Month: September 2013

Guide to Everything – Part 2


How To Make A Man Fall In Love With You

(without losing your sanity, sense of humour or virginity)


At the mere mention of this chapter there are women out there who will snort and toss their heads, as some women are wont to do at times like these. They will say that apart from Robert Mugabe’s gushing biography of Tony Blair, this would be the shortest text in the history of the written word.

If a woman were to write this chapter, this is what she would say: “First, find a man. Second, offer to buy him a beer. Third, make it clear that you are available for casual sex.” This, apparently, is all it takes to get a man to fall in love with you.

What absolute nonsense. It is a far more complex process. Modern man (often found wearing a skirt) is no longer the unconscionable slut he once was. These days, men are far more discerning.

Just as there are a growing number of beers to choose from, so are there more hybrids of women than ever before. Faced with this smorgasbord, men have become a lot more selective. No longer can their hearts be stolen with the offer of fellatio and a toasted sandwich. Well, some can, but then this is hardly the type of man you want falling in love with you.

Today’s man wants to be satisfied on many different levels and women can no longer get away with boiling an egg for supper and grooming just three square inches of her body every second week.

If you are looking for a man to fall in love with you but lack the confidence to say so out in the open, then it is quite acceptable to feign support for one or other progressive women’s organisation. Just as long as you wear a short skirt and shave your legs. In the old days (1658–2003), men subconsciously placed feminists somewhere between dykes and ugly. This is no longer the case. Modern man (2004– ) has come to the conclusion that the genuine feminist means him no harm. It is patently obvious that modern man has become lulled into a false sense of security by a new breed of feminist who has learned to mask her true intentions behind a plethora of false flags and red herrings.

Back then, men could see feminists, or rather their hairy armpits, coming from a mile off. They wore their hardened hearts on their sleeves, which was really quite a silly thing to do considering that a man forewarned is a man forearmed. Needless to say, forewarned, forearmed men with foreskins were even better prepared for battle. So the feminists went underground.

They grew their hair long and flirted coyly with the men at the bar, giving no indication that they were even remotely affiliated to the power-crazed, tribadistic Sapphists monopolising the dance floor and guarding the jukebox.

It’s a trap, of course. And modern man is walking right into it, grinning foolishly while wearing his underpants on his head and happily gobbling up all the make potency pills that the new feminists leave lying around.

Once modern man is thoroughly incapacitated by spontaneous erections and the blood has drained completely from his brain, they will make their move. Once the office blocks are empty and the streets are full of writhing, pleading, onanistic wrecks, they will walk up and gently prise modern man’s hands from his genitals and take his keys away. Modern man needs to start growing his nails. One day they will be the only weapons he has left.

The last word on the subject goes to my American pen pal, Theodore John Kaczynski. Some of you may remember him as the Unabomber, the name given to him by the fascist Republican-controlled media.


“Dear Ben,

Thank you for your letter of June 6, 2003.

I have given much thought to the problem of Brenda. Through deep and prolonged study of the works of Aristotle, Aquinas, Leibnitz, Descartes, Kant, Hegel, and Norman Vincent Peale, I have discovered the root of the problem and am able to reveal to you the solution.

Brenda, whether she knows it or not, is a feminist.

Feminists are women who are dissatisfied with men but, because they have little insight into themselves, do not understand why they are dissatisfied.

What every woman wants is a Man, with a capital M. In other words, a man who has balls, not merely in the literal but also in the figurative sense.

In Western culture, a woman’s ideal has traditionally been a “knight in shining armor”. Of course, the knights of the Middle Ages were preeminently Men: courage was their watchword. That is why women have long yearned after them. But the knight in shining armor no longer exists in Europe. The samurai has disappeared from Japan. The fierce nomad no longer rides across the Eurasian steppe. No more does the African single-handedly slay a lion or an elephant with a spear. Nor does the American Indian drive the buffalo in a wild chase over the plains or creep silently upon his enemy to steal his horses or his scalp.

And who has replaced these true Men? Behold modern man (small m): He sits all day on his fat bottom, punching keys on a computer. Terrified of losing the “job” on which he is helplessly dependent, he cringes before his boss, invents petty subterfuges and little lies to conceal his errors and his trivial misdeeds. Meanwhile his boss cringes before a bigger boss, who cringes in turn before a still bigger boss, and so on.

There are no true Men left; or rather, such true Men as remain are in prison, for in the modern world it has been made a crime to stand up for oneself.

Is it any wonder that feminists have lost respect for men? Or that they resent men for failing to be the Men after whom (however vehemently they may deny it) their hearts yearn?

From the wisdom of the greatest philosophers, therefore, we may distill a solution to your problem: You must demonstrate unequivocally to Brenda that you are a Man, with a capital M.

In your first letter to me you voiced a suspicion that the reason why Brenda refused to have sex with you was that she had replaced you with one or two battery-operated devices – presumably, one or more vibrators. To prevent Brenda from using a vibrator you must rigorously exclude all electricity from your home. First you must rip out all the electrical wiring. Then, whenever Brenda enters the house, you must force her to submit to a strict search to verify that she is not bringing in any batteries. Of course, Brenda will protest. She will have tantrums. She will scold, she will howl, she will rage. But you must remain firm. If you do so, all will be well: You will have proved to Brenda that you are a Man. She will love you passionately. She will beg you for sex.

On the other hand, if you fail to do as I say, then I can only advise Brenda to go up to the Ituri and see whether it is still possible to find an Mbuti who has single-handedly killed an elephant with a spear.

I feel inclined to wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year, but I will refrain. It would be a cruel mockery to wish a merry or a happy anything to a man who is stuck with a feminist for a wife.

Best regards,



Some of you may find it hard to agree with the philosophy of a man serving three life terms for murder, but at least he can spell. This is a rare trait in any man and my advice is that if a good speller ever crosses your path, grab him with both hands – even if he does share a cellblock with Charles Manson and Sirhan Sirhan.


Part 1 Section A


Women have an appalling track record when it comes to making the first move. Ask any man what is the single biggest failing of women and he will say, “Oh, that’s easy. Their reluctance to make the first move.”

Sure, there are a few who will say, “Their reluctance to use the rearview mirror for anything but pouting and preening and not watching out for people like me just because I’m on a goddamn motorcycle she thinks I don’t exist”, but let us not concern ourselves with this ill-tempered minority.

Right now in bars and clubs around the world, men of all shapes and colours are being roundly ignored by women who are stuck in some ancient mind-set that says men should make the first move. I think it is important that somebody be blamed for this state of affairs.

I asked Brenda who she thought was responsible and she said men. “Excuse me,” I said. “Men? Are you mad?” Brenda snorted and tossed her head. I eyed her apprehensively but she stopped short of pawing the tiles. “Who do you think came up with words like slut, floozy, harlot, tart?”

“The French?” I asked hopefully.

“Men. That’s who,” spat Brenda.

After making her clean up the spit, I got her into a friendly half-nelson and tried to make her understand that men no longer carried around gunny sacks full of nasty labels reserved for girls who come across as over-friendly.

In the days of yore (1987-1996), men were very different to the men of today. They were Men, as Ted Kaczynski would have it. They were the people in charge of Situations. Whether it was mounting a rescue operation after an airline disaster or ordering the wine at dinner, men would always be firmly in charge. However, in a relatively short period of time a lot of men have begun realising that being in charge is highly overrated. At the same time, women launched an underground charge to take the reigns. This is where we find ourselves today. In a state of flux.

Never in the history of Humankind have men been this confused. And my advice to women is simple – exploit their vulnerability. Men are genetically programmed to bring down the weakest in the herd, and they have been doing this successfully for hundreds of years. Now it is your turn.

Men, everywhere, have their flanks exposed. Their defences are in disarray and their confidence is shattered. Line up, ladies. The first move is all yours.


Guide to Everything – Part 12


Step 12 – The break-up


Some poor fool once wrote a song with doomed lyrics about breaking up never being easy, but he was wrong. Breaking up can be as much fun as courting. Maybe even more.

Studies undertaken in an uncontrolled environment by a group of Norwegian parapsychologists have shown, however, that the dissolution of a relationship is frequently fraught with great trauma. It should be borne in mind that the sight of a man refusing to give up his seat for a woman on the Stockholm to Göteborg train is enough to traumatise the average Nordic adult.

Breaking up need not be accompanied by pain and anguish. As the man, you should steer clear of such things. There will be more than enough gnashing of breasts and beating of  teeth from the woman. You will need all the strength you can muster to go back out there and make the first move.

On the other hand, it is equally important to make sure that your break up is not amicable. There are few sights more degrading than a man and his ex sitting at Mugg & Bean sharing a couple of skinny decaf cappuccinos and holding hands for the last time.

Anyway, the chances are that she would rather stick red-hot crochet hooks into her eyeballs than share anything with you ever again. And that is the way it should be.

Here are some helpful hints on the different methods of breaking up.

The face-to-face method

Popular among younger men who have not lived long enough to grasp the true import of the situation. They often fail to realise that women do not appreciate the “courageous and honest” approach nearly as much as they think. Yet they insist on sitting the poor woman down and holding her hand while looking earnestly into her eyes and then breaking her heart. “It’s the least she deserves,” he says, blissfully oblivious to the scalding irony of his words.

Apart from anything else, the face-to-face method opens you up to physical violence. I have known women who, from a reclining position, can move with the speed of a striking cobra. If you insist on using this method to end your relationship, all I can suggest is that you dress like an ice hockey goalkeeper. She may, of course, simply shoot you in the stomach when you least expect it.

The electronic method

No mess, no fuss. Popular among older men who have been slapped, headbutted, bitten and kneed in the groin more times than they care to remember.

There is a school of thought that says it is unethical and immoral to break up with a woman via email or SMS. I have no idea why. It is safer for everyone concerned. The only inconvenience is having to change your number when she begins sending you death threats every hour on the hour.

When ending it via a text message, keep it short. Something like: “Sorry bt cnt do ths hve a gr8 lfe xx”. There is no need to get poetic or melodramatic. This is an ending, not a beginning.

The telephone method

There is really only one thing to remember when you call to dump her. Never use the line: “It’s not you, sweetheart, it’s me.” This is like throwing a chunk of raw meat to a starving crocodile. She will slam the phone down and pursue you with all the enthusiasm of a sniffer dog pursuing a black man wearing a hemp suit.

You may think that by saying these words she will back off in the deluded belief that she is the normal one and you are the fucked up sociopath. Well, she won’t. She will move in for the kill. She will arrive on your doorstep and start banging on the door with a blunt instrument. When you eventually let her in to avoid a public disturbance charge, she will smash the first ornament she comes across and then begin shouting: “So what’s wrong with you what the hell’s wrong with you tell me tell me you bastard are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you?” And from there it is just a matter of seconds before you are a whimpering, craven mess clutching at snatches of philosophy to justify your fictitious inability to function in the real world. Weep, if you have to, but get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

Let her keep the apartment.

The cut ‘n run method

This is by far the least traumatic way of breaking up, especially if you are to blame for the collapse of the relationship. The method is quite simple in its execution. When you come home from work, make sure that you follow your normal routine e.g. Grab a beer, kick the cat, head for the couch.

When she starts nagging you to put the music out and turn the dog down, say that you are nipping out for a box of smokes and stop only once you reach the lower slopes of Machu Picchu.

The only problem with this method is that she will come looking for you. Next to revenge, women want closure most of all. And they can’t get it if you are not there.


Most men are quite happy to get closure by means of a last pangalang. But you should not be the one to suggest it.

For women, closure involves shedding bitter tears and asking a whole bunch of questions that have no answers. Sometimes she will try to hit you. The best thing you can do is to stand there with downcast eyes, shaking your head sadly from side to side while deflecting the blows. Do not say anything. Do not make any sudden movements. Quite a few women still subscribe to the more traditional values, and for them genuine closure only comes once you are sprawled on the staircase with a shattered spinal column and two bullets in the back of the head.

If you are one of the lucky ones, however, you will be breaking up with a modern women and she will be the one to suggest a last pangalang. Be cool. This is not normal sex, so forget the Lou Reed and the box of tricks. It is vital that you remain submissive. I find it helps to pretend that you are Diane Fossey and she is a silverback. However, you may wish to try something else.

The important thing is to remember that she is doing this so she never has to think of you again. At this point, you will realise that nothing makes any sense at all and you are ready to begin the whole wonderful cycle all over again.

Good luck.



Coming up … How to make a man fall in love with you (without losing your sanity, sense of humour or virginity).


Guide to Everything – Part 1 Steps 9, 10, 11


Step 9 – Your first fight


Studies have shown that alcohol is a valuable and yet hugely underrated catalyst in opening up channels of communication between couples who have grown apart. Do not be afraid to use it. At the same time, try to avoid drinking and fighting at the same time. I have seen many a fine carpet ruined by mock charges and spontaneous arm-flailing.

If you want to give her a piece of your mind, or any other part of your body for that matter, put your drink down first. Keep one eye on it at all times. I have known women who can, through an incredibly fast sleight of hand – faster than the male eye can see – make a tumbler of whiskey disappear and re-appear days later covered in ants at the bottom of the garden. Keep the other eye on your adversary.

Even though you have agreed only to fight with words of many syllables, women are duplicitous in times of emotional stress. Fight with her at the wrong time of the month, and the next thing you know, she’s thrown the cat at your head.

It is also important that you and your partner match your drinks. In other words, if you are planning a fight it’s no good if you are guzzling cheap brandy while she sips on a glass of watered-down white wine. Either you both go light or you both go heavy. Drunk people hate arguing with sober people just as much as sober people hate arguing with drunk people. And it does no good for both of you to be sober, either, because in this situation women have a 99% strike rate.

After a bout of domestic insurgency, it is always advisable to get straight into make-up sex. If nobody has won the argument, race each other to orgasm. You might want to spice things up by putting a little money on it.


Step 10 – Her first lesbian affair (it’s not about the dyke)


Studies undertaken by the Japanese have shown that your beloved is going to have, or already has had, an intimate experience with another woman. Your first instinct will be rage. You will then move quickly through denial, bargaining and threatening until you reach the final stage which involves you spending long hours with your head in your hands wondering how you can get in on the action without coming across as a degenerate pervert.

Heterosexual women stray for many reasons, none of which men are capable of grasping. While I appreciate that the penis is an unlovely animal at the best of times, it still remains one of the single biggest reasons for women to be attracted to men.

Research done by the North Koreans to counter what they described as imperialist Japanese propaganda demonstrates conclusively that men would want nothing to do with women if they did not come equipped with such accommodating bits and pieces. I can only assume the reverse applies equally. None of which helps to explain why your girl’s eyes have glazed over while she watches two topless Swedish backpackers rubbing one another with suntan oil at the municipal swimming pool.

The naked female form is a beautiful sight to behold. Unless, of course, it is covered in yellow bruises, gelatinous rolls of blubber and clumps of spiky black hair. So I can understand why women would find other women sexually attractive. Their bodies are far more appealing than ours. Well, mine, anyway.

The important thing is to relax. The odds are that your girl is merely dabbling. She is, in professional terms, a Lipstick Lesbian. Her fling will probably not last, but while it does there is a very good chance that you will meet her partner in crime. It is very likely that this one is the genuine article. Like all predators, real lesbians love fresh meat. But even though you may feel resentment and jealousy bubbling to the surface, it is vital that you remain calm and not let on that you know what is going on. It’s not about the dyke. It’s about your girl getting something out of her system, whether she is satisfying plain old curiosity or something a little more primal. Either way, let her ride it out.


Step 11 – Your first affair


There is no point in you shaking your head and thinking, “An affair? Me? Never, as long as I live, so help me …” Be honest, now. Before you could even finish the sentence your eyes had strayed from the page and onto the passing buttocks of a fine young thing. This is quite natural.

When deciding to have your first affair, there are certain vital factors to take into consideration. First of all, is there enough petrol in the car? The last thing you want is to run out of juice as you leave her place. So before embarking on an affair, make sure the tank is full. Some researchers, mainly from the former Eastern bloc, take the line that your motivation is important when choosing whether or not to be unfaithful to your partner. This is not true and provides a clear indication of why communism was such an abysmal failure in that part of the world.

A surprising number of men (100%) frequently think about having sex with women other than the ones they are with. Oddly, only 10.4% ever act on these thoughts. However, independent studies done in Malta have shown that men are congenital liars. And since most research teams are headed by men, it is quite possible that this figure could in fact be as high as 78%.

It often happens that when a man decides to be unfaithful to his partner, it is not a decision at all. Rather, it is the decision of the brazen hussy who has been making moon eyes at him for the last month. Men do not enter into affairs lightly. For a start, they are easily confused. There is an awful lot to remember when pursuing an illicit liaison. Directions, dates, times, cover stories, deodorant. The list is endless. And as I might have mentioned, men are by nature indecisive when it comes to matters of the heart. They want a bit of this and a bit of that. And sometimes a bit of the other thing, too. This is why it is invariably the woman with whom he is having the affair who ends up boiling the bunny.

Ultimately, there is only one thing you have to worry about when embarking on an extracurricular activity – getting caught. A former male supermodel I once met has the words “Never Underestimate The Power Of Denial” tattooed down his inner arm. At the time I thought this was a rather strange thing to do, but it makes perfect sense when applied to the pursuit of forbidden fruit. Never admit anything. If she comes home early and finds you and Brigitte rolling around on the carpet wearing nothing but World War II gas masks and one another’s underwear, there is only one thing you can say: “Honey, it’s not what it looks like.”


To be continued …

Twisted Koeksister

The loss of life today has been quite spectacular, even by our standards. Thousands of pigs, sheep, goats, cows and chickens fought among themselves for the honour of being the first to lay down their lives so that South Africans could celebrate National Braai Day in true style.

The day was a resounding success. Gutters ran red with blood, dogs ran wild with bones and paramedics ran themselves ragged tending to the usual braai-related assaults, rapes and homicides.

Brenda wanted to do something to mark Heritage Day. Something different. Quite frankly, I couldn’t see the point.

“We’re white,” I said. “We don’t have any heritage.” We did, on the other hand, have plenty of meat. It made far more sense to mark Braai Day.

We arranged to meet Ted and Mary down at the beach where we could fall down without worrying about concussing ourselves. This is always one of the biggest hazards facing those who choose to celebrate Braai Day instead of Heritage Day.

We passed a lot of families braaiing along the way. Many of them had taken over entire parking lots. Brenda wondered if arguments had broken out in homes across the Cape Flats this morning.

“I want to braai in the parking lot in Muizenberg.”

“Forget it. We’re going to the one in Camps Bay.”

“There’s a new lot opened near the Waterfront. Can we go there? Please, daddy!”

I told Brenda there was a very simple explanation.

“A lot of coloured people regard their cars as members of the family. We wouldn’t leave our child in a parking lot and go off and have fun without him, would we?” Actually, I would, but I couldn’t tell Brenda that.

Both Heritage Day and Braai Day are allegedly aimed at bringing South Africans closer together. In our case, it brought us a little too close.

Encamped on the beach, we had just finished our first case of Tafel and were wrestling a second kudu haunch onto the grid when we were forced to take up braai forks and fend off a pack of hungry darkies. Look, I’m all for unifying the nation and whatnot, but there are limits.

Engorged with dead animal and thoroughly beerlogged, we returned home to celebrate Heritage Day like the decent god-fearing patriots that we are. Heritage Day is a relatively new addition to the public holiday calendar. Prior to 1994, it was known as Right of Admission Reserved Day.

We agreed that the country has a fascinating array of indigenous fauna, all of which go well with one or other of the many indigenous sauces available in supermarkets everywhere.

Our flora, too, is not to be sneezed at. Unless, of course, you suffer from seasonal allergic rhinitis, in which case you have no business living here.

Look at our national flower, the giant protea. Actually, I can’t look at it for too long because I find it hostile and ugly. To be honest, I would rather look at roadkill.

Fynbos is unique to the Cape Floral Kingdom and you will be fined if you pick it. Cannabis sativa is unique to KwaZulu-Natal and you will be arrested if you smoke it. That’s diversity for you.

The central image on our coat of arms is a secretary bird, a graceful creature known for launching random attacks on unsuspecting tourists. It specialises in pinning people to the ground and pecking their eyes out.

Canada’s national bird is the Common Loon. A bit like our minister of basic education, really.

The motto on our coat of arms is !ke e:/xarra//ke. Nobody outside of the /Xam tribe knows what it means. Most South Africans think it’s computer code.

When it comes to the national animal, we have the springbok. France has some sort of chicken. Our rugby team is also called the Springboks. The French once accused them of playing like animals. This made us feel tremendously proud.

Our national fish is the galjoen. Like most hard-drinking South Africans, the galjoen is regarded as a creature that will fight to the death. Cooked over an open fire, however, galjoen tastes a lot better than the national drunk.

I am particularly proud of my heritage because South Africa is the cradle of humankind. So who cares if modern man migrated to Australia the moment he could stand upright? We’re still the cradle.

Our scientists have found blue-green algae dating back nearly four million years. Ted speculated that the slime was one of Glenn Agliotti’s earliest relatives. Let’s see if he’s still laughing with two broken legs.

In 2007, I was expecting to receive one of the national orders that President Mbeki handed out at this time of year. Unbelievably, I was passed over. Instead, Morné du Plessis got one. So did Roland Schoeman. And Schalk Pienaar.

If you’re white you have to be Afrikaans to get any kind of recognition in this country. As English-speakers, we are doomed. Even though our forefathers invented gin and tonic, lap dancing, airbags, the cat flap, shrapnel and the rubber band, nobody around here seems to care.

Oh, now I get it. Of course. It’s far more important to reward a people who came up with jukskei, witblits, the Voortrekker Monument, the G6 artillery gun and a racial superiority complex so twisted that it makes their koeksisters look straight.



Guide to Everything – Part 1 Step 8


Step 8 – Moving in together


Now that you have been dating for a while, it is likely that you will have come to several realisations. Among them, that you want regular and immediate access to your partner’s body. You have given a great deal of thought to ways of achieving this without giving her the impression that you are open to the possibility of marriage.

Living together is the obvious solution. However, it must be said that most women see co-habitation as the final pit stop on the race to the pulpit, so be very careful when introducing the idea of sharing a place.

Base your suggestion on financial considerations. Tell her that since you spend so much time at her place, it doesn’t make sense for you to keep paying rent on your place. She will get the message soon enough. Then you will discover that her place is way too small for both of you, and before you know it you will be spending your Sundays with a whole bunch of other hermit crabs scuttling about looking for the cheapest shell available.

It is important you know from the outset that your participation is not strictly required in this process. All you really need to do is trail around behind the estate agent mumbling and nodding and occasionally tapping on the walls. At some point, your girlfriend will say to you, “What do you think, sweetheart?” Your answer may as well be, “I think Hegel was wrong when he said the history of the world is none other than the progress of the consciousness of freedom” for all the good it will do. It is utter foolishness to try to convince a woman to live in a place where she doesn’t want to live.

While you are working out where to put the couch so that you can lie down and still have a clear view of the television and that little corner of ocean, she is standing in the bedroom like a human antenna picking up the vibrations of every other person who has ever slept in that room.

Never mind the aesthetically pleasing flow from the kitchen to the lounge, or the cozy nook that would be perfect for your study. If she starts saying things like, “Something doesn’t feel right”, you should leave at once and never talk of that place again.

Look, if you really want to live there, you could try putting peanut butter on her arms and legs. Keep the door locked for a couple of days and by the time she has finished licking it off there is a fairly good chance that she won’t stray.

Once you are living together, you have certain responsibilities and obligations as a common-law ‘spouse’. However, these are overridden by your legal right to drop whatever you are doing and leave a hastily scrawled note on the fridge saying that you are going to Mexico and will probably never see her again.

There are some self-help books that say this is precisely the reason why couples should get married and not live together. They say co-habiting makes it too easy to leave. Well, duh. Isn’t that the reason you do it in the first place?

Do not, under any circumstances, listen to anyone who tells you that the only way a couple can share their lives is through the commitment of marriage. This, they will tell you, takes a lot of hard work. Don’t you get enough of that from Monday to Friday? If you find you are having to work at your relationship, end it quickly and move on to one that doesn’t take any work at all. Get out before she uses those four terrifying words: “We have to talk.”

But don’t be too hasty. Living together takes an enormous amount of adjustment, most of it from your side. For the first few days, maybe even weeks, she will pick up your clothes and towels off the floor and wrap her arms around you and say things like, “You’re such a little piggy, but I love you, anyway.” This innocuous remark is so overloaded with sub-text that if it were a taxi it would be pulled over and impounded.

If you don’t get the message, do not be surprised when you, the same cute little piggy of a month ago, somehow inexplicably turns into a wild boar with rank breath, bloodshot eyes and strings of glistening drool hanging from its unshaven jowls. And once she starts to see you as little more than a semi-articulate warthog, there is nothing you can do but pack your things and leave quietly.

While you were dating, she seemed to find your bachelor ways eccentric and endearing. But living together, these very same habits quickly become disgusting and abhorrent. It makes no sense, but there it is. It happens.

If you like her enough to continue living with her, then pick up after yourself, wash the dishes regularly, shave on weekends, pretend to like her music, stop drinking excessively, don’t bring hookers home and, more importantly, put the toilet seat down when you are done. In return, you get to play with her hamster as often as you like.

However, often is one of those words that take on a strange elasticity when applied to coitus.

Neville, a former Jehovah’s Witness once married to Clarissa, an American stunt double, said that when they first moved in together they were like a pair of rats from the Pfizer laboratory. Not even fire alarms or police raids could stop them. Then, he said, a light inside Clarissa seemed to switch off. Neville said it was a bit like a fridge light in that you never actually see it go off, but you know that once you close the door the inside of the fridge is plunged into cold darkness. Women are very much like fridges, he said.

The last I heard, Neville was living with a middle-aged Catholic lay preacher called Steven.

Living together can be a lot of fun, but don’t expect your old pal Fellatio to come around as often as he used to.


To be continued …


Mythbusting time

We are becoming a nation of buskers and beguilers adrift on a boat made of bullshit.

Politicians look us in our faces and neither blink nor blush when they tell the most egregious of lies. Experts will say whatever you want them to say for the right amount of money. Surveys are rigged and statistics are given a more rigorous massage than you’d ever get at Makhosini Nkosi’s “interesting B&B”, which almost certainly stands for Bed & Blowjobs.

Then there are those who graduated from the Hogwash School of Hoaxes and Hype. Most of them have found work in the wealth and hellness industry.

There was a time when maxims like “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” were beaten into us. Today, we are told that apples are full of pesticides that will make our hair fall out and sugar that will make our teeth rot.

We were led to believe that, unless we actually wanted scurvy, our bodies needed extra vitamins. What rubbish. The word vitamin is derived from “vita”, meaning life in Latin, and “min”, meaning “less” in Afrikaans. If you insist on stuffing your face with beta-carotene and vitamin E, you may as well have a spitting cobra gob into your mouth.

We were also told that we need to drink eight glasses of water a day if we didn’t want to end up with a face like a sandblasted hubcap. It’s one of those health tips that can be traced all the way to a Zürich penthouse and laid to rest at the feet of a corpulent caviar-quaffing capitalist. It’s no accident that Evian is naïve spelt backwards. You know what’s really good for you? Eight glasses of beer a day.

And those cholesterol-lowering statin drugs you were told are essential? I suppose they are, if neurological disease is your goal.

Here’s what I predict the “experts” will be saying in twenty years’ time:

Smoking is healthy. The coughing clears your airways of bacteria that you inhaled because your mouth-hole wasn’t blocked by a cigarette. It also raises the heart rate in much the same manner that jogging does.

Binge drinking is good for you. Some of the body’s organs tend to fall asleep and atrophy if they aren’t used regularly enough. Binge drinking shocks them awake and reminds them that they have a job to do. It also flushes out the kidneys through repeated urination and flushes out the brain by helping it to forget old stuff so there’s room for new stuff.

Nerve gas is good for the nerves. Pfizer makes a killing out of pocket-sized sarin gas inhalers.

Stress also proves to be a winner and people are encouraged to have more children and take night jobs to complement their day jobs.

Research shows that sunscreen causes cancer, cycling causes brain damage and watching television causes a fifty-point drop in IQ.

Northern Cape premier Sylvia Lucas, whose diet once consisted of nine hamburgers, twelve toasted sandwiches and fourteen buckets of fried chicken a day, emerges as a pioneer after studies reveal that fast food is a thousand times healthier than fruit and vegetables.

South Africa’s police commissioner, General Rashied Staggie, announces that getting murdered is good for you. It means never having to pay taxes again, no more trips to the dentist and, best of all, no need to live in fear of crime.


Crush and snort the horn fiends

Happy World Rhino Day.

I don’t know what’s in worse shape – the world or the rhino. There was a time when I wanted to save the world. As a child I’d see a shooting star, or the chicken’s wishbone would snap my way, and my mother would say, “Make a wish!” Stupidly, I would wish for world peace instead of for a meteorite to destroy my school.

I kept wishing for world peace right into my thirties. I only stopped when it became apparent that my wishes were not only not working, but they seemed to be having the opposite effect. Every time I wished for peace on a shooting star (I couldn’t afford a chicken for much of my thirties) a fresh conflict would erupt somewhere in the world.

I have given up on the world and I am now bestowing my wishes upon the rhino. I only hope that every time I wish for an end to poaching, a rhino doesn’t get a bullet in the face.

Like Gurthro Steenkamp, rhinos are not easy on the eye. They are belligerent and not very bright. However, I admire their solitary nature and the fact that they come together only for mating. I can but dream of such a world.

The South African government is clearly incapable of protecting them. Newspapers are awash in pictures of dead rhinos when the nation is crying out for pictures of dead poachers. We have an army of 50 000 soldiers and yet a handful of barbaric profiteers are winning this war hands down. If Swapo had been poachers, we’d all be speaking Russian today.

By the end of the year, the kill rate will have reached almost three a day. If this were America losing their bison – no wait, the European settlers already did to the bison what the Mozambicans are doing to our rhino. The point is, if a foreign country were decimating, say, the giant Californian beaver, there would be, as Barack Obama is fond of saying, consequences.

I’m all for airstrikes on Ho Chi Minh City, but we need our air force on standby in case we are attacked by Swaziland’s King Mswati. Having just taken yet another teenage bride, he must be so stuffed with Viagra by now that he probably thinks he’s virile enough to penetrate our borders over and over again until we beg for mercy.

If we can’t bomb Vietnam, how about a trade boycott? What would we lose? What do we get from them apart from pole dancers and rice?

Meanwhile, new research has discovered an entire underclass of aspirant horn fiends in this glittering jewel of a country. Around four million already use it. Millions more will buy it once they have the means to do so.

While some use it to cure diseases like cancer – with a proven success rate of 0.00 percent – it is predominately used as a status symbol and a general panacea. In other words, if a guest at your cocktail party has a headache, you’re not going to give her a Panado. Hell, no. You’re going to put her on her knees, tilt her head back and pour half a gram of crushed horn onto her tongue while the other guests cheer loudly and raise their glasses of bear bile and panda pituitary glands.

If you went to a similar party in Camps Bay, Sandton or Umhlanga, you would be less than impressed if the host put out bowls containing the equivalent of compressed toenail clippings. You would want to know where the cocaine was. And rightly so.

The Vietnamese have access to the best opium and heroin in the world, and yet they offer their friends something with no narcotic or curative properties whatsoever. That’s not my idea of a fun party.

The World Wide Fund for Nature-SA hopes to change the Vietnamese views on rhino horn’s desirability as a status symbol by enhancing the desirability of other status symbols, such as cars and designer clothing.

In other words, we need to treat them like children. “Look what I have for you, Phong Dong! I will give you this sparkly Michael Jackson jacket with pretty pockets and shiny buttons if you give me that yucky packet of boring old powder.”

“Fuck you! No jacket! Want horn! Don’t want … ooh, is that latest Toyota Fortuna? Here, take horn. You give me keys.”

Converting the Vietnamese aristocracy from horn-snorting, dog-eating savages into decent capitalists won’t be easy, especially since it’s a communist country. Luckily, today’s commies are easily influenced by the finer things in life. Look how quickly Blade Nzimande was co-opted, although he is more of a champagne socialist than he is a genuine communist. He’s also more into white wine than white rhino.

I don’t think we can rely on media campaigns achieving much. For a start, conservationists discovered that showing the Vietnamese graphic images of bleeding or dead rhinos had little effect. Apart, perhaps, from making them feel hungry.

I was hoping some of the more serious-minded TV channels would take up the fight. This week the Discovery Channel was advertising a programme called Forbidden. “Join in as we meet the pony girl from the USA – a woman who has spent half her life living as a pony.”

I laughed and laughed. Then I curled up in the foetal position and cried myself to sleep.


Guide to Everything – Part 1 Steps 6 & 7

Step 6 – Meeting her friends

Girls in their twenties come with the standard set of eight friends. One is her best friend who knows absolutely everything about her. Five she regularly bumps into and shrieks, “Oh. My. God! I haven’t seen you in ages! We must catch up!” The other two are overweight gays with self-image problems, but who are always up for a bit of shopping and a good old-fashioned gossip.

It is important to win over the best friend, especially if she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Gregoire, a Mauritian expatriate married to Gonda, a butcher’s daughter from Springs in the Free State, told an ex-colleague of a friend of mine that when he first met Gonda at the cherry festival in Ficksburg, she was with her best friend, Ria. They were drinking cider and giggling and pretending to French kiss each other. Gregoire says he fell instantly in love with Ria but when he went over to introduce himself to the two girls, Ria began hissing and snarling at him like some wild territorial animal. Right then and there, he fell in love with Gonda instead. And even though she fell for him too, it was a nightmare dealing with Ria’s jealousy.

Girls use some kind of emotional superglue when they bond, so when one gets a boyfriend and the other doesn’t, there is always a certain amount of blood on the floor. What would often happen is that Gonda and Ria would arrange to see a movie on a Friday night. Then Gregoire would call Gonda at the last minute and Ria would end up alone at home drinking peach schnapps and defacing all the old photographs of her and Gonda. Gregoire always suspected that Ria’s behaviour was rooted in something a little more Sapphic than common or garden jealousy.

On Ria’s 25th birthday he thought he would use the occasion to end the hostilities, so he sent her a card inviting her to spend an hour in bed with Gonda. He hoped this would put an end to the madness once and for all. When Gonda got to hear about Ria’s birthday present, she confronted Gregoire who quickly reassured her that he would be in the room to make sure nobody got hurt. As it turned out, Gonda and Ria became lovers and in a small shop in the south end of Springs, there is a butcher’s blade with Gregoire’s name engraved on it. Except they spelled it incorrectly and called him Griqua.

There are many similar scenarios involving best friends who feel jilted. One of these entails your girl exaggerating your good points in a desperate bid to prove to her best friend that you are not the unscrupulous cad she suspects you to be. This often includes your prowess in bed, but only because it is the one thing that the best friend cannot compete with. Sooner or later, your girl has to leave town for a team-building weekend. “Take Angie to a movie while I’m gone,” she says to you. “Please? She’s all alone. And you two need to bond.”

So when your girl returns on Sunday evening, she is understandably upset to discover two burly men from the fire department stamping out the last of the flames caused by such enthusiastic bonding that the sofa spontaneously combusted.

Remember that her gay friends are important to her, so avoid lisping loudly and flouncing dramatically about the room when she mentions that Brucie’s nervous disorder is getting worse. I am not quite sure why women enjoy having gay friends. None of the men I know are remotely interested in having a bunch of bull dykes around for a game of poker.

I think, in the case of women, it might have something to do with being able to talk to a man without him wanting to whip out his willy within the first five minutes of conversation.

Most women are heavily influenced by their friends. They can swing from Christian to Hindu, from conservative to liberal, from feminist to fuck-bunny, all on the word of a best friend. Most women who fall in love are blind to the faults of their man. The problem is, every time she gets together with her best friend, she grabs your girl by the shoulders and shakes her and says, “But, Janet, don’t you see? He has the moral fibre of a jellyfish! He only wants you for your money/vagina/beach house/car!”

Throughout history, women united have been able to accomplish extraordinary things. Like winning the right to vote and, ah, well, that’s all I can think of right now. But when the lone woman speaks, her voice achieves very little. At most, it might induce a headache in whoever is listening to her, but that’s about it. Keep it that way.

Step 7 – Meeting her family

If you thought her friends were an ordeal, her family will be the ultimate make-or-break test of your relationship. A great poet once said, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.” Over the years I have often referred to these deeply insightful words to rationalise the aberrant behaviour of women I have known and loved.

Even though you and your girl might not have been together for long, you will have noticed one or two peculiar quirks in her behaviour. We all have them to different degrees. Someone like my good friend, Ted Kascynzki, has quirks that are more pronounced than those found in most people. This does not make him a bad person and I, for one, think that three life terms in a Colorado jail is a little extreme.

But whatever odd mannerisms or strange behaviour you detect in your girl, know one thing. It is all a direct consequence of her upbringing. However, when meeting her father for the first time, it is best to resist the temptation to go up to him and say, “So you’re the sick son of a bitch …” Instead, pretend to treat him with deference and respect. Concentrate on working out the weak links in his psychological armour. Analyse his speech patterns and get to know his thought processes. This will make it easier for you when it comes time to analyse his assets and get to know his tax dodges. Remember, it is not only his daughter you are after. It is also his money. Unfortunately, he knows this long before he even gets to meet you.

Mom: “Honey, Jenny’s bringing her new boyfriend around tonight.”

Dad: “Quick, put on this old sack and roll up the Persians.”

There was a time when the only thing a father had to worry about was his daughter coming home deflowered. Now, they are far more concerned that her callow little bastard boyfriend has his sights set squarely on the family fortune. The deflowering is bound to happen sooner or later, and all those expensive horse-riding lessons have probably taken care of that department, anyway. Today’s father has a way of rationalising things when it comes to weighing up the pros and cons of his daughter losing her virginity or him losing his money.

So, right from the start, be aware that her father will be watching very closely for any signs of ulterior motives. Do not make the mistake of wandering through the lounge picking up works of art and holding them up to the light. And never, ever make the mistake made by Rodney, a former employee of a friend’s ex-boss. When he met his girlfriend’s parents for the first time, he excused himself and went to the bathroom. Her father, on his way to switch the good whisky for a cheaper brand, found Rodney in his bedroom on his knees with a jeweller’s eyepiece screwed into his right socket scrutinising some or other bauble he had bought his wife for Christmas. Rodney couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough so he said he was an undercover agent attached to the military wing of De Beers and was on a top secret assignment to track down blood diamonds that had been secretly sold by the Sierra Leonean junta to a Swiss cartel of illicit gem dealers operating as a money laundering front to fund America’s war on terror. To his surprise, the father turned the colour of old newspaper and said he was welcome to keep the jewellery and his daughter for as long as he wished.

It is always a good idea to flirt with the mother. Not in front of her daughter, of course. And certainly never in front of her husband. But you can be sure of one thing. Mom hasn’t been flirted with in years and you are the first young buck to walk into the house since the gardener was fired. When nobody else can hear you, tell her that when you first saw her you thought she was the sister. They love that. It doesn’t even matter if your girl does not actually have a sister. It has been so long since Mom received a compliment that she will be like butter in your hands after that. Make sure you wipe your hands afterwards, because dad can recognise mom’s butter from a mile off.

Unless mom is a battered spouse, the odds are that she holds considerable sway when it comes to family opinion. So when you leave after meeting them for the first time, there will be a family conference where everyone gets together to discuss your suitability, in much the same way that great white sharks get together with baby seals to discuss the sustainable utilisation of marine resources. But mom’s opinion will carry the day. If you have done your homework, mom will be on your side. And even if dad is dead set against you having anything more to do with their daughter, mom will sit on her power base until he relents. I guarantee it.

To be continued …

Guide to Everything – Part 1 Step 5


Step 5 – Getting to know her (biblical)


This is the reason you were interested in her in the first place. It wasn’t her trendy hairdo or her sparkling eyes. Nor was it her smile or perfect teeth. In fact, it had nothing at all to do with anything above the shoulders, but everything to do with that tight pair of jeans and low-cut blouse. The way her buttocks moved when she walked to the bar. The way her nipples strained against the soft cotton fabric. The way the lasers picked out the belly ring. You wanted to tear her clothes off and ravage her right there on the spot. You were so consumed by images of her naked that you knocked your beer into your lap.

So you have got to know her fairly well and you’ve reached the critical next step. The chances are that your woman reached this stage a while back, but was too polite to mention it. Their mothers trained them not to make the first move.

Like most men, you will have missed the signs that she is ready to take the plunge. Like most men, you find it hard to believe that any woman, let alone one as desirable as this, would voluntarily remove all her clothes and invite you on board. But since she has not yet brought it up (even though she has already stuck her tongue into your ear and accidentally grabbed your crotch while looking for her car keys) you can stand it no longer and have decided to take matters into your own hands.

Once you decide to go for the home run, you need to arrange a time and place. These two elements are crucial and will lay the foundations for your sexual relationship with this woman. The place you choose to commit the act will not only send a powerful signal as to what kind of man you are, but it will also give your paramour a very good idea of just how committed you are to the relationship.

Geoff, a divorced engineer who is now courting a young illegal immigrant from Thailand, said that when it came time to consummate the relationship with his ex-wife, he took her to a rugby game and had it off with her beneath the stands. He said there was something about having ten thousand people cheering and shouting while he went at it. He said he could never have normal sex again after that. And even though his ex-wife went along with his crazy ideas of shagging in cinemas, on beaches, in taxis, behind police cars, against churches, over park benches, it soon began spiraling out of control. She left him soon after he suggested that they run out onto the field during the Sharks vs Stormers game and do it on live television right there on the halfway line.

So remember that by choosing to go all the way, you are tipping your hand in a very big way. You are also setting a standard by which all other acts of love with this woman will be compared. Do not be alarmed. The best you can hope for is erectile dysfunction. This means you will have no performance anxiety the second time around (if there is a second time). You will already have been through the fires of hell, so how much worse can it get? Since she will be expecting the worst, there is no chance of disappointing her even further. But since she is giving you a second chance, the odds are that you have grown even closer, as couples do when they survive terrible things together, like World War Two and erectile dysfunction. You will be more relaxed and hey presto! Even a half-trunk would be an improvement on your pathetic debut performance.

What you do not want to do is perform like a Viagra-crazed stud on your first outing. This sets a dangerous precedent which you will be hard-pressed to match, especially when you go around to her place for a sexy third date only to walk in and find her clipping her toenails, wearing a mud pack and watching Jerry Springer with the sound turned high.

At some point in the proceedings, she may look up at you, or down at you, and utter three words that can throw an unprepared man into the coldest of sweats and the bluest of funks. Deceptively innocent in their brevity, these words are, “I love you.”

If you find yourself in the sack for the first time and you have not yet exchanged these words with her, you should know that they could come at any time. Studies undertaken in a Paris research facility have shown that the words “I love you” are uttered 82.5% more times in bed than anywhere else.

In a previous era (1972-2003), women would not go to bed with a man unless he had given the verbal assurance that he loved her. Apparently this is no longer a precondition. Today’s woman is quite happy to hop willy-nilly from bed to bed without so much as an “I like you”. Well, not all of them. An estimated 53.8% of all women will not drop their knickers until they hear those magic words. This percentage may not sound particularly high, but if you spend most of your formative years playing in the wrong half, life can begin to seem terribly unfair.

Stewie, a born-again anarchist who once went out with a beauty queen from Clocolan, told me that when he was younger he went to bed with a girl he had been dating for a few weeks. He was kissing her feet and trying to tear the condom’s foil wrapping off at the same time when she whispered, “I love you.” Stewie said he froze. He said he had no idea where it came from, but that it rocked him to the core. Her words floated like three little parachutes drifting slowly towards a minefield.

Every man knows there is only one way to respond in this situation. Repeat them and add the word, “too”. And yet Stewie was hopelessly unable to do it. He claimed it was because he was an anarchist and therefore more ethical than most. Perhaps.

I spoke to a lawyer friend about this and he said the right thing to do would have been to lie to her. Just say it. Just say, “I love you, too” and get down to the business at hand. But Stewie was trapped in a terrible place. Naked and unable to lie, he stayed perfectly still, the half-unwrapped condom still clutched between his trembling fingers. The seconds went by as if they were years. It was like a tennis match where the ball suddenly becomes suspended above the net. What to do? Whose shot is it? Stewie was one of the lucky ones. She eventually broke the terrible silence and said, “Is it on yet?” Later he thought she might have said, “Is it in yet?” and he stopped seeing her shortly afterwards.

The point is that reprieves like these are the exception rather than the rule. Women who use the words ‘love’, ‘I’ and ‘you’ in the same sentence do not do so lightly. They expect an answer, even if it is a long rambling one that veers off into existential metaphysics, which is really the only place to go when you find that you cannot respond in the manner expected.

To cut things short, if you want her to fall in love with her, give her an orgasm. Use whatever it takes. Fingers, tongue, prosthetic limbs, vegetables, kitchen utensils, military hardware. Anything. Unfortunately, I am unable to explain in more graphic detail how to accomplish this feat because this is not that kind of book. You will have to check the Religion section of your bookshop if you want more information.


To be continued …

Guide to Everything – Part 1 Step 4


Step 4 – The first date


Congratulations. You have isolated your type and matched the right words with the right woman. No blood has been shed and, as far as you know, nobody is after you. The spontaneous chat went splendidly. You even walked her to her car when she left with her friends. And you told her that you want to see her again. At this point, there is not much else you can say apart from, “I’d really like to see you again.” However, this is a stupid thing to say. You have consumed 17 beers and 12 shots and should not be saying anything at all. The mere fact that she is still talking to you is a miracle in itself.

The concept of dating has different connotations for different generations. For instance, if you are nine and the girl you have your eye on is seven, you are fairly limited in your options. You could take her for a walk, but it only takes around 53 seconds to circumnavigate the playground and there is not much you can accomplish in that short time. Later in life, yes. But not when you are nine.

When you reach 15, you might be lucky enough to have parents who allow you to date. As you walk out of the door with Julie tugging at her training bra, good old dad will say, with a twinkle in his eye, “No hitting beyond first base, son!” This is good news. When dad was 15, first base meant holding hands at the movies. He has no idea that first base has been upgraded to include free-range tongues and fingers. But this is not a book for kids. The dirty-minded little bastards have access to filth of their own kind.

Bryane, a straight friend of a gay nephew of my neighbour’s neighbour’s uncle, told me that he always takes his first dates to a restaurant. He said that next to soaking in a hot bath, women love to eat most of all. He said they are very like cats in that way. When I pointed out that cats hate water, he said that some of them love it. I asked him which ones and he described some kind of animal that sounded like a cross between a Mexican Hairless and a Pygmy Rhinoceros. I challenged him to prove that this animal even existed and he became defensive and quite hysterical. I ended up slapping him repeatedly just to calm him down. And also, I suppose, to punish him a little for making up such an outrageous story.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Restaurants. In my view, not an ideal venue for a first date. Eating is an intensely private affair and should be done either in complete isolation or with someone you have known for at least five years.

When it comes to feeding time, men are dogs by nature. Women are more like cheetahs. Teeth are bared at times like these, and you only have to watch your dog or cat to know that you don’t hang about when the fangs come out. Although most of us have learned not to growl and hiss while we eat, all we have really done is internalise these basic instincts.

Apart from the more obvious hazards, like ordering red wine with white meat or pink gin with green salad or blue sambuca with yellow rice, not to mention the old spinach in the teeth and spaghetti behind the ear, there are other dangers that lurk latently.

There are some men (me, for one) who cannot abide it when their partner starts feeding from the other person’s plate. It’s kind of cute the first time it happens, but when she finishes her food and then starts on yours on the pretext of wanting to taste a little of everything, that’s when I want to plunge my fork into her eye socket, pluck out her eyeball and say, “Chew on this, you greedy pig.”

Then there’s the matter of the bill. Way back in the olden days (2003), a man could quite confidently reach for the bill and, with a manly flourish, slap down his credit card or a wad of crisp notes while his date looked demurely the other way. It was to be expected. The man would pay. Not because he hoped for a quick poke on the first date, but because he earned more and it was the right thing to do. Happily, those days are gone.

Women no longer expect men to pay the bill. Well, some do. Mainly the feminists, oddly enough. They have not, however, progressed to the point where they offer to cover the bill. Probably because feminism doesn’t pay very well. At most, they insist on paying half. But more often than not, she snatches the bill away and performs lighting-fast calculations in her head in the apparent belief that the entire (male) management is conspiring to overcharge her. You would be surprised at the number of times they are right.

But what many women fail to realise is that after a romantic meal by candlelight, few men want to feel as if they are a member of the Hawks on a late-night forensic audit. And if she does find that an extra coffee has been added to the bill, my advice is to excuse yourself and walk rapidly to the toilets. Hide there until the screaming stops. For the next few hours you will be hearing a lot about “the principle of the thing”.

Forget the restaurant. Go and play mini golf on your first date. It’s safer and cheaper. And you get to let her win, which will count heavily in your favour when it comes to the possibility of a little first date action.


To be continued …