by Ben Trovato
Unlike the male organ, women’s breasts vary in size depending on their weight, marital status and mood. “Find me a 52B,” I shouted, mixing myself a suitably girly wine spritzer with a tequila gold on the side and two beers to chase.
While Ted was developing cleavage, I perused the internet for Women’s Day specials. I was expecting to find sites with names like Gropeon offering lavender-scented pepper spray, well-hung Malawian houseboys and coffee table books featuring lipstick lesbians in a range of tastefully lit positions.
Instead, the deal-of-the-day websites were offering designer handbags, cryolipolysis fat freeze and ultrasound cavitation (yummy!), Egyptian cotton towel sets, aromatherapy massage candles, collagen face masks, Gordon Ramsay cookware, a range of blemish-clearing devices and a portable shoe storage cabinet.
This is what women want on Women’s Day? I felt deflated. “Here,” said Ted, “stick these down your top.” Feeling considerably more inflated, I wiggled my fake bosom, drained my tequila and headed for the car.
“Right,” said Ted, wedging his big chiffon-coated arse into the passenger seat. “Let’s celebrate Women’s Day.”
Our first port of call was the beautician. Before going in, I fixed Ted’s wig and he fixed mine. He was a blonde, I was a redhead. Earlier, I had come across an entire drawer full of wigs. They were probably the scalps of former lovers.
Her name was Xandra, according to the name-tag on her blouse, if that’s what you call a garment so sheer you get vertigo when it comes near you. I pronounced it with a Xhosa click even though she was a very white girl. “Akshally, it’s Zandra,” she said, smiling for one-hundredth of a second. “So you wanna wax?” she whined. “Yes please,” said Ted, “and a polish.” Ted gets his humour from Top Gear. That’s why he never gets laid. I nudged his leg to indicate that he should lower his voice by several hundred octaves. He thought I was initiating some sort of silly game that girls indulge in when they go to the beautician and I had to play along until the nudging, pinching and giggling turned into slapping, punching and swearing.
“So,” said Xandra. “Do youse want the bikini, the moustache, the landing strip, the American, the Brazilian or the Hollywood?” Ted said he wanted the Kentucky Fried Chicken but she had never heard of it so I said we’d just get our nails done instead.
She looked at my hands and shuddered. “You bite your nails?” Of course I bite my nails. How else do men keep their nails short? She said there was nothing she could do for them. The look on her face suggested there had been a death in the family.
Ted said he’d heard there was some kind of acid they offered clients. Xandra perked up and began telling him about the acid options that would rid his feet of ugly callouses. He said he was more interested in the acid options that would rid his mind of ugly reality. She pretended to laugh and offered us a seaweed wrap which made us think of sushi so we excused ourselves and sashayed off down the road to a nearby restaurant.
Sitting on the veranda guzzling apéritifs, if double brandies and Coke qualify as apéritifs, it soon became apparent that gentlemen of no discernible breeding were giving us the venereal eye and making remarks that fluctuated between the utterly misogynistic and the abysmally moronic.
Ted began acting like a total slut. He batted his ridiculous little man eyelashes, flashed a slab of hairy thigh and did something revolting with his tongue.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whispered. While continuing to flirt with what looked like a meeting of the Boeremag’s dog squad, Ted explained that he was paying the ultimate homage to women on Women’s Day. Women, he said, wielded the most incredible power. He said he could feel it pumping through his veins like molten lava. I reminded him that he wasn’t a woman and that it was most likely the Klipdrift in his veins. He was having none of it.
Ted stood up, flicked his wig, fluffed his dress, puckered his scrawny lips and said, “Fuck you all, you bunch of ignorant cock-sucking losers.” Then he took my hand and we flounced right out of there. It felt so liberating to treat men like the filth they are, without any risk of getting our heads kicked in, that I may well have a sex change.
GETTING SERPENTINE ON TURPENTINE
I caught a snake on my 11th birthday. Not one of those scary big-ass mothers that can squeeze you to death and swallow you whole. I didn’t grow up in the Amazon jungle, even though my table manners tell a different story. It was a grass snake about as long as my fibula. I kept it in an empty fish tank and would take it out and play with it when I was bored. The snake, not my fibula. That’s the kind of crazy shit Oscar Pistorius might have done as a kid. Not that he had fibulas. He might have had a snake. I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. Even then, he’d probably lie about it and shoot you in the face.
They’re not much fun, snakes. For a start, they lack a sense of humour. You won’t find mambas playing with a ball or a puff adder chasing something just for the hell of it. I tried to teach my grass snake a few simple tricks but we never really got past “play dead”. I eventually turned him loose. He livened up considerably at that point, then made a sound in the back of his throat and disappeared into the shrubbery, never to be seen again. I like to think he was laughing. The bastard was probably swearing at me in Parseltongue.
I am surprised that my contact with a snake at such a young age failed to lead me into the arms of Satan. Instead, I became a journalist. There are cynics who would say that’s pretty much two sides of the same tarnished coin.
Snakes, as we all know, are the devil’s handiwork. Lucifer clearly has all the creative skills of a five-year-old child who, upon being given a bag of plasticine, is able to make nothing more complicated than snakes. Fat ones, thin ones, long ones, short ones. That’s about it.
Some disagree, insisting that snakes are entitled to their place on Earth. Their minds have been poisoned by the shameless propaganda shown on Animal Planet and National Geographic.
The vital task of warning society of the perils posed by these godless, legless creatures falls to pillars of society like Suzette Farmer of Ocean View.
I happened upon a letter she wrote to a community paper serving the residents of the Cape Peninsula. Suzette describes Ocean View as “a beautiful community lying in a valley surrounded by mountains and the sea”. Other people, undoubtedly possessed by the devil, might describe it as a rundown township surrounded by gangsters and poverty. Luckily, Suzette knows what is behind the rampant crime and drug abuse. And she has the solution.
“As a religious person, I believe all these issues are because of a serpent lying in the middle of Ocean View. He moves on his belly around Ocean View and he just ended up in Atlantic Heights with two more shootings last week.”
Snatching my camera bag from beneath the comatose cat, I pushed my car out of the garage, crash-started it and headed off to Ocean View. It’s only 10 minutes from where I’m staying, but I had to move fast. This was a world exclusive. Once the sun went down, the tabloid reporters would start leaving their crypts. A giant snake moving through the township leaving a trail of murder and mayhem in its wake. They’d sniff out a story like that in no time at all.
Like most ‘suburbs’ developed in line with the public-spirited Group Areas Act, Ocean View becomes increasingly labyrinthine the deeper you penetrate. It wasn’t long before I was hopelessly lost. I couldn’t see the ocean and the only view I had was of a tin shack and a pit bull on a chain. I got out and went over to a huddle of people on the corner. I was offered tik, weed, heroin and 10 minutes alone with someone called Fran or Shan. It seemed excessive, what with the sun still being up and all, so I declined.
“I’m looking for a snake,” I said. “Big motherfucker.” They took a step back, muttering and shaking their heads. A man with two gold front teeth and a spider web tattooed on his neck made the sign of the cross.
“Bless you too, dude. But I really need to find that snake.” He said he was giving me directions and that if he ever had cause to give me a blessing, I should know that it wou
ld swiftly be followed by a bullet to the head.
Ten minutes later I rounded a corner and saw it. Satan’s spawn was spread out on its belly, brazen as you please, in the middle of a playground. It was huge. Apart from in the movie Anaconda, I’d never seen a snake that size.
I pulled over and, leaving the engine running, got out with my camera at the ready. I was within 50 metres of the brute when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw three kids running towards it. I shouted and waved my arms, knowing that my actions could alert the serpent to my presence. Rather it turned on me than innocent children. The city would probably want to give me some sort of award. I hoped it wouldn’t be posthumous.
The kids ignored me and I watched in horror as they leapt onto its back and began running up and down its spine. It’s not going to like that, I thought, snapping off a few frames. On the other hand, a kid thrashing about in its powerful jaws would be the money shot. But the snake didn’t react. Was it dead? I walked over and gave it a kick in the mouth. Nothing happened. The girls laughed and jumped up and down. The boy told me not to kick his snake. He was about eight. Old enough to heft a Glock. I apologised.
I noticed graffiti on the snake. Of course. You build a concrete snake in an area like this, there’s going to be graffiti on it before you’ve even finished the tail. Disappointed, I took a few shots and asked the kids what they thought of the snake. They said they smaaked it and demanded to see the pictures I’d taken.
I went back to the car and read the rest of Suzette Farmer’s letter. Was she hallucinating? How could a concrete snake – a badly made one at that – be responsible for the general menace and squalor that pervaded the area?
“What message do we pass on to our children?” she cried. “Is it not about time to get rid of this serpent?” I felt an unseen hand run up and down my spine. I turned around. A toddler had climbed into the passenger seat and was frisking me.
“Why should children associate themselves with snakes? Churches are praying for peace, but the serpent still rejoices for what’s happening in Ocean View.”
I looked across the buckled, glass-strewn tar. The snake showed no signs of rejoicing.
Reaching into her evidence bag and pulling out the Bible, Suzette Farmer proclaimed, “The Lord God said to the serpent, ‘Because you have done this, cursed are you more than all cattle, and more than every beast of the field; On your belly you will go, and dust you will eat all the days of your life.’”
Seems a bit unfair on cattle. Perhaps they were different in those days. Perhaps the cows banded together and fought against being turned into burgers and steaks. Suzette’s implored the city to banish the serpent and replace it with a different animal.
“Why not use one of the sea creatures for children to play on?” A great white shark, perhaps? No. Too deadly. A seahorse? Too weird. A crayfish? Ocean View is full of poachers. Everyone is sick of crayfish. Wait. I’ve got it. A jellyfish. A non-suggestive lump of concrete with a few discreet tendrils. Perfect. Fun for the whole family.
A week later, I picked up the new edition of the community paper. Suzette Farmer’s letter had struck a chord. Abdullah Kamaldien, another Ocean View loyalist, agreed that the snake should be demolished because “it bears no positive image to our children”.
“With permission from the City of Cape Town, the community – young and old – should use chisels and hammers to remove it!” While he made no mention of burning torches, they’d certainly come in handy should the exorcism continue into the night.
Suddenly I had a new story. A lynch mob descending on the playground, baying for the blood of the concrete snake. The sound of hammers on chisels, smashing into the snake. The cry goes up. Get the head! The head! Kill the head and the body will die!
Once the serpent from hell has been smashed to bits, Kamaldien would also like to see a more suitable feature rise from the rubble. Unlike Suzette, he makes no mention of sea creatures.
“Concrete anchors would be a better theme. Anchors symbolise stability. Swaying flotillas need stability.” Yes, I can see the progeny of Ocean View having endless hours of fun with concrete anchors. As a child, I dreamed of someone building a concrete anchor in our park. Sadly, it was not to be. And today, more often than not, I find myself adrift, swaying along with the fickle flotilla of humankind.
Kamaldien ends his letter saying, “More suggestions are welcome regarding the replacing of the serpent.”
How about a praying mantis? Or a frog? A bat? Perhaps we should forget about anything modelled on the insect or amphibian world. After all, it’s explicitly stated in the King James Version of Leviticus something-or-other that “every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth shall be an abomination”. Reading between the lines – which is really the only way to read the Bible – I think it’s meant more as a ye shall not eat these things that creepeth, but there is a paragraph that says “ye shall not make yourselves abominable with any creeping thing that creepeth, neither shall ye make yourselves unclean with them”.
I expect there is a chance of coming away fairly unclean after spending a couple of hours rubbing up against a concrete snake. As far as the other is concerned, I have seen many people making themselves abominable on a Friday night with no help from any creeping thing that creepeth.
Ocean View’s situation is replicated in townships around the country. So my message is this. Find your concrete snake, people. Find it and destroy it. If Suzette and Abdullah are right, and there is no reason to think they aren’t, we can transform this country overnight. I’d suggest you use dynamite because, let’s face it, the hammer and chisel option takes forever. And there is no time to waste.
I feel like such a fool. All along, I have been labouring under the misapprehension that bad parenting, poor policing, ineffective teaching, misdirected preaching, municipal apathy and the aftershocks of apartheid are to blame for the poverty, crime and violence wracking our townships. Instead, it’s all because of concrete snakes.
Once we are finally freed from the ophidian clutches of these viperous infidels, we will celebrate with magnificent communal braais across the country.
There shall be lamb chops and scapegoats for all.
MEN’S HEALTH IS MORE THAN JUST A MAGAZINE
My mother always emphasised the importance of developing the mind. “Be careful what you put in it,” she would say. From a young age, my brain was my second favourite organ – of course I was going to look after it.
Then the internet was invented and, over a relatively short period of time, my healthy mind degenerated into little more than a grey lump of meat fly-blown with feckless trivia and irrelevant inanities. I try to read as much as I can but the rot is irreversible and contamination continues apace.
I am, therefore, giving up on the mind. Hopefully this will be a temporary state of affairs. Once you leave the mind to its own devices, it can either lose itself or take you to places you do not wish to be. Right now, it’s just not doing enough to earn its keep. Where are the brilliant get-rich-quick ideas? Stupid, lazy mind.
My attention will forthwith be focused on the body. Wherever I go, people are talking about Tim Noakes and the Banting diet. Noakes says it’s fine if you eat an elephant for lunch. The mistake people make is that they have a slice of toast with their elephant.
Noakes is either Caligula’s cousin or the next Jesus. It all depends on who you speak to. One thing’s for sure, though. If the sheep, cows and pigs ever get together, Noakes had better double lock his doors.
I’m a firm believer in high-protein food. I’m also a firm believer in food high in carbohydrates. The trick is to buy plates big enough to accommodate enormous portions of protein as well as carbs. It’s a balancing act. Carbs on one side, protein on the other and a big fat wodge of pudding in the middle. Maybe, on a side plate, a loofah for fibre.
Accepting that it would take more than a high-protein, high-carb diet to get my body back to the chunk of chiselled marble it once was, I went out and bought a copy
of Men’s Health magazine. I struggled to get it out of the plastic wrapping but, after a little lie-down, I felt strong enough to start turning the pages. Cristiano Ronaldo is on the cover. Shirtless, naturally. The photo made me wonder what it would be like to be gay. Well done, mind. I leave you alone for a minute and this is what you come up with?
Ronaldo was surrounded by shouty pledges of bigger muscles, better braais and hotter women. “Are you the next MH cover guy?” Sure. Why the hell not? I’m taller than Ronaldo. And I beat him on the scales, too. By a good 20 kilograms. Also, I have blue eyes and speak proper English. Squeeze me into a pair of tight denims, varnish my hair, spray-paint my teeth and I reckon I’m in with a fighting chance.
The magazine gets down to it quickly. Right off the bat, there’s a competition. You can win a smartphone, a watch, a fragrance or a black man in a checked shirt and skinny jeans. A fragrance? Don’t real men wear deodorant or, at a push, aftershave? Apparently not. “With notes of lime, green leaves and dark liquorice, this is the perfect fragrance for the guy who feels like making a statement.” I still remember the days when men who felt like making statements would strap explosives (with notes of nitroglycerine) to their bodies.
The smartphone has “a floating arc design that makes sure it rests comfortably in one hand”. Unlike other phones, which often take two hands and the help of a bystander to hold comfortably. I think the “floating arc” reference might be a subliminal message to the people in Cape Town who are starting to believe that the rain will never stop and someone will build a boat and they will only be able to get on it if they have the right kind of phone.
