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

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

Makro has nothing on this bad-boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the first time in over two weeks I went out into the world to buy food. I’d been putting it off for a few days and living off rice cakes, which I’ve nicknamed “nice cakes” in order to Emperor’s New Clothes my taste buds. Fun Fact, they still taste crap but they’re a suitable vessel for almond butter and one step up from a teaspoon or finger. Actually screw that, give me the jar and my finger any day..

‘Introducing new Almond Butter licked off a Finger- it’s the Covid-19 version of Fugu… it’s the “near death experience” that makes it so tasty.’

Shopping during an apocalypse is a completely different experience to pre-apocalypse (PA) shopping, because there’s a general tendency to favour the canned food section. But you know me, I like to live dangerously so I went ape shit for the lettuce. I went fucking bananas because I feel like I’m getting scurvy and even though lettuce is basically crunchy water I just couldn’t help myself. Italian mix, Romaine, baby gem, you name it I bought it. And, this is Woolworths lettuce, so it’ll survive longer than most of the cans you’ve got stashed in your walk-in pantries. Grapes? 2 for R60 “Yes Please!” Broccoli? “Come at me!” Butternut, onions, potatoes? No chance, this is the apocalypse and the whole butternut is the new avocado.

So, I meandered from the bountiful Woolies salad bar, past the barren wastelands of hardy “cupboard” veg, and reached the aisle where the long-life milk used to be. Unfortunately, suburbanites seemed to have got my memo about “nice cakes” because there were only two really fucked up packs of those, which I reluctantly drop-kicked into my trolley because I felt sorry for them. Plenty bread though; as my dad would say, “Plentch!” People obviously aren’t aware that you can freeze bread, or that we haven’t actually gone back in time to the “old days” where you had two days to eat your weekly loaf. Maybe okes around here are still banting? Who knows?

Toilet paper for days. Literally days of toilet paper. I hate all of you bastards for making me spend the last two weeks with 1Ply. It was kak. I do not recommend. 0 Star Rating.

It’s absolutely no surprise that there had been a “clean up in aisle four” and the shelves were completely devoid of canned food. A lot of kids are going to be really chuffed with another night of “tuna surprise” I’ll tell you that for free. “What’s the surprise mum?” “The surprise is it’s crap!” No jokes though, “the great can shortage of 2020” did upset me because I really fancied making that Sweetcorn Bake I read about in the Your Family magazine of May 1994. Never mind, when the apocalypse is over canned foods will no longer be a luxury item and I’ll be able to treat all of my friends to a nice plate of hot slop.

Fresh milk- 2 litres, and again it’s Woolworths milk so it’s as long-life as it gets. I should be concerned about how long Woolies food lasts but I’m not. I survived the 80s as a Tartrazine kid I’m basically bullet-proof. And, as it turns out cheese is no longer a hot item in the suburbs either… Seriously what the fuck are you people eating? You do know that cheese is basically frot milk right? It doesn’t go off… you just scrape off the manky bits and you’re good to go for at least another week. People are giving up on cheeses… bunch of heathens and sinners. Repent! So, after twenty minutes of not very careful shopping I was ready to join the social distancing queue and avoid those horrible healthy snacks in the gauntlet of financial ruin. FYI on the Woolies Snack Pack of Mixed Nuts Index, the economy is thriving.    

There’s an unwritten rule at supermarkets where you’re allowed to check out other people’s baskets and trolleys and pass judgement. It’s kind of like Vampire Rules, but you have to be a little bit discreet, you can’t point or be too obvious about your snooping. Yesterday I got some serious judgement and I could tell that people thought that I’m definitely not taking lockdown seriously at all. Not only was I wearing my “Not Today Satan” t-shirt, not only did I have way too much fucking lettuce (I think I may have buyers remorse), not only did I have the makings of one helluva cheeseboard (“What the fuck is this asshole celebrating doesn’t she know we’re in the midst of a pandemic?”), not only did I have zero canned or frozen items (not my fault), but I also wasn’t wearing a face mask (make up doesn’t count).

It’s weird that even though the shops are still open for business, and we’re told not to stockpile, there’s this mentality that we need to embrace the “Apocalypse Menu”. It’s wartime, and we have to go back to austerity cooking in order to show that we’re doing our bit for the war effort. And while I was musing about apocalypse cookbooks, as luck would have it, my friend “Jeff Goldblum” sent me an absolute clanger of a message.

‘So for some strange reason my diet is reverting to the mid 90s. Is it OK to crave Ultramel custard? It’s like Mandela is about to be released and we’ll never eat again. Buy Ultramel and toilet paper.’

‘And let’s not mention brown onion soup in a sachet…’

And then it happened… He sent two photos of “that chicken dish” and the potato bake made with the help of our friend Royco.

And as I looked at Jeff’s throwback to the bad old days it reaffirmed my belief that food is political. The Apocalypse Pantry has become a window into how we feared hunger and rationing in the past. And all of those fears come with a wave of nostalgia for the foods that we associate with “national lockdown”. Our long-lost friends Knorr, Royco, and Maggie are invited back to our dinner tables, we slip back into familiar conversations with them, and it’s like we’ve never been apart.

“Can someone please pass the Aromat.”