THE WORLD CUP! .... THE VUVUZELA IS HERE!!!!!!!!!!

SORRY THAT I'M SHOUTING ... IT'S JUST THAT YOU WON'T HEAR ME OTHERWISE!!!!!!!!
Seriously ... Yesterday everyone who owned a vuvuzela in Joburg blew it from 12pm to 1pm ... and sporadically throughout the afternoon and evening.

My friend Jan says in his office it sounded like a beehive on the move and outside like the coming of the second revolution...

Jan must have very good soundproofing in his office because inside my office it sounded like a thousand beehives on the move .... or at least the Israelites leaving Egypt and blowing down the walls of Jericho.

I am more in agreement with his second statement and given that Jan is not prone to hyperbole, you better believe me when I say that it was an unparalleled racket...

Forget the flags ... this is going to be the World Cup of the VUVUZELA!!!!!!!!

(Just a brief note on the flags ... there were 316 of them on the last official count. The schools closed and Charles and I are no longer driving Kieran to school in Parkview so any flag count from here on would be unscientific because the parameters of our study changed.

We did briefly consider beginning a new study on our new route but when he nearly drove into some-one while counting flags yesterday ... I forbade him to count any more flags today and desisted from doing so myself. In any case we were dog tired from work because everybody else wanted to be 'off' next week ... and we wanted to be off tomorrow ... so we packed two episodes in one week .... and could not even be bothered with our own private obsessions.


Meanwhile my spy, Lizette Pretorius from Pretoria reports that she counted 173 on her designated scientific route yesterday and remarked in her confidential report: "Even Pretoria is getting it!"

The 'it' being GEES ... as encapsulated by the VUVUZELA!!!! I can even hear a solitary one now... sounding forlorn like the mating call of a moose... Never heard that sound myself but I have an imagination. Lastly flagged my hat ... SA/France...)
Okay, I admit, that was not a brief note ...

My new best friend Maphala Makgoba did indeed join my blog and now the darkies outnumber the Germans on my follower list ... so there Gabrielli.

Talking about Germans ... they seem to be the predominant group of World Cup tourists in Melville at the moment ... followed by Americans ... British ... Spanish or Portuguese (from wherever they hail, ) ... French and Italians.

This was not a scientific study but Charles Moore and I decided it should be the next survey so I began listening to the tongues around me.

But I did meet Rufus and Dan from London and Arne from Germany.
As for talking to Germans ...

I went and sat down ... tiredly ... at a German table in a restaurant in Melville to smoke a cigarette, as we do here when you are a smoker in a non-smoking section of a restaurant, and talked to them ... as I do.

Arne had two darkie chicks with him. There is something deeply unsurprising about that.

The one was Naledi (it means 'star' in seSotho) ... she did mention her last name but it was too noisy for me to hear it and the other was Patience. I did my survey on the usage of the word 'darkie' with them and they shrugged it off. No offence ... but Naledi reckoned it was "a level of education thing" or something like that.

I disagreed because I conducted a more broad-ranging survey among darkies since my last altercation with Gabrielli.

The rules of engagement are simple: I call them darkies and they call me King Charles ... sorry I could not resist that. They call me whatever ... mlungu, Boertjie, whitey... for the duration of the World Cup it would seem that we South Africans are going to be a nation united.

I am off today so I am free to mingle with the crowds ... I'll keep you posted.

WELCOME MAPHALA ... sorry ... a VUVUZELA!!!!! again.

I lost my car keys, my equilibrium and my pride .... the World Cup is HERE!

I don't even have a car ... or equilibrium or money or whatever ... but the World Cup is HERE!

At least I found my pride again. It was stuck under my shoe and smelled funny ... but hey... I found it there.

The title comes from the Tom Waits song "The one that got away'. I did indeed lose my keys yesterday and that put my equilibrium at stake because I had to sleep at Jan's house ... after only realising that I lost my keys at 5am ... Not a propitious start or end to any day.

So having slept in the foreign country called Parkwood ... Jan brings me back to Melville. We discuss flags with his daughter Julia who says that she is trying to convince him to get one and he says patriotism is a good thing for primitive people.

I agree with I think, Disraeli' .... How does one spell that!!!!? How I wish now I said: "I agree I think with Gladstone ... who said: (In politics) patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel."

But let us move on. I am proud of Joburg and our embracing of the event. We are flagging up big time... We are here ... and when we drive into Melville there are flags everywhere. And everybody is happy.

But flags are not all ... the place is teeming with foreigners ... and they want to talk ... so instead of working I'm talking .... and loving it. THE WORLD CUP is here... but while I'm talking to foreigners I am also drinking and they are all having a whale of a time and I'm AT F"""kin last replacing Windows Vista ("£$%^&********) with Windows 7 and it seems to be a bit better.

One lives in hope.

I speak to two foreigners at Nuno's ... OK they are only from Randburg, but hey.... they are foreign to me. I ask them if their cars (you cannot live in Randburg without at least two cars) had flags on and they assure me that they WILL FLAG UP before the end of the week.

They are Dave and Cathy .... just for the record. Dave is "in the import/export@ business and Cathy ... is "just an accountant" .... I roll my eyes.

But the World Cup is here and Melville is buzzing and I love it.

Meanwhile Amanda gave me a beautiful painting.

A reversible self-portrait of her in hope and despair ... my normal state ...

In hope she blows bubbles on the beach ... in despair she drowns beneath jellyfish ...

OK welcome to MY DAUGHTER TAMLIN (AT LAST), Jaco Wessels, Braam van Straaten, Elize Viljoen and if I missed someone ... Welcome anyway.

VUVUZELAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ... BRING EARPLUGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

South Africans are very inventive people.

Just think about it... A South African guy invented the only South African product that was used on the spacecraft that went to the moon ... Pratley Putty. I know it is self-evident that a South African should have invented the only South African product to be used in the spacecraft that went to the moon but YOU can try to put it better.

A South African also invented open-heart surgery... the Book of the (last) Century ... Lord of The Rings ... and 'dolosse' ... those concrete wave-breakers that you see around shorelines across the world ... as well as 'the plumbing of secure internet transacting' ... apartheid (a model that the Jews and Palestinians have been trying to implement with the same measure of success that we had here for many a year ... none) ... Mrs Balls' Original Chutney ... Appletizer ... in short too many things to mention in a short blog like this one...

But then, to top it all, the world's worst wind instrument ... the vuvuzela. Now the vuvuzela is a hollow plastic tube in the form of a trumpet and when one blows on it, it produces a SOUND ...

The SOUND of ... a power drill hitting concrete... an angle grinder through cold-rolled steel ... a tomcat on heat being strangled ...

Now I've never strangled a tomcat on heat and never will ... neither have I had any contact with people who strangle tomcats on heat and if I see a person strangling a tomcat on heat rest assured that I shall intervene ... by calling the relevant authorities.

What I'm trying to get at is that this 'weapon of mass distraction' produces a sound so ugly that one would probably be better off by never hearing it. When I described the sounds above, I was talking about a single vuvuzela ... but what soccer fans are likely to encounter is that of a single one ... multiplied ... by only 90 000.

Fifa hinted ... briefly ... at banning the vuvuzela during the World Cup ... but soon backed off.

South African soccer lovers would hear none of it ... they can't hear anything anyway because the SOUND of many vuvuzelas has been proven to be harmful to hearing. It has been compared to the sound of a million angry bees with vocal cords on steroids ... and that is putting it mildly.

Nevertheless this weapon may just see Bafana Bafana score a goal as the opposing teams lose their balance as their hearing goes ... we live always live in hope in SA.

In another ironic twist ... the voices from within South Africa trying to ban the vuvuzela were just beginning to be heard when ... the Blue Bulls went to Soweto. Now it is not only the darkies at soccer matches blowing the damn thing ... it is also whiteys at rugby matches. The Afrikaans daily Beeld announced it on their posters: "BULLS SAVE VUVU". You can always count on Pretorians to be well-meaning but ultimately destructive.

In their insularity they are much like the Americans. As Churchill put it so well: "One can always count on the Americans to do the right thing ... once they have exhausted all other possibilities..."

So make peace with it ... buy earplugs and know that the vuvuzela can now be bought craftily-beaded in the colours of your country's flag by our ever-inventive 'bead-and-wire' artists on the steets of Joburg and Melville specifically ... BECAUSE WE LIKE TO BE LOUDLY SOUTH AFRICAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I got a darkie chick, one Maphala Makgoba, whom I just met, to vouch for the veracity of this blog ... so there we have race realtions again ... she said she would definitely join the blog.

"this damn whitey promised me a round of drinks in exchange of joining his blog. He apparentely has one darkie as a follower which makes me the second darkie. In two weeks he will have atleast 20 darkies. You just have to love South Africa, you meet a whitey you negotiate terms of engagement or blow a vuvuzela in the ear of whitey> and wallahhhh..."Maphala

OK that was my new best friend Maphala ... you just got to love South Africa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rian Malan tells it as it is ... couldn't have done better in a month of Sundays update

The following piece by Rian Malan was sent to me by email and since it encapsulates many of my personal views so much better than I could say it I decided to post it here. I'm sure Rian won't mind ... if he does ... let him sue me.

It's a sunny weekday afternoon in Jo'burg, and I am lunching with friends at an outdoor restaurant. The joint we're in was hit by armed robbers earlier this week.

The newspapers on the table are full of hair-raising tribulations – our former police chief on trial for bribery, commuter buses shot up by murderous taxi bosses who won't tolerate competition, and elders of the African National Congress declining to sign the charge sheet against Julius Malema, the controversial youth leader who made global headlines the other day by endorsing Robert Mugabe, the cocky little psychopath who ruined neighbouring Zimbabwe.

Malema is now facing disciplinary charges, but no one in the ruling party is willing to take the risk of being identified as his accuser.

This is worrying. Are racist demagogues winning the battle for control of the ANC? Are decent black men scared to take a stand lest they find themselves alongside whites, trussed up in the missionary cooking pot while Malema lights a fire beneath us?

In a normal society, such questions would induce nervous breakdown, but my mates and I are laughing.

We're sitting in the African sun, sharing jokes, and wondering how to con foreigners into coming here for the World Cup.

Once upon a time, South Africans imagined that this soccer extravaganza would make us all rich.

Myself, I struggled to believe that half a million football tourists would cross the planet in the midst of a brutal recession to visit a country best known for its high crime rate.

My neighbours scoffed, preferring to believe they would make a killing by renting out their homes. Alas. Bookings are running at about half the anticipated level.

Would-be scalpers are stuck with tickets they can't even give away, and Fifa's gluttonous marketing arm has reportedly managed to lease only 1% of the luxury private boxes in our enormously expensive new stadia.

I am rather enjoying the resulting cries of pain. Fifa has made a monkey out of South Africa , encouraging us to spend billions we don't have on football stadiums we don't need in the absurd belief that we could recoup our losses by gouging football tourists whose willingness to come here was always in doubt.

Our own leaders collaborated enthusiastically, partly because they relished the glory of presiding over an event of World Cup stature, but also because they were eager to participate in murky backroom deals that saw politically connected individuals reaping obscene profits on taxpayer-funded construction contracts.

Now we're all saddled by debts it will take generations to pay off. I'm so riled that part of me would be gratified if the World Cup were a complete failure.

But South Africa is a complicated country, and there's always another side of the story. As I write, a certain Mrs Gladys Dladla is ironing clothes in my kitchen.

Gladys is an old-school Zulu matriarch, struggling heroically to maintain a huge family on her meagre earnings as my once-a-week char. She lacks the wherewithal to bribe officials who control access to state housing, so she's lived in a tin shack for 16 years.

In recent weeks, getting to work has become a frightening ordeal thanks to renewed tensions between police and the aforementioned taxi thugs.

Gladys's life seems entirely miserable, but she always shows up on time, chattering cheerfully about church and her hope that God and the ancestral spirits will soon guide us to victory in the national lottery. Gladys and I have a little syndicate going.

The World Cup is an event of huge symbolic importance to Mrs Dladla. In the next several weeks, oily ANC politicians will attempt to convince you that this tournament is a tribute to their heroic victory over apartheid and associated triumphs of the human spirit.

Hm. For people like Gladys, the longing for success is actually rooted in despair. They're so tired of being losers and also-rans, trapped at the bottom of a society that constantly threatens to degenerate into just another African basket case.

Their dream was that in June 2010 the world's eyes would descend on us, and at last find something to admire. Mrs Dladla looks on these things with enormous pride.

She feels that their glory reflects on her directly, and besides, there's always the hope that football tourism might generate jobs for her unemployed offspring.

She was a great supporter of short-lived plans to turn my rambling old home into a cheap doss house for football hooligans. In the end, I baulked at paying tribute to Fifa, whose lawyers crushed all attempts to market World Cup lodgings through any channels other than their own.

Just as well, because our doss house would most likely have failed anyway.


So now we stand before you with clean hands. We have nothing to gain from the World Cup but the pleasure of your company, so it would be nice if you changed your minds about coming. Please! We've almost bankrupted ourselves in our determination to stage a tournament that runs like clockwork.

And if it doesn't – you can have a chuckle at our expense. Last week's newspapers reported a state of abject unreadiness among the pom-pom girls scheduled to perform at the opening ceremony.

A day or two later, President Jacob Zuma informed America that we have the laziest and most useless civil service on the planet.

Elsewhere such an admission would have precipitated the government's downfall. Here, the story was relegated to page five.

I struggle to see how anyone can resist a country where such things happen. South Africa is amazing! At any given moment, all possible futures seem entirely plausible. We are winning, we are losing. We are progressing even as we hurtle backwards.

Every day brings momentous exhilarations and dumbfounding setbacks, and the sun shines brightly even in winter. Throw in the heady proximity of Mandela and Beckham, and you're almost guaranteed a splendid time.

As for crime, well, yes, crime is a threat, but our police have been given orders to smash anyone who so much as touches a hair on any football fan's head.

If you book now, you'll arrive just in time to catch a last glimpse of our fading rainbow, and the first stirrings of our next upheaval.If that sounds alarming, I wouldn't worry. There is much to be said for living on the edge, in a place shot through with "heartspace and the danger of beauty", as the Boer poet Breytenbach once phrased it.

Britain seems pallid in comparison. We are told that your election was an event of epochal significance, but from Jo'burg, it looked boring – three nice white men with almost identical opinions jostling for space on the same centrist pinhead. As for the prospect of a hung parliament… you call that a crisis? Good God. We have far worse, every day, before breakfast. And we're still laughing. Better get here before we stop.

FLAG UPDATE: Charles Moore and Kieran counted 128 flags this morning. My efforts are being rewarded.

South African language ... that you should know ...

A sort of a friend mine (I shall not divulge ... so don't ask) compiled a glossary of common South African English words that can be found on http://www.mediaclubsouthafrica.com/ ... go there for more 'good news' stories about this 'blighted' place ...

I wanted to post the direct link but I AM USING @#$%^& WINDOWS @#$%^&* VISTA ... so it's not possible.

Language in SA is an interesting topic ... if you are interested in language ... I am ... so here goes ...

We have 11 official languages and I'll try and list them ... remember I said 'try' and hopefully in 'spoken by most people' (even as alternative language) sequence ... forgive me if I get it wrong ... I'm in no mood for internet research ... check the dateline. So here goes:

1. English


2. isiZulu


3. Afrikaans


4. isiXhosa


5. seSotho


6. sePedi


7. seTswana ... these three are very close and as a language group probably much bigger than most of the above


8. siSwati


9. tshiVenda


10. isiNdebele


11. xiTsonga

I studied ... if you can call my endeavours at school studying ... seSotho or sePedi ... until I left school and I even had some vocabulary ... but then I began with French at university and since then ... I lost everything but a basic greeting.

Most whiteys profess that they regret not having learnt to speak a darkie language but very few of them ever do. Most darkies speak several languages so ... a Sotho would probably also sepak Zulu and Xhosa and all the other Pedi languages ... as well as Afrikaans and/or English depending on where he or she grew up.

On the mines everybody speaks Fanagalo ... a type of 'universal' language that was created to facilitate communication between the various nations that would put the creators of Esperanto to shame ... because this one actually works.

According to the linguistic legend Noam Chomsky, languages living together in the same space will inevitably 'contaminate' each other and nowhere is that seen quite like in South Africa ... I think in 50 years or so ... we will all be speaking Fanagalo.

For the moment one would only need a basic English in South Africa to get around. It is the lingua franca of the country after all.

So when my maid Zita reiterates her plan to become a magosha (the 'g' is pronounced with a guttural ggggg sound not 'gh' or 'gee') I know she wants to become a prostitute. Yes Zita is still adamant that she will sell her body during the World Cup ... for R500 a pop. I point out to her that it is slightly above the current market average and she retorts: "Aikona ... I will throw in a massage and and a blowjob as well ... all adding up to hard work. I just roll my eyes.

Words that you will definitively encounter in SA:

aikona - no
braai - barbeque
biltong - dried meat delicacy
boerewors - farmer's sausage
eish - an expression of pain
lekker - cool, good, fun,

and many more ... look up the glossary and come to South Africa ... you'll have a lekker time.

FLAG UPDATE: The results for this week are disappointing to say the least. I did not catch a lift with them but Charles Moore and Kieran kept on counting ... 67 on Wednesday and today ... only 60 ... that just means I have to redouble my efforts to get some 'gees' going.

'Gees' with the 'g' pronounced the same way as in magosha is the South African word for the spirit of something or a group. When things are 'lekker' everybody has gees.

Fifa bans fun... update

In a statement today the football governing body Fifa officially banned South Africans from having fun during the World Cup ... or making money.

The feudal overlord of the country for the event said the ban was necessary for several reasons which I will list below:

• People normally pay to have fun and since Fifa will not be able to share in that revenue there is no sense in them allowing fun to happen
• People having fun normally talk and laugh ... sometimes too loudly ... and that could bring Fifa into disrepute
• Fifa wants to exercise its droit de cuissage with the country anally and if we seem to enjoy it, it would diminish Fifa's pleasure.
• (Droit de cuissage ... for those who don't know is the feudal lord's 'right' to sleep with the maiden bride ... it seriously pissed off Braveheart as you'll remember)
• If Fifa can't make money out of it there is no sense in making it happen ... so they are considering to also ban sex, the drinking of anything else but the official beer, the wearing of any clothes not sanctioned by them and anything else that people may enjoy without Fifa scoring from it.

The body said that since it now effectively owns the country and all its individual inhabitants and their children, dogs, cats, pigs and chickens ... it can do what it wants when it wants and how it wants ... so brace yourself South Africa ... and bend over ... Fifa is coming.

And if you don't like it ... go and fuck yourself ... as long as you don't have fun doing it.

OK that is slightly exaggerated but it is the impression one gets when one reads Fifa's rules and regulations for hosting the event.

I pity the street hawkers looking forward to the World Cup ... they think they are going to make a killing. The 'wire-and-bead' artists on Melville's street have been working overtime to produce enough stock for the World Cup,... I pity them.

My fear is that they will have their stock confiscated and be put into concentration camps for the duration of the event.

Seriously, Fifa is being very militaristic about everything and that may be one reason why people are still a bit iffy about the World Cup.

The reason for this tirade is that a school contacted a radio station to learn if what they planned for the World Cup would be legal in Fifa's mind.

What they are planning is to have a 'fun' event to promote the WC. The radio station contacted Fifa's legal representatives and put the question to them ... the answer was that the school should download the legal requirements for trading under the Fifa banner and see if they comply.

When the radio presenter points out to the lawyer that they did not want to trade or make money ... just promote the event ... the answer is: "Zey must just zownload zee legal requirementz for trading under zee Fifa name..."

Welcome to Snieke and hallo Inge ... Inge I will blog about your preference for the 'chocolate long and lovely' tomorrow... I first need to clarify a couple of points. LOL

My part in the success or failure of the World Cup

When Gabrielli tells me that the Germans, of all people, expected a bit more World Cup fever from us I decide to oblige her.

Although I had thought that that I had done my bit when I flagged my sister's car, I can now clearly see that this is far below what is required ... so I buy two lighters ... ever-patriotic, one with the SA flag on and another with a soccer ball motif.

I also launch an awareness campaign about the flags, asking all and sundry where their damn flags are.

To test the efficacy of my campaign I ask Charles Moore and his son Kieran to help me spot flags on the way to Kieran's school and further on our way to work.

They jump to the task at hand with diligence and here are the first results:

Yesterday we counted 24 flags up to Kieran's school and a further 40 to Randburg for a total of 64. That is our baseline then.

I counted a further 16 on during the day but that will not be part of the official statistics ... Ok I like counting stuff so what?!

I like to keep stuff scientific, so the only numbers that will count here is that of the early morning trip between Melville and Randburg with a slight detour to Parkview to drop off Kieran.

I only do this trip on Wednesdays and Thursdays so I will give you a weekly update on Thursdays.

But the early results are heartening. This morning we counted 26 to Kieran's school and a further 49 to Randburg for a grand total of 75 ... My efforts are clearly paying off.

A further bracing sign that World Cup fever is taking hold of South Africa is that my friends spontaneously started talking about it on Tuesday evening.

The talk began about who we think is going to win ... Germany got a couple of votes ... to who are our favourite 'second' teams. Jan likes Holland, Vince likes Germany, I like France, Carol likes ... I can't remember and John does not express himself ... as is often the case with John.

Then the conversation inevitably turns to the chances of Bafana Bafana. Carol says that she's sure they'll surprise us by reaching the second round. I secretly hope that she's right but my brain tells me otherwise. Jan says he'll bet her R1000 that they would not.

In fact, he says, he won't even bet her that ... he will GIVE her R1000 if they reach the second round and Vince pitches in that he would GIVE her a R100 for every goal they score ... he stipulates in the contract that this offer excluded own-goals.

So yes all things considered it would seem that my efforts to make the World Cup a success are on the right track and I'll keep you posted about my progress.

But do not expect too much too soon. I pointed out to Gabrielli that we South Africans of all colours tend to be 'last minute people'. Our history is full of telling examples of this tendency.

Just take our recent history to begin with. In the early '90s we found found ourselves on the brink of civil war many a time but we always turned away from it at the last minute ... we decided to take HIV/Aids seriously at the last minute (some would say way beyond the last minute) Julius Malema got disciplined by his party at the last minute ... some would say way beyond ... the government started to focus on our looming electricity crisis at the last minute ... some would say ... most World Cup preparations will only start functioning at the last minute ... and some way beyond the last minute .... but you get the drift.

So I am convinced that by the time most WC visitors arrive WC fever will be in full swing and everybody is going to have a great time.

Reflections on race and the World Cup in a bar in Randburg

I am waiting for my boss Charles Moore to give me a lift home from the offices in Randburg. Earlier the day when I went to get some Chinese take-aways I bumped into my old friend Roman .... he is really old (69) and an old friend too.

Roman is a German and a chef and in his most recent incarnation the front-of-house manager at a sportsbar called Paddy's in Randburg.

Meanwhile Gabrielli ... my other German 'friend' asked me to write something about the upcoming Soccer World Cup in South Africa.

The seminal event is scheduled to begin in exactly 33 days from today and I must admit that I have not reflected too much about it ... mainly because I think it will be a cheerful shambles at best and a total disaster at worst. Let's hope for the best. My money is on a cheerful shambles.

With all these elements neatly in place, I tell Charles that I will wait for him in Paddy's in order to study the local fauna in their natural habitat because ... Randburg is not Melville.

Being of a scientific bent I count all the patrons in view (some people call this counting business of mine a disorder ... screw them).

There are 48 after-work drinkers in view at Paddy's at the time I begin my survey at 5:25pm.

They are ... 25 whitey males ... 8 whitey females ... 2 coloured girls ... 2 darkie chicks ... 5 darkie guys and 6 coloured guys ... This is not Melville.

To begin with there would be more darkies, coloureds and women in any bar in Melville, but the ambiance is also different.

There is an urgency in the air that I suspect stems from the fact that all the patrons look as if they are in sales of some sort. They talk rapidly and somewhat too loudly (their laughter is the same) as if they are sniffing a deal.

They are mostly between 20 and 35 in age and the guys are all in shirt-sleeves or T-shirts despite the fact that I find the autumn evening quite chilly ... but these are clearly hot-blooded guys ... I wonder why they they are sitting mostly with other guys ...

But I am here to reflect about the upcoming World Cup, as well, so I turn my attention to that... I count three guys wearing the Bafana Bafana (the nickname for our national football team ... meaning: "The boys, the boys") shirts. Of these two are whiteys and one a coloured.

I also notice that all the waiters, who are all darkies, also wear the Bafana shirts ... under some warmer tops. They have good sense because it is cold.

By the way most waiters in South Africa are darkies and since they only get something like 3,5% of their turnover as commission, tipping is essential here ... the going rate is 10-15% and it's rude not to do it.

This is not Melville because the waiters are attentive. My friend Jan once remarked that 95% of people would become uncomfortable if one would stare at them long and hard and the other 5% become waiters in Melville.

But I digress ... There is a campaign on to get World Cup fever going. It consists of 'Flagging the World Cup" meaning that you have to fly the South African flag. I duly buy a SA flag for my sister Emily's car ... car pointing out to her that it was not only the duty of darkies to be patriotic. I also intend to by her a French flag since we are both francophiles.

While on the subject of my sister Emily ... oh no ... it is actually the World Cup, I decide some more research is needed and I take Emily for lunch at Sakura ... a Japanese sushi and teppenyaki restaurant in 7th Street Melville. They do a decent if not spectacular sushi and teppenyaki and I'm quite fond of the latter.

Emily orders herself a French soccer jersey from a street vendor called Amen ... and I pay a R50 deposit for him to also bring me a French flag for her car. She is dubious about just giving Amen the money and i tell her not to worry.

Although I do not know Amen, he knows me. All the street vendors know me because I banned them from pushing their wares into my customers' faces when I managed the gay bar ... and enforced this policy .... quite vigourously. Amen took her number and has just phoned to say that the merchandise is ready for collection.

The reason for this outing is to count the number of flags on cars as a means to measure WC fever ... In the parking lot in front of Paddy's in Randburg I counted ... zero on about 300 cars ... I did not count the cars ... OK I just counted one row and multiplied it by three ... so do not say anything about disorders.

Melville is not Randburg but I'm disappointed to count only about 17 in all. But this is early days so I'll keep you posted about the number of flags I coun... see.

Everybody is trying to make a quick buck out of the WC ... my maid Zita wants to be a hooker and her boyfriend Martin is in on the deal as pimp. Some other people are planning to rent out their houses and live in their garden sheds ... I just hope more people read and follow my blog. It is a work in progress.

The latest news is that 'they' are now stealing the flags off the cars ... no doubt to re-sell as shop-soiled wares. Nobody knows who 'they' are. I know but I won't tell. It is especially the rear-view mirror flag covers that are being targetted. So be aware.

I will also keep you posted on World Cup fever but for now I'm off to watch rugby ... My team the Cheetahs are playing against some other also-ran team but the Cheetahs have been hitting some good form lately and my hope is that they will improve their standing from 13th on the log to say ... 12th. One can only hope.

By the way welcome to Braam van Straaten an lemartle ... or something like that ... one day you will proudly tell your grandchildren that you were some of the first to join this world famous blog.

A minibus taxi user guide and more

To hail a minibus taxi just point in the direction you want to go. There are a number of finger signals that you may use that have the same effect, but avoid the middle finger since this signal is reserved for other motorists who have to deal with the taxi's erratic behaviour.

Five outstretched fingers will get you to the main railway station, Park Station and three fingers will get you to Bree Street in Joburg's CBD.


Once aboard the taxi start praying ... even atheists may do this apparently there is a special permit for them to pray in taxis. The standard fee seems to be R7 for a trip on one route. This may go up during the World Cup ... or a dual payment system will be designed to rip off foreigners.


You can pay on getting on or just before getting off. If you are in the back of the taxi, you tap the person sitting in front of you on the shoulder and hand him/her your money.


That person will pass it on to the next and so on until it reaches the driver ... who will briefly interrupt his cellphone conversation to fish out change from the vehicle's ashtray, before sending it back the way it came.


Some drivers expect the front-seat passengers to deal with the money matters while others clearly don't. Surprisingly enough I have seen no disputes over money going missing in this to-ing and fro-ing of money.

Once you have paid start praying again, because by this time the vehicle's obvious defects would be obvious to you too.

Too get off the taxi just shout out the point where you want to do so. Like: "Next robot..." (Traffic lights are often called that here and if you are a World Cup visitor asking for directions you should know that.) Or shout "shopping centre" ... or "Garage" as filling stations are called. You can shout anything really as long as the driver hears you and knows what you are talking about.

When you get off, sigh a deep sigh of relief and think of buying a car. However, millions of people use minibus taxis and survive. Meanwhile a pseudo Frenchman in Fouriesburg told me that communal taxis are the only form of public transport that is profitable in the world. I somehow believe him. I call him a pseudo Frenchman because we spoke French ... it turned out that he is a 'Norman' from the channel island Jersey.


My next blog will be about the different kinds of porn favoured by different nationalities. It is PG18 and sensitive readers must please abstain.

My maid Zita and race relations in South Africa

Yes I have a maid. It is a South African thing. Not that I need a maid or even wanted one. I employed Zita out of charitable considerations while I was still employed at the newspaper.


She was a waitress at my networking hub Nuno's, the Portuguese restaurant run by the two lovely lesbians. She needed extra income to pay for her kid's creche. So I employ her because I do not believe that charity does much good to the recipients thereof.


I know because I was also a bit of a charity case lately. My friends refused that I pay for a number of restaurant outings here and in Oyster Bay and although I was suitably grateful, it grated me. We have another friend who lives in Cape Town ... in his car. I pointed out to Jan that once you begin to see yourself as a charity case you are buggered ... and I don't even have a car to live in.


But back to Zita. I employ her and convince Vince that he should do the same. To save her transport money we let her work for both of us on the same day. I am sure she does not work longer than two or three hours per week between the two of us. I live in a bachelor's garden cottage and Vince in a room. Since neither of us cook at home it is merely a question of picking up the clothes from the floor and general tidying up.


As soon as I lose my job, Zita loses hers, allegedly for overcharging a customer. Now Zita is a Xhosa and there is a long tradition of mutual mistrust between us Afrikaners and the Xhosas that started more than 300 years ago with mutual thieving of cattle and intermittent warfare about the same in the Eastern Cape. Vince and I give Zita the benefit of the doubt.


On her last working day before my unfair dismissal case I speak earnestly to Zita about my predicament and tell her that I would have to let her go if the case went badly. She says she will work for me for free as long as I can help her out with transport money. I am touched by her generous spirit and my case goes fairly well so Zita stays.


Yesterday I even convince my sister Emily, who lives on the same property, to also employ Zita. I initially arranged with Zita to come in at 10am because I do not work on Mondays, but now I phone her with the good news that she has another job and tell her to come in earlier so that Emily could show her around.


I spend a fair bit of the night busy with "Internet research" and drinking wine. Zita pitches at 7am. A shouting match ensues, only half in jest, about who said what about time.


Emily clearly forgot that Zita was coming but I pack Zita off into her house and go back to bed thinking that a house occupied by three children and a woman would keep her busy long enough for me to catch up on some much-needed sleep.


I am disappointed at Zita's efficiency when she chases me out of bed at 9:30am. Another shouting match ensues as I refuse to get up and she refuses to amuse herself a bit with more cleaning in Emily's house. She insists that I inspect her work. I tell her that I am a man and that I know from experience with women that I do not know what clean really means.


By 10:30am Zita announces that she is done. I walk up the road with her to draw money for her, but the ATM is not working as it should, so I just give Zita a generous transport allowance and buy her breakfast.


She only eats one egg on toast and when I enquire about the meagre portion, she explains that she needed to be "in shape" for the World Cup ... She plans to make lots of dollars, euros and pounds as a hooker. I just shrug and roll my eyes.


That was my maid Zita and race relations in South Africa in a nutshell ... and the spellcheck tells me that I made only one typing mistake in this whole piece ... By the way thanks to all 11 people who actually took the trouble of becoming followers of my blog. Welcome Simon.