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.

There are many television shows, particularly of the BBC ilk, about abandoning the “rat race”, and living a more simple and wholesome life. Why not Escape to the Country (2002-present), where you sell your London studio and embark on a new life in Dorset, surrounded by lush greenery and mooing? Or for those who are less erudite about country living, you can try your hand at The Good Life (1975), and erect a chicken hutch on your handkerchief suburban garden?

I don’t know where I am in the Matrix, but I feel like I’ve accidentally landed in a terrible hybrid BBC television show, I’m Not A Celebrity, But Please Get Me Out of Here Anyway (forthcoming). Here’s the thing, I left Cape Town at the beginning of Lockdown, not to live the simple life, but simply because I like the company of my parents, and they were on the verge of getting scurvy. Armed with a bag of oranges, some stowaway wine (look away Bheki Cele), and these newfangled vegetables, I arrived back in my home town of Hilton.

Here marks a critical juncture in our story. Did you notice how I referred to Hilton as my home town? Hilton is a town. I understand that this will be a heartbreaking revelation for many of you, but you can’t argue with the facts. And here, let’s quickly segue to my favourite Factition (I made that word up) Hans Rosling. Hans Rosling was all about facts; he even wrote a book about them, called Factfulness, which you should read immediately. Rosling dedicated his life to “measuring ignorance systematically”, so I think we should all give him the respect he deserves and not revert back to the pandemic of global ignorance, and the ‘I’m entitled to my own opinion, facts be damned!’ mindset. Here’s a not-so-fun fact for you, ‘did you know that chimpanzees answering tests at random know more about the world than humans do?’ 

The problem is most of us are unable to distinguish between thinking and feeling. And let’s link this back to my original point about Hilton being a town. Many of you may feel very differently to me, and you may feel that Hilton is a charming and incomparable village. You may feel that it’s a village because you hear people yammering on about lanes, country-living, popping into town (Pietermaritzburg), popping to the village (The Quarry) for a scone, and you might even read material on Village Chat. Sadly these sentiments smack of a bygone era, one which I happen to remember well. 

I grew up going to The Hilton Tearoom on a Sunday, and it was the only place open. I remember when Dave Hansmeyer had his butchery next to the Spar. I observed my mother purchasing Butterick patterns from Hilton Drapers, not buying fruit from The Fruit Basket, and perusing VHS tapes at Hilton Video. And remember when Upper Milestone was the vet, and when The Quarry was an actual quarry? The only survivor of the Olde Worlde Hilton is Kubela Stores, and that brings me lasting and infinite joy. In short, Hilton was a village because it was small.

Keeping up the idea that Hilton is a village is sadly exclusionary. While we should hang on to vestiges of charm and loveliness, the fact remains that Hilton’s borders extend beyond ideas of what is local. In fact, a precursory Google search and landing on the academically recognised Wikipedia tells us that ‘Hilton is a small town (now incorporated into the town of Howick to the North West) that lies on the brow of the escarpment above Pietermaritzburg in KwaZulu-Natal South Africa’. I’m as shocked as you are. Is Howick in charge of us, and why didn’t we incorporate them? Were we colonised by Howick? I dare say I shall have to write a letter to The Natal Witness to complain. OK, OK, you got me. I used Wikipedia as a source, and that’s just sloppy factfulness. So let’s look at the defining factors of a town and a village. A village is defined as a small community (less than 2500 people) in a rural area, and a town is relatively well-populated, has fixed boundaries, and has a local government. Town 1: Village 0.  

So, while many of you may feel that Hilton is a village because it’s been discursively loaded with its own unique brand of jargon, it is, in fact, a town. So now that I’ve set up some extraordinary context, backed up with some lovely facts, let’s go for the jugular. 

It’s come to my attention that Lockdown has done something very peculiar to some of you. Maybe it was the booze ban, maybe it was the term “webinar”, maybe it was homeschooling, maybe it was the frustration of seeing your colleague working from bed and being told for the umpteenth time that he was on mute? It appears that some existential crises have been afoot, and I blame the banana bread fiasco. You see, it starts with banana bread, and then it ends up with a fucking rooster. Pre-lockdown we’d all watch those lonely brown bananas languish in the fruit bowl, and we’d utter that hopeful phrase, ‘I should really make banana bread with those’. Every trip to the kettle would layer on more guilt about the increasingly blackening bananas, until the stench of banana and guilt led them to their inevitable doom of the dustbin. Lockdown gave us no excuses, it really was the time for pineapples and bananas to shine. People could not wait for bananas to rot fast enough or for pineapples to ferment and fizz. It was this frenzy of rotting and fermentation that I believe led to the sourdough and Kimchi caper. 

But where do you get the cabbage for your Kimchi? Well Shirley, you grow it yourself. Next thing Shirley and Brian (who have never been near Korea, and nor will they) have been spurred on by their Urban Vegan daughter-in-law to embrace the health benefits of this culturally appropriated foodstuff. Monday rolls around, and Winston (not his real name obviously) has been micromanaged by Shirley and Brian and erects netting for the new vegetable patch. There’s also a compost heap that Brian tells all his friends is ‘coming up a treat’. Shirley and Brian are so delighted that they’ve been able to bring the country back into their little corner of town living, that they almost forget the potholes and rolling blackouts. By reframing Hilton as a place in the country, potholes and blackouts add to the charm. It’s a veritable win-win.

The trouble is that I’m now in a position where homesteading has got completely out of control. Dare I say it, it’s completely fucking bonkers. People in this town are going gangbusters, and they’re egging (sorry) each other on. Enter from stage right, not one, but two roosters. And say what you will about hadedas, they’re more local than all of us put together. Roosters, on the other hand, are illegal. So it is, that my day is now punctuated by the piercing squawk of country living from dusk ’til dawn. Apparently this is OK though, because the roosters rise with the hadedas, and they provide a 12-hour soundtrack of country living, which is utterly delightful, and fucking charming, don’t you know? And, if you disagree well, ‘I’m entitled to my own opinion’.

Here’s the thing, my feelings towards roosters are absolutely my feelings, but more than that, it’s a simple fact that according to every by-law I can find, that roosters are absolutely not allowed, despite how well-behaved they are. All roosters in residential areas must pack up and head to the metaphorical or physical farm. Sayonara Assholes! It’s not my opinion; it’s a hard fact that keeping a rooster in a residential is illegal. So Townies, it’s time to get rid of your roosters, or you’ll be enjoying the most festive “Smells Like Teen Spirit” Christmas my Bose system can muster. But it’ll be great because if it’s synchronised with the hadedas and your fucking rooster, you won’t even notice it.

And Santa, I want drums for Christmas. And a recorder. In 2021 I’m upgrading this town to a city.

My exceptionally dazzling friend Louise posed the question,

“Why are we cursed with Bheki Cele- isn’t Coronavirus enough?”

This got me thinking that it’s about high time we spoke about the “not so new” Sheriff in town, Bheki Cele. Bheki Cele is basically one step down from the Sheriff of Nottingham, and let me tell you his name Cele, is fucking ironic.

Sheriff Cele told us categorically what we are not allowed to do during lockdown. And it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so fucking gleeful and smug about it, because it seems that he’s finally been given the opportunity to rid South Africa of sin and pestilence, and jogging.

Cele clarified that no one is to jog, or walk dogs during lockdown. To be fair, I’m totally down with this because what I’ve noticed about joggers and dog walkers is they really dig a “stop and chat while I just catch my breath”. And sure #NotAllJoggers… But you know I’m right. You’ve seen these people. They jog among us (and by “us” I mean you- jogging sucks).

And then Sheriff Cele announced that cigarettes are non-essential items for the lockdown and they’re banned. Now look, smoking is controversial, and Coronavirus is an absolute bitch for one’s lungs I’m told. But, let me tell you, as someone who has done a fair bit of “stress smoking” in her time, I can categorically say that lockdown is stressful and most people would rather smoke than eat. I went through a phase where I was nil by mouth except for Marlboro Golds, and if you’d given me a Woolies food voucher I would have hawked it for a carton of cigarettes no questions asked. Those days appear to be over, but I refuse to be a sanctimonious reformed smoker, and I believe that people get to choose what to do in the privacy of their own farmyards. Cele disagrees. He wants all the smokers in Mzansi to exit lockdown with bald patches, nervous twitches, and newly uploaded Tinder profiles. “Desperate smoker seeks another smoker to discuss PTSD and anger management issues. Not looking for anything serious, just someone who doesn’t resemble my ex in any way shape or form”.

And then there’s the bit that impacts me. Cele has a “hard no” policy on booze. And this is not a new position he’s trying out. So while I’m here, in case it’s not obvious, I would like to state my position on Bheki Cele. It’s a vigorous swipe left, devastatingly hard fucking no position. But unfortunately I don’t get to swipe left on him, I don’t get to ban him during lockdown. The fucking oke is all over my newsfeed and all up in my grill telling me what I can and can’t do. Anyone with the slightest inkling of historical knowledge will tell you that Prohibition was an unmitigated disaster… Yet Cele is on record saying that if he had his way he’d ban booze in SA across the board. “My first prize would be that we shut down alcohol, but I know we cannot do that. Nothing tells me that taking alcohol will make life easier.”

He’s giving us a lot of “pat on the back facts” about how well we’re doing with no booze, like he’s some kind of sobriety app. “Day 13 of no drinking, keep it up you’re doing so well, you’ve increased your life expectancy by 2 days!” Well the joke’s on you Cele, those of us who could afford to stockpile a little bit, and a lot, are still drinking. It sucks for those who can’t; the people who never get to benefit from democracy because they’re given the “illusion of choice” rather than real choices.

The amazing thing is that he attributes the decrease in crime, house robberies, and violent crime to the no alcohol vibes he’s throwing out.

Fun fact: robbers and criminals are also on lockdown Sheriff. And another fun fact: a lot of us are still having sundowners, night caps, breakfast beers, beer o’clocks, “the kids are driving me to drink(s)” and the classic “is it to early?” Trust me Bheki, a lot of us are going to town on drink combinations we didn’t think possible. Currently I’m enjoying gin, Aperol, soda and fresh lime… and let me tell you it’s really hitting the fucking spot. When you tell me I can’t do something I’m going to do the opposite of listen. And, I know I’m not alone because I surround myself with the best assholes, and none of us are buying what you’re selling. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Oh and there’s no kissing or snogging either, you can forget that. I think there are probably quite a few couples who wish Sheriff would try and extend this ban after the lockdown. “I’m sorry my bok, not tonight Bheki says no…” And I assume this means no sex either. Well judging by the numerous adverts and special deals going on people are still going to Pound Town.

I imagine there is going to be quite a New Year’s baby boom come 2021. And hospitals, I’m sorry to do this to you again, but there may be a shortage of beds… You may have to start thinking about where you’re going to put all of those labouring mothers because they’ll be rolling in hot come January. You’re going to be inundated.

But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…

Credit where credit is due… His hat game is real strong though. And on that note…

Ron Moss and I have had another great day together. I’ve been chatting to him quite a lot despite the fact that he really is empty inside. But, I guess he does provide some company, and at this stage I’ll take all the company I can get.

And, it seems that Day Two has been taxing for quite a few people; it also appears that I didn’t receive the “Great Global Bake Off” memo. I haven’t seen this much fucking cake on Facebook since the launch of Pinterest, where everyone decided that they were the next Mary Berry. It’s Day Two guys, this is a marathon not a sprint… but sure, your muffins, that you’ve described as scones, look moist as fuck. Congratulations. Tomorrow I guess we’ll all be swarming around our televisions doing “Global Yoga”, followed by a cleansing hoover session to pick up all the crumbs from the miscellaneous baked goods bonanza. I shudder to think what’s in store for Day Sixteen? Open heart surgery? Building the Hadron Collider out of empty toilet rolls? The mind boggles.

It seems Day Two was a sunny day in most parts of the country and this caused absolute fucking havoc. To combat the heat, I opened all my doors and windows and let the “outside in” because my courtyard is basically the seventh circle of hell and not even Satan could sit out there. But cabin fever did eventually set in despite my conversations with Ron Moss, a high-octane vacuuming session, some scintillating television viewing, and book reading. Hence, I braved the hellfire and took a stroll around my 2m x 3m courtyard for about 2 minutes. I’ve never wished for orange overalls until now, and I strongly think that orange really is the new black. My exercise sessions and strolls in the yard would be a whole lot more interesting for the neighbours if they could join in on my simulated prison experience and hurl abuse from their balconies. We could shout over the walls to each other and discuss what we’re “in for”. Maybe we could plan an escape? And, I might also be able to make some money selling contraband items… on second thoughts, my booze is priceless. But if the neighbours have anything up for grabs on the booze front I’ve got a spare kidney I’m not using. I’d trade my right kidney for a papsak of Autumn Late Harvest no problemo.

But as I was strolling around my ample courtyard, and hoovering my floors, it appears some South Africans were really cashing in on their outside activities. Social media informs me that gated community and estate dwellers are strolling around as if there’s not a fucking mutant virus on the loose. I believe that in some of these communities, children were playing together, riding bikes and gamboling about with not a care in the fucking world. Paige was actually moaning on her socials that it was such a nice day and she couldn’t see why she had to stay in her demarcated garden when there was a whole estate to walk about on. In fact she mused, ‘they can’t expect us to be cooped up indoors all day… my Tristan wants to ride his bike…’ Paige’s friends are all onboard with their “these rules aren’t for us”, and Brit confesses, ‘I’ve been out three times today just so I can take the rubbish out…’ And Brit doesn’t mean to her outside bins… Oh no, she means taking a brisk calorie burning 1km stroll up to the eco estate’s recycling village and back again. Brit aims to still get her 8km a day in. Tomorrow she might jog there, provided she has a few empty decoy wine bottles with her. Claire totally loves this suggestion and admits that she’s definitely going to be doing more recycling trips during her lockdown. “Lolz”. And when you think about it the “no walking dogs” and “no jogging” rules shouldn’t apply to gated communities and estates because the residents pay good money to live in these places. And besides, you can’t expect them to be cooped up in their four-bedroom starter houses for three weeks. Are you fucking mad?

But don’t get me wrong Claire and her mates are taking this “corona thing” very seriously… it’s just that estate living means restricted access… so there’s no ways Covid-19 is getting in without being stopped by security.

This has been the unwitting soundtrack to this week… a beautiful coincidence brought upon by the shuffle function on my battered and bruised iPod. It’s not dark yet… but it’s fucking close. It feels as if we’re all raging, raging against the machine, the man, and against the dying of the light.   

But with all things, there’s strength in the collective- the fact that we’re all raging, we’re all angry, we’re all hurting. We’re all in this together. Yesterday, as UCT gathered, there was immense comfort in occupying a space with others, and it proved that these are dark and scary times, but we are not alone. It galvanised me, because I’m predisposed to overthinking and cynicism… and at times like this it’s even more difficult not to hate people and humanity.

And then I see yet another manifestation of the hashtag #AmINext, redolent of #MeToo, and I actively try not to roll my eyes back into my head. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and I need to pause, take a breath, because I know that we’re occupying a space where women* are scared shitless. We’re all watching this horror movie together… except in this scenario there’s no dimbo ignoring the non-diegetic soundtrack and going gangbusters down the stairs towards the eerie basement. Nor is she shouting “Billy!” “Billy!” “Is there anybody there?” as she enters the abandoned locker room. In this scenario the eerie basement is a routinous fucking post office… This is public space. Public space next to a police station. This is broad daylight. This is everywhere.  

So I get it. It’s difficult not to make this shituation about the “me”. It’s hard not to ask “am I next”? It’s really fucking hard. But we need to remember that this is first and foremost about Uyinene Mrwetyana, and the scores of women and children who have died at the hands of men, and only then is it about us. It’s not asking “Am I next”? It’s asking who is next and what can we do to stop it? Because the power of a woman is in her ability to forge community… women are communities of practice. Women do kin work– community is in our collective DNA. This makes us powerful. And asking “am I next” dilutes the message, it isolates us from the group… and women, we need each other.

But surely, as women, this isn’t our problem? We’re not the problem right? And why do I, sorry we, as women, have to take responsibility for the actions of men…? This is not us… this is them…

Well sorry bitches this is us… and it’s them. And we can all do more.

Graca Machel delivered oratorical fireworks at Uyinene’s memorialising gathering on UCT upper campus yesterday. Graca Machel is a woman that I can really get behind… she’s angry, but there’s no populism… there’s no call for bringing back the death penalty.

Instead Machel reads the crowd, and offers a pragmatic measured approach. She’s angry, she’s raging, she’s sad, but she’s behaving like a woman with a solution. Cue the hallelujah bats**. Machel knows her audience and she asks us all to look within our academic disciplines to solve the crisis. She addresses us as a collective of minds… and she lays down the gauntlet. “We need to find out what’s wrong and broken within our society… Anthropologists, Psychologists, Sociologists, Psychiatrists… everyone…”

Machel also advises all women to look after each other, and to support each other. I like this idea because it abandons the “me mindset”- we need to be concerned about all of us. We need to check in with each other, to show concern, to group together, to travel together, to band together. And sure it absolutely sucks that we have to move as a group… but maybe if we frame ourselves as an army it’ll be less “buddy system” and more “bad bitches on the move… fuck with us at your peril…” So gather your army bitches. Move with purpose. Safety is our new community of practice.

So, here’s where I take up the gauntlet, get onto my academic soapbox, and reflect on what my discipline can add to this conversation. And here’s the thing… as Graca Machel says, we need to scrutinise our own families and our own homes (to add credibility to this rant, my research area is the home). I research the home because, 1. I say “fuck you to masculine bias”, 2. the home is primarily the space that women occupy, and 3. because it’s a microcosm. You can learn a lot about the world by looking at homes. I’ve studied a variety of homes and let me tell you it’s not all fucking Woolies schnitzels and Peppa Pig lunchboxes… there’s some dark shit afoot. So humans look at your household structures… look at your families… look at your tribes. And affect change. Because change starts at home.

Secondly, power relations are usually “blackboxed” (I’ve shamelessly plugged my own paper here). And my research in Actor Network Theory shows that blackboxing happens through discourses (that circulate within networks). And language secures discourse. So be careful with your words and be careful of how you represent others through your language, because language is power.

So combining what I know about the home and discourse… here’s where we can all make a start. And you may ask “but what does this have to do with rape and murder?” Well here’s the thing, power manifests in different ways… and gender violence is about power. So we need to learn how to re-navigate how we frame ourselves as men and women. Because all cues lead to women being in positions of inferiority and power is a constant fucking struggle.

1. Women are not second class citizens… I don’t care what your religious text of choice is. Don’t use it to tell us we’re second class. We will fight you. We will rage. Women, if you try to justify being made a second class citizen through your religion then you need to interrogate this. And then you need to rage. We’ve got your back.
2. Respect the women in your homes. All of them. Your domestic worker is not your servant. Don’t tell her she’s “like” family… she either is family or she’s not. If she’s not- fine. But don’t pretend she is to absolve you of guilt. Raise your children to participate in the household chores… it’s not up to a woman to “do everything” for them.
3. In terms of “women’s work”, in Africa housework used to be considered “men’s work”… so men, be fucking grateful that this discourse has shifted… and learn to use the fucking washing machine.
4. Examine your own household power structures. Usually this is dependent on breadwinner status because money is power too… This is where you need to communicate with your children, each other, your peers, etc. because normativity is learnt… and just because he’s bringing home the bacon/macon/vegan alternative doesn’t mean he contributes more. And FYI the man is not the head of the household… unless he’s a single parent.
5. Women can bring home the bacon/macon/vegan alternative too… this doesn’t mean she “wears the pants”… she can wear the pants, skirt, hazmat suit, whatever the fuck she wants.
6. Parents and family members… communicate with your children, and each other, about why you made the choices you made… Parenting is about choice and sacrifice- it’s not about predetermined gender roles.
7. Women are not the sole providers of care work. Raise the men in your house to participate in care work. If he’s not sending his mother a card on her birthday, and if he makes it your job, realise it’s not your job. Guilt is a weapon and women feel it too damn much.
8. Every family has a “creepy uncle so-and-so”. If you don’t have one in your family look closer. Flagging up the “gropey pervy uncle” is not enough. Why do we think it’s OK to just give him the moniker “Creepy” and that absolves him? “Oh it’s OK that’s just what Creepy Uncle What’s His Face does at Christmas… it’s just his vibe”. Everyone in the family needs to tell Creepface to fuck off and stop being pervy and gropey. Everyone.
9. If there’s a man in your family who is abusive or shitty you have to call it. You will save a life.
10. Please refer to those of us who identify as women, as women… we are not girls. You’re happy calling your toddler a “little man” but I must be addressed as “my girly” or a “girl”. Fuck that.
11. Your boy toddler is not a little man. He is a boy and he has a lot to learn. Raise him to respect girls and women. There are no “my little woman” cruising around Top Tots. (Mums feel free to inbox me and tell me I’m overreacting and that I’m an angry feminist… But your son is not a little man. He is a boy child. He’s not bringing home any bacon/macon/vegan alternative.)
12. Television is not a passive medium. Discuss television content with your children and family members. Watch the hard stuff. Have difficult conversations. Discuss sex, violence, nudity, swearing, etc. with your children (within age appropriate reason obviously)… FYI- PG means parental guidance… i.e. you have a role to play. The television is not a babysitter, it is a medium to engage with. Don’t blame it for your children’s kak behaviour (or violence).
    
13. Just because he looks tidy in his uniform and addresses you as “maam” does not make him a lovely polite young man. Look closer.
14. Just because she looks tidy in her uniform and seems like a lovely young lady, doesn’t mean she’s a lady. Look closer.
15. Use the term “lady” with caution. I am not a lady I am a fucking woman. When (gentle)men start behaving more gently I might decide to too.
16. On that note, being polite is awesome and great… and we could all be a lot less dickish. But don’t ever feel guilted into politeness… “I went along with it because I didn’t want to come across as rude”. Never feel like you have to be polite to men… you don’t have to do what you’re told… you don’t have to follow them into the back room. You can refuse them, you can leave. Don’t apologise.
17. And off topic, but because I’m here… teach every family member that the death penalty is not a solution. And if you’re confused about this just think about how many administrative errors you’ve dealt with in the past 6 months. Now imagine your incorrect water bill is someone’s life. And if my analogy is a problem for you then think about how many activists during apartheid were on death row for fighting against the government. It’s a fucking slippery slope and you can’t cherry pick with the law and say “we’ll only kill the real criminals”. Our criminal justice system is fucking broken… but sure add in the death penalty what could go wrong?  

And finally, 18. And this will appall the religious among you… stop with this virginity bullshit. Of course humans should be self-aware and critical about sex… as with everything else, but the virginity narrative needs to duck. I’ve discussed this in class and I’m appalled at how many women were taught (at school) that losing their virginity takes something away from them, that once it’s gone it’ll never return. Being pure is a highly prized commodity in women (as determined by men). Okes, when I’m looking for a shag let me tell you purity is nowhere near the agenda… so why should it be on yours?

Furthermore, girls are taught to hold onto their virginity as long as they possibly can (because hellfire, brimstone, dirty slutbags, no man will want you, you should wait until you’re married, etc. etc.) whereas the narrative around boys is that they should cash in their v-cards as soon as possible. So given that the population is pretty much 50/50 what could go wrong? I mean, on one hand you have 50% of the population (who have been framed as weak and subservient) being told to hold onto their virginity while the other 50% (who have been framed as stronger and dominant) are being told to lose their virginity as soon as possible. Seriously how has no one flagged this up as utter insanity? No wonder we have a fucking crisis.

So folks… it’s time to roll up your sleeves and do some housework.

*I have tackled this article from a very gender binary way… The LGBTQ community has a fucking hard time and suffers from a huge amount of violence, bigotry and assholery. My decision to take this focus is purely because this particular narrative is framed as men and women/children.

**A note on “hallelujah bats” as an agnostic/atheist/don’t do religion I use the bat emoji instead of the raising hands hallelujah emoji.

There’s an old rugby cliché that the two Davids seem to be embracing; ‘Well that was a game of two halves’… And boy oh boy don’t they look like a couple of Naases.

Apparently there are psychologists cashing in on all the depressed and angry people walking around going ‘What the actual fuck?’ I’m one such What-the-Fuck Walker. Yesterday my work wife and I just sat opposite each other repeating ‘What the actual fuck?’ And then laughing. And then silence. At one point I found myself doo-dooing the theme tune and throwing in a loud raspberry fart sound- Davids you’ve reduced me to this. Fuck you guys. Oath Breakers.

I tell my students that context is everything. So let’s break down the Game of Thrones of two halves context, before you start telling me that I’m taking this shit too seriously and it wasn’t actually that bad…

“They cut off his fucking head!” Season One was deliciously fucking bizarre, it brought us incest, chucking Bran out the window, so many naked humans, and so… so much sex. But the flesh bonanza wasn’t as wonderfully pornographic as the dialogue. I’ve long believed that conversation is sex for the soul. George R.R Martin’s writing talent makes me sad and mad-jealous because it is so fucking beautiful. Cleverly, the Davids lifted Martin’s words directly off the page- conversations were long, it was like listening to your favourite album on repeat. And then… as if it couldn’t get any better…

“Moon Door!” How fucking cool and terrifying was the moon door?! I literally got vertigo just watching that creepy ass episode with that breast fed tween licking off his mammamilkshake-brings-all-the-little-lords-to-the yard moustache. Eyrie, as its name suggests, was a dazzling exercise in how to create terror out of beauty. Oh and keeping track of the characters… good fucking luck with that. This was clearly not a series to watch while sexting your bae… in the Game of Thrones there’s no Ohana here… you either pay attention, or you get left behind. And let’s not forget they cut off Ned Stark’s fucking head and made it into a lollipop!

“Fuck that Joffrey guy!” In Season Two King Joffrey is swanning about like King Douche on parade, and the only time we like him is when he’s being slapped by his uncle. Once again there are so many fucking multiple narratives going on… I tried to watch an episode while drunk because all those jugs of wine tempted me out of whatever booze free month I was partaking in. Anyway it was a complete fuck up because the characters pop up like fucking daisies, and it’s not like they’re called Sally to make your life easier, so if you’re shitfaced… forget it. You have to pay attention because ‘Is this oke important?’ ‘Oh hells yes?’ ‘But whatever. Off with his head!’ Fuck you Game of Thrones.

Season Two ends with wildfire, Tyrion getting axed in the face, Sansa getting dumped, Arya escaping thanks to that Crazy Face dude, Jon going full Wildling, and Daenerys going to rescue her dragons from the guy who looks a lot like a penis.

Turns out the House of the Undying is important later. Hold my Starbucks. Daenerys has a vision. She’s walking towards the throne, the throne room is all fucked up, snow is falling, she reaches out to touch the throne… her dragons cry and off she trots.

“Season Three Bitches!” We join the Wildlings and check out Jon cashing in on his Virgin Active Membership (thanks to Discovery). Here come the Unsullied, “King of the North!” Aaah shame, Jaime is now learning to masturbate with his left hand. Olenna is a boss dogg, Daenerys sets the wheel in motion, Joffrey shows he is the biggest prick in King’s Landing, and Sansa and Tyrion tie the proverbial knot (I’m bloody sad this didn’t work out- but technically they’re still married so maybe that’ll make for a kak spin-off Game of Homes). Props must go to the Red Woman for revealing Gendry’s six-packed side… oh Ja and there’s a fucking massacre at a wedding. “King of the Nor..!”-dead. Hey he was hot?! I was… Oh nevermind. Man of the match- Ramsay fucking Bolton.

“That guy with the Lego-man haircut makes Joffrey look like Prince-fucking-Harry!” Daenerys’ dragons behave like a bunch of teenagers in Season Four. Mancandy is ramped up a notch when Javier from Narco’s enters as a dazzling and very delicious fighter. Shae keys Tyrion’s car (horse?), Joffrey has a kak time at his wedding, Daenerys shows no mercy (take note people), The White Walkers are getting restless. “Holy shit the Mountain!” “Oooo yay Moon Door is back!” And Lysa has a turbulent flight. Jon knows nothing and Season Four ends with the Mountain getting a makeover.

In Season Five Cercei has a vision. I hope she dies soon. Scrap that I love Cercei. Varys and Tyrion start a bromance and Arya attends the University of Crazy Face. Cults! Cults Everywhere! Ramsay Bolton steals the show and Everybody Loves Tormund (another spin off). One High Sparrow makes a summer, Drogon saves the day and finally we say Sayonara to Stannis who won’t be missed. Cercei’s walk of shame makes the time my friend took a long bus ride home covered in baby oil from a night of clandestine banging look like a walk in the park, and John Snow dies because he knows fuck all.

“Jon Snow is way too hot to die”. Yippee! Thank god of fire Jon is back! Maybe that Red Slapper isn’t so bad after all? A lot of people die in the first episode, which is always a good start. Bran sees some shit, King Tommen has the highest smackability factor on television, and Arya is blind- bummer. Daenerys burns the shit out of a bunch of grannies. “Hodor!” Arya gets her sight and her name back, the Battle of the Bastards is all it’s cracked up to be and Ramsay becomes a bowl of Pedigree Chum. Cercei out-crazies crazy to land her skinny ass on the throne.

Crazy always wins.

Jon Snow’s Bum (yes it gets a capital B) is at the heart of Season Seven. But even though his ass is the major take-away it’s not all ass about face. Speaking of faces Arya bakes a fucking delicious looking pie. Euron Greyjoy is a fucking leather-panted delight.

Go home Ed Sheeran.

Qyburn is weird as fuck. There’s something funny with Olenna’s wine, Sam is inspired by Greyscale Anatomy and dabbles in surgery, Jon bends the knee… and the moment we’ve all been waiting for…

There’s his Bum… press pause and take it in… you deserve it.

And then… What the fuck the Night King dredges a dragon from the depths? THEY HAVE A FUCKING DRAGON!!! Mind Blown. It takes two years to clean up the mess.

Two years later and we’ve been promised a lot. I’m up at 4am. Chomping for Jon Snow’s Bum…

Everyone except Cercei rocks up at Winterfell. Euron and Cercei bang instead of marching North- who could blame them?

Jon learns his name is Aegon… and let’s all take a moment to appreciate how utterly naff that name is. Being a bastard is a way better alternative to living with the name Aegon. So Jon finally knows something. So that’s Episode One folks.

Another week of chewing the cud and spewing out predictions.

It’s Episode Two and Jaime is finally accepted into the wolves’ den. Brienne goes from boss to sir which makes for a bit of a sore throat, and is someone cutting onions in here? Sansa and Daenerys have an awkward conversation- made more awkward because the script has gone to absolute dog shit. Bran has a plan- he must have got it all that morning. Stay with the fibre Bran, it looks good on you. Then the moment where I completely nailed it… Arya and Gendry bang. Jon on the other hand no longer wants to bang his aunty. Exit Jon’s Bum stage left. Fuck you Davids.

Another week waiting for you assholes to catch up so I can say “CALLED IT… I FUCKING CALLED IT! ARYA AND GENDRY BANGED!”

In seasons past I would have had a lot more to say… but hey this is lean times on the plot complexity front. I’m reduced to Arya’s teenage sex life. Shame! Shame! Shame!

OK finally fucking battle week rolls in hot (or cold whatever) and I’m awake before 4am because I am so excited that I have heart palpitations (it might have been the Sunday night red?) I have a pot of tea and I’m settled in.

I didn’t think this episode sucked at all. It buoyed my spirits and it gave me hope for the rest of the season. I think a lot of this was because they’d decided to give complete control of the dialogue to the genius that is Ramin Djawadi. Music and visuals really has been the sweet spot of the final season, and if I hold onto that maybe I won’t go postal (although I’m told Crazy. Always. Wins.).

The major take-away from this episode is that people are stupid. People aka audiences moaned that it was too fucking dark. Jesus Christ okes he’s called the Night King… the episode is called “The Long Night”. I don’t know what you expected, a mid-morning battle followed by a Mimosa brunch? You want them to add in another moon for the occasion? “Guys it’s a bit dark can someone turn up the moon?” Also FYI there’s no electricity in Game of Thrones time. Maybe Samsung could have product-placed a whole bunch of S7s and the Unsullied could have used them as torches? While they’re at it maybe they could bring back Ed Sheeran for a bit of a knees up before the big fight? Would you have liked that?

Luckily the Red Woman was there to turn on some lights. She was shit hot in this episode.

I liked the battle scene because as someone who runs away from a fight it was nice to feel like I was involved in the action for a change. The battle plan was a complete cluster-fuck and once again proves Jon Snows inability to know stuff. However, when the Dothraki rode to their deaths and the lights went out (sorry audience turn up the brightness levels on your shitty tvs again) it was chilling. I had to take a time out to frantically boil the kettle for another round. Finally I got shivers. Welcome back feeling of unease, where have you been?

Lyanna’s death was straight out of Lord of the Rings… exact same Whatsapp group. The Night King almost won man of the match for raising up a whole new fucking army and I did shit my brookies a little bit, I’m not gonna lie. Jon Snow should have been fucked. Daenerys should have been fucked. Luckily it turns out that MVP Arya learned quite a lot at the University of Crazy Face… and cos crazy always wins she shanks the Night King in an impressive display of knife skills.

Death count was high. But don’t worry almost no one important died apart from old Mormont which was slightly sad but moving on… What’s gonna happen next week?

So after almost no one of any significance died in the greatest battle of all time my hopes were dashed that things were going to go full G.R.R Martin… Episode Four had to rely on dialogue again so it was a complete and utter fuckshow. OK, minus the one bit of dialogue providing an excellent definition of a secret. Daenerys lost her metaphorical head, Missandei lost her physical head, and Euron impressively killed the penultimate dragon. Euron got man of the match for surprising me. Otherwise it was perfunctory. Cercei nailed it. She’s fast becoming my favourite for the throne.

OK chaps here comes another battle hold onto your knickers.         

Episode Five begins with killing Varys. For a second I thought there was dragon mutiny and “dracarys” was off the menu. Nope turns out the beach barbeque was still very much on the cards, don’t pack away the potato salad just yet. Shame about the weather. I’ll miss Varys, if you gave me enough fucking time. Nope shake rattle and roll it’s time for another battle bitches.

Jon really does know fucking nothing. I’m absolutely certain I made the right choice choosing Aragorn.

Enter dragon. Fire. Death. Destruction. Crazy always fucking wins.

Some people die in mysterious ways. More on that in my next rant.

So the key players are still alive and another week of speculation takes over all aspects of my life.

The final episode. I don’t wake up at 4am. Fuck that.

At 9.30am the watch begins. Holy shit the first 20 minutes are spectacular?! Why? Aaah of course, no dialogue, and that Ramin guy is just hitting fucking sixes all out the park (my rugby metaphor is now a cricket one because I’m making this up as I go… in the true spirit of the Davids…). Also it’s visually spectacular and Tyrion’s face is making up for the horrible script he’s been given… it’s raw and emotional and the proverbial chills are multiplying…

“We must break the wheel!” Chill your boots Stalin. Enter scene from Season 2 except this time she touches the throne. Yip Daenerys is toast. Well maybe not toast. More like a kebab. Jon Snow takes a leaf out of Ygritte’s book and drives a dagger into the crazy bitch’s heart. So Crazy doesn’t always win?

What happens next won’t shock you… Drogon burns the iron stool that these folks have gone bat shit over. It’s probably for the best and uncleverly goes full circle to breaking the wheel. Well done on the metaphor you absolute geniuses.

Time passes in an odd way. And what the fuck how did all the team captains get here so quickly? And what’s up with the weather? They’re clearly here to play ball though.

Lots of bad dialogue ensues. It’s so bad that I think I just heard that Bran is now king and Jon Snow is back off to the wall. What about that Aegon guy everyone kept harping on about?

There’s a scene at the harbour, which is about as sad as Tommen jumping out the window. Absolutely no feels whatsoever. I’m reminded of being unable to move after watching Lord of the Rings and how it took me ages to get out of the movie theatre. Now I can’t move because I’m so shell-shocked at how unbelievably bad this writing is.

To cheer us all up there’s an unbelievably poor bit of dialogue about brothels and rebuilding the city. In the old days, when the banter was tight, this would have been excellent. Now it’s a Royal Duck.

Sansa gets a nice new chair; well done she really stuck it out and mined her own patch of diamonds. She really is the smartest of them all. Arya jumps on a boat to start up her own Crazy Face University one assumes. Jon goes North and I’m glad because I can’t handle looking at his mediocre face of disappointment and what could have been anymore. Maybe Tormund can cheer him up and smack some knowledge into him. Oh look and it appears spring is here. Winter came and went like a fart in the wind.

Oh and King Bran? He’s going to look for the dragon. I told you. Crazy always wins.

Woolies Dean Street really is the gift that keeps on giving. And, now that they’ve revamped they’re really killing it from the perspective of attracting a new class of wanky shoppers. I’m a wanky shopper. I love Woolworths and I have been known to buy quinoa and haloumi from there. Bullshit, I do all my shopping there. Literally all of it. I use Woolies toilet paper.

Anyway I was there a few weeks back because I was making dinner for my folks. It was a real Southern Suburbs shit festival from a weather perspective, so the onslaught of black puffer jackets was at fever pitch. Black Puffer Adders with their piercing eyes and Cath Kidson carrier bags were out with a real sense of damp and furious purpose. They wanted more than the regulation midweek chicken schnitzel. They were after the butternut soup. Luckily I didn’t have to break a nail fighting for the last pouches of bland soup (yes Woolies, your butternut soup sucks) because I was after fish.

Being midweek the fresh fish selection was thin on the ground. I guess it’s a metaphor for the state of our oceans, but I don’t want to linger on that clusterfuck because I’m on a helluva Game of Thrones come down as it is. Back to the fish. I procured frozen hake because “cheap”, a few tins of tuna because I’m really into mercury these days, and the last package of fresh smoked trout fillet that was on special, which is why I bought it. I felt guilty for being so miserly towards my mum and stepdad, so grudgingly went in search for some prawns. I gazed at the prawns. I weighed up my options. Maybe the smoked trout could go, and I could get away with just hake, tuna and prawns? Decisions.

Just as I was about to return the very last smoked salmon trout from whence it came, in marches, let’s call her Ruth, and her delightful three maybe four year old (I can’t tell I literally have no understanding of children), who, for the purposes of this narrative is Gwendolyn. Ruth does a precursory scan of the fresh fish and her nose wrinkles, she shifts from one Birkenstock to the next. ‘Where’s the salmon trout? WHERE IS the salmon trout!’ I wait to see how this plays out, reaffirming my newly emerged cavalier “fuck the budget” we’re having salmon trout AND prawns, in what is now a luxury midweek middle finger to Ruth fish pie.

Ruth is not convinced by the absence of product above the barcoded ‘salmon trout’ label. She is white, and therefore smoked trout appears if you will it to appear. No luck. ‘Gwendolyn, there’s none of the smoked trout fillets that you like!’ Gwendolyn is resolute. Passive. Ruth, panicked by Gwendolyn’s nonchalance goes head first into the refrigerator scrambling for options… she retrieves fishcakes, oak-smoked Norwegian salmon ribbons, chili flavoured poached salmon fillets, and fresh hake. In a frenzy she reads each label to Gwendolyn asking her ‘will you eat this my darling?’ Gwendolyn manages a withering ‘yes’ when the chili salmon is thrust in front of her.

Ruth abandons all of the dead fish. ‘This won’t do. You must have the smoked trout.’

What happens next won’t surprise you…

‘I must find the manager…’

At this point I believe it prudent to interject and say, ‘I believe I have the last of the smoked trout… I got the last one…’ I want to crouch down on my haunches and marvel at my preciouses but I wasn’t confident that I wouldn’t get a Birkenstock to the forehead. Ruth didn’t hear me of course, because she was too busy monologuing with herself. ‘Manager, yes he will know… maybe…’ Just then one of the uber-over friendly shelf packers appears. He is too nose deep in those new fangled pretzel crackers to show any interest in Ruth’s dazzling performance of ‘Mother Courage and Her Children’. Ruth says loudly, to darling Gwendolyn, ‘I shall ask him!’ Pause. ‘Actually no, he won’t know what lightly smoked rainbow trout fillets are.’

Absolutely Ruth, the guy whose job it is to stock this aisle won’t know what you’re talking about because only managers (white), know what you’re after. Smoked trout is, after all for white people and their spawn.

At this point I wave the package of smoked trout in front of Ruth and say, ‘So I got the last one,  and I’m going to make fish pie.’

I don’t know what her face did. I’d like to think her head exploded. When I look back on this perfunctory Wednesday afternoon I am certain I heard sobbing.

And FYI, Fucking best fish pie I’ve ever made… if you’d like to follow my  recipe it calls for lightly smoked rainbow trout fillet (the very last one in the store).   

It’s no secret I think diamonds are very pointless and I’ve discussed them before. I don’t want my value represented by something that perches on my finger, alerting you to how much my partner loves me and how wealthy he is. I’d opt for a plastic cracker ring, preferably one of those amazing decoder rings you could get in cereal boxes back in the “old days” (Monkey, if you’re reading this take note).

One of my 3rd year students, who is really fucking cool, told me that she’s not on Instagram because ‘it’s not for her’. She wasn’t being glib, or self-pitying, she just meant that she literally feels like an alien within the space. It’s not for her. She feels othered because, as she phrases it, ‘I’m poor’. Like I said, no self pity, no judgement of Instagrammers themselves, just a mere statement of fact. I’m obviously relaying what she said with lashings of judgement, while remarking on how kak and shallow I find Instagram. Sorry to ruin your fun, but Instagram is all about conspicuous consumption and flashing the proverbial diamonds. And, if you don’t have any of that shit, well you can window shop, while those on the inside take pity on you and talk about “the 3 c’s”.

So, back to Browns and their stupid diamonds. A while back I was reading the SAA in-flight magazine and this Browns advert appeared. I loved it because I’m obsessed with irony and being an asshole.

This image is what we call an “iconic image”… and it has circulated on postcards, greeting cards, posters, etc. It symbolises the end of World War II, celebration, and that groovy Hollywood style Romance we’ve come to enjoy- thanks to all those really imaginative movies that end with running through airports…

I am the first to admit that I bought a card with this very image for my Nana’s 80th Birthday (over a decade ago), because she was a nurse in the second world war, and my Gramps was a Navy man. They had a wartime romance, and although Gramps was into sarcasm, and gently mocking my Nana, it was the most realistic portrayal of love I’ve yet to see… “Nothing says love quite like sarcasm and gentle mockery”. Try that on for size Browns. Anyway, I thought the above image was a pretty accurate depiction of love so Nana received this card because I was trying to be nostalgic. My Nana had dementia, and this is the only time I was ever thankful for this, because for those of you who don’t know this image has become the poster/postcard/greeting-card-child for sexual harassment/gropey-mc-gropeypants.

You see, just out of shot is this man’s bokkie who had just been taken to the bioscope… She’s watching in horror as “her” man (drunk) gropes this lovely dental assistant. Dental assistant did not enjoy this grope… she was taken aback by this grope. Woman was not keen… But being the era of women’s anti-lib this was shrugged off as “boys will be boys” and “he was just drunk and excited” and framed as lank romantic. There are articles on this which you can read… (such as the one hyperlinked above). This image and it’s sexual harassment vibes TRENDED. TRENDED on Social Media. I don’t know if you know this but people in branding and advertising are supposed to know about trends. You know what they say about assumption? Yeah well…

So this is Browns’ advert in the SAA in-flight magazine. Irony is just so wonderful sometimes I think to myself men should propose with that and avoid themselves the hassles of a diamond.

Nothing says Love and Commitment quite like gropage that isn’t consensual.

Browns… I think you might need to speak to someone in advertising.

It’s no secret I’m a vigilante bullshit police officer on the Internet. I’m 35 years old now, so I’m easing into life as a grumpy woman. I’m totally OK with it. Why just yesterday I posted a “this is a hoax” link onto someone’s post about… Actually fuck that let me pull up the post and insert it so that you can see what kind of bullshit we’re dealing with here…

Posts like this… they are worse than finding empty ice trays in the freezer, worse than thinking about making a cup of tea and forgetting, *click*, hello loadshedding my old friend. Posts like this are everything I hate about people on the Internet. It’s 2019 and I am sick of telling people about hoaxes and asking them politely to not spread bullshit. Because it starts with an inaccurate post such as this, and the next thing, Sunil Tripathi is being named as the Boston Bomber. And actually, when you decode these posts, they’re not just innocent mistakes.

Posts such as these deliberately pit Muslims and Christians against each other, and a person who shares such posts is aware of these particular agendas. I want to say, “listen here Carol, no one is saying Christians have never been victims of terrorism, but not today… not today Carol”. That’s actually not what I want to say, I want to say, “Oh fuck off Carol”. But I don’t. Instead I just post a link and hope Carol will realise she’s spreading bullshit ideology about how Christians are getting the fluffy end of the lollipop.

Whataboutisms are the sweet spot of the Internet, and they’re akin to saying “But what about the time Nicholas got to watch that 16SVL movie on M-Net?” when you’ve been told you’re not allowed to watch a 13PG movie. But we don’t actually notice how prevalent whataboutisms are because we have no real political discourse in this country other than, “But what about the BLF?”, “What about when Julius said that, this is reverse racism?” “What about Helen?” The SA political landscape is like watching other people’s horrible kids on the playground, and you have to choose which one is the least kak. Good luck with that.

We’re used to comparing one asshole with another, one shit situation with another, “Cape Town has no water, but at least we have electricity…” Hold my beer.

Anyway as self-appointed bullshit police officer (BPO) I am unequivocally unafraid of offending people who are patently incorrect, aka WRONG. Because sharing false information is not OK. When faced with information everyone needs to take a breath, mull over it, maybe open another browser tab… Google Google, and Google will come up. Click on it. It’s easy, and it doesn’t involve a trip to the library like in the old days. And “better safe than sorry” is not an excuse to propagate bullshit either. Because sharing misinformation propagates fear, and fear is a precursor to bullshit and bad decisions. Fear is how we got to the second half of this decade of clusterfuckdom, Trump, Brexit, resurgence of white Nationalism, etc. etc. etc. 2019 is a product of fear. We’re hear because we’re scared. We’re paranoid. We’re afraid of anything that isn’t “us”.

Not all that glitters is gold, and not all that is news is news… I came across this absolute gem earlier, and it’s what Oprah calls a “teaching moment”… I didn’t fact check that. I don’t know if Oprah says that, but it sounds like something she might say. Anyway some chap posted a shortened clip of the video below, with a comment, “What did this idiot just say? Fees must do what?”. You may see the clip trending on your socials (check me being so up to date). The clip is in the throes of going viral, and it may go “Woolies Water”, but we’ll see. What is interesting is the response to the clip, and it says a lot about not taking time to listen and going straight to shouting.

Humans think they’re smart. But they’re not that smart. Notice how I othered myself from humans, I’m such an asshole. For example, just because it’s on the news Jason, does not mean that it is news. You know? No you don’t know Jason, so I’m here to explain. Coconut Kelz is a satirical character, and if you listen, rather than jumping to conclusions based on your opinion of women, black women, women with long manicured nails, etc. then maybe you’ll get it. But maybe not. Rome wasn’t built in a day. So, as expected the comments on the clip are wonderfully disparaging and subtle, and not so subtle, in their racism. For your viewing pleasure I read them all..

If you Google Lesego Tlhabi, you’ll find she attended school. Not only school, but Brunel University in London. She’s also not mentally ill. But you Facebook commenter, who I shall name Pamela, you obviously attended school and are OK upstairs. Nonetheless you are blind to satire. So well done there. Or maybe you just just jumped to conclusions about this “thick” black woman, based on your own misguided assumptions, rather than actually listening to the fucking video and critically analysing it? Is everything OK upstairs Pamela? Do you need a lie down? Thinking is hard.

Coconut Kelz and by proxy Lesego Tlhabi gets called a cow a lot. She gets shamed for wearing a blonde weave. She also has shit for brains apparently. She’s the product of the Generation Fees Must Fall, stupid and entitled. One commenter actually calls her out for being a “house n (word)”- he’s black, if that even matters. The n word.

If I took my job as BPO seriously I would respond to each and every single one of these people and make them feel as small as they are trying to make Coconut Kelz feel, but the Internet is a dark place, and it’s full of terror. It’s a big job, I can’t do it alone.

So let’s all take in the silence for a while… But then we have to start shouting at all the people who make the Internet kak with fear and bullshit. I’ll be watching you.

1. ‘I don’t want to go near malls today because they’ll be overrun by Black Friday Madness! Gross all those people. I hate crowds…’

2. Such people go immediately to online shopping and get annoyed because sites are overrun by Black Friday Madness… ‘THE SHEER AUDACITY’. ‘Why can’t these sites cope?’ ‘Do you know who I am?’ Moan on designated Facebook pages about how disappointed you are that you weren’t given preferential treatment by the Internet.

“White Saturday is for people to leisurely push their trolley through Black Friday aftermath, paying full price for their privilege. It was the day Penny Sparrow used to do her shopping before she lost her job.” (My Brother)