[I began this “talk” by quoting Moira Lovell, who told us, “You can break the rules when you know them.” I broke the rules by reading this out loud, as opposed to having memorised it, or presenting it. How many teachers told us not to read our orals/mondelings? It turns out, I can lecture and present… But, this I felt was a time for reading. Thanks Moira for giving weight to my decision so the audience didn’t think I was a charlatan.]

In Lasse Halstrom’s 1993 film, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, the opening sequence reveals a small, neglected midwestern American town, Endora. We’re shown Ramp Cafe, End-ora of the Line Drugs, Dairy Dreme, and Lamson’s Grocery, where the lead character, Gilbert, works.

Gilbert’s opening narration explains that the annual campervanners are doing the right thing, just passing through. He continues, “Endora is a town where nothing much ever happens, and nothing much ever will.” 

When I first watched the film, it resonated with me because that’s how I felt about Hilton, my home town. And for a lot of people it is just a place to pass through, or just drive past on the N3, or drive to, to drop kids off at boarding school. 

In the spirit of Gilbert Grape, I’ll walk you through my Endora. In 1983, my first home was the rondavel cottage at the Hilton Hotel. That’s where my dad worked. Further up the road, the Shell garage, the only petrol station in the village. In those days, Hilton was a village. Opposite the Shell, the Hilton Town Board Hall, where our folks went to pretend to look at our kak school art, while they drank beer and OBs at the annual Hilton Lions’ Fair. 

Hilton Pre-Primary is where I spent three magical years with crayons, finger paint, blunt-nosed scissors, and crusty Marmite sandwiches. Laddsworth is where I learned to love learning. 

The Fruit Basket, since demolished, is where we’d go after school… Or to the Spar, owned by the Footselars, for a Super Moo and chicken and mushroom pie. Often, we’d have to hang around in Hilton Drapers waiting for our mums to finish their “quick chats” and buy fabric to turn into matching primary coloured tracksuits. All the kids in Hilton were dressed in the same Butterick patterns… With either gumboots or Bata takkies from Kubela Stores. On Sundays, we’d head to the Hilton Tea room, clutching 50c coins to buy candy cigarettes and other guilty pleasures. The owners of the tearoom knew which parents had permitted us to buy the real Benson and Hedges Special Milds on their behalf.  

That was the colour of village life. Not quite Gilbert’s Endora, but still small. 

However, things were about to get bigger. Soon after Nelson Mandela was elected president, we started to hear whispers. The village grapevine, led by the Walkie Talkies (a group of early morning women walkers), had heard Hollywood was coming to town. 

Our village was summarily upgraded to a town. 

The proverbial “They” were remaking Cry the Beloved Country. Soon after, we heard They was actually South African filmmaker Darrell Roodt who was diving headfirst into the much-famed Madiba Magic by giving us the quintessential South African film. “And have you heard, big hitters James Earl Jones and Richard Harris are the leads?” Suddenly, Hilton Library’s copy of Alan Paton’s novel was flying off the shelves.  

These were the days when Cry the Beloved Country was a symbol of hope and reconciliation… Slightly precarious, sure, but we were heady with the allure of the new Rainbow Nation fragrance. This was well before social media – people hadn’t yet appropriated the book title in response to bad news about the state of the country… “Oh Good Lord! Cry the Beloved Country!” – the calling card of the disgruntled Facebook commenter in reaction to anything government-related. 

But, as with all things that happen in one’s childhood, it was over in a village moment. Hollywood came and went, and Hilton went back to being a village, the place where they filmed Cry the Beloved Country. That hotel became known as the place James Earl Jones stayed. That section of the Midlands… Where “They shot that scene from that movie… Oh, you know the one.”

Soon after the trains stopped running, and the abandoned train tracks became my teenage place for measured rebellion.  

We all have a favourite quote that we bring out whenever we can to sound smart. Mine, which I’m fast turning into a cliche, was introduced to me by Duncan Brown, in that building just over there, in a small classroom, during my honours English seminar on South African storytelling. 

“If this is your land, where are your stories?” 

In the same way that disgruntled Facebookers have appropriated Paton’s novel as a catchphrase, so too have I with J. Edward Chamberlain. 

If this is your land, where are your stories? The title of of his book on placemaking and connection.  

This quote is at the heart of my work and research, because the best way to change human behaviour is by changing the environment. Humans like to think we’re clever and not easily manipulated but just see what happens when a McDonalds rolls into town, or when bins get removed from parks, or when you walk into a library with a vuvuzela. 

My partner Jono and I focus on public space, because in this country social cohesion needs a bit of a nudge. And, developing equitable multipurpose public spaces, that become places, are how you start to see change.

So, how do you change public space?

Well, you just decide to do it.

Jono and I combine mural art, storytelling, and a lot of plants and fruit trees to activate places. We treat the land as ours, not Jono and mine, but the community’s and through investing in that we’ve shown the power of connection through belonging, representation, and inclusivity. Having free spaces is quite literally freedom. But it’s more than that, when people feel invisible its easy to forget them. Having access to public space means being seen, and being able to say this is my home too, I am here, I belong.  

Cry the Beloved Country is a story that, through its title, pages, and magnitude, tethers us to our local home, our national home, and our global home. 

Alan Paton wrote, “When people go away, even the ground cries out for them.”

Which, to be honest, doesn’t always ring true, as we’ve seen in recent news about 49 people who definitely use “Cry the Beloved Country” as a catchphrase to trash our country.  

But for those of us who are tethered, that’s the sum of Home. When we leave, the ground cries out for us. That’s our South Africa, in all its complexities.

I came back to Hilton five years ago, because I needed to be home. And, while I used to think that when Gilbert Grape says that “Describing Endora is like dancing to no music,” that was a bad thing, now I’m not so sure it is. For many of us, describing South Africa is like dancing to no music… It’s not easy, it’s difficult… But we do it because we love dancing and we love telling stories. As a continent of storytellers, stories are our heart. They’re how we say we are here. We claim this space. We are tethered. 

So, what can I tell you about the filming of Cry the Beloved Country? It turns out, not much, but I was invited here today because of a particular piece of writing. And because I’m a storyteller and a placemaker, I think I should stick to what I know. And because I’m not famous, most of you won’t have read this piece, but for those who have, you can use it as an opportunity to catch a snooze with zero judgement. 

Placeholders: In a Station of the Station

[originally published https://www.jackalandhide.co.za/2025/03/12/placeholders-in-a-station-of-the-station/]

My brother and I were furious and jealous when our fourteen-year-old cousin landed the prized role of an extra in Cry the Beloved Country. She was tall and mature for her age, and my older brother was the opposite– you could always spot him in the front row of every school photo, the designated spot for the short arses. Neither my brother nor I were even in the running for a look-in for a coveted extras spot, but that didn’t stop us from being disgruntled, and annoying our mother about how unfair it was. The whining was palpable. 

This is one of my most enduring memories of the Hilton Train Station – a backdrop for a movie, a place suspended in time, swarming with people wearing fancy hats and milling about. And, it also goes down as one of the most exciting times in Hilton’s history… We had celebrities in town and everyone was in a frenzy trying to catch a rare sighting of Richard Harris and James Earl Jones. That was another thing to be disgruntled and furious about. Why wasn’t our hotel (The Hilton Hotel) posh enough for them to stay at? Why were we the hotel for crew? More whining. To be fair, my mother led the charge on this particular bout of whining, as it’s no secret she’s long harboured a bit of a crush on James Earl Jones.   

I know there must be other memories of this central space from my childhood. If I really try, I can just about make out sitting next to my mother on a brown pleather bench seat. I’m not sure if some of the fabric has come away and was fraying or if that’s just the mystic chords of my memory editorialising. Torn and frayed pleather seats that snapped at bare legs were definitely in vogue for that era. In any event, my legs are stretched out in front of me, and there are a tiny pair of white patent leather shoes that I can just about make out. I’m on a train ride… I have no idea where the destination is, that bit has long faded. There’s another part of me that sees myself as part of a crocodile of Hilton Pre-Primary kids in primary coloured clothing snaking our way onto the train for an exciting excursion. Did this happen or is it something that seems plausible and has become a false memory akin to the “Mandela Effect”?  

And then suddenly, one day, the trains stopped. Bugweed crept in, weeds crept in, and sprawling creepers metastasised along the railway. That part of Hilton was gone, hidden… It became a place of “used to”. This used to be alive, now it’s abandoned until some intrepid teenagers or drifters rediscover it. Typically, it takes teenagers, drifters, or the homeless to re-occupy spaces that “used to” and breathe life into them again. These are the breaths that resuscitate the lungs of buildings and we see life through signs, symbols, marks, and abandoned artefacts (usually trash). But as they say, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure…” More about that in a moment.  

A months ago, my partner Jono and I were discussing public space, and the conclusion was that we’re woefully ignorant about what’s on offer around us. The irony and shame are not lost on us. But that’s how we ended up at the Cedara Station. We decided we need to explore. 

As our car drove up the dirt road to Cedara Station, I thought about all the rumours I’ve heard about the space over the years. 

“Cedara Station is going to become an abattoir.” 

“They’re going to develop it.” 

“Cedara Station is going to become the destination for a train ride to and from Hilton, like in the old days.” 

We park up and I feel nothing. Usually my memory is a magic wand that can get stories out of anything. But nothing. In the words of Gandalf, “I have no memory of this place.” I can’t imagine what it used to look like, it is all completely new and I have no frame of reference to pollute my experience of how it used to be and how it is now.  

“Fuck this is cool…”

We walk through the long grass towards the station. This is the old platform, and using my experiential geography I imagine that tickets were sold just through there. I wonder how much they cost? If you walk into the station, there’s a big chunk of floor missing and you can see into the basement. It’s a swamp of ferns, chip packets, sweet wrappers, new and ancient drinking vessels, and other detritus. I notice the skeleton of a VHS tape and smile. I wonder what’s on it. Cry the Beloved Country? 

The handwriting on the wall shows that brave teenagers have walked across the beams to leave their marks. The Hilton Boyz are a gang of eight names. I’m not brave enough to walk along the beams, and I don’t think peer pressure from teenagers would convince me otherwise. Meanwhile, Jono has spotted a wall, and he begins setting up his cans the way he always does, meticulous, pausing every so often to glance at the wall, step back, step forward. It’s a musical-less dance.

I explore the space, this Khazad-dum of secrets. There are stories to piece together… The Hilton Boyz who want change and to be seen, the invisible boys of postapartheid South Africa. The rebellious spirits who’ve drawn penises on everything, Shocking, you may think, until you go into the myriad of museums and see that phallic symbols never go out of fashion. There’s an odd drawing, a Rorschach Test asking if you see boobs, balls, or a squirly stick figure. Underneath reads, 

Fuck

Sex

Is this advice or a list? 

I move on, hoping young teenagers get the message, “Fuck Sex, fuck it.” Sage advice. And then as if they’re listening Bathini, Bona, Batchi, and Bek… (the last name is smudged) caution me, 

“Book Before Boys Because Boys Bring Baby.” This is written in chalk, and as if in a secret teenage pact, the girls have written their names below. It’s official. A clubhouse rule.  

I’m proud of these girls, I wonder where they are now. In the library I hope. 

I vandalise their space by spraypainting my name, Dr Jackal, onto their walls. Adults were here. 

I now have a memory of this place. Memories of this place. People have left their marks, told their stories, shared their secrets, made promises. It’s easy to dismiss graffiti and to bemoan trash. I hate litter, I try to do my bit, but sometimes you just have to see it as a part of a story. The things they left behind. I’d rather it was in the bin, but sometimes a reframe protects the mind from futility. 

Jono finishes his piece. And we leave. But we’ve left our mark. We will linger here at this place that represents the past, a place that’s never coming back, a ghost of the way things used to be. The old South Africa. 

As we get into the car, I think of one of my favourite poems by Ezra Pound,

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals on a wet, black bough.

“Shall we walk along the track now?” Jono asks. 

This is what we did as Hilton’s teenagers, but we are not teenagers anymore. 

We have permission, the space is no longer hidden. 

The difference between a cellphone shop in Germany vs one in South Africa is the fucking temperature. If you want the experience of buying anything cellphone-related while on the surface of the sun, then Germany is your place. The okes who worked there were as useless as you’d get in the South African equivalent. We arrived at the shop, and explained that we were tourists and needed a SIM card for tourists, and we were told to sit down. While we waited we couldn’t help but notice, through the veil of sweating eyeballs, that like South African cellphone shop attendants they seem to spend a lot of time huddled and chatting with fashion haircuts and lanyards and iPads and not a lot of time helping out. Eventually, someone helped us and after a long explanation explained we’d need a resident to come and sign for us. We asked if this was the only option and he said yes. 

I didn’t believe him so we searched for the Vodafone shop and were absolutely jazzed to see that it was as packed as the Vodacom shop at Liberty Mall at month end. But hotter. Obviously. We realised that communication was not worth this, and getting lost again in a shithole was preferable to spending a second longer in the moshpit of connectivity. At this point, I needed the toilet so I had to do the usual pay 1 Euro for the loo. However, this was a Euro well and truly spent because I was greeted by a self-cleaning, self-wiping toilet. The seat spins around while the mechanism disinfects and wipes the seat. This is literally the type of shit that I go bos for. If I could give my Blessedies one gift from Europe it would be this. We’d have to have it as some sort of timeshare though. 

In a last-ditch attempt, we asked a random internet shop to help us with our SIM card problem and he told us we needed to go to Ortel just over there… He points. It took less than five minutes to be helped by a very friendly guy from Pakistan who espoused the virtues of Hansie Cronje while we waited.

When I look back on this trip, one of the things I’ll get misty-eyed about is the train trip from Hannover to Czechia. The first leg was pretty standard, except I got on my first-ever double-decker train and I nearly pooed with excitement. Despite all the train changes we managed a lot better and also scheduled a two-hour stop in Bad Schandau. I like to think Bad Schandau is an MMA fighter. But actually, Bad Schandau is one of the most glorious places on earth and everyone should go there immediately. The scenery is absolutely insane and the River Elba seems to be bookended by sandstone and forest.

We knew when we’d got to Czechia because the scenery rapidly changed and our last train was straight out of My First Siberian Picture Book of Communism. The doors were manual and one passenger had to ask Jono to help her get off the train because she couldn’t manage to open the door herself. 

In Prague, we were greeted by one of many really grumpy Uber/Bolt drivers. Not only are they grumpy but the driving is downright terrifying. The zeitgeist around driving seems to be “go like the fucking clappers and then slam on brakes”. Repeat until destination. The trouble is that zebra crossings are HIGHLY observed and there are very few pedestrian traffic lights… You cross and drivers will stop. However, the first time you try this it’s harrowing because the cars do about 60km per hour before slamming on brakes to allow you to gently amble across.

Our hostel, read hostile, was straight from the chapter “Hostiletality for Beginners,” in The Compendium of Eastern European Communism.  Despite the numerous “artworks” peddling toxic positivity none of it seemed to rub off on the staff. The hostel was clean but gave off the distinct whiff of those halcyon days when you could choose between beige or oatmeal.

Prague is known for its excellent beer. However, a lot of restaurants and bars in Prague serve Pilsner Urquell only. I don’t know why. We found some delicious beers including Kozel and Bernard. When it comes to service, in most countries it’s customary to say, “Cheque please!” I’d like to establish a new tradition in Prague, “Czech please!” Service is not fast, nor is it excellent or even good. What is excellent is the Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we nicknamed Kentucky Fried Czech-en. You might think it’s weird to go for KFC over local cuisine but I’m too old to be force-fed an assortment of beige food just so that I can have an authentic experience.

Old Town is a magical land filled with wonder and delight at every turn. There are bunches of jewellery shops, sweet shops, ice-cream shops, and places promising to have the best Trdelniks. I find jewellery shops in tourist areas really weird. Who can afford to buy jewellery when they travel? How much jewellery do you need? Is this just aimed at men keeping multiple women happy? Every country has some special stone or piece of glass or some sparkly shit that they claim is unique… Why are people duped by this? However, the sweet shops were like the kid version of the jewellery shops. I’m not even a sweet person (in all the ways) but I nearly bought my weight in sweets because environment influences behaviour. When I’m presented with a gajillion barrels filled with a gajillion sweets and then the sweet shop is themed as a mine with a mine shaft and wagons and shit I’m all in. I don’t know how those places make money though because you’d have to sell a lot of sweets to pay for the cost of the mise-en-scene they’ve got going.

Our British waiter at our favourite restaurant close to our hostel explained that the reason the sweet shops are there is because they’re a front for drugs and money laundering. I don’t even care if this is true or not. Good stories are more important than the truth (unless you’re a journalist). 

For anyone who cares, and you should, the best Trdelnik is from TRDLO 13 Karlova. Trdelniks are like those spiralled potatoes on a stick that you used to get at the Royal Show. Everyone is eating them so they’re a walking advert. You can’t help but want one, and the smell is intoxicating. However, unlike the potato on a stick, which is utter crap, these are glorious. One of our favourite games was to watch people try and finish them and then commentate on how they were doing and who was likely to win. In one memorable race, a redhead and brunette were tackling their carboloaded Goliaths. The redhead got off to an excellent start and the brunette looked like she was done before she’d even reached bite four of the cone. However, she got a blast of second wind and was absolutely smashing through rings and ice cream in a sugar rush frenzy. She had about three rings to go when the redhead came back with all the excitement of 1990s Jaqui at a cake sale and the race was over. Once they’d finished you could just see the regret. Folks, this is a sharing food. Trust me. 

Another thing you might want to share is a Czech meal. My one attempt at sampling the goulash was the worst I’ve eaten. If you want goulash, Google a recipe and cook it yourself. 

In a strange twist of fate, we got one friendly Bolt/Uber driver. He was one of those who would be rated as 10 on the over-friendly scale if there was a form involved. Sadly, there was no form, but like I say (thanks Mands), “You either have a good time or a good story.” This driver was friendly so we immediately said, “You’re not Czech are you?” No, he’s Ukrainian. Thus followed the usual flow of how these conversations go. He told us about the fact that many of his friends have died, his town is all but destroyed, etc. His disposition was matter-of-fact and lively and he did a lot of punctuating with laughter to make us feel awkwardly at ease. Things took quite a turn though when a woman sent him a voicenote and he put it on speaker. We didn’t take much notice of the voicenote because it was in another language and at that point a tram came dangerously close to hitting us and he said, “Oh shit, I forget about the trams!” Bowels safely reinstalled to where they were supposed to be, we continued careering towards our destination.

That’s when he said, “My girlfriend keeps fucking me in the head!”

I made a noise to indicate my interest that he should continue along this story path. Apparently, the voicenote was from his ex-girlfriend, who seems a lot to me like she’s still his girlfriend. The “sitch” is that she wants more money and he doesn’t buy her the right stuff. Hence why she keeps phoning him and leaving voicenotes.

I asked if she was Czech, thinking from the disposition of those we’d met in the service industry, this would compute.

“No,” he says, “she’s Russian.”

Insert long pause. 

“Russian?!” Jono and I exclaim in unison. 

Not one beat skipped… “Yes, every day I get to fuck a Russian!” And then he emitted the type of belly laugh I’ve only seen from arch-villains in really offbeat foreign films.

I was in bits. But then he ruined it with a sigh and… “What can you do, women…?!”

On his imaginary rating form, he lost a shitload of points for that one. But I was in too good a mood to tell him off and give him a lecture on feminism.

And speaking of telling off. We found this spectacular outdoor space that’s this deck/platform and there’s a mobile bar and really great buskers. We saw two superb buskers and it was one of the golden travel moments where you keep pinching yourself and wondering if you’re actually alive.

You’ll know that Jono and I believe in paying for art and therefore we tipped the buskers a healthy amount. We were the only ones to do so and so Jono took it upon himself to introduce the other patrons to the phenomenon known as “not being a dick and paying musicians.” He started his mission on a table with some of Czechia’s finest teenagers. I’ve seen some faces I wouldn’t want to tangle with, but these five were something else. I watched the whole thing go down and let’s just say Jono was schooled by some of the most expert eye-rolling and bitch-face I’ve ever seen. They should become soap opera villains. Not to be deterred, the good-natured Jono persevered and once again was not thanked for his trouble. When we left a lot of people whispered and made faces and I’m glad we didn’t stay til dark because neither Jono nor I are very good at violence.

As we walked past the scary teenagers I did mutter, “You guys better Czech yourselves before you wreck yourselves.” That made me feel a lot better. Passive aggression doesn’t win in Czechia… But it soothes some of the wounds. 

I Googled “Are people in Czechia Friendly” and “Is Czech service bad” just to do my due diligence, and it was a mixed bag. Our experience was that we met some amazingly friendly Czechs but that was not the overarching experience. In general, the service was pretty slow and a lot of the places seemed to be understaffed. I don’t really care though… When I’m on holiday I don’t mind waiting and I’m not going to moan. BUT I am going to write about it. What you should know is that the Czech currency will fox you and we found ourselves giving someone over R200 in tip because we had a bunch of not-very-fancy looking coins that turned out to be quite fancy. 

Next Time: Are you ready for some of the best fucking art you’ve ever seen? Jono and I discovered one of the greatest street artists (possibly the greatest) was having an exhibition and we went to Czech it out. You’ll see pictures galore and who knows, I might Czech in with some more puns. 

‘You either have a good time, or a good story.’ 

Well, strap yourselves in for a heroic tale about air travel, the weirdest guy on the aeroplane, an early morning hunt for a clinic at Nairobi Airport, a busting suitcase of pharmaceuticals, and Chlamydia.

For an extra bit of razzle-dazzle, throw in a high dose of sweating and fever and the moment where I, the hero of this tale, nearly found religion and prayed the plane would crash. But we’re jumping the gun here. 

It’s taken me just over three years to be able to write this story. Not because I’m ashamed, I’ll tell this shit to anyone who’ll listen. It’s just doing this story justice takes some mental gymnastics, and a good dose of Cystitis to relive the authenticity. So, fasten your seatbelts, put your seat in the upright position, and make sure your tray table is secured (both kinds). 

I decided to fly Kenya Airways because it was cheap and I boycott certain airlines for ethical reasons. My destination was London, and as I sat at Cape Town airport sipping on my farewell chardonnay I was excited because I don’t hate air travel. I’m lucky that I’m short, and I like free booze. This means flying isn’t kak, especially if you procure the right seat (I’m not here to give away my top travelling secret). What I will tell you is half my secret– I always go for the aisle because I get toilet anxiety. I like to move around, and I also like to see what people are watching on their inflight entertainment. This is a game I play and it never disappoints.  

I boarded the plane with giddy excitement and got settled in. I don’t need a lot to entertain me so I can break records for settling in. Meanwhile, Roger, two rows up was embracing his inner Mary Poppins. There he was vacillating over whether or not he needed anything out of the pink and white zip-up bag, and particularly anything from the yellow and green zip-up. As he spilt his contents over his aisle mates I took a moment to muse about how much I dislike people. Because really, is there anything worse than the anxiety-inducing goosebumps that come from being deathly still while waiting for everyone around you to settle the fuck down.    

Sit the fuck down Roger. 

A polite air stewardess gave him a settle the fuck down smile.

Then it happened. The human version of the artist’s rendering (in this case Larson). The guy coming up the aisle sweating and looking hella twitchy. Losing momentum as he got ever closer to his destination, “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

That’s correct, the middle seat, right next to me. Beyond kiff.

He didn’t say a word, which comforted me. Chatty, sweaty, and nervous is one of my least favourite trifectas. 

He swaddled the shit out of himself in his static aeroplane blanket and we prepared for takeoff. 

Things went as they usually do. Pre-dinner drinks, go through the entertainment console to decide on inflight viewing, “chicken or beef”… You know the drill. 

But here’s a bit of a departure from the prescriptive nature of cruising at whatever altitude the pilot just announced. Something really weird happened during my dinner. 

Sweaty-nervous-now-swaddled guy decided to use my tray table instead of his. Honestly, it was what I can only describe as trippy beyond reason. Usually, I’d speak my mind but this dude was so strange, all swaddled and away in his metaphorical manger. So I just gritted my teeth and willed a flight attendant to adios my tray pronto a la Hugh Grant in Nottinghill. I’ve never had someone push things aside on my tray to make space for their tasty beverage and bit of a bread roll they were still in the throes of working on. Still, my heinous travel mate was not the worst thing about this flight.

Shortly after dinner, I had to go for a wee. 

And particularly my fellow bitches, you’ll know all about the genuine terror of this scenario. Unless you’ve never encountered the absolute shithead that is Cystitis. As this is an aeroplane tale, and not a delightful 3 Act play, Cystitis entered like the nuclear winter that can only come from removing the foil lid off an aeroplane eggy breakfast. I’m not sure what kind of a psychopath wants to be awakened by excitable long-haul eggs at 5 am shortly before descent, but I, my friends, am not one of those humans.

This bout of Cystitis came with the usual constant need to wee and the unbridled pain involved in weeing out a quarter of a teaspoon every 30 seconds. Lucky for me, it also came with the fever that just courses through you and invades more than your tray table. After the denial passed, I knew I was in for some of the worst hours of my life. I may or may not have prayed for the plane to fall out of the sky, which means I must have been very bloody delirious to think that anything other than Urizone could save me.

The flight attendants smelled a rat, given how often I was going to the loo. Eventually one of them cornered me with a face muddled with concern and suspicion. Mostly a lot of suspicion. She was gracious when I explained that I was at the apex of the UTI journey. Sweaty swaddled guy meanwhile wasn’t looking so sweaty. I was now the weirdo.

The decade-long flight from Cape Town to Nairobi eventually ended and I was told that Hallelujah there is a clinic at the airport. In retrospect, it’s quite astonishing realising that airports have a whole host of behind-the-scenes shit we don’t know about.

Anyway I made it off the plane and wandered through the terminal in a fog of sweat. This is when the Ebola tent came into focus, like some sort of deranged mirage. One of the symptoms of Ebola is a fever so the red flags literally started surrounding me like a host of Beliebers. There’s no hiding how fucked I was and I tried my level best to explain that I had a bladder infection. A UTI. Cystitis. This got helpfully translated as a blood infection so the next thing I was hauled into Ebolaville for a welcome party. I asked to speak to a woman. Reluctantly the swarm of men gave me over to some woman who re-diagnosed my blood infection as a bladder infection and called off the hounds. But she couldn’t help me. This was a place for Ebola, nothing else. She gave me some vague directions to a clinic just outside the airport. 

So the next fun leg of my trip was to clear customs and enter Nairobi to locate the clinic in an underground parking. I have never been so grateful to have a South African passport so I could fuck off into the balmy Nairobi morning without much hassle of a visa. After a bit of a walk and several toilet stops, I found the clinic which had a helpful sign saying it was closed.

‘I could just curl up and die here?’ I thought to myself cheerfully. No such luck, it turns out I do have somewhat of a survival instinct after all.

I soldiered on like the rabid little bladder infection kitten that I was. Meow. 

I don’t remember how I found the information office containing those three very cheerful morning people. They informed me that there’s a doctor at the departures desk where people check in for their flights. Trust me when I say that I was dubious about this. You mean to tell me that qualified doctors in High Visibility vests just hang out at airports all Dr Willy Nilly? 

Dubious. 

But desperate.

So back I trotted on the hunt for this mysterious doctor who was beginning to seem more and more like a fob off.

So there I was, looking for a dude I was told would be in a high-vis vest with a suitcase. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever been to an airport before but this seemed like a helluva ask. A bit like finding a needle in a massive fucking stack of needles if you ask me.

Persistence, fever, and the urge to wee spurred me on and the next thing I’m consulting with a bearded chap who asks if he can borrow a pen. I explained my symptoms and he gave me a lovely concerned bedside manner. He didn’t continue with the patient-doctor caper for very long and eventually, he reached next to him and heaved a massive suitcase onto his lap and began unzipping his Aladdin’s trove of pharmaceuticals.

He asked what I would like and I politely told him antibiotics.

“Super,” he said and began scrappling around like a kitten in a litter box.

He gave me some vague options, so like the former PhD student that I am, I opted for the fastest and shortest course.

The box is something I wish I had a photo of. 

If you’ve ever seen a company logo designed by the owner’s daughter who’s “a whizz with computers,” it was not even in the same ballpark. I did more impressive shit with Word Art in 1998.

Dubious… but desperate I chugged the first little white pill with as much spit as I could muster. Then I tried to close the box containing the blister pack but it came apart. Obviously.

For my troubles, the consult was 30 American dollars because that’s how much I had on me. I also received a scrap piece of paper with scribbles on it. The legitimacy quite frankly astonished me. Plus he pocketed my pen.

The next part of my quest was a bottle of Citrasoda. The excellent doctor told me where I could find a pharmacy in the departures area so off I trotted, buoyed by vaguely-modern-medicine. The pharmacy felt like one of those shops where “if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.”

Seriously okes, literally no prices on anything.

Oh fuck, here we go.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, my friendly doctor was there smiling and rubbing his hands together. He ushered me to the pharmacy guy (pharmacist?) and they had a huddle over a very small bottle of Citrasoda. It was decided that the going rate was 24 of her majesty’s finest pounds. More than a pound of flesh by any measure, but if you’ve ever had Cystitis in Nairobi Airport with a devastating 6-hour layover and only one working women’s toilet, it’s money well spent. Or stolen.

I bade a fond farewell to the charlatan doctor, because apart from the fact he had just ripped me off spectacularly, I had an antibiotic coursing through my fevered sweaty bod, and a bottle of Citrasoda worth more than saffron. 

When I landed in London I felt magically healed. The next few days went without much incident, minus a few absolutely banging hangovers and some poor decisions around late-night chicken. It was the morning after spending a night in Bath that things really took a turn for the worse. Not only was the hangover el diablo, but my wee was a melange of rust and razor blades. The journey back to London in heavy traffic with two delightful crying children was the stuff of dreams. There are moments to treasure, and those 5 hours spent on whichever one of Satan’s motorways we were on will remain etched into my memory forever.

I’m grateful to the NHS and the fact I’m still registered with a clinic. I was told to wee into a cup and then hold my sample while I waited for the doctor. People looked alarmed and impressed and I thought this could be my time to forge a career as an Influencer and snap selfies with my scarlet urine. I could call myself Crimson Tide.

The doctor eventually called me in and remarked that it was some of the gnarliest she’d seen. For context there were homies sporting Croydon facelifts in the waiting room, so forgive me for bragging amongst such stiff (pun intended) competition. I regaled her with my story and I don’t think she was with me at all. It was only when I produced the scribbled bit of white paper with only one eligible word, “doctor”, and the empty box and leaflet for the antibiotics that she seemed mildly convinced.

She scrutinised exhibits b and c. Exhibit a was still chilling there all red and angry looking. 

The doctor sat back and looked like she was on the verge of a faint chuckle.

Well, my dear, I’m happy to say that after this dose of antibiotics, you won’t have any issues with Chlamydia. Unfortunately, you have a ferocious case of Cystitis that we’ll have to throw the book at. 

Talk about silver linings.

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. 

There’s a popular dating metaphor about unicorns. Everyone is in search of these elusive unicorns- the “perfect man” or the “perfect woman” (if we’re working in gender binaries). By my measure, my limited insight into Tinder, everyone thinks they’re a fucking unicorn. The age of digital media and popular folklore has led us to believe that we’re special, but, as in all things, some of us are more special than others.

I’m a new kid on the block regarding Tinder, and already I’ve noticed a veritable hotbed of unicorns. Take Jake (38). Jake’s a real catch because his profile picture shows him with a dog. And not just any dog, Jake has a Staffie. Jake also really likes adventure, which sets him apart from all of the other Capetonian Neanderthals who just want to stay in and pleasure themselves, while watching Love is Blind (see what I did there?). So, Jake likes dogs, craves adventure, and knows his way around an emoji? Jake sounds unique and perfect! Well, Jake also happens to be highly intelligent because he attended that top tier university none of us mere mortals got into, The University of Life. Fuck me Jake how are you still single. Swipe Right! Quickly before someone else gets him.

Then there’s Andrew (37). Andrew is a CEO of his own business and he’s got an MBA. Andrew likes wearing sunglasses in his photos because his aura is so fucking bright that he can’t stand to look at his own unicorn glow. Andrew likes to say that he’s not looking for anything too serious because he can’t bear the thought of sharing his trust fund with anybody else. But if he meets a nice unicorn female version of himself (minus the MBA and humungous brain) he might just take the plunge. The nice thing about Andrew is that he drives an Audi and is proficient at taking car selfies.

But it’s not all CEO, business, and top tier universities on Tinder. Oh no! Unicorns come in a range of shapes and sizes. For the Christian lady who likes an ordentlik and no-nonsense approach there’s Keith (34). Keith is Jesus’ favourite unicorn and he refuses to date anyone who smokes, drinks, shags, or messes around. Keith’s no-nonsense approach involves one selfie in which he’s wearing a golf shirt and has a tidy little combover. Phwoar Keith! Phwoar! Jesus take the wheel I need a moment.

For the women among us who are into the tie-dyed unicorn with the marijuana leaves emblazoned rumpside, there’s Christof (40). Christof is a freelancer slash photographer. But the thing is, Christof doesn’t like to be tied to a job because his purpose is far greater, and he’s expressing that through the magic of reiki and the healing power of essential oils. And despite having a “hard no” approach to drama, “NO DRAMA!!!!!!!!” (in case you’re not clear), he is up for some cheeky massage play- insert winky face.

Then there’s the unicorn in hiding. Meet Matt (36), or as I call him, ‘The Artful Dodger’. The Artful Dodger is the cunningest of them all because he’s disguised as a horse. A Trojan fucking horse. The Artful Dodger has a few carefully chosen photos that reveal he’s just a normal guy looking for someone who can engage in good conversation and not key his car. The Artful Dodger can hold a conversation, invites you on a date, and appears confident and assertive. The problem is the Artful Dodger believes he’s a unicorn and eventually he won’t be able to handle hanging out with someone like you who is so fucking ordinary and beneath him. The Artful Dodger deserves perfection, because he is perfection. And after all, there are so many women out there, there must be a better one just around the corner- ‘Please Sir, can I have some more?’

Postmodern dating offers us the illusion of choice. There are so many options out there. And ‘do you even know who I am?’ I’m a unicorn hunter and I deserve the very best, the most perfect, the most fucking dazzling partner I can find. And when the end game is “the perfect partner”, a lot of shit gets lost in translation and power struggles. It’s no secret that relationships are about power; and this is absolutely fine if there’s a balance of power. The problem is that because power is so frequently aligned with sex, it frequently comes back to virginity and men needing to pursue the fairer sex. Discussions about virginity tend to privilege men because women are told to “protect” their virginity, while men are sold the idea that sex with a woman is some big prize and something they have to pursue. Women are told “not to give it up too quickly” or “he’ll lose interest”. Like the only thing that a woman has that could possibly be of interest to a man is her vagina (and no I don’t mean vulva obviously).  

What really put the unicorns amongst the nags was this survey that I read about, which involved more than 2000 human adults. In this survey on self-perception, 1% of women described themselves as beautiful and 2% said that they were good looking. It might come as no shock whatsoever that 16% of the men surveyed described themselves as handsome or good looking. What is a shock is that of the 16%, 9% opted for the more extreme descriptor, “handsome”, as opposed to just “good looking”. What this means is that one in six men are stoked with how they look compared to one in thirty women… and people wonder why gaslighting is a thing?

I’ve always been of the opinion that relationships are never about perfection or the pursuit of greatness. Greatness doesn’t happen in a vacuum. My philosophy on the perfect relationship is, can you deal with my bullshit, and can I deal with yours…? Fuck the unicorns. Let’s hunt some Orc!   

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).   

But I’m not here to talk about Gilmore Girls… I’m here to talk about how my mum, my best and closest friend, threw me under the bus (not the first time, and it won’t be the last). It all began because I needed to talk to my mum about Big Little Lies so I made her watch it. Being her daughter’s mother my mum binge watched the show in record time (I’m so fucking proud) hence it took no time at all for us to be in the position where we could go “full media bitches” on it. What I didn’t account for was the fact that my mum is a professional and immediately started watching another series immediately after… I was unaware of this.

After going critical media theory on Big Little Lies for the best part of an hour my mother dropped the bombshell.

‘Jaqui I can’t talk to you until you’ve watched The Handmaid’s Tale’.

The gauntlet had been set. My mother knows that bowing out of communication is a sure fire way to get me to do anything. It was an asshole move, but effective. Ask me how long I can go without talking to my mum?

As I hung up I asked Monkey if we had any plans. He told me that owing to our financials the plan was to eat leftovers and use as little of everything that wasn’t free as possible. Score. I turned to Showmax and settled in. Ten hours later I’d gone through my allocated weekly 500ml allowance of wine (fucking diets are such a buzz kill) and I felt like my brain was going to explode. There’s a line from an episode of Grey’s Anatomy where Meredith Grey says,

‘That’s called thinking. Go with it’.

Not to sound like an intellectual asshole but not all thinking is created equal. If you’re not completely fucked up, torn to shreds, dehydrated, fucked up, emotionally spent and riddled with headache it’s not legit thinking. Thinking doesn’t nap… it hangs around… it lingers… It engulfs you and you just can’t shake it… The only way to put it to bed is to write it down… which is why I’m here. I’m a prisoner in my own thoughts… it’s time to escape. But I’m not sure I want to.

So now I’m at the stage called thinking… Still…