I’m ashamed of myself. While I was bandying about shopping malls and bonding with the lounge suite this weekend, my two managers were behaving like new arrivals to Spring Break in Cancun.
One was bounced from Bar Zar on Friday night for being on her ear. She’s ten years older than me. The other one went ballistic in Ibiza for the weekend. He is close to my dad’s age. And is clearly on a come-down today.
My family was reunited yesterday with the arrival of my (formerly) little brother, newly transformed from six months of freedom at Rhodes University.
Fresh from the plane, my mom brought him via my office on their way home. Firstly, I did not recognize him. He now looks like a giant galloping tapeworm, towering at least 4 metres above me, with a haystack of unruly, bushy, long hair. I almost walked past him and wondered how this gigantic string bean came to be transported to Dubai all the way from Woodstock.
He is super chilled as ever, and looking pleased with himself. He was wearing a graying Rhodes Rats cricket shirt. I think he slept in it last night too.
To extract all of the dastardly stories and smut reports of the past two terms in Corey res, philanders in the Rat and Parrot and escapades in the bright lights of Friar Tucks, the sole nightclub in Grahamstown, may take weeks. But I am going to keep on truckin’ and get all the good stuff out. My dad expressed distaste for a) the bloke’s ‘earmuffs’ (coils of unmanageable hair enveloping his ears) and b) for his declining a beer with us at supper. I remember those days well. You have been bending it for weeks, caning every drop of alcohol in sight, inhaling booze like some kind of human dust-buster, and you come home to rehabilitate, only to have more of it thrown in your face.
He hasn’t said much, but he needs time.
So far, this is what I know:
He doesn’t yet have a handbrake, although a few birds have clearly had their heat-seakers on him if his Facebook wall is anything to go by.
He has played one round of golf on the Grahamstown goat-track (compounding my dad’s distaste as membership fees were paid upfront).
He has made it to the Rhodes gym twice this year (compounding my dad’s distaste as membership fees were paid upfront).
Monday, July 9, 2007
Saturday, July 7, 2007
The call from faraway corners of the Earth
I had to delete some texts in a raging fit of jealousy as I woke up this morning to some beauts in my inbox.
Exhibit A: “Oh fuuuck. Madonna is INCREDIBLE! Possibly THE MOST AMAZING concert I have ever been to. WISH YOU WERE HERE. You would LOVE this!!!”. STRAIGHT to the recycle bin.
Exhibits B through to E: Further Live-Earth-concert-related, expletive-riddled reports from Wembley Stadium. Delete delete delete.
Exhibit F: “Sitting at Joe Kool’s [Durbs – that would be my hoof-flicking ground] watching the rugby. Man I could move here, it’s awesome”.
Exhibit G: “The July has been INSANE. We were all over the place!! You should’ve been here!” Naught boet. Canned it in the blink of an eye.
Chunder, chunder, cotch and spew. If there is one thing I cannot handle, its feeling like I missed out.
When I lovingly turned on my radio this morning, I was lambasted with live recordings of the Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters and Razorlight from Wembley. On every channel. With no regard for my feelings. Fergie was indiscriminately peppered all over the airwaves. I felt nauseous.
The next installment will come later today, yes, as I sit at work, as the London contingent heads for the Henley rowing regatta piss-up of the century. I hope it BUCKETS down and their stilettos get sucked into the muddy earth.
Despite these personal trials, I still had a rather marvelous weekend in Dubai. It began with a solo wine-saturated viewing of The Age of Innocence on Thursday night, because I was so torn out after my 6-day working week I could not possibly have heaved my rear off the couch. It is an insanely romantic, haunting, and infuriating movie. I recommend it.
On Friday I burned plastic at Top Shop and River Island like a crazed woman. And THEN – this is where it gets even more SJP – I went for a massage. Unfortunately they couldn’t fly Schalk in for the job, but it was fabulous anyway. Korn, Peggy and I dined on Moroccan braised lamb and couscous at the Madinat and talked smut. Most guys (including Korn) would never admit it, but they love being ‘one of the girls’ from time to time.
Saturday kicked off with a callous spinning session, followed by a facial. Stop it! I’m becoming a koegal in front of my own eyes.
Then watched the Wimbledon Ladies final (unlike most of London, who were all at Live Earth). Venus you biscuit.
Some say she could take on Schalk.
Exhibit A: “Oh fuuuck. Madonna is INCREDIBLE! Possibly THE MOST AMAZING concert I have ever been to. WISH YOU WERE HERE. You would LOVE this!!!”. STRAIGHT to the recycle bin.
Exhibits B through to E: Further Live-Earth-concert-related, expletive-riddled reports from Wembley Stadium. Delete delete delete.
Exhibit F: “Sitting at Joe Kool’s [Durbs – that would be my hoof-flicking ground] watching the rugby. Man I could move here, it’s awesome”.
Exhibit G: “The July has been INSANE. We were all over the place!! You should’ve been here!” Naught boet. Canned it in the blink of an eye.
Chunder, chunder, cotch and spew. If there is one thing I cannot handle, its feeling like I missed out.
When I lovingly turned on my radio this morning, I was lambasted with live recordings of the Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters and Razorlight from Wembley. On every channel. With no regard for my feelings. Fergie was indiscriminately peppered all over the airwaves. I felt nauseous.
The next installment will come later today, yes, as I sit at work, as the London contingent heads for the Henley rowing regatta piss-up of the century. I hope it BUCKETS down and their stilettos get sucked into the muddy earth.
Despite these personal trials, I still had a rather marvelous weekend in Dubai. It began with a solo wine-saturated viewing of The Age of Innocence on Thursday night, because I was so torn out after my 6-day working week I could not possibly have heaved my rear off the couch. It is an insanely romantic, haunting, and infuriating movie. I recommend it.
On Friday I burned plastic at Top Shop and River Island like a crazed woman. And THEN – this is where it gets even more SJP – I went for a massage. Unfortunately they couldn’t fly Schalk in for the job, but it was fabulous anyway. Korn, Peggy and I dined on Moroccan braised lamb and couscous at the Madinat and talked smut. Most guys (including Korn) would never admit it, but they love being ‘one of the girls’ from time to time.
Saturday kicked off with a callous spinning session, followed by a facial. Stop it! I’m becoming a koegal in front of my own eyes.
Then watched the Wimbledon Ladies final (unlike most of London, who were all at Live Earth). Venus you biscuit.
Some say she could take on Schalk.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Making a meal of it
I’ve developed a weird infatuation with a food reviewer. Call me cooked.
James Brennan in the Dubai TimeOut magazine absolutely tickles me. Who would’ve thought it was possible to turn a review on INSTANT PORRIDGE into pure quality entertainment.
Instant Oatmeal – French Toast flavour – Quaker
Dhs 21.25
Rating: 1 star
French toast? Now this is a touch ambitious. It’s also a bit bonkers. The very idea of an egg-soaked fried bread and porridge partnership is up there with Ginger Rogers and R2-D2 for the honour of the dumbest pairing ever. Once you boil the contents of a sachet in water, you know its sillier than a chimp in a waistcoat.
The cinnamon and caramel flavour is so sickly and overwhelming, you’ll be glad there’s only half a bowl’s worth in each portion. But if you want to live to see Paris Hilton’s great granddaughter win the Nobel Prize in literature, you could do a lot worse than holding your nose and piping this glutinous muck down your neck without it touching the sides.
This is the bloke who reviews Dubai’s poshest 5 star dining joints. And here he is, taking the piss out of oats. I love it.
James Brennan in the Dubai TimeOut magazine absolutely tickles me. Who would’ve thought it was possible to turn a review on INSTANT PORRIDGE into pure quality entertainment.
Instant Oatmeal – French Toast flavour – Quaker
Dhs 21.25
Rating: 1 star
French toast? Now this is a touch ambitious. It’s also a bit bonkers. The very idea of an egg-soaked fried bread and porridge partnership is up there with Ginger Rogers and R2-D2 for the honour of the dumbest pairing ever. Once you boil the contents of a sachet in water, you know its sillier than a chimp in a waistcoat.
The cinnamon and caramel flavour is so sickly and overwhelming, you’ll be glad there’s only half a bowl’s worth in each portion. But if you want to live to see Paris Hilton’s great granddaughter win the Nobel Prize in literature, you could do a lot worse than holding your nose and piping this glutinous muck down your neck without it touching the sides.
This is the bloke who reviews Dubai’s poshest 5 star dining joints. And here he is, taking the piss out of oats. I love it.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Show me the weekend
It is extremely humid in Dubai (today and yesterday) - its condensationsville. The air is so thick it is like walking into a wall of hot seawater. Actual temperatures this week are deceptively Durban-like at around 35 to 39 degrees, but the humidity is a joke.
On Tuesday this week there was a lot of expat eyeball rolling when construction workers from Dubai Marina attempted a strike. They tried to block Sheikh Zayed road (one of the main highways). They did pick possibly the worst week of the year to make a statement, just as Salik (the money-grabbing whore of a road toll system) kicked off. But I guess you don’t give a flying squirrel’s ass when you are being exploited to within an inch of your sanity. It didn’t take long before the main instigators were in the slammer.
What is frightening is that although a compulsory break during the hottest part of the day (12:30 to 15:00) has been enforced as of this week, their working and living conditions are still appalling. As are their salaries – 400 to 500 Dirhams / R800 to R1000 a month. It reminds me of the Laugh it Off Black Label T Shirt “Black Labour, White Guilt”. These are the guys who are behind the insane growth and success of Dubai after all. Yet it still pisses on our cornflakes when they cause a traffic jam. It is blatantly wrong.
And now for something completely different: the Ellen Degeneres show. Shit. That bird is possibly THE funniest woman on the planet.
Christina Applegate was going on about her mortifying moment when she showed up at some A-List function and Rachel Griffiths was wearing the same dress as her.
Christina: It was a beautiful dress and it looked just as good on Rachel as it did on me. Rachel came over, and we're laughing about it. We're laughing and inside we're sobbing. Oh my GAAD, it is like, your worst nightmare! You are dying!
Ellen: [wearing chinos, and a collared golf shirt] Yeah … That is. My worst. Nightmare.
Woza weekend. It has been a 6-day week from the pits of Mordor. I am going to milk it for all the kip its worth, shop like I’m on Bonny’s Best Buys and avoid springboks and suitcases in all forms. TGIT.
On Tuesday this week there was a lot of expat eyeball rolling when construction workers from Dubai Marina attempted a strike. They tried to block Sheikh Zayed road (one of the main highways). They did pick possibly the worst week of the year to make a statement, just as Salik (the money-grabbing whore of a road toll system) kicked off. But I guess you don’t give a flying squirrel’s ass when you are being exploited to within an inch of your sanity. It didn’t take long before the main instigators were in the slammer.
What is frightening is that although a compulsory break during the hottest part of the day (12:30 to 15:00) has been enforced as of this week, their working and living conditions are still appalling. As are their salaries – 400 to 500 Dirhams / R800 to R1000 a month. It reminds me of the Laugh it Off Black Label T Shirt “Black Labour, White Guilt”. These are the guys who are behind the insane growth and success of Dubai after all. Yet it still pisses on our cornflakes when they cause a traffic jam. It is blatantly wrong.
And now for something completely different: the Ellen Degeneres show. Shit. That bird is possibly THE funniest woman on the planet.
Christina Applegate was going on about her mortifying moment when she showed up at some A-List function and Rachel Griffiths was wearing the same dress as her.
Christina: It was a beautiful dress and it looked just as good on Rachel as it did on me. Rachel came over, and we're laughing about it. We're laughing and inside we're sobbing. Oh my GAAD, it is like, your worst nightmare! You are dying!
Ellen: [wearing chinos, and a collared golf shirt] Yeah … That is. My worst. Nightmare.
Woza weekend. It has been a 6-day week from the pits of Mordor. I am going to milk it for all the kip its worth, shop like I’m on Bonny’s Best Buys and avoid springboks and suitcases in all forms. TGIT.
To err is human
Being a team player in the web department of a large corporate body requires one to simply suck up and do certain distasteful things.
Such as writing the error messages that will appear on user’s screens when their online booking payment fails. It’s the stuff we all love to read. The words are so compelling I think they should replace the text on those little white sweets that say “Be mine” or “You’re sweet”. In our hearts of hearts, we’re just gagging to hear the words: “Sorry, your payment failed. Please verify your card details and try again. If the problem persists, please check with your bank or card issuer”. Go on, admit it makes you weak at the knees.
The best part about getting to write such Pulitzer worthy schpeels is learning to decipher the developer’s phraseology and then turn it into something accessible to the common man.
“THERE HAS BEEN AN ERROR <#>No. 37868!>!?!!!” can be softened with the less offensive “Sorry, the online booking service is currently unavailable. Please try again later. Apologies for the inconvenience”.
“Please Enter All details for Kin Contact Section, &! OnRecord will not be acceptable !!” That’s a corker. No idea about that one.
I’ve spent the last two days trawling through pages and pages of fucked up IT jargon and trying to put it across in a way that is pleasing to the English-speaking eye. It’s insanely stimulating.
Such as writing the error messages that will appear on user’s screens when their online booking payment fails. It’s the stuff we all love to read. The words are so compelling I think they should replace the text on those little white sweets that say “Be mine” or “You’re sweet”. In our hearts of hearts, we’re just gagging to hear the words: “Sorry, your payment failed. Please verify your card details and try again. If the problem persists, please check with your bank or card issuer”. Go on, admit it makes you weak at the knees.
The best part about getting to write such Pulitzer worthy schpeels is learning to decipher the developer’s phraseology and then turn it into something accessible to the common man.
“THERE HAS BEEN AN ERROR <#>No. 37868!>!?!!!” can be softened with the less offensive “Sorry, the online booking service is currently unavailable. Please try again later. Apologies for the inconvenience”.
“Please Enter All details for Kin Contact Section, &! OnRecord will not be acceptable !!” That’s a corker. No idea about that one.
I’ve spent the last two days trawling through pages and pages of fucked up IT jargon and trying to put it across in a way that is pleasing to the English-speaking eye. It’s insanely stimulating.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Chicken Soup
Jeanpant and I flock for canteen soup every day to have with our crudités. Yesterday she made a keen observation: “This is all congealed like snot”. I dropped my spoon.
There’s a thing or two you should know about JP. She works those kitchen staff. It took her a while but now one can safely call her the Canteen Dominatrix. Normally the inflexible serving staff don’t alter their industrial converyor-belt style of dishing up, producing a standard pile of rice, 3 blocks of chicken and a litre of sauce, 6 frozen carrot disks and a kilo of green beans. There are specific starch and vegetable accompaniments per each protein item on the menu.
But not for her.
“Lewis, I will have the veggies that go with the roast beef – those ones – and the fried rice, and a bit of the spinach”. Her mix-and-matching-bucks the system. The first time she did it there was a deathly silence. The clatter of cutlery on trays ceased. The till stopped ringing. Employees in the queue held their breath. Confusion reigned behind the serving counter. Who was this woman, treating the set menu like a buffet brunch?
This works for Jeanpant and Jeanpant alone, because she has the right amount of giggle to go with each demand. Her outright dissidence is tempered by her charm. And Lewis is her puppydog.
Anyway, yesterday, the thought of that soup being the result of some collective honking back of mucous by Lewis and the Philippino bird who does the microwaving was too much for me. I would rather starve. JP was all over it. “It needs heating up, bloody hell”. Next thing our soup was being nuked and it returned to us bubbling at the edges. And it had lost a lot of its elasticity and had de-thickened. It turned out the snot effect was a red herring.
In the end it was a fine chicken soup. And then it dawned on us: that translucent stuff in which bits of chicken are suspended, looks and tastes EXACTLY like the filling in Spar chicken and mushroom pies in SA. It’s like the pie, without the guilt.
There’s a thing or two you should know about JP. She works those kitchen staff. It took her a while but now one can safely call her the Canteen Dominatrix. Normally the inflexible serving staff don’t alter their industrial converyor-belt style of dishing up, producing a standard pile of rice, 3 blocks of chicken and a litre of sauce, 6 frozen carrot disks and a kilo of green beans. There are specific starch and vegetable accompaniments per each protein item on the menu.
But not for her.
“Lewis, I will have the veggies that go with the roast beef – those ones – and the fried rice, and a bit of the spinach”. Her mix-and-matching-bucks the system. The first time she did it there was a deathly silence. The clatter of cutlery on trays ceased. The till stopped ringing. Employees in the queue held their breath. Confusion reigned behind the serving counter. Who was this woman, treating the set menu like a buffet brunch?
This works for Jeanpant and Jeanpant alone, because she has the right amount of giggle to go with each demand. Her outright dissidence is tempered by her charm. And Lewis is her puppydog.
Anyway, yesterday, the thought of that soup being the result of some collective honking back of mucous by Lewis and the Philippino bird who does the microwaving was too much for me. I would rather starve. JP was all over it. “It needs heating up, bloody hell”. Next thing our soup was being nuked and it returned to us bubbling at the edges. And it had lost a lot of its elasticity and had de-thickened. It turned out the snot effect was a red herring.
In the end it was a fine chicken soup. And then it dawned on us: that translucent stuff in which bits of chicken are suspended, looks and tastes EXACTLY like the filling in Spar chicken and mushroom pies in SA. It’s like the pie, without the guilt.
Punchdrunk workerbees
The weekend was far from Zen-like.
It kicked off with a gargantuan display of first-year student-like behaviour involving:
Blue punch (like being ankle-tapped by a Smurf)
Michael Jackson “Heee-HEEH”
Running around barefoot on wet tiled floors. Result: swart gevaar soles.
Fireman-lifts around the kitchen, up the stairs, ad hoc on the dancefloor
Bum-dancing
6 Springboks
Peggy in the pool, fully clothed
Lunging, and some blocking of lunges
Unnecessary aggression over music choices. What sad farker puts Snow Patrol at a house party?
It was extremely huge. I woke up feeling like a bergie had left his blanket in my mouth. Opened my eyes and saw Peggy face-down on her pillow. I briefly wondered whether the bird was even breathing. She’s a small person, but turning her over required an enormous effort.
It was High in Dubai (my wingbitch)’s last day in the UAE. Fortunately all of our sadness was numbed by the hangovers engulfing our senses. Some of us drank through the pain at a 5 star Dubai brunch (merlot). Others, like Swamp Donkey, simply watched. And felt sorry for themselves. Anyway, H in D had a fine send-off, and we all went and saw The Good Shepherd. At first I thought the Artic air in that cinema was some kind of April fool’s joke. Then I realized it was June, and I was the only one curled into a ball with two pashminas wrapped around me.
Saturday was a day of colossal Admin. I am fortunate not to have been on the top of a seventeen storey building, as the temptation to end it all may have won in the end. Salik, that son-of-a-tollgate-system-byatch has come to Dubai. So I started out queuing for half an hour with my fellow man at a filling station for a sticker that would save me a 1,000 Dirham fine.
If that was bad, work was stinking. Yes. Work. On a Saturday. Panic stations have set in and I was obliged to make an appearance at the group IT office, or sweatshop. The place is a 24 hour frenzy of programmers and developer worker bees from India. Unfortunately I was not feeling their buzz. After a 6-hour mental teeth-pulling exercise, I was home free. Then two bad things happened. 1) My parking had expired. 2) My front left tyre was sagging, deflated, lifeless. If this was an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, the implication would be that I was feeling the same as that tyre. Minus my wingbitch. Tired. Hungover. Disheartened.
Anyway, I found a new mate most likely called Mohommed, who fixed it and got 20 Dirhams in return.
You could say I got some Yang with my Ying and no sleep.
It kicked off with a gargantuan display of first-year student-like behaviour involving:
Blue punch (like being ankle-tapped by a Smurf)
Michael Jackson “Heee-HEEH”
Running around barefoot on wet tiled floors. Result: swart gevaar soles.
Fireman-lifts around the kitchen, up the stairs, ad hoc on the dancefloor
Bum-dancing
6 Springboks
Peggy in the pool, fully clothed
Lunging, and some blocking of lunges
Unnecessary aggression over music choices. What sad farker puts Snow Patrol at a house party?
It was extremely huge. I woke up feeling like a bergie had left his blanket in my mouth. Opened my eyes and saw Peggy face-down on her pillow. I briefly wondered whether the bird was even breathing. She’s a small person, but turning her over required an enormous effort.
It was High in Dubai (my wingbitch)’s last day in the UAE. Fortunately all of our sadness was numbed by the hangovers engulfing our senses. Some of us drank through the pain at a 5 star Dubai brunch (merlot). Others, like Swamp Donkey, simply watched. And felt sorry for themselves. Anyway, H in D had a fine send-off, and we all went and saw The Good Shepherd. At first I thought the Artic air in that cinema was some kind of April fool’s joke. Then I realized it was June, and I was the only one curled into a ball with two pashminas wrapped around me.
Saturday was a day of colossal Admin. I am fortunate not to have been on the top of a seventeen storey building, as the temptation to end it all may have won in the end. Salik, that son-of-a-tollgate-system-byatch has come to Dubai. So I started out queuing for half an hour with my fellow man at a filling station for a sticker that would save me a 1,000 Dirham fine.
If that was bad, work was stinking. Yes. Work. On a Saturday. Panic stations have set in and I was obliged to make an appearance at the group IT office, or sweatshop. The place is a 24 hour frenzy of programmers and developer worker bees from India. Unfortunately I was not feeling their buzz. After a 6-hour mental teeth-pulling exercise, I was home free. Then two bad things happened. 1) My parking had expired. 2) My front left tyre was sagging, deflated, lifeless. If this was an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, the implication would be that I was feeling the same as that tyre. Minus my wingbitch. Tired. Hungover. Disheartened.
Anyway, I found a new mate most likely called Mohommed, who fixed it and got 20 Dirhams in return.
You could say I got some Yang with my Ying and no sleep.
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