous audience. The chorus is there to bring it back when you lose direction. Soon it’s an effortless dance with only a few miss-steps here and there. 

The curtain closes. You press send. You hope the audience is forgiving. 

You wait for the review.  

I expected a long wait. The forgotten ghosts of unresponsive emails egging me on.

And then, five days later, from his private email address, his reply brought the walls of my laptop to life. A voice from amongst the row of lonely silent open tabs.

A landmark.

A reminder to write. A reminder to be patient. A reminder that landmarks are created out of nothing. Every space has the potential to become something more. To become a place.

Stories create paths through the clutter towards landmarks. Landmarks that are created by artists. And if you’re lucky, the community provides the soft landing and believes in, and traverses towards these places.

Welcome to BOOMTOWN. 

PS: Ivan (we’re on a first name basis now) says once he’s finished his new book he might be compelled to write a mural. Luckily, for this developing story, “throw caution to the wind” I do not. Watch these walls.

By now you’ll know that there are no prizes for sitting in the corner, and if anyone loves a public platform it’s me. I don’t just volunteer to do speeches, I actively push myself into the programme. So it was a no brainer, I was going to haul ass to the microphone come hell or high water. And boy did we have both. Saturday was the Grand Opening of Gallery ZAZA, and I kind of knew what was on the cards for the weather (in some circles they call me Jaqstradamus). 

I was the child who never got to have a pool party because every single birthday of mine was an absolute fucking rotter of a day. Fortunately, I was the type of child who was more into the food table, and less into the swimming pool, but it would have been nice to have the option.

Typically, Saturday morning rolled in a bit wet, and as each hour towards 10am approached it got steadily more like the “vicious cycle” on the washing machine.

At some point you resign yourself to these things and just open a beer. The breakfast beer helped to settle the nerves and things started to look up. However, Murphy was having a whale of a time, and so, as if by magic, things started to snowball spectacularly. The only thing keeping my sense of perspective intact was the wedding we had at the Hilton Hotel where the marquee literally blew away, tables ended up in the pool, and a tree split the best man’s car in half. The bride and groom ended up having their wedding in the Mist & Drizzle pub because every other venue was occupied. Turns out it was the best wedding ever.

I’d like to maintain the illusion that everything went according to plan on Saturday, but when the hail started and the generator flooded my adrenaline decided it was going to go into hyperdrive. Jono suggested cancelling speeches altogether, and for a few seconds I agreed. Then I reassessed, and decided I was completely keen to get up there and do my shit. Sadly there are times when the body and the mind have what some would call an “unconscious uncoupling” and others would call a cataclysmic divorce. My brain, it turns out, has still not grasped that “mind over matter” thing. Cue Uncontrollable Shaking from stage right. Of course the more I tried to control it, the worse it got. It’ll be chalked up as one of those performances that I’d sooner forget, but I guess I can reframe it and say it was special because it was so shit.

Anyway, here’s what I said. (For authenticity, if you read it out loud I suggest sitting on your washing machine and setting it to take off mode.) 

I remember when David Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear, it was pretty dope. My question was, what’s next David? Get better David, do more! 

Magic in this context is about instant gratification and constantly seeking to amaze an increasingly unfocused and overstimulated audience. 

Perhaps it’s time to reframe. To slow down. To bask. 

As a child, magic was the recesses of imagination, it was the slow and lingering anticipation of the Easter Bunny, Father Christmas, and the Tooth Mouse. It was waking up on Christmas morning to the crumbs of a mince pie, an empty glass of brandy, and a nibbled carrot. It was that first pair of ballet shoes, putting Dubbin on a first soccer ball, watching a movie on the big screen for the very first time. Smelling the birthday cake fresh from the oven. 

For me, magic is about finding stories in strange places, but it’s also the ability to create them out of banal familiarity. Magic is painting pictures from nothing, from procuring sounds and smells from a string of small words, it’s the art of making a world out of nothing. Magic takes effort. 

Magic is home. Magic is place. Magic is community. It’s quite literally the stories we share. 

So allow me to share a story. 

My very first home was the cottage at the Hilton Hotel, further up the road from there is the Shell garage which was the only petrol station in the village. In those days Hilton was a village. Opposite the Shell, the Hilton Town Board Hall. This is where I’d spend Tuesday and Thursdays at Ros Nicholson’s School of Ballet. Here I proved my inability to live up to the expectation of Jaqualina Ballerina. The Town Board Hall was also where our folks went to pretend to look at our kak art, while they drank beer at the annual Hilton Lion’s Fair. Where every skottel braai in Hilton met once a year to play host to lashings of frying onions and sweaty wors. Carry on over the bridge, now festooned with flowers… If you were to sneak under that bridge you might happen upon me, in my later years doing rebellious things. If you take a right, you get to Laddsworth, a place that forged me into who I am. A school filled with the Sally Kellys, Pete Liddles, and Flick Wrights of the world. Humans who inspired magic from within the linear face brick architecture. 

Not far from Laddsworth is Hilton PrePrimary, the biggest most magnificent place on earth. Sandpits the size of Olympic swimming pools, a race track like Monza, a woodworking table fit for Santa’s elves, jungle gyms, and a crown for when it’s your birthday.

After school, if we were lucky, we went straight to the Fruit Basket, since demolished, or the Spar owned by the Footselars (I’ve used bad phonetics here) for a Super Moo. Sometimes Dave Hansmeyer would give us biltong. Often we’d have to hang around in Hilton Drapers waiting for our mums to have hour long “quick chats” and buy fabric to turn into matching tracksuits. All the kids in Hilton were dressed the same. Primary coloured tracksuits, gumboots, or Bata takkies from the Aladdin’s cave that is Kubela Stores. On Sundays we’d head to the Hilton Tea room clutching R1 coins to buy our candy cigarettes and other contraband sugar laden guilty pleasures. Terry the Greek would know which kids’ parents gave permission to buy the Benson and Hedges Special Milds for the dad in the car rushing to get to Opstal to blast clay pigeons out of the sky.

We had to make our own fun. Kid friendly bars and restaurants were basically those that allowed parents to push two bar stools together for small bodies to nap on. Communal parenting was everything. Wherever you were at 4pm is where you bathed. BMXs zooted down every road, pizza came out of a freezer and into an oven. We ate polony sandwiches by the dozen. Juice was red, green, or orange. It was an adventure to open the post box at the Post Office and see if there was anything exciting. Tupperware parties and book clubs were touted as these mysterious and magical events for our slippered feet to peek in on. 

Hiltonians have a history of seeing potential, as if looking through the mist and imagining what lies beyond it. And it’s up to us to create, to build, to explore, to play, and to throw glitter, confetti, and magic markers at every single problem.

Gallery ZAZA was an empty blank corporate office. It was the ultimate blank canvas. Now it’s the product of the passion and vision that only Jono Hornby could have cooked up. Even the starlings are dazzled. It’s home, and now things are appearing, not disappearing, as if by utter magic. It’s up to us, we can appear, or we can disappear. 

Special thanks to the amazing Hilton community for the awesome turn out, we had the best day sharing the space with you, and making it a place. There’s so much more to come, and I’m super jazzed!

On this occasion, it was 3 am, I was in Room 36 at the Hilton Hotel, and my brother Nicholas thought it would be bloody hilarious to wake me up from my slumber to enjoy a few seconds of euphoria, before realising it was March, and the Royal Show was a few months away. What an asshole. He really is brilliant. 

Fast forward to July 2021, and I found myself waking up to go to the Royal Show. And yes, I did have a tremendous sense of euphoria. This was despite the news that the showgrounds have been sold, and the days of the Royal Agricultural Show are another vestige of the past. 

Vestiges of the past. Remember going to Mike’s Kitchen and trying to get as many lollipops from the barrel by the door? Remember the fish tank at Da Vinci’s? Remember going to Capital Towers to watch a movie? Remember soft serve from Icy Cool Piping Hot? Remember being underage and trying to get into Buzz Bar? Remember Shuter and Shooter and getting lost in the sea of shelves? Remember going to Super Bodies to watch your mum do aerobics and being blinded by the men in unitards and leg warmers? Remember having a K-TV sticker on your space case and buying a snap bangle from the Lion’s Fair? But most of all, remember the Royal Show. 

I still remember going on the “baby rides” and anxiously looking for my mummy amidst the crowd of parents. Fast forward a few years, and I’m on the carousel, and my dad is standing on the platform next to the pink horse that I’m riding. He’s there in case I get scared, which is almost inevitable because if my Pre Primary report cards are anything to go by, I have the coordination and balance of an inebriated baby giraffe. On ice skates. Later that day, we’ll stand in the queue so my brother and I can get temporary passes to go into the members’ stand so we can watch horses do things I don’t really understand. The name Gonda Beatrix echoing through the loudspeakers. In those days, there was candy floss, those shakey balloons, and toffee apples that I still don’t see the point of. Siff. 

Then it was off to the army display, which was the same every year, but we still went because that’s just “what you do.” A visit to the rabbit hall, which incidentally I got banned from because one year my best friend David had the temerity to ask a woman with a very large “friend of the bunnies” rosette, whether they supply the Boston Barbeque. Sheep shearing, cows on parade, dodging animal crap, lots of hay. The smell of animals with a whiff of doughnut. Lining up to go through the “this is the rainfall cycle” just so that you could get a free Clover yoghurt. And speaking of free food, trawling through the food hall for free samples. Pretending you’re a connoisseur of preserves, with R25 to spend on a jar of posh jam, just so that you can carry on scoffing. Giggling as you walk away thinking you’d hoodwinked the cross jam lady with an ‘I’ll come back later and buy a jar.’ 

And then the second-best bit of the show. The much-underrated hall with all the weird shit made by grannies, bored homemakers, a few house husbands, and kids. I once entered a rock animal, and I’m proud to say that I got a “Commended” award. The judges’ comments applauded my imagination, but were stern in the amount of glue I’d used. ‘Take care not to use too much glue,’ they said. That’s right kids, stay off drugs. Obviously the kid who won had an overzealous mother, or maybe was just blessed with better artistic genes than me? Perhaps this child with the ravishing Highly Commended Rosette was given proper modeling glue instead of a bloody glue gun? Who knows. Safe to say I didn’t enter an artwork again; the judges clearly don’t know genius when they see it. 

In the early days, the arts and crafts hall was the main hall. You entered, and it was just chockablock with shit that would give Marie Kondo a cardiac infarction. I don’t know who makes and collects porcelain dolls, but can I just be clear? Porcelain dolls are more terrifying than clowns. They’re also porcelain, so you can’t play with them. Stop being weird and just buy your kids a Barbie. After the terrifying children of the corn exhibit, it was onto the cake decorators. The same woman won every single year, and I don’t know why other budding cake artists even bothered. 

But the best was looking at the scones. I’ve had a fascination with scones for a very long time, and I really think that if you need two women to judge a scone-off, you could do worse than me and my Emotional Support Animal’s mum Hester Joseph. Hester Joseph is a sconnoisseur, and if you try to deviate and make scones in a muffin tin, or make them square, you won’t get any support from us. There are firm rules about scones, and I’ve done a lot of research into where you can get good scones. You can’t. Bake them yourself; it’s the only way. If you want disappointment go out and order one, they usually crumble into dust, are served with marge, don’t have nearly enough cream, and come with that weird grated cheese that is all melted together in a mess. Have some respect. 

My young self used to spend hours lingering over the glass display cases scrutinizing the scones. Before I’d read the judges’ comments, I could tell that Sheila had overdone done it on the baking powder or Neville had overworked the dough. I could tell Doris had gone rogue and used margarine instead of butter, and that Maureen had nailed it. I didn’t even need to shift my eyes left to the purple ribbon claiming Maureen Queen of Scones for the third year running. 

No matter what age you were, the Looping Star was the major showpiece. Sure the Enterprise, the Breakdancer, The Ship of Death, The Wall of “What The Fuck We’re All Going To Die,” The Swings of “Don’t look up at the rusty latches,” and the House of “Horrors” were all worth a go. But in the end, it was the devastating and sheer Russian Roulette of the Looping Star that made all of us queue up in delighted terror. I maintain that it is the most dangerous roller coaster in the known universe, and it was out of order for most of the show, so it really was a race to get on it. One year people were left dangling upside down from the loopy part, and not even that stopped hyperactive kids from gamboling up the metal stairs once the out-of-order sign was removed for the umpteenth time.

Where were our parents, you might ask? Well, as we learned later on in life, they were off getting pissed at the Foaming Tankard. As we grew up, our priorities changed. Sure we still went on the Looping Star, but not before we tried to sneak in a few Hunter’s Gold, Solanti’s Spices, or good old Black Labels from the well-protected beer tent. Some of us had connections, others relied on older siblings, and some used their powers of persuasion to get any kind of illegal booze past the gates. The trouble is nine times out of ten, someone’s mum or dad recognised you, and then the game was up. ‘Terry, I saw Jaqui and her mates trying to get into the Foaming Tankard.’ Shit. 

And then it was the era of “the big field” where we’d all congregate with a bottle of Mokador and a few Peter Stuyvesant Blues we’d knicked off some suspecting parent. Dressed in our washed-out grey outfits and Dr. Martens, we’d mosh to The Narrow, sing along to Just Jinger, Wonderboom, Sugardrive, and the Springbok Nude Girls, and lose our shit to Fokofpolisiekar. Later we traded our washed-out grey outfits for Coco Bay; some of us held onto our DMs, others opted for Turtles. We were always late for whatever parent drew the short straw and had to drag our teenage asses out of there, still yelling “Lonely Lonely Sunday Morning” at the top of our lungs. A few days later, pneumonia nearly always kicked in. Worth it. 

2021. Everything is so still. So quiet. I can still hear the creak of the turnstiles, the soft crunch of the hay underfoot. I can smell the frying onions and burgers from the Hilton Lion’s Stand, and those doughnuts stationed around almost every corner willing you to be tempted by their tiny hot bods. A crack from a child throwing a pop-pop onto the ground, a sobbing child who’d just dropped an ice cream, and in the distance, the thunderous roll of the Looping Star. Beckoning. 

I get to the Olympia Hall. It’s so quiet. No one is looking at the building built in 1930. People are transfixed by their phones, tapping away. I feel like I’m part of the cow parade, but none of us are mooing; we’re just being herded into the various areas. It’s efficient; it’s cold, the lights flicker. I hear the laugh of a porcelain doll’s ghost in the distance. But I don’t care. I’m as excited as I was to climb those damn metal stairs up to the Looping Star. As the vaccine jabs into my arm, I feel the wind rush on my face as I approach the loop. 

‘Next!’ shouts the nurse. 

And like that, it’s all over.

A lot of the time we make decisions based on what works for us in a particular moment. Sometimes we pull it off, sometimes we fuck up, and sometimes we fuck up spectacularly. 

What we’re left with are consequences. How we move forward is a decision. And before we proceed, let’s take “resilience” off the table, and file it with “the new normal”. Burn before reading. 

If you’re looking for “all the feels” and an America’s Got Talent big moment, you’ve come to the wrong place. There might be a smattering of kumbaya, but I’m holding off on the magic circle where we sit around and drum together.  

I wasn’t supposed to be here this long. My decision to move back to Hilton was supposed to be a temporary pit stop, but I’ve committed to a spinning bike and NP number plates. I also post on Hilton Chat and am a card-carrying member of The Hilton Rate Payers Association, a security initiative, and a blasted WhatsApp group that up until recently served the purpose of informing me about where Hilton’s dogs are at. Things have escalated spectacularly from there. Why just a few months ago my mother and I walked into the Anew Hilton Hotel to attend a security meeting. How the world has changed. Back in the day we would walk in to start a shift (both of us), play a gig (my mum), pull a sickie from school (me). Mum and I were the types who looked in on community capers, we never joined in. I mean you’d battle to coax us to a book club (and there are books and wine there). 

Being back on our old stomping ground for the first time since my father sold it in 2009 was surreal. What was more surreal was that two of Hilton’s biggest “non-joiners” were attending a community meeting – plus I even voiced an opinion. Next thing you know we’ll be championing a bid to get the Hilton Lion’s Fair started up again. This on top of rumours that I’m planning to run for mayor might just tip the locals over the edge. Fear not, as much as I’d love to add years to the lives of Craig Miller and Pam Passmore, I’m afraid I’m just not that altruistic. But I am that local. It’s time to face the facts.  

I’m all about the facts. So much so that my job involves reading a lot of books. Let’s all fasten our seatbelts for a flagrant brag festival. Since November I’ve read 140 self-help, self-improvement, mindfulness, dazzling science, history, and some real roll your eyes out of your head level shit. I’m now the person people avoid at parties. Luckily we aren’t partying so my self-esteem is A-OK. Anyway the other day I was comforted while reading that the universe is chaos, and once we accept that and stop trying to impose order on it, we’ll be a lot happier. I find comfort in this because I’m not one who believes in “thoughts and prayers” and the power of a Facebook profile picture filter. Shit is whack. Is 42 even the meaning of life? And if it’s not, where do we begin? Thankfully I’m not here to give you meaning. I ain’t no Deepak Chopra. 

What I will tell you is this. Stories are everything. 

So here’s my voice from the chaos, and what I’ve observed. But before we begin I’ll let you in on a secret, all writers are basically lurkers who verge on stalking. A good story starts with what you know, and then you add in a sprinkling (a generous one) of exaggeration. 

Everyone will have their stories from the past week. Here’s mine. If you don’t like it, then write your own. I can’t pretend I’m not white, not privileged, and don’t live in Hilton. I will make one promise… there will be no virtue signaling, we’ve seen enough of that for one lifetime. “Hashtag doing my bit.”

It all began when Facebook and our local-security-slash-lost-dog WhatsApp group alerted me to the potential threat of JZ, which then escalated to about 25 trucks blazing on the N3. It didn’t bode well, but sadly South Africans are used to burning trucks. Some of us might smash an Urbanol or a homeopathic alternative, but for the most part, it’s business as usual. ‘Yoh, that’s a bit kak!’ 

Things went from kak to worse. Not since those two planes crashed into the twin towers have I felt the same levels of ‘What in the actual fuckshow is this new level of fuckshow?!’ We’ve seen looting, we’ve seen burning, but when I saw Brookside Mall get completely torched the tectonic plates shifted. These dudes meant business. You know what happened next, you’ve seen the videos, you’ve read the news. 

Shit escalated to full-on Oliver Stone, Game of Thrones, and let’s chuck in some Battle of Helm’s Deep cos it was shit cold and dark. 

I know people who were in the thick of it. In the thick of it, I was not. Was I scared shitless? Absolutely. The thing with fear is we fear the unknown, and what was happening was hella unknown. Howick and the greater Pmb were burning, and white okes in white bakkies were mobilising. I’m not gonna lie, I felt uncomfortable as hell. And then I felt grateful as hell. And then I felt conflicted because white bakkies are akin to K-Way puffer jackets and they make me antsy. Look, every community has a different story. We’ve all seen the videos of white vigilante mobs in certain areas going Full Metal Jacket and making shit awful decisions based on their casual, formal, or smart casual racism leanings. It’s not OK. But I’m not here to tell their stories.

So back to my story. Our local station commander “Captain He-Man” is a boss because he’s a man with a plan. And although women, and in some instances mice, make plans too, in this case, it’s Captain He-Man who needs a proverbial Bells or a Bar One, or an all open access to a car bar. Captain He-Man was lank firm with the okes in the white bakkies, and told them categorically that they needed to have their shit well and truly together. They weren’t to land their asses on Facebook viral for being a bunch of gung-ho clowns. They were to be the opposite of clown town. I’m assuming it went well because I saw a bagpiper on my newsfeed, and that’s a sign that the Matrix is still intact. Wait have I got that right?

Anyway moving on. When the WhatsApp came through that the Sweetwaters Community were joining the men in white bakkies, the SAPS, the various armed response chapters, and the bloody taxi drivers (“What?!”) it was beyond kiff. It was so kiff that we all let out a collective sigh of relief. The not so excellent part was the sigh brought with it a real humdinger of a cold front with an epic frost. This would have been OK except the prudent among us were heeding the warning to not use any bloody electricity because ‘If we blow a load, no one will hear our screams.’ Not even the loudest Negative Nancy or Hurrumphing Harold on Hilton Chat would be able to get the attention of Pam and Craig (the managers).

So on the danger front shit was secure. Other places were not so lucky. Big shout out to all the seriously kiff okes who stood sentinel and froze, while we moaned about how cold it was from under our blankies. We avoided the chaos because some people chose not to risk it, and others chose to protect the shit out of it. Sometimes the dice rolls in a different way.  

But then I received a message from a top human who we’ll call Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. She’s not a doctor, but I’m not a “real” doctor either so who’s counting? The WhatsApp told me that the medicine situation was a few million points up from a grade-A shituation. Warehouses and pharmacies were the new Tops, and I can’t even fathom what a monumental bunch of supreme asshats would attack medicine. Not just knicking a few Grand-Pa for the Tops looting hangover, no, burning and looting wholesalers and all but completely destroying the supply chain. That was a decision that I’m not going to kumbaya in a hurry. 

So it was that for two days I helped Dr. Quinn and her team, and ferried medicine to the Police Station for the mostly-grateful Hilton residents in need of meds. One woman told me ‘This isn’t how anyone should be running a business,’ and I wondered if the taxidermy collection from the KwaZulu-Natal Museum was marching up Old Howick Road or if someone had magically rolled a five or an eight, or whatever one needs to get the hell out of Jumanji.

And now here we are… the white bakkies have dispersed, K-Way Puffer jackets have migrated back to the Quarry, and local hero Jono Hornby is once again in his natural habitat being awesome. If you want to contribute to his awesome, please check out the Sweetwaters Food Relief Project Facebook page. There are other people in other circles doing phenomenal things. Tell your stories. Hell, I’ll tell them for you if you can tolerate my propensity for throwing in a few f-bombs. 

So what did we learn? Well, I can’t speak for you, but I can speak for myself. I learned that we’re better when we get involved in other people’s stories. Be a verb and do cool shit. Be an adjective and make something extraordinary. Be a noun and add value. Hell, be a comma or full stop and offer someone a breath when they need it.  

And I didn’t promise to not use my favourite saying. And it’s never been so important. If you can, read the book. 

‘If this is your land, where are your stories?’ (J. Edward Chamberlain)       

Be a part of the story. It’s all we leave behind.

My WhatsApp is a literal buzz with friends telling me, ‘you think that’s bad I’ve put on 2 dress sizes’, and ‘my gut luggage is the only thing I’m currently traveling with’. As some of you may be aware, I’ve had to start running, well let’s call it what it is, “jogging”. It’s the end of the fucking world guys.   

Luckily for us women, we have decades of glossies, which have primed us for this very moment. The moment where we look into our cupboards and sigh. Our “fat jeans” are now the “one day I’ll fit into those again” hopefuls. We hurry past mirrors, we close our eyes when we’re in our underwear… ‘Look at the bloody state of me!’ We envy the body we hated and despised a year ago.

Cue Cosmo, stage left, to bring us that silver lining we all desperately need. 26 Ways to Dress For Your Body Type. 13 Pairs of Jeans to Hide Those Problem Areas. 18 Swimsuits to Make You Beach Ready. 42 Ways to Disguise How Fat and Gross You Are. The advice is endless, but one thing’s for certain, my body type has a methodology that’s been proven to make me feel like I want any other body type than what I’ve been given in the genetic lottery. ‘I wish I had her body, then I could wear a pencil skirt.’

Did you know that there’s a skirt shape to suit any body type? Plus there’s proof nogal? 

Fuck me I love science. According to the fine folk at popsugar.com you can wear mini skirts if you’re petite. If you’re tall and lean (read skinny) then you can pull off a maxi skirt. If you’re curvy (but not fat) you can wear a pencil skirt. “Athletic” women shouldn’t wear skirts above the knee; presumably to hide all of the effort you spend doing lunges and squats. Google ‘skirts to suit my body type’ and you’ll be dazzled and amazed at how much rigorous research has been put into this.

And I’m not even joking… there’s also a handy guide on shoes to suit your body type. It’s nice to know that if you’re athletic you can add more femininity to your look (crucial), by donning a pair of Mary Janes or ballerina flats. 

I find such comfort in knowing that as a woman my body has been scrutinised to such an extent that I now have an idiot-proof manual on exactly what to wear, and what not to wear. It’s also nice to know that when I decide to put my pear-shaped bod into a pencil skirt there will be some Cosmo-wielding fashion police(wo)man to give me a jolly good shaming. ‘Christ alive look at that Hiltermann woman, she clearly didn’t get the December issue… Look at the state of her fat arse in those flipflops!’

Doesn’t it seem such a shame that men are largely exempt from such close scrutiny? Isn’t it such a pity that men don’t get the benefit of such exhaustive fashion manuals? 

So, in my bid to close the gender gap… ahem… ‘Men do you want to dress for your body type?’

If your body type is “Businessman” then suits and ties are recommended. However, if you have more of a “Casual Businessman” body type then you can always remove the tie and opt for a lighter suit colour. And great news for those men who are “Athletic”. If you’re athletic you can wear active wear, or you can wear more general clothing to accentuate the fact that you have the perfect body. Every cut of gentlemen’s clothing fits the athletic bod perfectly, and you can marvel at how everything down to your basic flipflops looks fucking magnificent. And trust me, you won’t need to add a flourish of anything feminine to soften your hyper-masculine athletic beastly physique. And remember, everything above the knees where possible, you didn’t focus on leg day for nothing.

Not to worry “Geeks and Nerds”, skinny jeans fit any male body type, provided you have a background in IT or have some idea of basic coding. And not to be outdone, if you have a trust fund you’re going to look great in salmon, even if you have the complexion of a Christmas gammon. Jeans to suit your body type? Well if you’re a size 34 buy anything in size 34 and you’re good to go. As a side note, there is one faux pas and that’s to avoid the divorce-dad jeans, unless you’re a dad and divorced.

Men with a chunky wallet should accentuate this with conversation about Bitcoin. And don’t think I haven’t forgotten about swimwear. In this month’s issue, there’s a double-page spread on finding the best swimming costume for your body. For men wanting a bathing suit that dries quickly, synthetic fibres are your best bet. Board shorts are great because they have velcro and nylon laces to secure the garment. Speedos are usually made out of spandex. And finally, swimsuit briefs are designed to be aerodynamic. Armed with this wealth of knowledge I’ll bet you’ll find the perfect costume to maximise your beach confidence.

So, isn’t it about time you Lockdown your Body Type.

Six years ago, I broke my rule- ‘don’t read or engage in the comments section’. The shit hit the fan. I was called every name under the sun. My crime? I responded to an article listing the most expensive schools in the country. I said that just because these schools are the most expensive in the country, does not make them the best. And, after what has happened over the past few days, I feel the need to hurtle back into the metaphorical comments section and revisit my previous arguments. Call me whatever names you you like; I maintain my position.   

Previously I have used a favourite metaphor of mine to compare a lot of private schools to The Emperor’s New Clothes, and because I’m me, I have also added some of my trademark Jaqui Hiltermann facetious comments. I have used words such as “entitlement”, “privilege”, and “elitism”, which the Internet has not thanked me for. I wrote an article called “Private: Access Denied”, which doesn’t exist anymore because a few years ago my blog was hacked by Russians. (The blog ate my homework…) The article had a mixed response, which is a kind way of saying most people hated what I had to say. The pitchforks were out, and I was declared ‘bitter and twisted because I probably went to a government school’ (the Pitchforkers named a few appropriately “low-grade” schools for their trouble). As a full disclaimer, I attended one of the schools on the list, the Wykeham Collegiate, and over the years I have been pretty vocal about what I liked about it (I had a few exceptional teachers who inspired me beyond measure), and what I didn’t like about it- I have not gone back to the school since leaving in 2001 if that gives you any idea of ratios.  

I have learned a lot in the past six years; I am less gung-ho about flying into arguments without taking pause, I take time to sit with my opinions and thoughts, and I try to listen a lot more. Despite this, I absolutely maintain my position on private school education in this country. Expensive does not necessarily mean better. And education should be more focused on developing better, more critical, more socially aware human beings. And, as the current landscape is showing, we are failing miserably- this goes beyond the standard IEB or NSC curriculum.

I hope Tim Barry, a bit of a legend in the psychology circuit, doesn’t mind me quoting him. Tim Barry gave an excellent speech called “Differentiating a child-friendly school” where he said,

‘I suspect that if I do my job properly today, I shall be your most irritating speaker. This is because much of the literature about what makes for a child-friendly school stands in stark opposition to the rules of a consumerist market’.

Cue the Emperor and his new clothes. And Barry critiques this further by arguing that schools are in the market of offering a “differentiated position”, and how they do this is through the use of symbols. Jean Baudrillard (1981), a bit of a hero of mine, spoke about symbols and simulacra and how often symbols become more important than the reality you are working within. Tim Barry uses the example of a lawn to show how symbols operate in schools at the most basic level;

‘Although a well mown lawn has nothing to do with a child’s education, it is not hard to see how a parent may feel disgruntled if she is paying a premium for a differentiated service and the lawns have not been mown. It must be easy to be seduced into a situation where one feels bound to be bristling with symbols that reflect your commitment to children.’   

‘It must be easy to be seduced into a situation where one feels bound to be bristling with symbols that reflect your commitment to children’. Give Tim Barry a proverbial Bells (the ultimate symbol of “you’ve nailed it”). Private schools are littered with symbols and simulacra that become part of the fabric of tradition; and they are like glitter to a wet behind the ears Grade 7 learner with an obsession with Harry Potter books (OK, OK I’ve run away with creative licence, Harry Potter wasn’t a thing when I started high school).

I remember going on numerous high school “walk-throughs” when I was in Grade 7, and being completely seduced by red brick buildings, Hogwarts style boarding schools, modern buildings, comprehensive school uniforms, expansive lawns, sport’s fields and astroturfs only a few of the most sporty amongst us you would ever use, libraries that would be taken for granted, and fountains with pretty young school girls frolicking. Show me an all girl’s school where there isn’t a statue of a thin white chick with neat hair and a smiling face- often seen dancing amongst a spray of sparkling water. That statue becomes the ultimate symbol of the paragon of virtue at the all-girls private school. That’s the ideal that’s packaged to us as prospective new girls, usually along with a nice school motto; and a hefty price tag.

These symbols differentiate what is understood to be a “high-quality education”. And while all of these symbols, and resources, and opportunities do ultimately add value, they are not the education.  How many of us question the credentials of the teaching staff, the demographics of the board of governors, policies on integration and diversity, and the values that go outside of religious doctrine?  

So, one has to question what the fuck do we value when it comes to education in a South African context? And I think the past couple of days have really opened the lid on “differentiation” and intrinsic value. As an example, my mother was schooled in Swaziland, and many of her classmates were political exiles who weren’t allowed to be schooled in South Africa. Over the years I’ve been enraptured, while feeling incredibly envious, by the stories that my mother has told me about her high school experience. The education that she received, and the lessons on integration, solidarity, and unity that she was privileged to have had, especially under the backdrop of apartheid, is something that I know she values beyond words. As a school, Waterford Kamhlaba ran completely counter to the manicured perfection that we’ve come to value and expect, I present the school cricket “pavilion”.

So, what do many of these private schools value? From where I’m sitting they value religion, school uniform, and tradition. Oh, and the burgeoning use of technology in classrooms. Now before the technophiles amongst you start shouting and calling me a luddite, let me clarify… Technology is fucking fantastic and being digitally literate is pretty essential- trust me I’m not arguing that technology isn’t fucking excellent. But, when it comes to selecting schools, too much emphasis is placed on how much technology they’re throwing at the problem of basic teaching.  And, when it comes to learning and remembering content, there is absolutely no match for the simple art of good contextual teaching; and of course writing shit down. And do you know what’s even better than that? Engaging in critical debates, having difficult conversations, promoting empathy, and listening.

The past few days have really destabilised the homophily in these private school institutions. And it’s time we all start to look at the misdirected value that we place on fancy symbols, while glossing over and denying insidious narratives and discourses.

So fasten your seatbelts and maybe bust out those half time oranges.

Religion:

As a white woman it is not up to me to tell people what to believe, and how to believe. As an individual I don’t do religion in any shape or form, and I do think that it’s a political tool- ‘they came with their guns and their bibles’. However, religion has been used as an incredibly powerful weapon for marginalised groups and communities and this needs to be celebrated.

One of my main issues with religion as a symbol at a lot of (private) schools, it that it frequently smacks of patriarchy, and is used to support the status quo. Furthermore, if you suffer from mental illness, having the right amount of faith is enough to get your through the “dark times”. “A good Christian school” is peddled as a core value, and “good Christian values” become an excellent veil to hide behind; a great way to disguise or stamp out any nasties. When there are issues of racism, intolerance, bigotry, the bible is thrown at the problem. Those who have been victimised are told to ‘turn the other cheek’ and to ‘forgive’, because that is the “Christian way”.

Do you know what happens when people aren’t allowed to be angry? Yes you do. And that friends is why we’re in this hotbed of anger and resentment… and “Kumbaya!” is not going to solve this problem. The time of “praying this away” has gone. It’s time to allow anger and resentment to rise, and white people, this is a time to listen.

School Uniform:

School uniform is a pile of shit. School uniform for girls is the biggest pile of shit ever. Let me elaborate (I could literally write a book on the bullshit that is school uniform but here’s a fragment for your viewing displeasure)…

School boys get to dress like little “mini-me businessmen”. And sure, I’ve never seen a London currency trader wearing Bata Toughies, but at least the uniform represents some sort of version of pre-manhood… trousers, shirt, tie, blazer… An unstylish, and not exactly tailored version of the future men of the world, but it’s a close enough representation of the future careers these boys/men aspire to.  

School girls on the other hand are dressed in outfits that can only be described as ‘we decided on this uniform when women didn’t have careers, so we just “wung” it, and now it’s tradition so you’re stuck with it.’ I’ve never seen Angela Merkel in white ankle socks- in fact, I’ve never seen anyone other than toddlers and school girls in ankle socks. ‘This winter Jacinda Ardern steps out to deliver her address in a gymslip and girdle’. ‘Thuli Madonsela dazzles in her floral button up dress paired elegantly with a navy-blue V-Neck jumper and ample sunhat’. And, if you know anything about body shapes, as someone who has a fair amount of junk in her trunk, I can say with confidence that these uniforms are designed for the skinny white chick- the one who dances in the fountain without a care in the world. Anyone with a body shape that isn’t “fountain of youth”, looks shit in a school uniform. There’s gaping, there are hem issues, it’s just not a vibe… Usually you’ll see us wearing jumpers in the height of summer to disguise the numerous wardrobe malfunctions. So do you know what we do? We rebel.

Enter the school uniform checks. If staff interrogated why students fuck around with their uniforms they’d solve a big problem. If you don’t respect the school, you don’t respect the uniform. And why don’t you respect the school? Sure, some kids are just rebellious little assholes and like to push the boundaries, but I’m hazarding a guess here… lots of young women, are using their uniform, as with their hair, as a political symbol. ‘The uniform does not fit me!’

Listen.

Tradition

When I was at school, I was told that I’m a Wykeham Collegiate girl 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Talk about instilling a spirit of independence. Obviously, I took this doctrine to heart and really went out of my way to be a credit to the school- unfortunately, I was never caught drinking or smoking; my bad behaviour went completely unnoticed. For the most part I was not buying what the school was selling from an ideological perspective… I ignored the symbols, and focused on the subjects I enjoyed, the friends I had, and some of the excellent teachers who I loved. But there should have been more, Neil Postman says that ‘education creates a public’.

Before one of our “rite of passage” school balls we were given lessons on how to be ladies. I remember one of the fundamental lessons was the importance of moisturising one’s elbows- my eyes are a metaphor for Jane Austen rolling over in her grave. At this ball, one of the father’s pitched a fit because his daughter was paired with a black guy for one of the dances. The name of this ball was “the Women of the 90s Ball”. He wasn’t the only racist father… I heard one say, ‘my daughter really dodged a bullet’, when a black guy missed his daughter and went for one of the other girls beside her. I repeat, that was the year that we learnt that ‘one of the most important things is to have soft elbows and knees, because these are neglected areas of grooming’. One of the most important things.

So, as fifteen-sixteen year old girls (“women”) we were paraded out into society at our traditional Women of the 90s school ball, groomed and fully versed in the fox-trot, behind whispers of blatant racism. Tradition.

Tradition needs to be interrogated because it’s a wonderful symbol to hide behind. ‘We can’t change because we need to protect our traditions’. Traditional school values.

Tradition works for those in power.

The powerful need to listen.

In another dazzling display of what the actual fuckery, it appears your average South African layman/woman isn’t the only person making his/her own homebrew. Minister of Trade and Industry, Ebrahim Patel, seems to have been smashing back the pineapple beer with gay abandon. Patel’s Moonshine is clearly made of stronger stuff than he is.

Tuesday was a momentous day for the common or garden South African shopper, with restrictions being lifted on certain retail arenas. Karens all over Mzansi were literally seen queuing up at Clicks to purchase box dye, to touch up their lockdown regrowth; anticipating these new avenues of retail pleasure to be unmasked. Which reminds me, does Cyril not understand that hairdressers are fucking essential? The oke is bald he clearly just doesn’t get what we’re going through- I mean a hubby with a box of Nutrisse is simply no replacement for Gavin. Anyway, as Karens touched up regrowth, and dusted off black K-Ways, Patel was putting together the Great South African Lockdown Winter Catalogue, fueled by his enigmatic brew.

Makro has nothing on this bad-boy.

It’s fucking great news for the babies and toddlers among us, because they’re going to be fashion forward as fuck at Level Four. All baby and toddler wear is up for grabs, sandals, wife-beaters, sun hats, bikinis, you name it they’ve got it.  Sadly, the older children won’t be able to match up to baby’s dynamism- but as Patrick Swayze says, “no one puts baby in the corner”. Children you’re in the naughty corner, and you’re only allowed outerwear, underwear, sleepwear, school wear (yes, get out of your pajamas and put those snappy school uniforms on), footwear and socks. You can’t go to school kids, but don’t let that stop you from sporting a fucking ravishing gymslip.

So where does that leave us adults? Well good news for those of us who are still finding our partners bangable during lockdown. Patel says we can purchase “all adult underwear”, which leads me to believe that after an evening on the Pineapple Power, Mrs Patel gets to put on her decorative smalls for a bit of Corona-kafoefeling. And hallelujah pregnant bitches, you can now give hubster back his trackie bums and get your ass into some truly gorgeous maternity wear- “of every kind”. The pregnant among us will literally be spoiled for choice.

This season, South Africans will mostly be wearing sensible shoes, as they sob hopelessly into their moonshine.

“Not all shoes are allowed”, and once again that’s excellent news for those of us with foot phobias. Chaps and Chapettes if pedicures aren’t allowed, I don’t see why open-toed footwear should be. I’m with Patel on this one… No one wants to see your lockdown feet Beverley, and FYI open-toe boots can fuck right off, and when they reach NDZ they can continue fucking right off some more. Germans are going to have a bit of a problem, but luckily for the socks and sandals brigade, I have it on good authority that they stockpile sandals and socks. Germans don’t fuck around.

The yoga mums will delight in the fact that they can pair yoga pants with a nice court shoe with a solid box heel. Knitwear is in! Dresses are in! Denim jeans and denim jackets?… Fuck yeah! And I really hope that Patel means that they have to be paired together a la Texas Tuxedo… because I for one will not abide by anyone not buying denim as a set.

Things then start to get a bit weird in the Patel Catalogue, because although there are no specifics about length, or fabric thickness, of pants and skirts, tops and T-shirts get the fluffy end of Patel’s lollipop. Pablo Escobaresque knitted short-sleeve tops have to be “displayed as worn under cardigans and knitwear”. Basically, if you’re a cartel member you need to be vibing a helluva twinset, and you may as well add a pearl necklace for extra effect. You’re worth it.

Short-sleeved T-shirts are for warmth only. Patel must be channeling his inner Kurt Cobain…

Leggings… fuck we’re in for another season of hot to trot camel-toe. But for those of you legging wearing monsters, momsters, and mobsters, you can pair them with some “crop bottoms” if you’re worried about your snatch. Crop bottoms? Take a bow Patel you’ve really channeled the power of the pineapple beer, you’re a demi-god. Actually, fuck that you’re the Emperor and you’re striking back. I’m strongly considering ordering what you’re having. Make it a double.

And headwear, bodysuits, legwarmers, and Jane Fonda videos are back on the menu too.

I’m having a throwback to my favourite Richard Scarry book. “Shop Til You Dop Okes”.

I’m happy to report that the past couple of days have actually gone pretty quickly. It turns out that being busy really is the best way to make the time pass. And sure, I haven’t done any exercise, I haven’t watched the latest season of Ozark, I’ve been limiting my phone time so I’m pissing off family members as well as being woefully behind on memes, and yes, Ron Moss is sulking like a real dickhead. But, Day Five can pretty much be put to bed.

Since lockdown, and despite limiting my phone use, I actually feel more connected to a lot of my friends than I have in a long time. One of my crazier friends video-chatted to show me that she’s bought a new piano. This particular friend is a veritable storm in a teacup and goes through hobbies like nobody’s business. Somewhere, out there, is a great fucking landfill with all of aforementioned-friend’s lost pursuits. As far as the eye can see, sewing machines, sporting equipment, Kenwood mixer, underwater basket weaving starter pack, deep sea diving drill kit, kayak, skateboard, Morris Dancing outfit, bow and arrow… I guess you could call her a bit of a hobby horse, but by no means a one-trick pony.

Anyway, this friend isn’t the only human who’s decided to “Upskill in JUST 21 Days- Guaranteed!” And isn’t it great that so many of us are using lockdown to hone our musical prowess? And I’m absolutely sure there isn’t a neighbour in the all the land who isn’t enchanted by the musical snacks issuing forth through walls and windows throughout Mzansi. But it’s all very well for those of us who live alone and can wear noise cancelling headphones. Some of us are not so lucky.

Earlier today I had a brief chat with another one of my spectacularly weird friends, and I’m pleased to report that he did not disappoint. When asked to fill me in on his “Day Five”, he sent me a screenshot of his “Daily Captain’s Log”. For the purposes of this exercise let’s call this friend Hamlet.

Hamlet’s Daily Log is a thing of rare beauty. Where I use a hundred words, he uses about 10. “Day 5” is a simple bullet list with 4 items saved as a Word document. But in these succinct bullet points, there emerges quite a picture. Day 5 opens with Hamlet talking about his granny and how she’s not happy at all, in fact she’s downright furious that she’s being treated like a child by people who are younger than her. I’m with granny on this one, she should be allowed to run amok, her puritanical smock flapping in the wind. It begs the question, “how many pissed off grannies are there plotting anarchy and mayhem”? Maybe we can ask the local newspapers to run a poll to ascertain satisfaction levels among grannies so as to avoid incident? After all, the grannies could be revolting.

Anyway, Hamlet then goes on to reveal, point 2, that his brother had an apoplectic fit over dinner because someone dared to meddle with the spaghetti bolognaise recipe. This struck a chord with me because I remember the time my dad substituted canned tomatoes with that siff tinned ratatouille mix and my brother nearly put himself up for adoption. Maybe we need another poll, “how attached are you to your family spaghetti bolognaise recipe”? Because I am pretty sure that Hamlet and I aren’t the only ones with Rumpelstiltskiny brothers who could threaten to destabilise this very fragile and precarious 21 day lockdown. And there is no doubt that lockdown does things to peoples’ psyches… and I think it’s best if we all agree not to deviate from family recipes if we are to maintain domestic bliss and come out the other side unscathed? One rogue bolognaise could throw everything off kilter- “this bolognaise and those grannies are revolting!” Let’s just agree that once this is all over you can get creative with your bolognaise, but for now let’s just keep it tidy folks.

It’s difficult to talk about log item 3 because it involves the suspicious drowning of Hamlet’s family’s peahen and the subsequent vanishing of their peacock. At this point Hamlet remarks that ‘something is rotten in the state of Denmark’ and I’m afraid that I could not agree more. I’d check that bolognaise sauce before eating it.

And then item 4… and this is where I segue back to my original point…

‘The tin whistle standoff continues…’ (Captain’s Log Day 5: 2020)

I’m a sucker for a cliffhanger and this one did the job. I immediately hopped to voicenote and demanded to know if this was a new big idea for a Spaghetti Western (see what I did there?), ‘The Tin Whistle Standoff’. It turn’s out Hamlet’s brother, let’s call him Polonius while we’re on the pork and piggy theme, has been dabbling in the penny whistle. For the past five days, Hamlet tells me that it’s been 24/7 penny whistling with classic hits like Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika, Make Me A Channel of Your Peace, Ireland’s Call, and the theme tune from Ghostbusters. It’s no surprise that by the morning of day 5 Polonius was relegated to the far corner of the garden and most of the family had started drinking again.

If I’ve learnt anything from Hamlet’s Captain’s Log… I’m mighty grateful I live alone, keep an eye on those grannies, and never fuck with the spaghetti bolognaise recipe.