Last weekend's unedited Weekend Argus column. In the published version they changed "bullshit" to "bulldust". Does anyone still say "bulldust", when what they really mean is "bullshit"? Did they ever? Beyond the age of ten, that is? Answers on a postcard. . . Oh, and due to some printing fuck-up or other, the last line of the column disappeared. Pity. --AD
ONCE again to Mahogany Ridge, where there has been much chatter about the mysterious illness that appears to have laid low honeymoon murder suspect Shrien Dewani, thus preventing him from making an appearance at his extradition hearing in London this week.
According to British news reports, the 31-year-old businessman has been diagnosed as having acute stress and depressive adjustment disorders -- a condition known locally as the Shaiks.
Opinion amongst the Ridge regulars is sharply divided as to how soon the chronically ailing Dewani will next be spotted on the links of Albion’s finer country clubs, his perky Bollywood turban set at a rakish angle as he calls for his favourite mashie.
Some say three months at least, while others, more cynical, suggest no more than six weeks. Older regulars, perhaps recalling social conditions in the UK from their last visit, when they went over on the mailship, are adamant that it will never happen. “None of the better clubs will allow him on their courses,” said one. “Chap’s teeth are far too loud. And he’s got too many. Obviously he stole them.”
There is however consensus that Dewani has done his homework, and is fast acquainting himself with the intricate technicalities of our justice system, particularly as deftly exploited by convicted fraudsters, and is not relying solely on the unhinged and thoughtless remarks from the national police commissioner, Field Marshal Bheki Cele, to stuff up the case for the prosecution.
In this regard, the Field Marshal’s public outburst to the effect that Dewani is a monkey who “came all the way from London to have his wife killed here” will no doubt be leapt upon by the defence, who, it is claimed, were considering whether to cite the case of British journalist Simon Wright, who was arrested during last year’s World Cup, and who has announced that he is suing the Minister of Police for R50-million.
At the time, Wright’s lawyer told the press: “Cele alleged that he [Wright] was involved in all kinds of illegal dealings and arranging for the World Cup authorities to be placed in a bad light as far as security was concerned, that there was conspiracy and all kinds of absurd, blatant lies.”
The fact, of course, that the Field Marshal is a notorious windbag with a penchant for military insignia should have little bearing on a murder accused’s guilt or innocence.
But we do not live in an ideal world and instead have to bear the vituperative nonsense of Max Clifford, the bullshit artist hired by Dewani to fling calumny at all who would accuse his client of any wrongdoing. Alas, I fear this spin doctor’s nastiness may stick, and our particular brand of justice -- shoot first, questions later, maybe, if they’re still alive -- could be found wanting.
But onto the Johannesburg Art Gallery, where thieves have made off with a bronze sculpture of a French general, Lazare Hoche, by the 19th century artist Jules Dalou.
Originally, it was supposed that this a “metal theft” -- that the 71cm statue, donated to the gallery in 1910, would be melted down for scrap -- but, according to officials, it is now thought that the work was stolen for its artistic merit.
I somehow doubt this. It’s far too Eurocentric for the New South African aesthetic for any kind of merit. What’s more, it’s a statue -- not a BMW or Audi A6. And besides, unlike Ronnie Kasrils, let’s say, who led Angola to famous victories against everyone, Hoche was not even a good general, and typical of the French military habit, lost most of his important battles before dying of consumption in 1797, aged 29.
Nevertheless, the Dalou piece was a valuable one. Like all South African museums, the Johannesburg Art Gallery receives next to no funding from government whatsoever, and is thus incapable of looking after its treasures. Rather than help the museum up its security to safeguard works by Picasso, Warhol and Pissarro, among others, our Department of Arts and Culture instead flings millions in “housekeeping money” at the National Youth Development Agency’s crappy anti-imperialism festival.
Such philistinism reminds me of a story, a few years ago, in which an Iziko executive mentioned to some DAC knob that a little extra government funding would help the gallery’s acquisitions programme, only to be told that this was not necessary because it was quite clear that the gallery’s walls were full of pictures and they didn’t need any more. Where would they possibly hang them?
I have been told that this may have been a witty aside. But I am not sure. It was during Thabo Mbeki’s term of office -- and older readers may recall that, during his tyrannical presidency, government officials were not allowed to tell jokes.
Showing posts with label National Youth Development Agency. Show all posts
Showing posts with label National Youth Development Agency. Show all posts
Friday, January 28, 2011
Sunday, December 12, 2010
A Famous Grouse: December 11, 2010
Latest Weekend Argus column (as submitted, unedited) -- AD
THE other evening, at Mahogany Ridge, a chap came round with a petition about the rock lobster quotas for recreational fishing just as a discussion on the rampant poaching of same that takes place on an almost daily basis just a stone’s throw from the Slangkop lighthouse appeared to be edging towards a violent conclusion.
A letter had appeared in one of the community newspapers detailing a resident’s encounter with these poachers, apparently members of what is referred to in some quarters as the local Rastafarian community, although I fail to see how the sporting of dreadlocks and thuggish behavior makes one a devotee of this obsessively backward religious cult. It’s rather like calling paedophiles Catholics.
According to the newspaper’s correspondent, a group of maybe ten dreadfuls had hauled out about a thousand or so mainly undersized crayfish, and were busily loading black dustbin bags full of their spoils into a bakkie when he came across them.
It was the poachers’ stupid and rather aggressive comments when confronted -- “The ocean is for ever!” “Don’t interfere with our work!” “We know where you live!” -- that had set us off at the Ridge, and it was perhaps not a good time to flap about a piece of paper and call for signatures demanding that decent, law-abiding folk have a more sensible crack at what’s left on the ocean floor.
Two distinct factions had emerged, both of them largely unreasonable.
One was of the opinion that it was futile to bother oneself with notions of marine conservancy, or any form of action aimed at protecting our wildernesses for that matter, because the environment had been plundered to the extent that it was now only a matter of months, if not weeks, before the Atlantic was as barren as the Sahara.
Therefore, to avoid missing out on the spoils, become a poacher yourself and get in at the death, as it were. Everyone was doing it, and, as experience has shown, no-one would stop you, certainly not the authorities.
This was where the other group differed, loudly opining that it was not yet too late to make a difference -- although drastic action was needed, such as banning fishing altogether. Well, within a 50-kilometre radius of the lighthouse. (Please note: the consumption of alcohol had little to do with the formation of this opinion.)
I liked the thinking here, and where it was going. More of that in a moment. First I must admit that I fail to see the point of crayfish. It’s not even a fish, so why call it that? To my mind, there’s something distastefully gluttonous about the culture of eating these things. Anyone who has ever seen the aftermath of an all-you-can-eat Mozambican prawn binge on a Sunday afternoon in Johannesburg’s southern suburbs will get my drift. It’s not pretty, all those greasy faces, the peri-peri and lemon butterstains, the shells in the laps, the wheezing and wind-breaking at the table. It means little to me, therefore, if I never see a crayfish again, and I’d rather they were just left alone in the sea to scurry about and eat waste.
I realise, however, that this is a minority viewpoint. But I don’t care. This is not an age of consensus, and anyway, most people don’t know what’s good for them. Which is why our plan to save the village from the crayfish menace will probably come as a surprise to the residents and ratepayers’ association.
True, they may object to having been ignored in the process altogether, but they’ll shut up soon enough when our radical cell gets its Lotto funding.
We’ve asked for a lot. Ordinarily, you’d think the tom would be more appropriately doled out to charities and various other worthy concerns, but events this week have shown otherwise. If the National Youth Development Agency can get R40-million for its anti-imperialism beano, then we too should be allowed a fair whack of the Lotto cake to implement our scheme.
Our plan is simple really. And when you’re dealing with the National Lotteries Board it has to be simple. That’s a mistake often made by those waiting in vain for money for Aids hospices or lunatic self-help schemes aimed at empowering rural women -- too complicated by half.
All we want to do is ban all forms of boating here. No exceptions. Poachers and people who buy from them will be forced to eat their catches on the spot. Then they will be put in stocks on the slipway, and small children will be encouraged to throw rocks at them.
It may seem excessive, unpopular even, but, you know, one day, you’ll thank us.
THE other evening, at Mahogany Ridge, a chap came round with a petition about the rock lobster quotas for recreational fishing just as a discussion on the rampant poaching of same that takes place on an almost daily basis just a stone’s throw from the Slangkop lighthouse appeared to be edging towards a violent conclusion.
A letter had appeared in one of the community newspapers detailing a resident’s encounter with these poachers, apparently members of what is referred to in some quarters as the local Rastafarian community, although I fail to see how the sporting of dreadlocks and thuggish behavior makes one a devotee of this obsessively backward religious cult. It’s rather like calling paedophiles Catholics.
According to the newspaper’s correspondent, a group of maybe ten dreadfuls had hauled out about a thousand or so mainly undersized crayfish, and were busily loading black dustbin bags full of their spoils into a bakkie when he came across them.
It was the poachers’ stupid and rather aggressive comments when confronted -- “The ocean is for ever!” “Don’t interfere with our work!” “We know where you live!” -- that had set us off at the Ridge, and it was perhaps not a good time to flap about a piece of paper and call for signatures demanding that decent, law-abiding folk have a more sensible crack at what’s left on the ocean floor.
Two distinct factions had emerged, both of them largely unreasonable.
One was of the opinion that it was futile to bother oneself with notions of marine conservancy, or any form of action aimed at protecting our wildernesses for that matter, because the environment had been plundered to the extent that it was now only a matter of months, if not weeks, before the Atlantic was as barren as the Sahara.
Therefore, to avoid missing out on the spoils, become a poacher yourself and get in at the death, as it were. Everyone was doing it, and, as experience has shown, no-one would stop you, certainly not the authorities.
This was where the other group differed, loudly opining that it was not yet too late to make a difference -- although drastic action was needed, such as banning fishing altogether. Well, within a 50-kilometre radius of the lighthouse. (Please note: the consumption of alcohol had little to do with the formation of this opinion.)
I liked the thinking here, and where it was going. More of that in a moment. First I must admit that I fail to see the point of crayfish. It’s not even a fish, so why call it that? To my mind, there’s something distastefully gluttonous about the culture of eating these things. Anyone who has ever seen the aftermath of an all-you-can-eat Mozambican prawn binge on a Sunday afternoon in Johannesburg’s southern suburbs will get my drift. It’s not pretty, all those greasy faces, the peri-peri and lemon butterstains, the shells in the laps, the wheezing and wind-breaking at the table. It means little to me, therefore, if I never see a crayfish again, and I’d rather they were just left alone in the sea to scurry about and eat waste.
I realise, however, that this is a minority viewpoint. But I don’t care. This is not an age of consensus, and anyway, most people don’t know what’s good for them. Which is why our plan to save the village from the crayfish menace will probably come as a surprise to the residents and ratepayers’ association.
True, they may object to having been ignored in the process altogether, but they’ll shut up soon enough when our radical cell gets its Lotto funding.
We’ve asked for a lot. Ordinarily, you’d think the tom would be more appropriately doled out to charities and various other worthy concerns, but events this week have shown otherwise. If the National Youth Development Agency can get R40-million for its anti-imperialism beano, then we too should be allowed a fair whack of the Lotto cake to implement our scheme.
Our plan is simple really. And when you’re dealing with the National Lotteries Board it has to be simple. That’s a mistake often made by those waiting in vain for money for Aids hospices or lunatic self-help schemes aimed at empowering rural women -- too complicated by half.
All we want to do is ban all forms of boating here. No exceptions. Poachers and people who buy from them will be forced to eat their catches on the spot. Then they will be put in stocks on the slipway, and small children will be encouraged to throw rocks at them.
It may seem excessive, unpopular even, but, you know, one day, you’ll thank us.
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