A Letter to Protektorvest

http://london.thesouthafrican.com/sa-news/2010-fans-do-not-need-stab-proof-vests

Dear Protektorvest

I am a South African living in London. I am writing to share something of our culture with you today - a culture which you have clearly misunderstood. If you are to be successful in the South African market, you'll need the right tools with which to fight your battles - of which there are many in my country, as I'm sure you'll agree. In fact, a recent study suggests that the genocide in Sudan and the invasions of Iraq and Afganhistan are mere extras on the world's stage when compared with the charismatic lead, the violence crisis in South Africa. This lead is getting so much tabloid attention that even Angelina Jolie has reportedly scheduled a visit to SA to showcase the plight of middle class citizen crime. (Aside: she could be a good marketing angle for you - imagine her 57 children all wearing your stab proof vests! Plus you know she has a knife collection, so they could test the vests' effectiveness at a press conference).

Now, it's not your business per se that I think is the issue. After all, you're obviously a bunch of young entrepreneurs who smoke a lot of crack, and on one of your trips to the land of WTF Am I Doing you spotted a gap in the market and decided to capitalise on it. Fair play to you - I've heard it's quite difficult not to shit your pants when smoking crack, let alone come up with a workable idea. The real issue is that you obviously have no idea what you're dealing with. Please imagine now that you are a vest-wearing visitor during the World Cup, and follow these ground rules to help you improve your business model:

1. In the UK, you have knife crime. In South Africa, we are not pussies. We have guns and we use them.

2. Sewing team colours and/or badges onto your Protektorvest will increase your chances of being attacked by 100%. Even those petty criminals who eschew violence cannot be held responsible for their reactions when they see the symbol of St George. This is akin to baiting a bull, and you know what happens when the matador is gored to death? Nothing - it is perfectly legal.

2a. If you ignore the strong advisory above and are grievously wounded in a resultant attack, do not expect assistance from our government. Remember, we are a lawless nation of gun toting savages, lead in part by the guy from the ANC who frequently incites the masses to 'kill for Zuma'. Prosecution is a dirty word.

3. Your proposed delivery of the vests presents a problem. You should know that in Africa we have no Royal Mail - indeed, the only recognised seal bestowed upon our postal service is that of possession being nine tenths of the law. In other words, don't expect your vests to make their destinations. In all likelihood, they will end up being worn by the criminals you wish to foil, meaning your only option would be to swiftly despatch AK47s to combat your attackers (note: these have been known to kill their owners when said owners are ignorant dipshits, so you might want to seek legal advice before proceeding).

4. I'm confused by the ambiguity of your marketing slogan, Protect and Connect. Protect and Connect your fist with your attacker's face? Protect and Connect with the other fist swinging Brits at the game? Protect and connect with your attacker on a spiritual level and in doing so promote world peace (if so, compliments on the marvellous paradox)? You definitely need clarity. I would suggest this: Protect the Defect. It's ok to be the face of bad genetics, it's out of your control.

Anyway, I sincerely hope that I have been of service to you today. I wish you the best of luck in your business venture, and I hope you don't mind that I blind copied in the violently left wing members of the ANC to this e-mail. It's important for all of us to promote the Freedom of Information Act.

All the best, and remember to clean out that crack pipe.
Lopz

*Note: Text copied directly from the author's original e-mail to Protektorvest.

The Sweet Song of Snow (or 'sssssssssss')

This morning as Shoes and I walked together to the station, anyone watching us would have seen what appeared to be a happy couple, hand in hand, strolling leisurely along the snowy banks of the River Wandel, looking into each other's eyes and laughing. Aaah, so sweet.

In fact this is not what was really going down. We were indeed looking into each other's eyes and laughing, but not about romantic coupley type things. We were actually cackling as we spurred each other on to think up increasingly inventive ways in which to peg in the arctic weather conditions. Such as:

Lopz: If someone kidnapped you, took off all your clothes and buried you under 6 inches of snow with only your nostrils sticking out, how long do you reckon it would take before you kicked it?

Shoes: Longer than if someone dumped you in the river, fished you out and then tied you in your wet clothes to a stake in a deserted park. That should do it in a couple of hours, don't you think?

We were also holding hands, but not because we can't bear to be apart for a minute. The roads were iced up, and we were hanging onto each other for dear life as we'd determined from the get go that if one of us was going to wipe out, the other one was going down too godammit!

Ah, sweet love. It's no wonder eskimos have such different traditions to us - people in permanently snowy countries must be a bit mental to survive.

An Open Letter To London

Dear London

You really know how to welcome a girl back with open arms, don't you? 24 hours in your freezing bosom and my foot is just aching to kick you in the nuts. Not that you have them, but I can assure you they'd be blue by now if you did, rather like my hands everytime I go outside.

Just so you know, I am actually quite chirpy for someone who has recently returned from 30 degree sunshine into the depths of arctic winter. This may be down to the fact that everything feels surreal, a bit like those Baywatch montage scenes where CJ and Caroline run languidly down the beach with the background in soft focus and you feel like you've stumbled into a pornographic chocolate box illustration.

It's not that my arrival here was a bit bumpy, although it was. That's if you can call a two and a half hour delay in Paris, followed by the failure of our luggage to turn up at Heathrow, bumpy. I prefer the word incompetent myself, but that's the beauty of the English language - so many words, so many ways to hurl insults. I also like the words amateur and floundering, particularly when applied to the BA check-in chick who specifically and repeatedly told me that our luggage would be checked straight through to London, not languish at O.R. Tambo Airport. The words horse and shit come to mind when considering the lack of ground staff at Charles De Gaulle, who caused the rest of the luggage to sit on the tarmac for nearly 3 hours, while we all watched intently from the plane windows to see if it would eventually jump up and load itself. Slack and slothful are two more words I'd employ at this point.

It's not that our lack of warm clothes (see above: Languishing Luggage) meant our trek home in temperatures reaching highs of zero caused us to seriously consider chopping off our fingertips to prevent gangrene, although it did. I've never felt beany-envy quite like I did yesterday, so much so that every small be-hatted child in a 3 metre radius risked his head everytime he entered my personal space on the bus.

It's not even that, despite our most earnest prayers, the tubes from SW London were running almost faultlessly this morning while it snow stormed outside, meaning we had to go to work at normal time and couldn't spend the day cuddled up in bed watching Dexter. Your sense of humour is as gauche as your welcome mat.

What it is, London, is that despite the fact that I feel an offbeat affection for you - rather like I would for a particularly musty pair of old socks - I'm more than a little piqued that you insist on inhabiting this dank island halfway across the world from my real home. We'd get on so much better if you'd only pack it in and move closer. You might find you'd look more inviting too - no offense.

Anyway, since we are destined to nurture this fractious relationship of ours for another 12 months or so, I'll stop there - a fine exercise in restraint, if I do say so myself. Feel free to respond if you like, or simply sit there smirking as you dump another big freeze on us, whatever. Payback's a bitch, remember that.

Yours annoyingly,
Lopz

The End of an Era

Wow, it feels a bit weird to be writing on this blog again. Ok, technically I'm not writing on my blog at all, but rather in a new e-mail in outlook. Appearances are everything, you know how it goes.

No-one actually cares why I stopped writing, so I won't do the usual Blogger Guilt thing and go into lengthy explanations (Tangent: isn't it funny that we feel that way though? Like, why should we feel BAD for being self absorbed enough to expect our reader's worlds will crumble without our daily ramblings? And did I really just start a sentence with 'like'?? I'm out of practice).

Nothing major happened; I am still alive, well and enjoying London as much as one can with all this godawful rain. I just got bored. And I firmly believe that if you don't have anything intelligent to say, you should keep your mouth shut. Nick Griffin, I am talking to you.

So that's the sum total of it really. Uninspired, not feeling the vibe, words strung together like sticky sweets on a candy necklace instead of flowing like Cheryl Cole's L'Oreal locks. It was all a bit last year for a minute there. But I've got my mojo back, and I've been inspired by the fact that my life as I know it in London is starting to change.

For 4 years my friends and I have shared the experience of a lifetime (ok, maybe travelling round the world together would have been cooler, but let me have my moment). We've partied, we've holidayed, we've triumphed over obstacles big and small, we've fought the system and not always landed on our feet. We've supported each other and raged at each other; we've had moments so epic they're like the end of a Jerry Bruckheimer movie, and moments where we would've happily thrown each other into the Thames. We've been each other's families over here. It's a big deal - this is a piece of my life history that causes my heart to miss a beat and my throat to swell a bit. That is to say, it's a part of my life that makes me truly happy. I treasure each and every moment we've shared, even the really tough ones. They're part of me, part of how I define myself, and certainly part of how I will shape any friendships in the future. And now it's coming to an end.

Miss M, TheArtyOne and OJ are all leaving London in December to go back home. They all have their reasons, but the underlying one is that we are all South African, and you can take the saffa out of the country but you can't take the country out of the saffa. We all miss home and feel the undeniable magnet pulling us back there. Several of us probably won't go home for good; most of us will. Sometime. But the fragmenting starts now, with our group losing 3 members who've been part of this crazy roller coaster ride.

I may not miss being deafened by Miss M, waiting for TheArtyOne or being blindsided by one of OJ's intensely complicated theories, but I will miss each of them as much as if someone had cut off three of my fingers. Too far? Maybe a little. Let's settle for toes. You don't need your toes - they're not even very pretty. But you'd damn well miss them if they were gone. Is it just me, or is this analogy getting more offensive by the letter? I think I'll stop here before I ruin the moment.

So, now that I'm back - and I do promise that it's for good - I'll tell you a bit more about how life is changing over here. As soon as I get back from my month long holiday in Cape Town - we leave next Tuesday. And after that, if I still feel like I have something inteliigent to say, maybe I'll write some more. Maybe I won't. But I will take this opportunity to say this to three of my very best friends:

L, S & J - we all love you. We will all miss you. Our group will have a gaping big hole in it that no-one will be able to fill (yes Miss M, finally that goddam hole is unfillable!) I hope you will stay in touch and that nothing will change, but the reality is, it always does. So instead, I hope that we all roll with the changes and do what we have to do, wherever we are, until it's time to all be together again. And if I had a horse right now, I'd put all three of you on it and ride you off into the sunset, with the score from the end scene in Braveheart swelling around you. Since I don't, and you'd smelt me if I did anyway, we'll settle for one more massive piss up, London-style, on Saturday night. A toast then:

May the winds of fortune sail you,

May you sail a gentle sea,

May it always be the other guy,

who says, "this drink's on me."

Sailing Croatia: Dubrovnik - Mljet

The Croatian coastline is lined with more than 1000 islands. Strangely enough, I didn't see 1000 Island Salad Dressing anywhere, but that would be too obvious, ne c'est pas? Of these 1000 islands, only 20 or so are popular with tourists....the rest are tiny and largely uninhabitable (unless you're a contestant on Survivor - hey, Survivor Croatia! I'm e-mailing that one to Jeff).

Anyway, Mljet - and I must include a sidebar here: Eastern European spellings are dof in the extreme. Basically, they accidentally forgot to put vowels in, well...OH, THEIR WHOLE COLLECTION OF LANGUAGES, but you say the words as if the vowel was there. So Mljet is Mil-yet. Easy, yes? I know, I threw my hands up in surrender many times as well. Where was I? Oh yes - Mljet is the southern-most of the larger islands, dubbed thus by the trusty Lonely Planet guide book: "the most seductive island in the Adriatic". Perhaps the author of so sweeping a comment was caught up in a torrid romance at the time of writing, the strength of which robbed him of his senses. Mljet was voted far and away the most pointless stop on our trip.

To be fair, the whole damn island is a National Park, so if you don't hire bicycles and cycle around it, you are restricted to about a kilometre of harbour front with a few restaurants and bars, none of which make cocktails. Seriaaas. No cocktails on the waterfront. It's like no sunshine in summer - completely at odds with natural law. We were quite keen to cycle around the park and swim in the two big lakes, but after we only docked at 5pm and found the entrance to be 90 Kuna a head, excluding bicycle hire, we decided it was fairly pointless. Instead, we hit up a local pizzeria for some amazing pizza and some extremely awesome camel piss wine. Our refined saffa taste buds were by now getting used to the idea of ordering cheap local wine in half or full litres instead of bottles. It was a third of the price, and as the bottled wines weren't that great anyway, it made more sense - especially after the third glass when your taste buds went pleasantly numb, and it could really have been camel piss for all you knew.

So nothing much happened in Mljet. We had dinner, took some drinks down to the "beach" (concrete slab on the other side of the harbour, complete with empty kiddies tidal pool) and took silly photos of each other. Mljet, however, was where we found out about The Smelly Fish Incident.

HippieChick is a lovely girl, but definitely not the best of cabinmates. She could usually be found out and about til all hours of the morning, blithely letting herself in and out of the cabin in a state of inebriation to fetch unidentified objects, attempting to bring her squeeze from HMS Cockfest back to the room for a cuddle (and here met an icy refusal from Tee, not once but 3 times) and generally disturbing the calm seas for her patient cabinmate, Tee. But even Tee had enough with this particular incident. HippieChick, being a hippie, is able to live on a very frugal budget. She also had a month and half of travelling in front of her when she first arrived in Croatia, so going out for dinner every night was not an option. She would often go back to her room and eat something she had bought at port that afternoon for dinner, while the rest of us sampled local cuisine.

On one of the first couple of days we were given fish for lunch. Very nice, spiced fish, served whole with wobbly little fish eyes staring accusingly out at you from the silver platter. Not everyone was a fish fan, and there were quite a few untouched fish left over. HippieChick saw an opportunity, and slipped one into her handbag, for later snackage. It must be said at this point that the fish was only wrapped in a napkin, and the rooms have no refrigeration facilities. It was also around this time that HippieChick got sick - a little gift from Tee who had started the trip recovering from a nasty cold. Thus, she couldn't smell anything. Tee however was on the mend, and could smell everything.

Later that evening, Tee commented on the slightly fishy smell in the room. That night they slept with the windows and door open, hoping that the room just needed some airing. The next morning it wasn't any better. We spent the day up top the roof in 35 degree heat, and Tee came down late that afternoon to the overpowering stench of rotting fish in her cabin. She searched high and low - in the bin, in HippieChick's luggage, under the bed - but to no avail. The aroma lingered on. That night the room was almost unbearable to sleep in, but HippieChick, blissfully unaware with her stuffy nose, slept like a baby while Tee tossed and turned, pillow hugged tightly to nostrils. It was only the next day - nearly a full 48 hours later - that HippieChick dug in her handbag to get something and discovered the rotten fish. Mortified, she told Britney and swore her to silence. Britney, who is about as good at keeping secrets as Perez Hilton, promptly told Tee and the rest of us, and for the remainder of the trip, HippieChick was shredded mercilessly and every fish joke in the book was worn out repeatedly. She was not amused.

Sailing Croatia: Trstenik - Dubrovnik

The morning kicked off with an early swim and an earnest discussion about what had happened the previous night. It was established that our group had incurred the following injuries:

HippieChick - blue and purple bruises on her arms and legs from being held down, and an especially attractive swollen nose from being elbowed, all by Crazy K
Crazy K - Carpet burn on her shoulder from being dragged across the deck by HippieChick
Lopz - swollen left index fingertip with suspicious looking red dot in the centre. Many theories were put forth before Crazy K conceded she may well have bitten said fingertip in drunken frenzy (neither of us can actually remember)
Britney - sprained ankle from everybody doing the brand new dance now
Jem - bruises along his thigh from coming short after jumping from the roof of the boat and landing like a tard in the water

There were also more than a few raging hangovers that had to be calmed with ice cold cokes and cold showers. We'd already learned not to drink the warm camel piss, sorry coffee, on the boat.

We arrived in Dubrovnik at 1pm. The city has been described as "heaven on earth" and the "jewel of the Adriatic". As far as cities go, it is uniquely beautiful and certainly a standout among the European cities I've seen (I'm still a beach girl at heart though). It was by far our biggest touristy day, with much sightseeing and wondering aimlessy around quaint alleyways. One of the highlights was walking along the top of the 2km stretch of old walls that surround the city - it gave us incredible views across the whole of Dubrovnik. Another was our visit to Buza Bar (immediately dubbed Boozer Bar by all board), an outdoor cafe bar perched high upon the rocks of a cliff face, with the towering city walls in the background and a drop down into the azure ocean in front. Absolutely sublime.

We took it quite easy that night, mindful of giving ourselves some much needed rest after the previous night's mayhem, and setting the tone for the rest of the holiday. We ended our day's tour with a picnic on the beach - one of only 3 or 4 sandy beaches in Croatia (I know, go figure right? You come all the way from the stony beaches of England, which is quite understandable given that England is shit, to the stony beaches of the Adriatic. What have the Europeans done with all the sand???).

Not all of us planned to have a restful, non-intoxicated holiday though (Boat bbq excepted). There were many revellers on our boat who power napped during the early evenings so they could party the night away in whatever port we were docked. Croatians are clearly a party loving people - they start late and end late, and they have bars and clubs aplenty to suit all entertainment needs. G-Days and Crazy K were definitely more partygoers than take-a-chillers. Perhaps it is our advancing age, but by midnight each night we were all exhausted and quite excited about the prospect of hitting the sack.

G-Days and Crazy K, on the other hand, could often be heard cackling away in their cabin at 2am, so much so that Eyes and Scarf, whose cabin shared a wall with theirs, often had to bang out morse code for "Shut the fuck up!" to get some dos. They went to bed late and woke up late, and it was with great amusement the next morning that we all waited for last night's Crazy K story, which involved such things as begging free beer from HMS Cockfest (and biting people when they didn't give it to her), talking to God (she doesn't really remember why and is not even sure she believes in God, but at one stage she was dead set on spending some quality time with Him up on the roof) and crying - floods and floods of tears. She is a very high-spirited, fun-loving girl with no off switch whatsoever, and her highs are as skyhigh as her lows are bottomless pits. No, she is not manic depressive (I don't think)...maybe just a little hyperactive. And an endless and constantly surprising source of entertainment for us, which she knows and enjoys to the max.

However, nothing Crazy K did on the trip matched HippieChick and The Smelly Fish Incident.

Sailing Croatia: Hvar - Trstenik

The next day we woke up nice and early to the stench of diesel fumes choking us out of our sleep, and made like prison escapees to the top deck of the boat for some serious tanning. Let me explain: there are 3 levels of accommodation: above deck en suite, below deck en suite (which is not so much below deck as inside the bottom deck), and the cheapass BELOW deck, as in you have to go down some break-neck steep stairs to get there, and there is not even one toilet to be smelt (these are communal and outside above deck). Shoes and I and Jem and Britney had rooms BELOW deck, and every morning when the engine started at 6am or some other ridiculous time, we slowly suffocated in our sleep until our internal body alarms woke us up shrieking "SOS!! Impending Death Alert!!" and we bailed out in the nick of time.

Despite the fact that our accommodations were less than pleasant when the boat was moving, we got the best deal at night. While the others sweated it out in the 28 degree heat and shoved pillows over their heads in an effort to block out the racket from the revellers on the surrounding boats, we burrowed into our narrow bunk beds in pitch darkness, with the aircon in the passage keeping us pleasantly cool as we slept, blissfully unaware of the shenanigans going on above deck. So yes, we were the cheapskates, but we ended up getting better value for money than those who opted for the more "luxurious" rooms.

We sailed for anything from 5 - 8 hours a day, usually stopping at our destination between 2 and 5 in the afternoon. We arrived in Trstenik at 2pm, to a scorching temperature of 37 degrees. We had all signed up for the optional Boat BBQ that night, as we'd been told Trstenik was a very small village with only one restaurant. Turns out this was just a blatant marketing ploy, as the village billed as "Croatia's most unspolied wine producer" actually had 3 or 4 cute little restaurants along the water, all with ridiculously cheap prices. Our 100 Kuna per head braai (about £12) was certainly a rip-off we would not repeat. However, since pretty much everyone on our fleet of 7 ships had fallen for the same ploy, we were all in the same boat - literally and figuratively.

What do you get when you put a group of 200 young people on a boat with crap food and nothing else to do but drink large quantities of alcohol? Why, you get the sailing version of a university fraternity, of course. One of the boats we travelled with was made up almost entirely of 21 year old Australian boys. It all kicked off at the BBQ, when we looked over at their boat and saw nothing but testerone waiting for a slut to happen. G-Days immediately dubbed it the HMS Cockfest, a name which not only spread through the rest of our travelling group but arrived at the Cocks themselves, who began wearing the label with a greatly misplaced sense of pride.

For example:

Shoes: Mate, do you know what everyone is calling you?
Cock (beaming from ear to ear): Yeah mate, we're the HMS Cockfest!!! We're all cocks!!! Oi! Where's my fucking pint?

As the liquor flowed, the mayhem began. HippieChick, being single and interested in a holiday hook-up, made every effort to get herself over to HMS Cockfest, hoping to find a cock who was maybe not as cocky as the rest (well, in certain aspects anyway). Jem, her ever-protective older brother, was literally cock-blocking her at every turn. So instead of multiple orgies, someone plugged their iPod into the sound system, and about 50 drunken sailors began dancing and stomping and doing-the-locomotion around the deck of the boat. It wasn't long before the casualties ensued. Britney, mid particularly exuberant dance move, fell over and sprained her ankle (she swears it was the pushing and shoving from the over-enthusiatic locomotion train). Crazy K got quite out of control and tried to raul everyone, teeth and fists flying. HippieChick, obviously needing an outlet for the aggression over Jem's constant cock-blocking, decided to take her on, and the two of them ended up in a knock-down, tap-out round of UFC, which had people less familiar with my friends' brand of crazy looking on in utter amazement - and fear, if I'm honest. I was unsteady enough on my feet to accidentally tip the contents of my bacardi and coke right over Eyes' head as I attemped to climb the ladder to the top deck - something which would have had Health and Safety in a shitting panic had there been such a thing in Croatia.

Everyone was mad as a box of frogs and having the time of their lives. The true extent of our fun, however, was only revealed the next morning when more than a few of us awoke with injuries that would hamper us for the rest of our trip.

Sailing Croatia: Split to Hvar

I've been promising for a few weeks now to dish the dirt on my trip to Croatia. I'll tell you where we went and what we saw, but with a holiday like this, it really is the people that make the trip. So I won't bore you with long-winded accounts of tourist attractions and travel tips, but instead I'll take you on a journey of the good, the bad and the very very smelly. After all, this is not a travel blog - it's my slightly crazy, rarely dull and ever entertaining life, and if you're reading this blog right now, I would hope that is the reason you keep coming back!

Split - Hvar

We departed for Split, Croatia at the ungodly hour of 3:30am on Saturday morning. Most of the trip there is a blur.....I remember it being cold when we left the house and I remember G-Days attempting to break the land speed record on the way to the airport, so that we had frequent "EEEEEEEEERRRGGGGHHHHH" moments as he slammed on breaks to avoid getting papped by the cameras (speeding cameras obviously - I haven't become an overnight celebrity....yet). The one good thing about speed traps in the UK is that they are very visible. You don't find cops hiding behind bushes with camo vans and black paint on their faces in an effort to catch you unawares and pressure you into a R200 bribe. The policy here is that if people know the cameras are there, they won't speed. And you know what? IT WORKS!!! Amazing! People actually have common sense!! Ironic really, since Health and Safety still have to remind you to cook your turkey all the way through at Christmas time, but perhaps they were deemed too anal for Traffic Control.

When we got to Split airport, the first thing I noticed was that all the Croatian policewomen looked like models. It was like National Career Shadow Week where all the supermodels had hopped off the catwalk to try their hand at baton swinging in a bid to expand their futures. And then I saw the policemen. I now know that Croatian men can be very good looking, but at that point, I thought they were all extras from The Hills Have Eyes. Inbred hillbillies does not even begin to cover the squint-eyed 300 pound meatheads that man passport control. Luckily we got through without incident, despite G-Days' girlfriend Crazy K shouting at the top of her voice in the queue about terrorism and fake passports (she really has no filter, that one).

Split itself is a bit of an eyesore, and so humid that we melted into puddles of non-crease cotton the minute we stepped off the bus. We dumped our baggage on board the boat that was to be our home for the next 8 days - The Tvrdi, which means "hard" - before setting out to meet Eyes and Scarf. There were 9 of us altogether, but as HippieChick was a single traveller she had to share a room with a random, a lovely Aussie girl called Tee, who ended up rounding out our group to 10 for the duration of the cruise.

As you can imagine, there was great excitement for the first couple of hours. The weather was a bit shite - very hot and muggy but with a sky full of misty white cloud and no discernible sun. Even so, we were not deterred from our celebrations. We quickly learnt the honesty bar system, whereby you order a drink (or help yourself if the crew were in the back) and tick it off under your cabin number on the drinks list. Before long, we were up at the front of the boat, cameras snapping and pint glasses clinking. And then the unthinkable happened - the winds came up, the waves turned into ravenous venus flytraps and the boat began to roll like Mischa Barton's eyes on a night out. In the beginning a couple of people felt a bit queasy, and those of us - me and HippieChick in particular, who thought we were born with tails instead of legs - scoffed with mirth. It was a different story 3 hours later. About half the boat's passenger were curled up in balls on their beds, sweat dotting their upper lips as they fought the urge to feed the fish. The rest were still above deck, lying prostrated in deck chairs or flat on the deck, as still as possible so as not to upset the delicate equilibrium they'd achieved in that position. There were more than a few growls of retching echoing above the roar of the waves. I was sat huddled on the bottom deck with a highly unstable Shoes, who in a moment of abject weakness, literally begged me not to leave him to fetch a top despite the fact that I was freezing to death in a skimpy bikini, while the driving rain blasted across our bodies. We could not have picked a more unpleasant start to the holiday. After about an hour of fighting tooth and nail with his insides, Shoes gave in and projectile vomited through his mouth and nose, while I sat outside shivering and hoping for hypothermia to take me to a peaceful end.

By the time we stopped on anchor for a swim, everyone was sporting attractive shades of green and white, and more than a few had upchucked the mushroom soup we'd had for lunch. The swim seemed to revive everyone, but there was some mutiny in the ranks as grumbles of "This is so NOT what I signed up for" and "It's fucking Croatia in July and it's like the Perfect Storm out there, WTF!" were heard around the boat.

Suffice it to say that by the time we docked in Hvar around 6pm, you have never seen a bunch of people more pleased to set foot on dry land. Hvar is the longest island in the Adriatic, and has fantastic nightlife along the water. We walked up to the old castle ruins, and then went for dinner and drinks on the docks. It was a fairly early night for all of us after the eventful day, but as it turns out, we needed the sleep, for the next couple of days were about to go completely pear-shaped.

Note: I'll add some pics later from my pc at home.

My Life in Technicolour

I am so unbelievably happy right now I have to share my news with you....

After 4 years of desperately struggling in London to get the career I want, 4 years of rejection and redundancy and repeating the same old role over and over again in what seemed like a new company every 3 months, I have finally got my dream job and it starts right now!!!

A month ago my boss announced his resignation. As a PA, when your boss resigns, you automatically freak out for obvious reasons. To cut a long story short, I was eventually told I would be safe and now that the new Head of my team has officially taken over, I sat down with her this morning to discuss my future with my team.

What I'd scarcely dared to hope might happen has actually happened, and I am officially the Cross Media Team Trade Marketing Co-ordinator working across all client marketing and events for my whole company!! I couldn't have asked for a better job if I'd dreamed it up myself, and I'm so happy I'm actually crying a little bit (cunningly disguised as tears from "yawning" so my team don't think I'm a freak).

I promise the Croatia stories are still coming...have had some trouble catching up with all my work after gallivanting across the globe! But for today, I'm just going to sit here and relish every moment of how awesome I feel right now.

Have a fantastic weekend everyone, and I hope at least one thing happens to you today to make you smile as much as me!

The Seven Seas of Wry

I'm back!!! Fresh off the boat - literally - from Croatia, I am tanned, relaxed and aghast that winter has arrived in London...in the MIDDLE OF JULY.

Meh. Not that I should be surprised, I suppose.

Over the next few days I hope to have some time at work (because who blogs at home? Come on now!) to tell you of my adventures along the Dalmation coast in a Sail Croatia boat called Tvrdi (which means "hard" - endless fun with that one, as you can imagine). I will amuse you with tales of seasickness, drunken shipmates and how one of my party botched it and missed the boat one morning.

If I'm feeling really inspired, I might even upload some pics...but as I can't do it at work, I'll need to bleed some dedication into my couch vegging time, so I'm not promising it will happen.

In the meantime, a big thank you to I'm So Not a Blogger for nominating me for a Heartfelt Blog Award - and apologies that I can neither link you nor post the cute little pic of the mouse in the teacup...goddam these pc restrictions!!! If you'd like to check out the sweetie who passed on the goodwill to me, you can find her here: http://imsonotablogger.blogspot.com/

Til tomorrow me hearties! (Sorry, the pirate talk was distinctly lacking on the boat, and I'm feeling strangely compelled to make up for lost time) Aaargh!

Oink Oink!

Hahaha, I seem to have inadvertently created quite the storm in a tea cup!!!

In addition to posting here yesterday about the potential swine flu on my doorstep, I also e-mailed Mini-Me and Bear to tell them that Shoes had been sent home as he'd been exposed to the virus.

Now while I will fully admit to a moment of panic, due not to the fact that my boyfriend might get swine flu, but rather to the fact that he might LOOK too sick to fly, the fact of the matter is that in the UK, we are more or less blase about the whole thing now. Most people who contract the virus have varying degrees of a bad cold or particularly miserable flu symptoms; others experience nothing more than a sniffle and a few aches and pains; but most are over it within a few days to a week, using good old paracetomol and ibuprofen to get them through the worst. The government here is no longer working on containing the virus, but rather treating the increasing number of cases and educating people about the facts. And the reality is that unless you are very old, very young or have other underlying health problems, you are unlikely to experience discomfort any worse than a normal strain of flu. People have stoppped panicking and running to the opposite side of the bus everytime someone sneezes.

However, this is not the case in South Africa. Over there, it seems people are still scared shitless. Between my blog and that e-mail, rumour has spread like wildfire, and our family and friends are extremely concerned that poor Shoes might be on his last legs! Shoes' best friend Fish called frantically last night to check if he's alright, and his sister BlackVelvet posted her worries in her FB status. All day I have been fielding calls and e-mails from concerned loved ones, asking if Shoes is alive / feeling better / able to travel.

As much as I never meant to alarm anyone, I have been thoroughly amused all day by the outbreak (excuse the pun, ohhhh I kill me) of concern. Not that it's not warranted - if Shoes does indeed have swine flu, I would of course take very good care of him and treat it with the seriousness it deserves. But he is feeling better today and still only has a sore throat, with no other symptoms rearing their heads, so I am definitely enjoying the funny side. :-)

Fuck A Doodle Doo

Pardon my french, I usually try to keep at least the titles of my blog clean. But in this case it is completely justified.

Shoes has just been sent home from work because he woke up with a sore throat this morning, and 2 people in his office have swine flu. It would be kind of amusing - you only die from this if you are very young, very old or have other health problems which complicate matters, but he is young and strong and I have no doubt that he is in no danger of pegging anytime soon. In the meantime, the temptation to toss all pig-related puns his way would be hard to resist.

However, if he phones NHS - which he is duty-bound to do - and he gets diagnosed, then the chances that he can fly to Croatia on Saturday are minimal to none.

So last year - Mallorca - shigella virus.

This year - Croatia - swine flu?

Ok, don't panic. Maybe it's nothing. But I swear to God, if this really is swine flu, I think I will actually lose it. I am seeing the one thing, this holiday in the sun, that is keeping me sane, going up in smoke. Not to mention the the non-refundable £1200 we've already spent on this trip.

Do you think if I keep chanting a mantra of good health over and over again, this will all go away?

Recurring Nightmares

Well, this is deja vu.

11 months ago, my old boss phoned me when I was on a bus in Mallorca to tell me he was leaving the company. He'd previously let me know that he was considering it, but when the official announcement went out he felt he should give me a heads up.

Today, after a few weeks of smelling something fishy brewing around my team, my boss told me in confidence that he will be leaving the company, possibly as soon as 2 weeks time. And I'm off to Croatia next week. Will I get a call while I'm river rafting down the Cetina rapids to tell me my P45 is on my desk?

At this stage he doesn't have any information about what will happen to me. I'm a lot more than a PA to this team, so what he will be suggesting to the powers that be is that I take over more business related duties that have opened up in our recent team reshuffle, and stay on as a team/business co-ordinator of sorts. I'm not panicking yet, there's no point. But I can't help but wonder at my cursed luck.

I posted a few days ago about the fact that so far my travel arrangements have gone off without a hitch - perhaps the Travel Curse has morphed into a Professional Curse. I'll keep you posted.

Mass E-Mail

From: Jess Piggott
Sent: 06 July 2009 17:47
To: All @ Lopz' Work
Subject: Did you get pregnant on your first date?

Hi all,

I’m looking for case studies for the following story. If you know anyone who might be keen to get involved, please pass the details onto them.

Did you get pregnant on your first date?

"Motherhood" magazine is looking to speak to someone who got pregnant on a one night stand or on their first date with a new partner.

Please reply and I'll call you with details.

Thanks,
Jess

From: Cheeky Bugger
Sent: 06 July 2009 17:53
To: Jess Piggott, All @ Lopz' Work
Subject: Re: Did you get pregnant on your first date?

I thought I did – but it was just a massive dump stuck in the cargo hold...

Proudly Souf Efrican

My saffa teammate at work, Heathcliff, just introduced me to an awesome blog.

Hayibo is a satirical take on all things SA. They sell T-shirts saying "Mlungu" (whitey) and poll their readers on topics such as this one:

Helen Zille and Julius Malema should settle their fight once and for all by:
*Mud-wrestling
*Sharing a good long hug
*Going on Dr Phil
*Going on Judge Judy
*Going on Ritalin

VOTE

This article is my Find of the Day:

SA TO AVOID RECESSION BY EXPORTING NARCOTICS ON SAA

JOHANNESBURG. South Africa's finance ministry says the country can avoid a deep recession by embracing South African Airways' new business model of exporting large quantities of illicit narcotics directly to major transit hubs. According to a spokesman it was high time that taxpayers got a return on their involuntary investment in the international drugs trade.

Two SAA crews have been arrested in recent months for trying to smuggle narcotics into the UK, and this morning Finance Ministry spokesman Shekel Sepeng said that it was likely that more crews were smuggling drugs.

"We don't have exact numbers but it seems to be pretty clear that everyone's doing it," said Sepeng.

"They've stopped two SAA crews, and found drugs on both. That means 100 percent of the crews sampled have been smuggling drugs.

In other words, he said, it was statistically likely that 100 percent of all SAA crews were involved as drug mules.

"That's a lot of crews, and an awesome quantity of drugs. We're talking tons. Entire Boeing 747s stuffed to bursting with A-grade s**t."

He said that it was time for South Africans to benefit from the drug trade.

"Clearly SAA is a major cartel in the international narcotics business, but even though the South African taxpayer has been bailing them out for years, none of that sweet sugar has trickled down to the man on the street," he explained.

He said that the Finance Ministry was confident that SAA's trafficking system could be successfully expanded as they already seemed to have in efficient business model in place.

"As far as we can tell they take your suitcase, throw it over the wall to baggage handlers who rip it open and auction your clothes to the highest bidder, and then they replace your suitcase with a massive brick of skunk."

However he said SAA would need to boost its intellectual capital if it was to lift South Africa out of an impending recession.

"The problem is that we also seem to be dealing with startlingly stupid people," he said.

"Any air crew can get bust trying to smuggle coke and marijuana into Heathrow. But for another crew to get caught just a few weeks later, when they know Heathrow officials are looking out for dodgy SAA crews, well that's just borderline retarded."

SAA officials could not be reached for comment, but a spokesman at their head office confirmed that they were currently meeting to discuss a way forward.

"It's just a standard get-together in a warehouse at the docks," he said. "As far as I know they're actioning a strategy to grow SAA's market share on UK routes. Something about leaving horses' heads in the beds of British Airways executives."

Go here for more, it's worth the look:
http://hayibo.com/

Cruel Summer

Aaaah, the London heatwave. I've been highly amused at all the cattiness on facebook this week from those Capetonions attempting to one-up their friends in London by criticising the summer here ("yes, but you only get 3 weeks of this while it's 26 degrees in the middle of winter here - take that!"). Why is it that many South Africans are so quick to diss the rare good fortunes we have with the weather over here? Jealousy, perhaps? A determined attempt to make Cape Town seem like the coolest place on earth? Never fear peeps, Cape Town IS the coolest place on earth (sorry Gautengers). But cut us a little slack and let us enjoy our diamond summer, alright?

Speaking of the summer, the Brits have a wonderful expression for this heat: steaming. It never fails to make me giggle, as for some reason I picture a giant steaming turd each time I hear it. So for example, when you get off the tube in the mornings with your hair plastered to your forehead, your thighs sticking together like gummy eyes after a good night's sleep and your armpits drenched with a mixture of perspiration and a healthy dose of Chanel No 5 to cover the smell, it is appropriate to say that it is steaming outside. Incidentally, steaming can also be used to describe a state of severe intoxication, as in "I was absolutely steaming last night", which would indicate that you had almost certainly done something very stupid / embarassing in your drunken state, and might lead the listener to harrass you for lurid details. Either way, both are unceasingly funny, and this is from someone who usually covers her eyes and ears during the toilet humour bits in gross-out comedies.

The problem with this heat, besides the inevitable sport of wet armpit-smelling in which you are unwittingly engaged on the tubes, is that people and places are just not prepared for it. Air conditioning is a luxury rather than a compulsory part of building designs. Sunstroke strikes quickly and unexpectedly (not us southerners of course, but the pale-skinned poms whose Edwards Cullen-like translucence is no match even for the weaker northern hemisphere sun). Passing out is common, and attracts very little fanfare. If you see someone lying prostrated on the pavement or in the tunnels of the Underground, check to see someone is attending them, and then step carefully over them and continue on your merry way, no questions asked.

My gym is a good example of How Not To Handle A British Heatwave. You'd think that Virginactive, with all their money and when combined with the anal levels of attention paid to Health and Safety in this country, might think to make their buildings safer places to work out in when it gets hot. An airconditioning system that ACTUALLY EJECTS COLD AIR wouldn't go amiss. It would certainly beat the current situation of having to locate one of 3 units across the entire substantially sized gym and stand directly underneath it to feel the very faint gust of slightly tepid air that barely ruffles the hairs on your arms. It would probably assist with reducing the vast quantities of sweat that covers everything from the handles of the stairmasters to the backs of the lateral pull-down machines. It would certainly have prevented the girl in my spinning class the other day from hitting the deck as she walked out, after we'd spent 45 minutes labouring in conditions so hot and humid that most of were slightly green in the face and more than a few had to sit down for 5 minutes to recover. And it would definitely improve on the pool situation, which is now so packed with exercisers seeking relief that the water is overheating and it's like doing laps in a hot bath. The only plus side is that I think I am losing my own bodyweight in fat everytime I work out, which must certainly be worth all the stars I've been seeing before my eyes.

Sod's Law though (Murphy's Law is only used in Ireland over here): my friend Britney says that it's been raining non-stop in Croatia despite the temperature averaging 29 degrees. With only 2 weeks to go til we leave for our island-hopping tour of the country, I am really hoping this won't be the Travel Curse of this particular holiday. I know the travel gods have something up their sleeves, because I got both my visas without a hitch. Oh, the anticipation!

Quote Of The Day

You know your relationship is going badly when.....

Said by one friend of mine to another about his girlfriend:

“Sometimes I just want to hold her head underwater and watch the life drain from her eyes.”

Put down the axe, Mr Torrance!

Grease Is The Word

My retinas are stinging and my brain is boggling. I have just picked up yesterday's copy of The Metro, a free London newspaper, and I have come across an article that both intrigues and disturbs me.

For those of you who know Piers Morgan, observe (I would insert the pic, but restrictions on my work pc don't let me post pics):

http://www.nowmagazine.co.uk/imageBank/p/piers-morgan1.jpg

For those who don't, he is a judge on X Factor and America's Got Talent, and former editor of The Daily Mirror (trashy tabloid) until he was fired for publishing fake photographs of Iraqi prisoners being abused. As you do.

Overall a rather leery character, like your second uncle twice removed who stares at you in an inappropriate fashion at your annual family gathering.

Anyway, it's not even the David Beckham style strip-off that Monssieur Morgan has copied that really has me baffled (although his nudity is definitely baffling enough for a pint's worth debate down at the pub). It's the product he's advertising. Take another look. This picture is supposed to represent the sensual appeal of Burger King's brand new fragrance, Flame, which is being touted as "the scent of seduction, with a hint of flame-broiled meat".

But, of course. Because what do ladies go for in a man if not the seductive aroma of a greasy processed burger? I myself have always wished for a hunk of meaty-smelling love to waft past me, ready for me to sink my incisors into his medium-rare flesh. I see two possible outcomes:

a) The obvious one, which is that BK only sells enough fragrances to supply college kids with olfactory jokes to play on their drunken, passed-out mates

b) We all give in to the raging cannibals inside us and start tearing chunks off each other in Superdrug queues

I'd be quite happy with b) if it was Beckham selling the sex. After all, what's a bit of roast beef sweat when you have abs like a hopscotch court? Observe:

http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2007/12_02/BECKHAM101207_468x342.jpg

Suddenly the fragrance becomes inconsequential, doesn't it?

Dissed and Dismissed!

I got picked up, chewed up and spat straight back out again at a party on Saturday, and it was such a great dis I thought I'd share it with you.

The scene: Beer garden at a Wandsworth pub

The players: Me and Random English Dude

The set-up: I'm talking to a group of friends when Random English Dude comes sauntering along, stops, gives me the once over and proceeds to deliver the following gem.

RED: Hey! How you doing? So, are you Brazlian or Puerto Rican?

Me: *thoroughly flattered* No actually, I'm South African.

RED: *the predatory glint in his eye turning to one of mild distaste, such as when you step in dog shit* Oh. Oh well, that's too bad. I mean, don't get me wrong, you're beautiful, but I don't like South Africans. They just don't do it for me. It's just their personalities, you know? But no offense, hey. Enjoy the party.

And off he walked. It was far too funny to be annoying, but wow! I have never been dissed on the basis of my passport before.

The Chavs vs The Chav-Nots

Shoes just got a call from the cops: they found his old bike! I use the exclamation mark to indicate amazement rather than joy or excitement, because as expected, it is completely fucked. Apparently it has been dropped several times, which means the fairing is almost certainly cracked - a write-offable offense in insurance terms. My first response was to wish a messy death by shredding (tearing all your skin off when you come off a bike) upon the chavs who stole it, but my team at work are far more creative. They said death, however messy, would be too easy, and I should be wishing uncomfortable and humiliating afflications on the delinquent thieves. My favourite offering so far is genital warts and piles - at the same time. And paralysed arms, so he can't scratch.

The bike was found at a nearby council estate called Phipps Bridge Estate - exactly where we told the cops it would be. After it got stolen, we traced some CCTV footage that showed the backs of the 2 kids wheeling it away, and which direction they were going. A local security guard near our complex told us about Phipps Bridge and how the path they were using led straight to the heart of the estate. We got Neutrino to drive us around the place to see if we could spot it, but of course, there are many places to hide a bike where we couldn't venture. I know there's not much the cops could have done, but it is quite frustrating to know that we knew where it was all along, gave them the info they'd need to track it and yet still nothing was done. Oh well.

The new bike is awesome; bigger, better and faster than the first edition, so Shoes and I are both thrilled despite the extra money we had to fork out for the incident. On Sunday we tested out our favourite new pastime, which goes something like this:

*Open Googlemaps
*Pick random place on map anywhere along the Thames
*Put postcode of nearby pub into GPS
*Get on bike and ride there as fast as possible!

It's so satisfying to get out of London for a bit, travel along country roads and most of all, spend a bit of one on one time together. Our house is like a cross between a train station and a refugee camp, and alone time is as rare as Manto Tshabalala-Msimang making sense (for my foreign readers: this is our particularly inept former Minister of Health, quite a feat amongst a gaggle of extremely inept Ministers; google her if you fancy a horrified chuckle).

I love my friends, but sometimes I forget how satisfying a weekend alone can be. This past weekend not a single person came over - not to pick up/drop off something, not to pop in for coffee or to say hi, not to watch a movie or share a few beers on a Friday night - NOTHING! It wasn't planned, it just happened that way. And do you know what I did? I spent the weekend cleaning my room, scrubbing down the bathroom, emptying all my cupboards and throwing away the massive collection of utter crap that we've collected over the years, arranging my shoes in neat rows and decorating my scrapbook. Oh yes, and riding on Sunday. That's it. And it was one of the best weekends I've had this year!