I wanted to keep on blogging here but I found a much more user-friendly site on news24.com. it's easier to leave comments and in general more accessible.
I can copy and paste from here to there but not vice versa ... and that's just to begin with. So my three loyal readers here must just bear with me when they see some of my older stuff there which I'm regurgitating for my new readers
I've been there for a week and I'm racing through their rankings, which is heartening... almost a 1000 places up in just a week. The new address is http://blogs.news24.com/chuckv See you there.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Man on a mission ... Episode 2
We crawl through interminable roadworks and Mark swears at the traffic. I assure him that roadworks are good. That was probably the downfall of Africa. A lack of roadworks. African tyrants deliberately let their communications networks collapse to prevent opposition parties from rallying. If I need to point out to you that roads are an integral part of an extended communications network, you are probably on the wrong site.
As we crawl through the roadworks I have time to observe the small, solid but shabby suburban houses along the highway. This is very therapeutic and I always suggest that as therapy for people who claim to be depressed. I crack another beer and rejoice ... I'm not living there!
Soon enough we're out of the roadworks and the traffic and on one of the dreariest highways in the country ... the N12 between Benoni and Witbank ... and in winter it is at its very dreariest. It is an open grassland with clumps of trees here and there, but everything appears to have a thin layer of coal dust on it ... every inch of it for the whole 100km stretch.
We listen to the blues of RL Burnside and it's fitting accompanyment to the landscape. Once the coalmines of Witbank is behind us, things start looking better and Mark decides that it's time for a beer. We listen to music and chat and stop for an excellent lamb curry at Milly's outside Machadodorp. Milly, whoever you are, all I can say is bravo. So do not hesitate to stop at Milly's outside Machadodorp. It was one of the best restaurant meals I've ever eaten in South Africa.
Outside Machadodorp we take the scenic Schoeman's Kloof road and drink more beer. I point out to Mark that I was a bit worried about the state of the road, but I need not have worried. It is in tip-top shape because it is privately maintained by a toll company. Once again proof that governments should be busying themselves with creating opportunities for their citizens and not try to do things by themselves. They muck it up, as the parlous state of most of South Africa's secondary government-maintained roads bear such eloquent witness to.
If you want to have potholes ... government is the body to turn to, they are excellent at creating and maintaining them and the only person who benefits is the guy who makes the 'Potholes next 5km' signs. He's coining it.
If you want a smooth road surface pay the toll and don't complain. There at least you get a lot for a little bit of tax whereas you get very little for a lot of tax paid to government.
But I digress. My mission is to get my mother's wheels to her and conclude my 67 Minutes for Madiba. This I accomplish with a flourish and mother is happy and my father is happy that my mother is happy and my brother Abrie and sister-in-law Maretha are happy and the dogs are happy and I'm happy and mark is happy ... I think it would suffice to say everybody is happy.
But there is still the little matter of getting my 80-year-old father online ... Episode 3 to follow.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A man with a mission ... Episode 1
I wake up and have a shit, shave and shower ... and realising that I woke up too early ... a wank too. I drink my morning tea, pack my bags and phone Mark Morrison with the good news that I'm ready to roll.
Mark answers his phone with the unquestionable grogginess that accompanies the terminal diabetic who spent the previous evening imbibing. This is at 8:45am and we're due to leave at 10am ... so all's good. Mark assures me that he needs "half an hour to surface".
I go for one of the best bargain breakfasts in Melville ... the 'uitsmijter' (the bouncer) at Die Agterplaas (literally translated, The Backyard) an exellent guest house across the road from me. The uitsmijter consists of an egg and ham and cheese on bread. With bottomless tea or coffee it will set you back R24. Cheap in any one's budget and you'll make new friends.
Be that as it may, 10am is approaching and at 9:45, I phone Mark to enquire where he is at. The oblique response is that he'll be "there in a half-an-hour ... or so." I neglect to enquire what 'or so' could possibly signify and regret it soon enough.
At 10:15 I can be observed sitting at my gate with my mother's "wheels"and my personal baggage ... going nowhere.
At 10:45, I can be observed in the same position, except that I'm now building up a head of steam about Mark being late, while simultaneously building up a dread of despair that he might have committed himself to a diabetic coma, because I phone repeatedly and there's no reply.
By 11am I'm considering dailling the emergency services, because Mark is still not answering his phone, I'm out of smokes and my over-used phone is out of battery power...
I just get my phone on a charger when Mark phones me to say that he is on his way.
In reply, I point out, in a rather pointed fashion, that there is a distinct difference between half-an-hour-or-so and an hour-and-half-and-more.
Mark retorts tersely that he had problems of his own and promises to apologise ONCE for his tardiness, because he had problems of his own.
I'm a man of great compassion, so I only inform him about the importance of punctuality for about 15 minutes into our trip until he points out, in a rather pointed fashion, that I should rather have a beer.
I take his advice, seeing that the whole conversation turned pointless anyway ... we're on holiday and while Mark is negotiating the midday traffic, I drink a beer and point out to him that we could have avoided it, if we left at 10am as planned...
Mark responds by turning the music up...
TO BE CONTINUED>>
Mark answers his phone with the unquestionable grogginess that accompanies the terminal diabetic who spent the previous evening imbibing. This is at 8:45am and we're due to leave at 10am ... so all's good. Mark assures me that he needs "half an hour to surface".
I go for one of the best bargain breakfasts in Melville ... the 'uitsmijter' (the bouncer) at Die Agterplaas (literally translated, The Backyard) an exellent guest house across the road from me. The uitsmijter consists of an egg and ham and cheese on bread. With bottomless tea or coffee it will set you back R24. Cheap in any one's budget and you'll make new friends.
Be that as it may, 10am is approaching and at 9:45, I phone Mark to enquire where he is at. The oblique response is that he'll be "there in a half-an-hour ... or so." I neglect to enquire what 'or so' could possibly signify and regret it soon enough.
At 10:15 I can be observed sitting at my gate with my mother's "wheels"and my personal baggage ... going nowhere.
At 10:45, I can be observed in the same position, except that I'm now building up a head of steam about Mark being late, while simultaneously building up a dread of despair that he might have committed himself to a diabetic coma, because I phone repeatedly and there's no reply.
By 11am I'm considering dailling the emergency services, because Mark is still not answering his phone, I'm out of smokes and my over-used phone is out of battery power...
I just get my phone on a charger when Mark phones me to say that he is on his way.
In reply, I point out, in a rather pointed fashion, that there is a distinct difference between half-an-hour-or-so and an hour-and-half-and-more.
Mark retorts tersely that he had problems of his own and promises to apologise ONCE for his tardiness, because he had problems of his own.
I'm a man of great compassion, so I only inform him about the importance of punctuality for about 15 minutes into our trip until he points out, in a rather pointed fashion, that I should rather have a beer.
I take his advice, seeing that the whole conversation turned pointless anyway ... we're on holiday and while Mark is negotiating the midday traffic, I drink a beer and point out to him that we could have avoided it, if we left at 10am as planned...
Mark responds by turning the music up...
TO BE CONTINUED>>
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Going to Hazyview again...
I'm just posting this to say welcome to Maphala Makgoba and Jaco Wessels. Maphala promised me 75 000 darkie followers and Jaco is probably gay. But all is well. So welcome.
Tomorrow I'm going to deliver my mother's "wheels" to her. Mark Morrison is giving me a lift.
I shall report from Hazyview ... my view right now is quite hazy.
Tomorrow I'm going to deliver my mother's "wheels" to her. Mark Morrison is giving me a lift.
I shall report from Hazyview ... my view right now is quite hazy.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Post-World Cup babelas and Murphy on Monday, but I foil him on Friday.
The post-World Cup Monday arrives in a big blue icy blotch and that man Murphy seizes on my post-World Cup babelas to turn my mild depression into a deep one.
Charles told me the previous evening already that he aimed to pack two episodes this week and I'm not thrilled at the prospect, but early Monday morning we are on our way to work. We notice the flags are coming down from the cars and share our regrets that the whole thing is over.
There are reports of xenophobic violence in Cape Town and elsewhere. The Minister of Police assures us that this is misleading as it was in fact just normal criminality. I sigh. Fucking normal criminality!
The World Cup is clearly over and the criminals and everybody else are back at work ... rather as glumly as I am, it would seem.
The reason that I'm at work so early on a Monday is the two episodes and I'm keen to get stuck in. There's a lot to be done, especially translations from English to Afrikaans. Because we always struggle to get enough Afrikaans content I spend a lot of time translating the voice-overs of essentially English inserts into Afrikaans.
Megan and Natalia both send me scripts to translate for this purpose. It is about shark nets and Megan assures me it is a short voice-over translation. In the past Megan has sent me so-called 'director's scripts' which are the rough drafts. So on the instruction of Mr Murphy, I open the one from Natalia first.
It is much longer than the one sent by Megan, But the kindly Mr Murphy assures me that it is so because it is more complete and therefore it is the correct one for the translation. To add some credence to his assertion the opening voice-over is indeed by Andre our Afrikaans anchor.
I get stuck in and can be observed in the stuck-in position for the next six hours ... when a technicality forces me to go and consult with Megan who then informs me that I should not be translating THAT one, but other one. There are indeed two inserts about shark nets.
I thank the good Mr Murphy for his kind damn advice and assures him that his job was indeed well done and that he may now leave the room and need not return any time soon. I use less than flattering terms, but for my sensitive readers I shall spare you the details. I went in early to try and get on the front foot and after eight hours I find myself on the back foot. I sigh and get on with the correct translation.
On our way back home, Charles tells me that he always looks for the positive in any situation but he fails to find any in my wasted day. Always looking for the positive myself, I point out to him that at least I learnt some new names for sharks. The tiger shark is not the 'tierhaai' as one would have expected, but rather the 'skaamhaai' which would translate into 'shy shark'. Charles remains unconvinced that gaining this bit of knowledge was worth the wasted six hours and so am I.
On Tuesday things begin running smoothly in the absence of Murphy and the rest of the week sees me stuck in the stuck-in position. I did, however, take time to make my peace with Vince on Tuesday night, so all is well, but it soon becomes apparent that we would not be packing two episodes in one week.
Still, on Friday I go in to continue work on the next episode, only to be told that I needed to translate the voice-over for the shark net insert as a matter of urgency because there was not enough Afrikaans. Yes indeed ... the same one that I aborted on Monday. I sigh and pray that I did not discard it completely.
It turns out that I got rid of Murphy just in time on Monday because it is still there. I give Murphy the finger and get stuck in ... thinking to myself that I am indeed lucky. It does not happen to many people that they can foil Murphy on a Friday, normally his most active day.
This bolsters my confidence to the extent that I borrow Charles' car and go and visit my lovely second ex-wife Amanda and her longtime boyfriend Daan in Pretoria. I spend a splendid Saturday afternoon and night there and return home now to write this piece as another part of my 67 minutes for Madiba ... to make my three readers' life better ... one can only hope.
Happy birthday Madiba and may there be many more. It would be too much for you to die while the post-World Cup babelas is still biting.
Meanwhile I wonder why nobody comments on my blog. I see people posting the most inane shit on Facebook like: "I'm SOOOoooo hungry!" and they get 37 comments.
I write a sort of well-crafted piece and not a squeak ... not even from my three readers. I sigh and say aloud to myself: "Myself, I sometimes wonder why I bother?" Myself replies with a shrug : "What else would you be doing?"
This altercation is just about to get ugly when one of my three readers, Mark Morrison phones to say that we should go and have lunch. I leave it there and and leave this here with a belated joke: Why did the dyslexic gay guy come to the World Cup? To blow a Zuluvela of course!
Charles told me the previous evening already that he aimed to pack two episodes this week and I'm not thrilled at the prospect, but early Monday morning we are on our way to work. We notice the flags are coming down from the cars and share our regrets that the whole thing is over.
There are reports of xenophobic violence in Cape Town and elsewhere. The Minister of Police assures us that this is misleading as it was in fact just normal criminality. I sigh. Fucking normal criminality!
The World Cup is clearly over and the criminals and everybody else are back at work ... rather as glumly as I am, it would seem.
The reason that I'm at work so early on a Monday is the two episodes and I'm keen to get stuck in. There's a lot to be done, especially translations from English to Afrikaans. Because we always struggle to get enough Afrikaans content I spend a lot of time translating the voice-overs of essentially English inserts into Afrikaans.
Megan and Natalia both send me scripts to translate for this purpose. It is about shark nets and Megan assures me it is a short voice-over translation. In the past Megan has sent me so-called 'director's scripts' which are the rough drafts. So on the instruction of Mr Murphy, I open the one from Natalia first.
It is much longer than the one sent by Megan, But the kindly Mr Murphy assures me that it is so because it is more complete and therefore it is the correct one for the translation. To add some credence to his assertion the opening voice-over is indeed by Andre our Afrikaans anchor.
I get stuck in and can be observed in the stuck-in position for the next six hours ... when a technicality forces me to go and consult with Megan who then informs me that I should not be translating THAT one, but other one. There are indeed two inserts about shark nets.
I thank the good Mr Murphy for his kind damn advice and assures him that his job was indeed well done and that he may now leave the room and need not return any time soon. I use less than flattering terms, but for my sensitive readers I shall spare you the details. I went in early to try and get on the front foot and after eight hours I find myself on the back foot. I sigh and get on with the correct translation.
On our way back home, Charles tells me that he always looks for the positive in any situation but he fails to find any in my wasted day. Always looking for the positive myself, I point out to him that at least I learnt some new names for sharks. The tiger shark is not the 'tierhaai' as one would have expected, but rather the 'skaamhaai' which would translate into 'shy shark'. Charles remains unconvinced that gaining this bit of knowledge was worth the wasted six hours and so am I.
On Tuesday things begin running smoothly in the absence of Murphy and the rest of the week sees me stuck in the stuck-in position. I did, however, take time to make my peace with Vince on Tuesday night, so all is well, but it soon becomes apparent that we would not be packing two episodes in one week.
Still, on Friday I go in to continue work on the next episode, only to be told that I needed to translate the voice-over for the shark net insert as a matter of urgency because there was not enough Afrikaans. Yes indeed ... the same one that I aborted on Monday. I sigh and pray that I did not discard it completely.
It turns out that I got rid of Murphy just in time on Monday because it is still there. I give Murphy the finger and get stuck in ... thinking to myself that I am indeed lucky. It does not happen to many people that they can foil Murphy on a Friday, normally his most active day.
This bolsters my confidence to the extent that I borrow Charles' car and go and visit my lovely second ex-wife Amanda and her longtime boyfriend Daan in Pretoria. I spend a splendid Saturday afternoon and night there and return home now to write this piece as another part of my 67 minutes for Madiba ... to make my three readers' life better ... one can only hope.
Happy birthday Madiba and may there be many more. It would be too much for you to die while the post-World Cup babelas is still biting.
Meanwhile I wonder why nobody comments on my blog. I see people posting the most inane shit on Facebook like: "I'm SOOOoooo hungry!" and they get 37 comments.
I write a sort of well-crafted piece and not a squeak ... not even from my three readers. I sigh and say aloud to myself: "Myself, I sometimes wonder why I bother?" Myself replies with a shrug : "What else would you be doing?"
This altercation is just about to get ugly when one of my three readers, Mark Morrison phones to say that we should go and have lunch. I leave it there and and leave this here with a belated joke: Why did the dyslexic gay guy come to the World Cup? To blow a Zuluvela of course!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
What goes with orange?
I buy myself an orange scarf and orange and white hat. I'm of Dutch descent after all ... even if that was more than 350 years ago. I have a Dutch surname and Amsterdam is my second most favourite city in Europe and today they can count on my full support ... Paul the octopus and his predictions can go and take the proverbial jump in the lake. There's a very accurate parakeet in Singapore that predicted that the Netherlands will win it.
Getting dressed this morning the orange scarf proves to be a bit of a poser. How on earth is one supposed to maintain one's sartorial elegance while wearing a bright orange scarf and a cardboard orange and white hat. The short answer is that one cannot, so I shrug it all off and put on a black blazer and a white shirt, telling myself that World Cup finals don't come around every second week and that I could for one day sacrifice my sartorial elegance for a greater cause.
I turn to the newspapers for inspiration and for once they do inspire me. It would seem that this is 'the best World Cup' ever. I'm happy to hear that because I also enjoyed it tremendously. It would also appear that our criminals took time off for the event. Crime in Joburg apparently dropped by as much as 60% during the event, so all is good.
It is good and bugger the 'babelas' that is beckoning tomorrow and beyond. I shall enjoy today to the full and suffer the consequences when I have to.
Anyway, I suspect that my personal hangover is going to be a Mickey Mouse affair when compared to what the country as a whole is likely to suffer. I'm not talking about just the depression of returning to a 'normal' life after so much excitement.
The criminals would no doubt be eager to recoup the lost 'opportunity costs' caused by their idleness during the event. Then there is also a specific vagueness as to the real costs of staging it, that I find disconcerting. I suspect somebody is going to have to pay and I suspect it may just be me and the rest of South Africa's 5 million (out of a population of about 46 million) taxpayers.
But enough of those negative thoughts. I think 'brand South Africa' benefitted enormously and the much-maligned Joburg more so than most. This is because before the World Cup tourists shunned the place and hurried of to more touristic and 'safer' destinations. The World Cup forced them to come to Joburg ... and enjoy its openness and friendliness.
Most of the foreigners I spoke to confirmed this and vowed to return as soon as they can. So I think I may allow myself a bit of sentimentality at this juncture and thank all the foreigners who came here for their bravery and good spirits that made the event. I salute my fellow South Africans for their hospitality and I thank the criminals for taking a holiday. Well done all ... okay enough of that already.
This afternoon Charles Moore is threatening to take me to the stadium on his bike... "WAITER, BRING ME A TEQUILA!!! AND HURRY!!"
Meanwhile there is a split threatening (if it has not happened already) in my circle of friends. The reason for this is Vince. It seems he is going out of his way lately to irritate me, clearly ignoring the fact that it is an unwritten rule of my circle of friends that if there's irritation to be done I do it to them and not vice versa.
Yesterday, I book a table to watch the Springboks take on the All Blacks. I book for 15 people because I know that the table would fill up even with strangers whom I can then meet.
I oversleep a little bit but still get there in good time for the match ... but without having had my morning tea. It is an equally well-known fact that I should best be avoided completely before my first cup of tea in the mornings and what you should not do before my first morning tea is to irritate me.
On my arrival I see Vince and Jan sitting at an extraordinarily small table for 15 and my temperature rises immediately. Did the restaurant screw up the booking? At the table I see that their is indeed a sign that reads: "CHARLES 15". I am about to enquire politely from the manager how he thought that 15 people could be seated around a four-seater table, when Vince glibly informs me: "I gave away your table."
This bit of news proves a bit too much for my pre-tea persona and I explode: "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!" And that was just my opening gambit. I go on to berate Vince in the most uncomplimentary manner until he ups and leaves.
Raymond the manager assures me that he would set me up another table for 15 in the courtyard whence I immediately decamp ... also pissed off with Jan for having let Vince e give away MY DAMN TABLE!
My tea has hardly arrived when Vince arrive to add insult to injury .... He tells me: "You need help." By this time I have fortunately taken a sip of my tea so I just roll my eyes, speechless at his effrontery before I can muster a 'FUCK OFF!'.
The keenly anticipated rugby match between the two top teams turns out to be a disaster from the Springboks' viewpoint. They get clobbered and my already dark mood turns all black, where it remains for the rest of the day no matter what I drink.
But that was then and this is now and I finally can tell you with what orange goes: The World Cup of course! HUP HOLLAND HUP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Getting dressed this morning the orange scarf proves to be a bit of a poser. How on earth is one supposed to maintain one's sartorial elegance while wearing a bright orange scarf and a cardboard orange and white hat. The short answer is that one cannot, so I shrug it all off and put on a black blazer and a white shirt, telling myself that World Cup finals don't come around every second week and that I could for one day sacrifice my sartorial elegance for a greater cause.
I turn to the newspapers for inspiration and for once they do inspire me. It would seem that this is 'the best World Cup' ever. I'm happy to hear that because I also enjoyed it tremendously. It would also appear that our criminals took time off for the event. Crime in Joburg apparently dropped by as much as 60% during the event, so all is good.
It is good and bugger the 'babelas' that is beckoning tomorrow and beyond. I shall enjoy today to the full and suffer the consequences when I have to.
Anyway, I suspect that my personal hangover is going to be a Mickey Mouse affair when compared to what the country as a whole is likely to suffer. I'm not talking about just the depression of returning to a 'normal' life after so much excitement.
The criminals would no doubt be eager to recoup the lost 'opportunity costs' caused by their idleness during the event. Then there is also a specific vagueness as to the real costs of staging it, that I find disconcerting. I suspect somebody is going to have to pay and I suspect it may just be me and the rest of South Africa's 5 million (out of a population of about 46 million) taxpayers.
But enough of those negative thoughts. I think 'brand South Africa' benefitted enormously and the much-maligned Joburg more so than most. This is because before the World Cup tourists shunned the place and hurried of to more touristic and 'safer' destinations. The World Cup forced them to come to Joburg ... and enjoy its openness and friendliness.
Most of the foreigners I spoke to confirmed this and vowed to return as soon as they can. So I think I may allow myself a bit of sentimentality at this juncture and thank all the foreigners who came here for their bravery and good spirits that made the event. I salute my fellow South Africans for their hospitality and I thank the criminals for taking a holiday. Well done all ... okay enough of that already.
This afternoon Charles Moore is threatening to take me to the stadium on his bike... "WAITER, BRING ME A TEQUILA!!! AND HURRY!!"
Meanwhile there is a split threatening (if it has not happened already) in my circle of friends. The reason for this is Vince. It seems he is going out of his way lately to irritate me, clearly ignoring the fact that it is an unwritten rule of my circle of friends that if there's irritation to be done I do it to them and not vice versa.
Yesterday, I book a table to watch the Springboks take on the All Blacks. I book for 15 people because I know that the table would fill up even with strangers whom I can then meet.
I oversleep a little bit but still get there in good time for the match ... but without having had my morning tea. It is an equally well-known fact that I should best be avoided completely before my first cup of tea in the mornings and what you should not do before my first morning tea is to irritate me.
On my arrival I see Vince and Jan sitting at an extraordinarily small table for 15 and my temperature rises immediately. Did the restaurant screw up the booking? At the table I see that their is indeed a sign that reads: "CHARLES 15". I am about to enquire politely from the manager how he thought that 15 people could be seated around a four-seater table, when Vince glibly informs me: "I gave away your table."
This bit of news proves a bit too much for my pre-tea persona and I explode: "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!" And that was just my opening gambit. I go on to berate Vince in the most uncomplimentary manner until he ups and leaves.
Raymond the manager assures me that he would set me up another table for 15 in the courtyard whence I immediately decamp ... also pissed off with Jan for having let Vince e give away MY DAMN TABLE!
My tea has hardly arrived when Vince arrive to add insult to injury .... He tells me: "You need help." By this time I have fortunately taken a sip of my tea so I just roll my eyes, speechless at his effrontery before I can muster a 'FUCK OFF!'.
The keenly anticipated rugby match between the two top teams turns out to be a disaster from the Springboks' viewpoint. They get clobbered and my already dark mood turns all black, where it remains for the rest of the day no matter what I drink.
But that was then and this is now and I finally can tell you with what orange goes: The World Cup of course! HUP HOLLAND HUP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Polishing turds and other travails of a subtitler...
It is often said that you cannot polish a turd, but I beg to differ.
In fact it is my job to polish language-related turds. Now you may want to know what a language-related turd looks like, in case one floats across your computer screen, but are too afraid to ask. Fear not I'll tell you...
But first a bit of background. I'm a language practitioner with more than 20 years experience ... no I'm NOT a linguist!
A linguist is someone who studies the mechanics or structure of a language. They need not even to understand or speak the language itself.
This would allow the renowned linguist Noam Chomsky to conclude that Afrikaans is the most sophisticated language in the world.
Sophisticated in the sense of being sleek, fast and effective ... like a Ferrari.
Structure and the mechanics of language are what turn linguists on. Just give your average linguist an organigram of the structure of deep-south Urdu and he'll get a happy glaze in his eye and excuse himself with a slightly guilty grin and disappear into the toilet while clutching it .
Language practitioners on the other hand, are the people who make sure language stays on the road it was intended to take. In other words, they make sure that other people say what they wanted to say correctly and clearly and in most cases better than what said other people could've said it themselves.
There is another branch of dealing with language and that is the grammarian. I honestly don't know what grammarians do except that it has got something to do with grammar. I also honestly don't know what they do for kicks ... or even if they do anything for kicks.
But back to polishing turds. In my line the most common turd I have to polish is what I would call the wafflers. They use many words to say virtually nothing. Here is an example: "Well, you know the problem was with the wheel... if I remember correctly, it was the front left wheel, but it could've also been the wheel on the roof, I mean the spare wheel. But the real problem was communication. Well, you know nobody communicated anything to anybody and you know communication is very important in situations like that. You know, I mean communication is very important full stop, but as I was saying you know, well there was then this communication problem with there being no communication about the wheel, I mean about the problem with the wheel....." And so on ad nauseum.
Now how to put that in a maximum of 80 characters? "Easy!" I can already hear you saying that. "There was a problem with communication about either the front left wheel or the spare wheel." Voila! Turd polished!
But you don't know the waffler.
His next utterance would almost certainly be: "But you know communication was not the real issue there. The problem was really that we had no spare wheel and you know...."
Surprisingly, wafflers are mostly men, which brings me to swallowers who are mostly women.
The swallower speaks in half sentences like this: "We were on our way to ... when Sally said she must ... then we stop and she ... but later we got ... and when we got ... the shops I mean."
I can go on and on, as is the people to whom I listen's wont, but that is enough. Okay that one was really easy to polish: "We were on our way to the shops when Sally said she had to stop and we got there later."
There are some turds that you can't polish. Those are when the people you have to transcribe speaks utter shit clearly but remain incomprehensible. Just listen closely to most politicians and you'll know what I'm on about. I just transcribe them as is ... and recommend that they be cut out completely.
Polishing turds is unfortunately just one of my travails. I have many.
The thing that I hate most in life is waiting. I can easily sit in a bar all afternoon and vacantly stare into space without being the least bit bothered, but if I sit in a bar waiting for someone, 15 minutes becomes an eternity.
At Clive Morris Productions I wait a lot ... knowing that each passing moment means that I would have to rush at another time and in my job rushing means fucking up. I wait for movies, I wait for scripts and I wait for people... I wait for THE VIEWING.
Just this morning I wait four hours for my last two jobs of the week, knowing that I would have to rush them in time for THE VIEWING... That they are the two biggest jobs of the week does not concern me at all ... I can't be bothered less.
No Sirree ... I take everything in my stride as I sit in the courtyard smoking one cigarette at a time and watching the minutes tick by as I light the next one...
While I wait I may just as well introduce you to some of my other close colleagues. You already know the three darkies in my office, the erudite Mr Zee, Fortunate and Ntoks as well as my long-suffering boss Charles Moore. I once remarked that in the long-suffering stakes at CMP only Charles beats me. Every problem, including mine, is his.
Now I'm ready to introduce Natalia and Megan. Natalia is the Line Producer, apparently meaning that she has to sign the whole thing off each week ... not a job that I want because my problems are hers too. Megan is the Content Producer meaning that she has to fill the show with interesting stuff each week ... not a job that I want either.
I like all aspects of my job and love my colleagues dearly, except during THE VIEWING. There is a reason why I write THE VIEWING as if it was the title of a B-grade horror or porn movie.
The Viewing happens once a week and then Charles, Megan, Natalia, the big boss Clive and the equally long-suffering editor Louise have the opportunity to display their prowess at subtitling.
My dearest Megan turns into Mean Hawk-eye Meg and good on her too for that.
Like any language practitioner I need a proper proofreader and I also need the ears of as many people as would care to hear the parts of the swallowed sentences that I could not. When I get the movies they are in 'rough cut' and the sound is of a variable quality. The fact that the darkies sometimes get loudly expressive of their joyful emotions behind me does not help my cause either.
I like my subtitles to be perfect and need all the help I can get, but they behave horrendously.
Clearly not knowing that each error spotted is a dagger to my heart, they would exacerbate my pain by sighing loudly, rolling their eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throwing their hands in the air and renting their clothes at each typo that I made in a rush to be in time for The Viewing... forgetting that I waited a long time for the job to arrive... and had to rush it.
That was until I crapped on them about it and intimated that I would resign about it. Remember my blog about shit and fighting it off to create space for the good stuff...
Now everybody is behaving in an exemplary fashion, but my pain at each error I made and spotted during the viewing remains... but it is not half as bad as my pain when I spot an error missed during The Viewing when the show is aired.
Then I sigh loudly, roll my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throw my hands in the air and rent my clothes...
I have never seen the 50/50 show ... I only watch the subtitles but you should try and catch the insert about seal clubbing in Namibia on youtube or wherever you can. It is truly horrendous and should be stopped. I'm not an activist but it was heart-rendering to watch. IT SHOULD BE STOPPED and I beseech all three of my readers to try and do something to get it stopped.
Meanwhile my sister Emily is fortunately back and the dogs moved out ... but they move back in as soon as she goes out ... to the great consternation of the damn cat Schmiegel. Tonight Emily was out and the dogs moved in and the damn cat Schmiegel finally settled down ... on my shoulder ... to complain ... in my ear ... which she also likes to lick and bite when she thinks I'm not paying attention ... which is often.
In fact it is my job to polish language-related turds. Now you may want to know what a language-related turd looks like, in case one floats across your computer screen, but are too afraid to ask. Fear not I'll tell you...
But first a bit of background. I'm a language practitioner with more than 20 years experience ... no I'm NOT a linguist!
A linguist is someone who studies the mechanics or structure of a language. They need not even to understand or speak the language itself.
This would allow the renowned linguist Noam Chomsky to conclude that Afrikaans is the most sophisticated language in the world.
Sophisticated in the sense of being sleek, fast and effective ... like a Ferrari.
Structure and the mechanics of language are what turn linguists on. Just give your average linguist an organigram of the structure of deep-south Urdu and he'll get a happy glaze in his eye and excuse himself with a slightly guilty grin and disappear into the toilet while clutching it .
Language practitioners on the other hand, are the people who make sure language stays on the road it was intended to take. In other words, they make sure that other people say what they wanted to say correctly and clearly and in most cases better than what said other people could've said it themselves.
There is another branch of dealing with language and that is the grammarian. I honestly don't know what grammarians do except that it has got something to do with grammar. I also honestly don't know what they do for kicks ... or even if they do anything for kicks.
But back to polishing turds. In my line the most common turd I have to polish is what I would call the wafflers. They use many words to say virtually nothing. Here is an example: "Well, you know the problem was with the wheel... if I remember correctly, it was the front left wheel, but it could've also been the wheel on the roof, I mean the spare wheel. But the real problem was communication. Well, you know nobody communicated anything to anybody and you know communication is very important in situations like that. You know, I mean communication is very important full stop, but as I was saying you know, well there was then this communication problem with there being no communication about the wheel, I mean about the problem with the wheel....." And so on ad nauseum.
Now how to put that in a maximum of 80 characters? "Easy!" I can already hear you saying that. "There was a problem with communication about either the front left wheel or the spare wheel." Voila! Turd polished!
But you don't know the waffler.
His next utterance would almost certainly be: "But you know communication was not the real issue there. The problem was really that we had no spare wheel and you know...."
Surprisingly, wafflers are mostly men, which brings me to swallowers who are mostly women.
The swallower speaks in half sentences like this: "We were on our way to ... when Sally said she must ... then we stop and she ... but later we got ... and when we got ... the shops I mean."
I can go on and on, as is the people to whom I listen's wont, but that is enough. Okay that one was really easy to polish: "We were on our way to the shops when Sally said she had to stop and we got there later."
There are some turds that you can't polish. Those are when the people you have to transcribe speaks utter shit clearly but remain incomprehensible. Just listen closely to most politicians and you'll know what I'm on about. I just transcribe them as is ... and recommend that they be cut out completely.
Polishing turds is unfortunately just one of my travails. I have many.
The thing that I hate most in life is waiting. I can easily sit in a bar all afternoon and vacantly stare into space without being the least bit bothered, but if I sit in a bar waiting for someone, 15 minutes becomes an eternity.
At Clive Morris Productions I wait a lot ... knowing that each passing moment means that I would have to rush at another time and in my job rushing means fucking up. I wait for movies, I wait for scripts and I wait for people... I wait for THE VIEWING.
Just this morning I wait four hours for my last two jobs of the week, knowing that I would have to rush them in time for THE VIEWING... That they are the two biggest jobs of the week does not concern me at all ... I can't be bothered less.
No Sirree ... I take everything in my stride as I sit in the courtyard smoking one cigarette at a time and watching the minutes tick by as I light the next one...
While I wait I may just as well introduce you to some of my other close colleagues. You already know the three darkies in my office, the erudite Mr Zee, Fortunate and Ntoks as well as my long-suffering boss Charles Moore. I once remarked that in the long-suffering stakes at CMP only Charles beats me. Every problem, including mine, is his.
Now I'm ready to introduce Natalia and Megan. Natalia is the Line Producer, apparently meaning that she has to sign the whole thing off each week ... not a job that I want because my problems are hers too. Megan is the Content Producer meaning that she has to fill the show with interesting stuff each week ... not a job that I want either.
I like all aspects of my job and love my colleagues dearly, except during THE VIEWING. There is a reason why I write THE VIEWING as if it was the title of a B-grade horror or porn movie.
The Viewing happens once a week and then Charles, Megan, Natalia, the big boss Clive and the equally long-suffering editor Louise have the opportunity to display their prowess at subtitling.
My dearest Megan turns into Mean Hawk-eye Meg and good on her too for that.
Like any language practitioner I need a proper proofreader and I also need the ears of as many people as would care to hear the parts of the swallowed sentences that I could not. When I get the movies they are in 'rough cut' and the sound is of a variable quality. The fact that the darkies sometimes get loudly expressive of their joyful emotions behind me does not help my cause either.
I like my subtitles to be perfect and need all the help I can get, but they behave horrendously.
Clearly not knowing that each error spotted is a dagger to my heart, they would exacerbate my pain by sighing loudly, rolling their eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throwing their hands in the air and renting their clothes at each typo that I made in a rush to be in time for The Viewing... forgetting that I waited a long time for the job to arrive... and had to rush it.
That was until I crapped on them about it and intimated that I would resign about it. Remember my blog about shit and fighting it off to create space for the good stuff...
Now everybody is behaving in an exemplary fashion, but my pain at each error I made and spotted during the viewing remains... but it is not half as bad as my pain when I spot an error missed during The Viewing when the show is aired.
Then I sigh loudly, roll my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, throw my hands in the air and rent my clothes...
I have never seen the 50/50 show ... I only watch the subtitles but you should try and catch the insert about seal clubbing in Namibia on youtube or wherever you can. It is truly horrendous and should be stopped. I'm not an activist but it was heart-rendering to watch. IT SHOULD BE STOPPED and I beseech all three of my readers to try and do something to get it stopped.
Meanwhile my sister Emily is fortunately back and the dogs moved out ... but they move back in as soon as she goes out ... to the great consternation of the damn cat Schmiegel. Tonight Emily was out and the dogs moved in and the damn cat Schmiegel finally settled down ... on my shoulder ... to complain ... in my ear ... which she also likes to lick and bite when she thinks I'm not paying attention ... which is often.
Friday, July 2, 2010
The cradle of petkind and I display a better side of myself
This being the World Cup everybody is using any excuse to take time off. The school kids are on an extended holiday and my niece and two nephews went to their respective fathers, mothers or whatever.
With my niece being away her damn cat Schmiegel moves in with me. Apart from being quite ugly, Schmiegel is also very vocal. She is forever complaining about something and insists on sitting on my lap while she is doing it. That would have been OK if she sat still, but no she is forever busy changing her position.
Her main complaint is about my sister Emily's dogs, especially the daschund called Wors. She has a particular and unSouth African distaste for Wors. I have an equal distaste for complaining women and busy cats and to have both on my lap soon becomes intolerable and I put Shmiegel on her cushion in front of the heater where she eventually comes to rest with a last desperate plea for the ring: "So that I can just sort out those damn dogs forever. I promise I'll give it back."
But as soon as I mumble something to myself (which is often) Schmiegel sees this as an invitation to a renewed conversation on my lap and the whole process starts anew. No wonder then that I struggle to blog these days.
Yesterday I dropped my sister off at the highspeed airport train station.Yes the so-called Gautrain is finally operational. She is off to Port Elizabeth to watch the Netherlands play Brazil with her sons and her ex-husband.
I promise to look after the animals. After work I celebrate that the week is over and that I got a "well done" for my subtitles. I'll soon write a blog about the travails of a subtitler.
When I stumble in at 12:30, the dogs are elated to see me. So elated that the crazy dog Daisy runs off into night. So their I am driving up and down in Melville's streets in my sister's car looking for a crazy little dog that looks like a gremlin out of the movie Gremlins.
When I finally spot her she just scoots off in another direction. I am tired and emotional and after cursing her solidly I return home only to find her waiting for me at the gate.
Once inside I check on everybody's food and get ready for bed while Schmiegel complains bitterly that I dared switch off the heater when I left for work. I am just in bed when there is a scratch at my door. I tell the dogs off in no uncertain terms but the scratching continues with increased intensity.
With a heavy sigh I open the door for them. They make a bee-line for my bed and much to Schmiegel's disgust I let them into the bed while she sits and hisses on the cupboard. Peace return after a while and the dogs and I sleep in the bed and Schmiegel in front of the heater which I left on for her.
This morning I display more of my better side and brace myself for a trip to Cresta, a gigantic shopping mall where I often get lost or lose the car that I borrow for such occasions in the parking lot. I am also convinced that I am the only real human that goes to Cresta. All the millions of other 'people' walking around their have the vacant stares of zombies.
The reason for this mission is that I want to buy my mother a walker, sort of a hi-tech Zimmer-frame with wheels and brakes and a seat and whatnot.
I go in get lost virtually immediately but after I asked directions once or twice, I find the place and buy the thing. I am determined to get out as quickly as possible, but I get lost again and I buy myself two pairs of trousers, a blazer and a pair of shoes. Now I'm really desperate to get out but I get lost again and end up in a perfume shop where I buy myself 51.3N from Dunhill.
I ask more directions from various 'people' and after a mere half-an-hour I finally locate the car and scoot out of there determined to keep up with my better side by writing a blog for my three readers, despite not feeling like it. But now I have had enough of being a goody two-shoes. So here you go my three readers I dedicate this blog to you and I'm off to the nearest bar.
With my niece being away her damn cat Schmiegel moves in with me. Apart from being quite ugly, Schmiegel is also very vocal. She is forever complaining about something and insists on sitting on my lap while she is doing it. That would have been OK if she sat still, but no she is forever busy changing her position.
Her main complaint is about my sister Emily's dogs, especially the daschund called Wors. She has a particular and unSouth African distaste for Wors. I have an equal distaste for complaining women and busy cats and to have both on my lap soon becomes intolerable and I put Shmiegel on her cushion in front of the heater where she eventually comes to rest with a last desperate plea for the ring: "So that I can just sort out those damn dogs forever. I promise I'll give it back."
But as soon as I mumble something to myself (which is often) Schmiegel sees this as an invitation to a renewed conversation on my lap and the whole process starts anew. No wonder then that I struggle to blog these days.
Yesterday I dropped my sister off at the highspeed airport train station.Yes the so-called Gautrain is finally operational. She is off to Port Elizabeth to watch the Netherlands play Brazil with her sons and her ex-husband.
I promise to look after the animals. After work I celebrate that the week is over and that I got a "well done" for my subtitles. I'll soon write a blog about the travails of a subtitler.
When I stumble in at 12:30, the dogs are elated to see me. So elated that the crazy dog Daisy runs off into night. So their I am driving up and down in Melville's streets in my sister's car looking for a crazy little dog that looks like a gremlin out of the movie Gremlins.
When I finally spot her she just scoots off in another direction. I am tired and emotional and after cursing her solidly I return home only to find her waiting for me at the gate.
Once inside I check on everybody's food and get ready for bed while Schmiegel complains bitterly that I dared switch off the heater when I left for work. I am just in bed when there is a scratch at my door. I tell the dogs off in no uncertain terms but the scratching continues with increased intensity.
With a heavy sigh I open the door for them. They make a bee-line for my bed and much to Schmiegel's disgust I let them into the bed while she sits and hisses on the cupboard. Peace return after a while and the dogs and I sleep in the bed and Schmiegel in front of the heater which I left on for her.
This morning I display more of my better side and brace myself for a trip to Cresta, a gigantic shopping mall where I often get lost or lose the car that I borrow for such occasions in the parking lot. I am also convinced that I am the only real human that goes to Cresta. All the millions of other 'people' walking around their have the vacant stares of zombies.
The reason for this mission is that I want to buy my mother a walker, sort of a hi-tech Zimmer-frame with wheels and brakes and a seat and whatnot.
I go in get lost virtually immediately but after I asked directions once or twice, I find the place and buy the thing. I am determined to get out as quickly as possible, but I get lost again and I buy myself two pairs of trousers, a blazer and a pair of shoes. Now I'm really desperate to get out but I get lost again and end up in a perfume shop where I buy myself 51.3N from Dunhill.
I ask more directions from various 'people' and after a mere half-an-hour I finally locate the car and scoot out of there determined to keep up with my better side by writing a blog for my three readers, despite not feeling like it. But now I have had enough of being a goody two-shoes. So here you go my three readers I dedicate this blog to you and I'm off to the nearest bar.
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