Happy Birthday Madiba !

Morality - Integrity - Compassion - Humility

The World Cup is over, but as the Italians celebrate over the next few days, another world cup plays itself out at our home on the farm.

We’ve had our fair share of wildlife in and around the house over the past months, with the passing of summer into autumn into winter, and we will have our share of newcomers as spring breaks, just over a month away.

I’ve had crickets in my shoes and spiders in my stack of Jerseys. We found one snake between our feet one summer’s day, while I was cooking, and another seeking warmth from the approaching winters cold, behind the refrigerator. They we’re all photographed and returned to the veld.

We’ve always had field mice in the ceiling and lived with it, as we do with the mosquitoes and annoying flies during summer.

But the newcomers are downright intrusive and noisy. With them they bring filth and disease, not to mention the ability to spread wanton destruction wherever they make their home. Not unlike Nazi vandals let loose in a Jewish cemetery.

Yes, fellow citizens. Rats have invaded our home!
At first we tried to ignore the scurrying, up and down the length of the ceiling of the house. But, when they continued noisily into the early hours of the morning, and started entering the house, I decided to have a look see what can be done about the menace. Two nights ago I grabbed a ladder and armed with a piece of rubber piping, climbed up the ladder and eased open the trapdoor.

I had no idea what to expect, but visions of a fat albino rat in the corner, popping out newborn rat-vandals, every few seconds, did pass fleetingly through my vivid imagination.
So I decided to get the lead-light from the garage first. You know, so I can see where I’m going and not fall through the ceiling and land at dearest’ feet in the lounge. I should mention here that I have an absolute hate for the furry fuckers. I don’t fear them, I just hate them. (Some dignity restored, I hope)

Anyhow, back at the ladder, I opened the door, and shone the light around. I heard them scurrying in all directions and saw shadows rising and falling as I called back to my brother to hold the light so I could move freely.

In the middle against the nearest wall was The Nest. A large mound of grass and twigs, with a few dead mice in various stages of decay, scattered nearby. After we established that the rats had left the building, we started by plugging all the holes and cracks along the roof.

Little did we know that they were in fact hiding under the foam insulation around the geyser, and would be back to their semi-final playoff the moment we had closed the door and returned to the lounge.

The following night we returned to the lair and removed the nest and all the foam insulation, and closed more holes we missed the previous night.

And finally last night there was no noise at all. The rat poison we had left was all but finished, and the dead rats in the garden was a telltale sign that at least the stuff works. I will do some more cleaning over the weekend and lay out some more poison

Seb Blatter closed the 2006 World Cup Final on Sunday. Hopefully the Rat final ended last night.

World Cup Final

At first I thought I would support France to win the World Cup Final, as I was very impressed with their improvement over the course of the Cup.

But within minutes of hearing that France were the favourites to take the coveted Gold Trophy, I changed my mind and decided to support the underdogs, as is my nature.

It was a brilliant final and with Italy levelling the score, I knew it was going to be a cracker. Not even Zidane’s head butt-episode marred a thrilling Kick-off to Penalty-kick final.

What A twit Zidane must have felt like anyway. Either, a Not-Too-Pleasant comment was made of his Algerian Background, or mention was made of his mother making a killing in the red-light district.

I couldn’t care less if you had bad-mouthed my mother, I would have had a one on one with you, after the match.

It’s not the first time either. Back in Oct. 2000 he head butted Jochen Kientz in a Juventus vs. Hamburg, UEFA champions league match. Also remember the stomping of a Saudi Arabian in the ’98 World Cup finals.

Not to worry. He’s sure to apologise, if he hasn’t already, and be forgiven by his millions of adoring fans. That is the way the soccer-cookie crumbles. Marradona’s fans still blame everything but the man, when it comes to his wrongdoings. Why should Zidane’s fans be any different?

Putting pen to paper..

The whole world just loves to blame everything on the United States, and in particular George Bush, as he leaves himself open to so much criticism. For once however, I have to agree that his failure to push for the ratifying of the Kyoto Protocol makes the US no worse than those countries that have signed the treaty.

163 countries for instance, have ratified the Kyoto Protocol, yet those countries do no more or less, than the US or Australia that have not ratified the treaty, to reduce emissions.

South Africa was one of the original signatories, yet every morning and evening I’m treated to the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets to and from work, which are only more remarkable because the pollution accentuates the colours so well. The pictures(click to enlarge) are not of low cloud cover on the western horizon, but pollution formed into lines by a slow northern breeze that blows in from Soweto and the surrounding informal settlements

The most remarkable thing about this is the fact that all these households, including the informal settlements have electricity. Yet, they continue to buy dark coal from the street to burn in drums and old coal stoves. And how does Mbeki propose to teach newspaper vendors not to burn tyres by the side of the road to keep warm at 5 in the morning?

Sign what you want, but if you don’t make a concerted effort to educate your population as to what the long-term effect of their little indiscretions are, you can tear up the documents and use it to keep yourself warm in your corner office at the Union Buildings.

Have a nice day, and remember.. don't blame me for your second-hand smoke inhalation!

My fortune for peace and quiet.

It seems that just as I slide into happydom, something always comes along to fuck my day up, right and royally.

It’s pretty much a fuck up from day one, when you’re just not interested in people and all you want is to be left alone and do as you please. Wake up early, switch on ‘NFS-Most wanted’, and while away a few hours, pissing off cops, as you race around in a Lamborghini or Aston Martin trying to get to the top of the “blacklist”.

It’s never going to happen. People have different agendas, and no matter how much you try to appease everyone, there’s always a missing happy-chromosome somewhere, and my sweaty palms soon turn to dried up frustration. The house fills with other beings and I give up.

Maybe if I fix some things around the house, I’ll be rewarded with some free-time to do some work on my computer, but fixing the bed leads to fixing the bathroom door to fixing the timing on the car to being too damn irritable to change the channel on the TV because my free-wheeling brother ‘tells’ me to, and I fold back into the black velvety folds of my safety zone, for a minute or two before the screaming starts again.

From that which is mine, I get no pleasure anymore.

Take it all; just give me back the peace and quiet that is me.

Whooosh! ..crackle ...pop

One day we're gonna get home and the whole bloody place is going to be burnt to the ground.

I just hate the fuckers that burn the veld just for the fuck of it. They have no fuckin comprehension of what disaster can be caused by a not-so-innocent match thrown into the veld. Especially at this time of the year, when the grass is drier than a spinster's fanny.

Twice now we've had veld fires bordering on our property, with the last one coming right up to the northern wall, and literally melting the bathroom windows. Okay, some plastic sheeting we use to cover a hole in the window, but nevertheless, what the fuck. It could easily have ignited the curtains inside, and laid everything we own to waste.

Some locals also use the grass for thatching, but do you think these brainless fuckin arsonists give a fuck that they're also putting their brothers out of work? I don't fuckin think so.

Let nature take care of business. If it's meant to burn it will burn. Otherwise keep your arsonist depravings for the braai, for fuck sakes.



Cheers!

Born to Porn

I read on a blog how this woman was getting worried about the amount of porn her boyfriend was watching. He’d be up in the early hours of the morning and late in the evening, while she was supposedly asleep, and surf porn sites. She wrote that he was virtually obsessed, and he would get defensive whenever she mentioned it to him.

After confronting him about it over a short period of time, he eventually ‘normalised’ until he no longer surfed porn sites at all. She was actually frightfully worried about his ‘deviant’ tendency, and asked fellow bloggers to comment on the subject. I’m not going to go into the comments, suffice to say that this blog server has an 80/20, female to male ratio of bloggers.

Personally I see no harm in people watching or reading Porn.
It is Porn, as seen from a female perspective, that I have a problem with. Some women feel the reason why their better half watches porn as an inadequacy on their part. Maybe I don’t give him what he wants; maybe he wants women with bigger breasts, or perhaps younger women. Blah de fuckin blah.

Whatever the reasons for their thinking, I’m going to tell you the secret, so the few women that actually read this fucked up blog can go home tonight, and relax, knowing that all is well with their hubbies, and that he’s not a deviant sexual predator, or kinky leather-and-bondage freak.

Apart from a small percentage of men whom enjoy sex of a ‘deviant’ nature or crave for “The kinkier the better” –pleasure zones, the majority of us just love woman, and everything they consist of. In flesh that is. I’m not going to elaborate on loving the spiritual and the mind and all that, as the sole purpose of this article is carnal.

Men love women. That is the crux of the matter. We love your bodies, with their small impurities, blemishes and shortcomings. After all, we are not perfect either, and not counting the ‘over-comb of the bald-spot’ bothering some men, we get along with our bodies quite well, and just wish that you would do the same. The reason we watch porn, is… yes you guessed it! There are naked women. Sometimes there are two or three, or even more together, but we don’t care. They’re women and they’re naked.

Since loosing my virginity at an early age, I’ve had the pleasures of an array of women. Some were stunning, some average. A few leaned towards plumb, and some were rather thin, but I enjoyed the sex with each and every one of them. Can they say the same about me? I would have difficulty believing that. Most of our inadequacies as men stem from the high expectations women have of us. Since childhood they’ve been under the spell of the “White Knight Syndrome”. Someday my knight in shining armour will come, etc, etc. Leaving us with a mountain to climb even before we attempt the first kiss.

It therefore goes without saying, that Porn is also a learning curb for us. It’s an easy stepping-stone, without the rejection and mood swings. I can say without a doubt in my mind, that porn has made me a more versatile lover, and will continue to help many a pimply, pubescent boy on his way to manhood.

Ease up a bit. Perverts may click on the photo

Keep your eyes on the back.

Some years back while checking my Boney before a Rally, I realised that the starter was stuffed, and that I would have to make other plans to get there. So I phoned around asking if anyone had space for a pillion and a sleeping bag. The only luck I had was in a car; with a chap I had made friends with at some biker jol.

He was a spindly fellow, with muscular dystrophy and a passion for talking. He has since passed away, and I mean no disrespect to him or his family in writing this.

As luck would have it, my best friend was also going in the same car, due to his Harley giving him uphill as well. So ‘John’ arrived promptly in morning with a jolly demeanour and a cubbyhole full of Mary Jane. I packed my stuff and off we went to collect my buddy. What was meant to be short drive became a bloody nightmare for me, and when we got to my friend’s house I was a wreck, man.

I’m just the worse kind of passenger. I’ve been in many accidents, and I therefore tend to be nervous as hell, especially in a car.
We picked my buddy up, and I asked if I could sit in the back. It was to get no better.

John had the annoying, and downright scary compulsion, of having to look at you while he was talking. Not so bad when you take the odd glimpse at your passenger, but when you look away from the road for sentences at a time, it becomes fuckin piss-in-the-pants goose fleshy. To make matters worse, he would do the same when talking to me. And I’m sitting in the back!

I asked him if he could please look in the mirror, if he absolutely had to look at me. He’d be okay for a minute or two, before resorting back to practically craning his neck to see me. To make matters worse he smoked Jay, while driving, so the more I ask him to chill out with the driving, the bigger joke it would become with him. Eventually I stripped my moer and asked him to pull over.

I walked around to his window and asked him to get out. He obliged, and I told him to get in the back. I drove the rest of the way and back after the Rally.

Thereafter, whenever John picked me up to go somewhere, he would get out of the car and let me drive. We became good friends and he was a great passenger; passing me a shorty, while I concentrated on the road.

Miss ya, buddy.