In the news, a psychopath tried to start a revolution in Norway. Hang on, where? Norway. Pause. Why? I have no clue. Of all the places to try and start a revolution Norway has to be the last on my list. Off hand, what do I know about Norway? Fjords and salmon, yup that’s about it. They are a nice people, a quiet people. The last big thing to happen in Norway was the Second World War. You’d have better luck trying to start a revolution in a nunnery.
The psycho posted his manifesto online somewhat like Hitler and Mein Kampf. We covered that volume in school history lessons.
Teacher: “Hitler wrote down his plan for Europe in his manifesto, Mein Kampf.”
Me: “Excuse me, if he wrote it all down why was everyone so surprised when he set it action?”
Teacher: “Go to the library and take out a copy this weekend and then come to me on Monday and tell me what you think.”
Monday
Teacher: “Did you do what I suggested?”
Me: “Yes Ma’am.”
Teacher: “And now do you understand why his actions came as a surprise?”
Me: “Yes Ma’am.”
It’s so awful, turgid and incomprehensible that no-one ever managed to read all of it and so no-one knew about Hitler’s plans for mass genocide. The same could be said of the ramblings of the Norway psycho. His online Mein Kampf makes no sense whatsoever and simply sends out a clear message that this man is need of psychological counselling, some good drugs and a writing course.
The psycho didn’t manage to keep the front-page spot for long though as Amy Winehouse decided to shrug off her mortal coil this weekend and join the infamous 27 club. It seems a bit ironic that she apparently died of natural courses (still to be determined, but her family is convinced she was as clean as a whistle) after a lifetime spent ingesting every pharmaceutical concoction known to man and single-handedly keeping a small South American country in the black.
I cannot idolise the woman, she had an amazing voice and a more amazing talent for making a fool out of herself. To have so much talent and waste it so spectacularly is astounding. Her life and death and music serves to underline the truth of my naming theory. What you name your child can to some extent determine the path of their life. For example: Virginia. A Virginia can go one of two ways, she can be a nun or she can be the opposite. I’m a Wine house? She was going to be an alcoholic since birth. Every time she introduced herself the neuro-linguistic programming kicked in until she lived out the truth of it.
Amy’s ability to kick a mass serial killing off the front page certainly highlights the fickle nature of the reading public. We are all far more interested in the junkie tabloid queen then the death of what is probably half the population of Norway. Her death even put Rupert Murdoch on the back burner and Shrien Dewani? Who the hell is he again?
The ANC Youth League’s website had a bumper day yesterday with the highest number of hits every recorded after the site was hacked. Floyd Shivambu must have the hardest job in the world and my heart goes out to him. He spends every waking moment trying to make Julius Malema seem vaguely sane justifying his crazy words and actions. It’s not like he can resign is it? It came home to me when a Sunday paper asked him for comment on the R16 million mansion with bomb shelter and he was quoted as saying: “I don’t care. Just print whatever you want.” I hope the job comes with excellent benefits, like a slush fund, oh sorry, I meant trust fund.
On the home front, my relaxed journey through the nation’s newspaper’s was interrupted by a very uncomfortable domestic employment situation. My domestic helper was once married to the gardener’s brother. The gardener is a suave and charming young man. Usually the two don’t meet, but circumstances this weekend meant that we had a full house. I hadn’t seen either of them for a while and thought nothing of it, when I went to my study to check my email. The soundtrack from the en-suite bathroom was x-rated to say the least. The two of them were doing it like they do it on the Discovery Channel. IN MY BATHROOM! The only person allowed to get busy in my bathroom is me. I retreated to the living room and a short while later they strolled out blissfully, said their goodbyes and left.
There are some unpleasant realities here that have far farther reaching consequences than the defiling of my bathroom. There’s an HIV positive status to contend with, two children out of wedlock already and don’t forget the gardener’s brother. To have achieved this amount of complication by the age of 22 is a real feat. By getting busy in my bathroom they have managed to bring all these very real issues to roost well, in my bathroom.
I could handle talking to the domestic helper who spent R20 000 on my telephone, to the one who borrowed my clothing and even the one who stuck a knife in a wall socket. For some reason words desert me when I have to say something about this. Should I start to stock condoms in the bathroom? Should I mention that free contraceptive injections are available at the clinic? This goes beyond normal employer-employee situations for me. But in my bathroom? Hell no!
Office politics seems positively tame after that.
The Blurred Line 