Sunday, July 10, 2005

Platkoppe

I’m starting a branch of the Flat Head Society. My group is really registered as the Platkoppe, but we realise that in order to be relevant and accessible to the world we must Anglicise our name. It’s the clearest expression of our ability to move with the times.

Actually, the name will be registered as soon as the documents are hand-delivered to the authorities in Pretoria for approval of our name and charter. As a matter of principle, we refused to use electronic means to get the documents there. They said I could e-mail it, but I think that’s just a scam to get me in front of that computer with something called a modem and infra red and hot spot connectivity. Someone can be sitting on the other edge of the world and infiltrating your mind while you think you’re just typing.

In fact, I was reading somewhere that’s how the aliens in 1973 took control of that group of scientists in the Australian outback. Although sometimes I wonder if that also wasn’t a plot, hey, hatched while we were worried about the Enlightened Ones by some world power that we don’t even know about but who are controlling things behind the scenes so that we can believe their ridiculous ideas.

I challenge anyone to say that I’m a denialist. I’m not, hey. Denialists are just moegoes and cast a bad light on the rest of us who don’t accept everything we are fed by the world out there. We find our own way, rooted in the beliefs handed down by our forebears and our own experience of this world. That’s why we will continue to question in the way that we do.

Some dismissively point to a dodgy personality, others know our enquiring minds are rooted in a philosophy unswayed by centuries of wayward thinking under the guise of scientific and technological advances. Someone asked if we were connected to the Flat Earth crowd.

Actually, I wanted to call our organisation the Flat Earth Society but I found that name was already in use, has been for donkey years. But that crowd is quite far-out, with aspects of their philosophies and approaches to life totally off-putting to many. But we are ad idem on two things:

Firstly that the earth is flat indeed. They’ve known this truth forever and have held on to it in the face of disgusting challenges by Chris Columbus and others, who insisted after a journey of almost a million miles that nobody would fall off the earth when they got to the outer edges of Africa. Columbus indeed did discover a new world, but no proof has been provided that he sailed around the world in the process. Having just flown halfway to the western extremity of the earth at 30 000ft, I can attest to this simple fact – it’s flat all the way, there is absolutely no curvature.

The other point of agreement between the Flat Earthists and the Platkoppe is that we are constantly amazed at how easily people are duped by those espousing outrageous theories. Often with the flimsiest of so- called factual proof, and sometimes even clear evidence of lies and deceit, pronouncements are made about the meaning of human life, about inventions and other allegedly material improvements to our lifestyles, about two-bit laboratory tests that provide cures for our maladies.

These plots are given a veneer of respectability by putting the smoke, mirrors and magic wands in the hands of intellectual, spiritual and political luminaries. The masses are duped but the Flat Earthists and the Platkoppe know better. We know all about these and other diabolical scourges. Which is why some of us are of the view that the power outages might be good news: they could force a return to the basic home truths about life.

But we are concerned about the water restrictions. That could mean that we have to shower once a week; certainly the days of showering after every dalliance, perhaps even a handful of times a day, might be at an end.

Wednesday, June 1, 2005

Going with your gut - and everybody else's

Yeah, you know, it will seriously date you as a 50-something. Some uncouth types might even claim it‘s an anthem for 60-somethings. But, sometimes, things just come together in a moment of creative magic and you have to go with your gut. It‘s what makes the Oscars and Grammies, Pulitzers and Loeries each year.

It‘s a moment like that which put that song in your mind. “I rode my bicycle past your window last night, I roller-skated to your door at daylight . . . whoa . . . I‘ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, you got a brand new key.” You hope nobody asks. It‘s been there since about 6.30am on Tuesday. Shortly after you woke up to find the city had been hit by its second 1-in-50-years flood in 18 months.

Except the words you‘re singing to the tune are slightly different: “I saw your turd float through my lounge door last night. I scheme it had to be a bit off the map.” There‘s a bit of poetic licence but some of the syllables don‘t fit like they should, just one too many if you want to set this great bit of verse to the tune of “Brand new key”.

At first you thought it was the rain on the garage roof making such a noise; then you realised it was the toilet overflowing. So you grabbed the bobbejaan to turn off the water but it still overflowed, until you realised, twas actually coming up the toilet bowl.

Now, you‘ve spent your time in the trenches, literally. Okay, so you were a laaitie at the time, but it counts. Mainly Walmer trenches, where the sand is soft and you didn‘t break your back trying to score some extra pocket money digging sewer trenches and manholes for your old man. So, you know a bit about the importance of gravity when it comes to measuring the drop of your trench system. You also know it‘s a rare moment when the stinkwater flows uphill. Usually when you used to help test the pipe you‘d be down on all fours at the lowest point in the trench, waiting for the water to come down the hill.

Now, here you are with a beaut in your bathroom, a back-washing toilet bowl, flowing at the rate of about a cubic metre every two minutes. You don‘t know how much that is but it sounded impressive when you were telling the plumber over the phone the extent of your problem. At least they accepted your word; the municipal guys thought you were high on something.

You‘ve got about a metre of water backed up in the drainage “courtyard” outside your house, adding to the pressure on your toilet. For six hours the water runs relentlessly from your toilet and into the house, following every available crack and cranny as if they were conduits created especially for it, seeping into carpets, damming up in corners, trying to get to the swimming pool. It‘s pretty clear, probably rainwater, but you‘re not going to taste it to make sure.

The plumbers you‘ve called in have thrown in the towel, soaked to the bone from trying to plug a hole, their motorised pump a valiant but inadequate tool in this situation. And then the sewage comes. Raw, liquidy mess. You don‘t look too closely, you‘re no longer being paid pocket money by your old man to examine what comes out of the pipe.

Three hours later the municipal experts arrive. This team has a “can do” spirit second to none. They‘ve cut through muck-filled blockages and stopped gunge pouring on to ratepayers‘ properties throughout the city this morning. Within minutes the toilet fountain has stopped and a large mopping up team has arrived with mops and sanitary equipment. But not before enough municipal stormwater and drainage staff have come to see this unusual phenomenon. You feel like you‘re welcoming the masses to witness an image of Fatima shedding tears of blood from the dining room wall.

You hope the smell eventually disappears completely. You think the jokes would stop too now, like the guy who asked if you intend swopping the Staffie for a pooh-dle, or if your decision to move the poohl-room is a permanent one. But let just one more bugger call you a pooh-ftah and you‘re going to wallop him. You‘re not pooh- poohing these idiots.