The policing heavyweights are basically jacking each other off with their mock-intimidator cowboy mentality of how all these criminals are going to get a pistol-whipping. It makes me laugh and if I experienced real emotions, perhaps cry. It is fucking ridiculous. Some of this petty rhetoric! It’s like a C-grade movie. I can hear the eTV guy’s voice: Friday night is action night on eTV. Watch Bheki Cele and Nathi Mthethwa kick criminal butt. Cut to Cele straddling a badly beaten criminal, uttering lines like: a friend of a criminal is a criminal and I am no friend tsotsi. This whilst Mthethwa, on his knees, shirt ripped open, drenched in sweat with a maniacal glint yelling to the criminal consciousness: “We are not friends, we are out to get them. We will make them run all the time. That’s why we are always tightening the screws.”

I do believe based on all the investment at least and ever-increasingly the soothing calm that comes from the police anti-criminal rhetoric…? that the world cup will probably see very few crimes. Purses will be snatched, pint glasses will be put through faces and other very unsavoury things will occur, but probably just to us unlucky fuckers that live here. I hope there is not some twisted tacit agreement that the police sacrifice us for the safety of the foreigners. That’s not xenophobic, I don’t want to burn them, I just don’t want to be getting anally raped whilst my wallet is taken from me because Hans the German supporter is lodging a complaint about a stolen camera.

Facebook. The website steals your time like the taxman your money. So psychologically consuming it can alter moods. And why? Facebook is a great place for everyone to feel like they are living exciting and fulfilling lives and furthermore that people have an interest in them. But largely these are shallow attempts at self-deception. This is a breeding ground for narcissism, falsehoods and peeping-Toms. It is sad that from a few minutes on someone’s page we know that they are: so over it: moving on up: taking names: feeling lost: loving Idols  or watching someone.

My main Facebook-point-of-rage however is people’s responses to other’s status updates:

Quentin cannot believe this happened!

Sharmaine: shame babe what up?

Tom: Believe it buddy.

The sickening thing is that Tom last spoke to Quentin three years ago, Sharmaine is so self-absorbed that the only reason she commented on this was that she had to fulfil her daily quotas of ‘facebooking’ interactions to help alleviate the empty pathetic vacuum of her life. And Quentin: he should just fuck off and die an abrupt cyber death.

A brief synopsis of the film is as follows: a young man (Rupert Friend) comes from money (his mother was a very opportunistic whore- quite literally) and lives a very extravagant yet unfulfilling existence. Apparently driving a nice car between bouts of lazing on his mother’s estate and drinking her liquor is insufficient for happiness. However this young twat falls in love with some old decrepit slag (Michelle Pfeiffer) and they reveal to us the joys and pains of living with no stress and loads of money. The relationship ends when Friend realises that Pfeiffer is too old for him and he is much happier with his young wife who does not make him feel like a granny-shagger… Until he realises that he can’t live without his geriatric fetish and shoots himself.

The film from beginning to end was an attack on the senses. The annoying narrator introduced us to the pathetic cast of this ridiculous film. Over-the-top performances were delivered in largely American attempts at generic, inaccurate time-piece British accents for a film supposedly set in France. It was enough to make even the most tolerant movie-goer tear out hair and assault the employee at the ticket counter in sheer exasperation – and a very real attempt at shaking the feeling of having been duped.

This vile, grim display of the era’s wealthy class left me with absolutely no desire to learn anything more about these pompous, hedonistic, economic and social fascists. The only real emotion I felt, other than rage, was the sheer pity for the lives of the servants. A particular scene revealing their plight was when one slave had to dry off the bathed body of Pfeiffer as the old bitch kept ranting on about some useless insight into her life.

What made the film remotely entertaining was the comfort I took in knowing that I could write about it here and hopefully ensure some unsuspecting bastard does not waste the time or money on this shit-fest. The only thing worse than this is going to be the film about the editor of Vogue: the modern day equivalent of self-absorbed ageing tarts with too much money, ego and insufficient will to just fuck off and die.

Naturally the moment came to choose. Do I hold this brewing rage inside or do I politely yet firmly request his consideration to rectify his seat. I did the latter.

Me: Excuse me bud, could you please move your seat forward, it’s really close to my face.

Fascist European (FE): No!

Me: Come on mate, just a little bit forward, I can smell you hair for godsake.

FE: This is way seat is made, you move it back.

Me: Well look it’s an hour flight you can’t move forward for me? (Tone is calm yet antagonistic)

FE: No.

Me: Jesus, are you serious? Fucking hell! This is not the Third Reich my friend, this is Africa – there are rules.

FE: (Signalling to the air steward): This guy complaining about my seat.

AS: Sir what seems to be the problem?

Me: Well I purposefully did not call you because I wanted to resolve this petty issue here like adults but clearly this fascist is incapable of basic interpersonal conflict resolution.

End result, he kept his seat lodged very closely against my face and I sat in discomfort refusing to move my seat back on principle.

It is a sad day when even little victories are not had.

But I digress. Soon after the white-washing of the anal cavity, the show shifted to a somewhat more psychologically torturous topic. Male-grooming. I am not talking here about the traditional nose-hair trimming and the occasional styling of the facial hair. Nor am I concerned here with the more metro-sexual habits of shaping the eye-brows or trimming one’s pubis. I am talking about the very intimidating and masochistic act of the back-sack-and-crack-wax. Painful? I have never been stupid enough or sufficiently envious of a smooth, bald arsehole to try it, but it does not take a grand imagination to decide that this is a hideous practice.

For those of you unable to imagine what exactly this even more aptly named waxing treatment entails, read further. But perhaps grab a receptacle in which to vomit or a tissue to wipe those empathetic tears. This involves the man – and probably a butch lady once or twice – lying face-down on a table. Boiling hot wax is poured onto and spread evenly over the back. This is done first I believe to really keep you in a state of fearful anxiety, just wondering what might become of your by now, shrivelled little package.  The ripping sound is only beaten by the shouts of agony of the owner of the semi-shorn back.

Now the crack. If, you can imagine filling your eyes with burning oil, or attempting to relieve a series of paper-cuts with some vinegar, you are far off my friend. Once again this is not an experiential account, but rather the TV man’s pain I felt.  The hot wax is smeared over the crack, and the hair so quickly removed from its once tranquil home, the eviction notice was not even read. Through the waxee’s cries of impending death and his drifting in between states of consciousness, the waxer quickly moves to the testicles. Even hotter wax (seemingly) is poured all over the balls or sack.  If you are still conscious, you might sense the sick delight of the waxer, who is no doubt a divorcee. Rip. The hair is gone. Some skin too. Pain, as the tears fall uncontrollably.

I would rather be hairy.

For me, the similarity is with my father and the trait is that of non-physical rage and a disposition of complaining. I have for most of my life been one to avoid complaining publicly. I receive poor service or eat the bloodied steak I wanted medium well and smile and tip when leaving. In the car or at home the poor unsuspecting dinner date will bear the brunt of the intensified private complaint. Anyway, recently I began to shift to that oh so regrettable public sphere of complaining. I guess it is because those close to you tire of all the moaning and you have some misguided belief that your complaint has some effect in changing things. It doesn’t. I have worked in customer service for a little while and when a complaint is fielded, besides the discreet yet very enthusiastic simulation of masturbation that occurs, the rest is just resentment and lip service apologies. However, unable to learn from my own or another’s experience, I continue to frustratingly beat paths of difficult and pointless terrains.

To the matter at hand. I am an owner of a Dell computer. This was a relationship I entered into last year in October. I was excited and optimistic as a first time buyer with a new founded desire to become a bit of a techie.  This optimism quite swiftly shifted to sheer regret and apple envy. The laptop’s hard drive experienced a SMART event and generally began behaving quite strangely. I subsequently entered into a very heated relationship with the Dell technical support team. After returning the laptop post alleged repairs and coaxing me into purchasing a further super warranty and attempting to sell me some more memory whilst I was in the throes of consumer agony caused me to begin a vengeful telephonic attack on the UK support team in India. I began asking those passive aggressive rhetorical questions like:

How do you think I feel about this experience with Dell?

Can you tell by the tone of my voice that I am not overjoyed at what you have said to me?

Do you purposefully create inferior products to enrage your customers?

Is your company run by a band of fascists?

These questions then turned to poetic commentaries on their corporate character, like:

I regard Dell as a deceitful beast that lurks in the shadows waylaying innocents at every turn.

My journey through this quagmire of ineffective problem solving is something akin to Wayne Rooney attempting to remain couth at a Royal Dinner Party – impossible.

I feel like I have been the coquettish little concubine of Dell’s corporate shafting – once optimistic but now sore and used.

The result is that I wasted over two and a half hours on the phone, sent an inordinate number of emails, ranted to ‘management’ and revealed to them the error of their ways only to be told that they were sorry and would very seriously consider what I had told them. Oh, he was probably simulating as he said it.

After a few minutes of chatting and essentially ridiculing the store’s ethos and the British government’s attempt at ensuring security at the cost of basic freedoms, I was allowed to leave the shop with my manicure set in hand.

Ridiculous? Yes indeed. When the utter surprise had turned to a bland dismay, I had a chance to question the whole experience.

Firstly, my general appearance, whilst quite unrefined, does not lend weight to the idea that I am a violent criminal – yes I realise that is profiling, but I am unfettered by my own cavalier prejudice.

And secondly, if I was planning on going to a knives fight, would I really equip myself with that oh so effective weaponry of nail clippers and tweezers. Hair removal hurts and certainly when one trims the nails a little too short there is a bit of discomfort for a few days following – but generally this is not the weapon of choice.

England! The madness continues.

Everyone has either sent or received a text message and as soon as the beeping or disappearing envelope exits the screen, paranoia sets in. The inability to have a completely clear textual relationship with someone, particularly a new ‘romantic acquaintance’ is a major source of anxiety for the texters of today. The message sent and the receiver (R) begins to play the texting dating game.

(R) I don’t reply immediately lest I appear desperate. I don’t reply with too great a time lapse as to appear disinterested.

The sender (S) is wondering why there is no reply.

(S) Is she asleep? Not at 3pm. Why did I send a text at 3pm I should have waited till later. Maybe she is on the on the phone and can’t reply. But who is on the phone for this long. Jesus! She probably has another guy. Maybe it’s her mother. It could be anyone. Let’s just wait.

(R) Okay time to reply. He is probably a little anxious.

Send…Beep!

(S) Sweet providence! Oh yes I knew she would reply and it is quite a sassy little text. (Caught up in the moment he taps his fingers away and sends a response and new ‘topic question’. Instantly burning anxiety engulfs (S) in flames).

Send…Beep!

(R) Beep, so soon. What’s wrong with this guy? A response to a closed text – the fool. How can I take this guy seriously? Wanker!

Sender has waited for hours now and has called at least two friends for advice. He has sweated more than Eugene Terre’ Blanche stumbling into a Black Panther’s meeting. He has tried self-delusion declaring his interest was never there. Silently lamenting his texting eagerness, he yells inside: Why was I not text tardy? Why?

Beep!

(S) Hope returns! She likes me, oh I knew it. And she is so perfect.

He opens the message to read: will you be home for dinner? Luv mum x