A very very musical few weeks

This may not look like much but it means a lot to me. It's a photograph I took with my cellphone of Joe Jackson and his two accompanying musicians at the Teatro at Monte Casino, Wednesday 4th June. And if you don't know who Joe Jackson is (and a frighteningly large amount of people don't), Google him. Because quite frankly having to describe who he is diminishes his brilliance. Suffice to say that it was an absolutely fantastic evening - even though my mate Owie did remark on the large amount of balding pates in the audience. I never actually believed I'd ever see "Is she really going out with?", or "Steppin' out" performed live and in person by Joe Jackson. Not to mention a bunch of other songs pared down to musical purity with just piano, bass, drums and JJ's tremulous voice - which he blamed on the altitude and which, amazingly, imrpoved as the evening went on. Pure magic.

As opposed to the next international live act of the week, Counting Crows. I'd missed them the first couple of times they'd visited South Africa and was determined to see 'em this time round. Of course, seeing "Mr Jones" performed live can forgive a lot. But not stumbling about mumbling the words in a kinda Bob Dylan way. So, ya know, sometimes sell-by dates are accurate, and sometimes not.

But back pedalling to the concert of the year - and possibly the decade - the Cola Fest was just about as good as it can get. Every band was fantastic in their own way, with Muse head and shoulders above the lot. I don't think I've ever seen so many awestruck faces in one place.

So the moral - if there is any moral - is that if you're brilliant it doesn't matter how old or young or pretentious you are; you're still brilliant. If you're good but start taking it - and the audience - for granted, you quickly become crap. And it's an extremely tough task to climb back out.

Are they kidding?

This is a photograph of the menu for the Brass Bell in Kalk Bay, Cape Town. It’s a place I always insist on going to for a drink whenever I’m in Cape Town, despite my Capetonian friends throwing their hands up in horror because only (mainly) tourists go there. And there is no worse fate for a Capetonian than being mistaken for a tourist. Particularly a Joburg tourist. No, death is infinitely more attractive.

But I always insist on going and always do, sometimes on my own. Because I like it, particularly on a nice day when the Southeaster isn’t howling through, and the waves are gently breaking on the shore and you can watch the fishing boats returning from a hard day’s … um … fishing. It’s a postcard scene and it really makes me feel like I’m on holiday.

But sometimes you have to wonder at the ingenuity – and utter cheek – of the ways some businesses take advantage of the tourist trade. You probably can’t read the type at the bottom right of the menu being held by my mate Seamus so I’ll spell it out for you.

It reads, “Copies of our menu for sale at R50.” I’m not kidding. Check it for yourself next time you’re down there. R50! I realise that for Wolfgang from Munich that only equates to about five euros, but still. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or applaud.

Instead I took a picture of it, and if any South Africans want a copy of it I’ll send you one for R2. Europeans, though, will have to pay two euros.

After all, we need the foreign exchange, apparently.

Sorry

I couldn't help myself.

Just got back from a few days in Kruger Park which, by the way, was fantastic. In spite of some people saying it's the wrong time of year, the bush is too thick after the rains, it's more like a zoo, etc.

It's not. It's brilliant. I can strongly recommend it. We saw tons of animals - including having two different herds of elephants sandwich us, and coming across two old male lions wandering down the middle of the road - and the weather was perfect. Cool and overcast. So the Kruger Park is fab. Go see for yourself.

But then we saw this. And I couldn't help myself. Had to snap the shot and post the blog. A bit like a sportswriter who, after our ginger-haired opening bowler has a brilliant game, has to write, "Polly has a cracker!!!".

And I've always thought that, in another life, I'd like to have been a sportswriter. Because in that profession, puns are deemed a badge of honour. As opposed to an invitation to have people sneer at you condescendingly.

So, yes. It's a pic of striped animals moving from one side of the road to the other.

Come on, you don't think I'm actually going to type it out for you, do you? I mean, the reader has to do some work, right?

Right.

Incandescence doesn't cut it.

I'm incandescent with rage. At least, I was until I realised that incandescence was really that paltry glow you get inside light bulbs. So now I'm 50 megaton thermo-nuclear explosion with rage.

Last Wednesday night I donated my old cellphone to the pixies that live under the counters of dimly lit, massively packed bars. It was the right thing to do.

On Thursday I dutifully blocked the SIM card and reported the phone donated. On Friday I arrived at the cellphone help shop - at noon - to get a new phone. Happily I was due for an upgrade anyway. I got a nice shiny new feature-packed wonder of technology that, as well as being able to separate hydrogen and oxygen from water and finding a cure for the common cold, can be used as a cellphone.

I also got a shiny new SIM card that allowed me to use the same phone number as before. How long before the SIM card was operational? Between four and five hours, the salesman/assistant/service provider told me, with the confidence of Japanese whaler fifty feet from his prey.

Cool, I answered. Naively, as it turns out.

Six hours later, still no activation. Called customer service and after a mere fifteen minutes got hold of a perky, helpful human being. Obviously an oversight, said the human, it'll be back on in an hour. At midnight I gave up and went to bed.

Saturday midday still no joy. Paid the help shop - in a different shopping centre - a visit at 4pm and explained the situation.

"Ah," said the guy. "They were supposed to activate it on two systems but only activated on one. It'll be back on in an hour and a half."

Said thanks through gritted teeth and went home. By 8pm still no joy (and how, pray, do you phone customer care when your SIM isn't working?), gave up and bought a starter pack.

Sunday, at noon, tried the SIM again and it was finally working. Which begs the question: Are cellphone companies chronologically challenged? Or just liars?

By the way, the cellphone company's name starts with a V and ends in an M. And has "odaco" in the middle.

South Africa's biggest supporter my arse.

What's it all about? Alfie, apparently.

Happy Valentine's Day. Yes, I know Valentine's Day is just a commercial invention aided and abetted by the greeting card, restaurant, flower growing and chocolate industries to squeeze that extra bit of cash out of us at a time of year when we're still gazing blankly at our credit card statements wondering how the hell we managed to spend the GDP of a small American country on booze, dinners and by-now-forgotten knick-knacks over December, but it could be worse. At least it's celebrating something good. Something warm and fuzzy, something that makes you feel like life's worth living even on the crappest days.

I mean, we can thank our lucky stars that the haemorrhoid treatment industry hasn't cottoned on to this concept. "Pile on the happiness this Haemorroids Day! Proudly brought to you by Preparation H!"

But I digress.

The other reason for writing this blog today is that I have been stung into action by my friend Goatville Girl. While I have been consumed by wading through the sludge of getting back into work mode during January, Goatville Girl has been a veritable Terry Pratchett of blogging. By which I mean prolific, as opposed to being obsessed with turtles and wizards. Which reinforces by earlier belief that she is clever and funny and hard working. And not just bored with trying to come up ideas for breath mints. But don't believe me; see for yourself at www.middlegoat.blogspot.com.

So I now resolve to try harder. Which is a good resolution to have on Valentine's Day.

And that's what it's all about. In a Michael Caine way, rather than a Jude Law way.

The illuminating Chinese

In the immortal words of Monty Python, I like Chinese. In Singapore I spent a lot of time with Chinese people. When you first arrive, the initial impression is that they are rude, arrogant and all-round unpleasant. Once you've been there a little while, however, you realise why. It's because a large number of (Western) expats are rude, arrogant and all-round unpleasant. Not to mention overpaid and under talented. And the locals assume you're the same.

Make an effort, though, and stop acting like an expat, and you’re rewarded with the warmest, most hospitable, funny and enthusiastic friends you’ve ever made. With great names like Pui Leng, Eugene (really), Shii Hua, Muk, Lynnden and Kuan Eng.

I like Chinese food as well. A lot. I could quite happily eat Taiwanese fried or steamed dumplings dipped in dark Chinese vinegar every day. Some weeks I did.

And I love Chinese weddings. Five hundred people crammed into a hotel banquet hall, munching their way through twelve or more courses progressively laid out on permanently spinning Lazy Susans. Until the last course, when the venue empties out faster than if there had been a bomb scare, leaving behind bewildered expats wondering if they’d missed something. Chinese people don’t hang around after the last course has been served, you soon learn.

But I also like the fact that Chinese people are clever. Singapore is a predominantly Buddhist country, followed by Islam and Hindi. And yet, come Christmas, all the shopping malls along the two-odd kilometre stretch of Orchard Road are festooned with the most fabulous Christmas decorations you’ve ever seen. It just makes business sense.

In Sandton, the most expensive business real estate area in Africa, we have … a couple of lights strung around the trunks of six trees along the median of one of the roads.

Wow.

So in celebration of Christmas, I thought it appropriate that my festive decorations be led by a wizened, wise old Chinese candleholder. Apart from the fact it was given to me by a very special person from Cape Town, I think it just makes sense. And I like it.

Because who better to illuminate the world this Christmas than people with a 6 000 year history of illumination?

Saponins saved my life. Well, maybe.

There is light on the horizon. Rising like a glorious new dawn, the rays of possibilities warming all they touch, a new discovery has arrived. And it may spell the death knell of the dreaded broccoli.

Yes, my friends, saponins could well be the answer. Because, as our Mediterranean pals have known for millennia - well, hundreds of years, at least - red wine is the answer to most of our prayers. And the panacea to all our ills. Because red wine contains saponins.

According to a very serious and scientific-looking website, " ... saponins are being found in an increasing number of foods and their presence in wine adds to the mounting evidence that red wine really may make a difference in lowering your cholesterol." Let me repeat that in case you missed it. They make a difference in lowering your cholesterol.

Halleluja. So this may well turn out to be a festive season of joy after all. I'm going to be hard at work making a difference in lowering my cholesterol over the next few weeks by sampling the wonder cure in abundance. In fact I made an excellent start over the weekend with Goatville Girl and Boota Boy. And if you exclude the first couple of hours of the day after, it seems to be working.

Hence my imminent pilgrimage to the centre of saponin production in South Africa, the Cape winelands. Boy, is my cholestrol in trouble.

And not a brocolli in sight.