Sometimes Stereotypes SUCK! My brain has felt like a giant (or perhaps not so giant) amoeba for the last two weeks as I have struggled to find a source of inspiration to fuel a rant. But last night my brain was shocked out of amoebadom by the security guard at Islington Academy. Aunty Rug-muncher manning the door told me to take the hood off my head and I was so infuriated that I was speechless. I realise that I don’t look like the twenty-seven seven year old, church going, mom that I am but I was alone and I was attending a gig as a music journalist – what kind of threat could I possibly pose? What the fuck? I was wearing my hood because it was fucking cold and the wind was destroying my hair … not because I belong to some reprobate, council estate, gang looking to knife someone at a gig. Good grief. Naturally I fall into the ‘person wearing a hoodie is dangerous’ stereotype and Aunty Ruggy was erring on the side of caution.

I had a long time to think about this largely insignificant incident on the never-ending escalator at Angel Station after the gig and the more I thought about it the more bummed I got. I am an adult and I felt like I was being treated like a naughty school kid - unjustly. Stereotypes are based on common behaviours associated with particular groups of people and most of us apply stereotypes in order to understand others, no matter how unjust or untrue. And sadly, most of the dodgy, gangster, knife wielding kids around London wear hoods. Hoods have become synonymous with danger. So I guess that I should be grateful that Aunty Ruggy was performing her duty so valiantly: in a bid to ensure the safety of all those in the venue who would feel threatened by a hooded woman – a venue filled with black haired, pierced, tattooed metal heads. Go figure. Hopefully the irony of using stereotype to prove a case against the use of stereotype has not escaped your attention. It merely serves to show the complexities associated with the very notion of compartmentalising individuals. Existence within society eliminates the notion of ‘the individual’, who is no more nor less individual than prescribed by another (by society), making the notion of individual redundant. My point? Note to self: get over it.

Free toys for babies … these same pebbles may serve as weapons or garden decorations but I am going with baby toys.

Small children holding hands. And yes, this does only occur in Brighton.

Some gays (and one with a permed mohawk). This could be a very exciting prospect or just plain horrific – check out your homophobe-metre to ascertain.

Candy striped deck chairs.

Fake ‘gangstas’ (in handcuffs). Not as scary as the real thing.

Death omens. This is a good thing because it’s always good to be reminded of death. Especially when one forgets.

A street called Jew. Need I say more.

Somersaulting motorbikes.

You can find India in Brighton. The Taj Mahal moved there.

World anomaly: giant ice cream cone balancing on roof.

Goldilocks wasn’t hiding under the bed. Those silly bears should have looked in Brighton.

A garden in a boat.

Pretty cables.

Weird shit.

Jamie Oliver likes it there.

And finally: it’s just awesome (and there are lots of sweets there; and you can eat fish & chips; and pretty windmills are sold on the beach front).

Uruguay is the shiz! I hope Forlán and his boys destroy some German pride tomorrow. As a South African, I get the whole grudge thing: Uruguay kicked the asses of Bafana Bafana (who are not great and could have been beaten by any team) and then added insult to injury by beating Africa’s next hope – Ghana. Uruguay did a Maradonna BUT Ghana did have a chance to rectify Suárez’s dirty handball save. Forlán has become a cuss word on the lips of many South Africans. In a recent chat with my bro, he told me that he is using Forlán as a synonym for ‘dick’, ‘asshole’, ‘tosser’ etc. So ‘Forlán’ has replaced ‘fucker’ (note: the previous statement was not gratuitous swearing. The point required emphasis and the alliteration sounded nice). Poor Forlán. All the guy did was play great soccer. In that quarter final match against Ghana the crowd was like an extra player, so a little ‘Hand of God’ manoeuvre just even things out a little. A little extra crowd support = a little extra hand support. Besides, what’s wrong with a little handball in a sport in which dramatic leaps and rolls, which would assuredly earn the John Mclane award for extremity, are par for the course? Come on!

I usually like to call myself an England supporter – and I use the term ‘supporter’ tentatively because I actually care for soccer about as much as I do for a cake without icing; palatable but dull. However, world cup soccer is fun. As a born and bred South African, I was naturally rooting for my homeland but after their downfall, I donned the scarves of Argentina and Uruguay. The whole soccer thing is far more enticing when supporting a team, and pretending to care about it – it makes for great conversation, debate and mockery. My husband acts in defiance of soccer jocks by supporting whoever is most likely to lose … unless Italy is playing of course – then the patriotic (ahem psychotic) hooligan overtakes the vehement protester. As Italy is out and my husband, being as uncompetitive as they come, does not rise to any bate – the next best I can come up with is to write a ‘shed a tear for Uruguay crusade’ as I envision my fellow South Africans wielding machetes in my direction. Okay, before the machetes strike out: it’s a great thing when a nation can sweep all of its dirty laundry under the carpet, force the British media to eat its words, all for the sake of football. Am I being flippant about the unifying nature of sport? Let’s let history do the talking: think back to 1995 – a little bit of rugby, a Springbok emblem, a Web Ellis trophy, a number 6 jersey… Unification? Achieved?

Gok Wan is my hero. He has relieved the hours of boredom that I have been slowly accruing whilst my three month old baby girl is attached to my boob, guzzling for endless minutes each day. My husband thinks I am nuts because all I want to do is get to a Haberdashery and buy some bows, flowers, ribbon – any shit that I can use to garnish my clothing. Husband generously offered to support ‘project embellishment’ by picking up some leaves and sticks to complement the soon-to-buy items that I will attach to my wardrobe. Funny. With a new baby, we are on a serious budget and new clothes are a no-no for a while but there is still a smile on my face (an anomoly for someone who loves clothes but can’t buy any). Why? Because good old Gok has inspired me to funk up my old clothes, which I intend to do with as many accoutrements I can find. The potential for me to end up looking like a Christmas tree is great, so I understand Husband’s mockery. Personally, I like the Christmas tree look thank you very much! There is no such thing as ‘too much’ or ‘overdone’ in my life. (more…)

Yesterday, when the little boy in front of me on the bus tantrumed for an entire hour I really tried not to judge. I know well that the poor mom trying to control little Mr Psycho could be me in two years time. But seriously! This kid was completely wild and out of control – he threw his arms and legs around like an overturned insect, he bit his mom and he screeched like a demon being exorcised back to hell. My daughter was sleeping soundly next to Mr Psycho and when he started bashing her pram I envisioned picking the kid up by his hair and throwing him out of the bus window. Lucky for Mr Psycho his mom yanked his arm away and he listened … well, he started bashing her instead of my baby’s pram. Fine by me. Everyone on the bus watched in uncomfortable silence and those with iPods thanked God in heaven and cranked up the volume. After Mr Psycho’s mom eventually managed to strap mini-Satan into his stroller (with the help of my husband) he writhed around like a mental patient in a straight-jacket and his crazed eyes darted around in search of someone who he could direct his fury at. I have heard of the ‘terrible twos’ but have never ever seen behaviour like this. I am scarred for life.

So what’s up with bicyclists who don’t wear helmets? I understand that cranial protective gear may look a tad brain-like and will thus compromise any attempt at a fashion statement – of course splattered brains mixed with some gravel always goes well with American Apparel. Many people just aren’t willing to sacrifice their dignity to ensure the confinement of brain matter. (more…)

Today my colleague at work asked me if I am going to eat my placenta, and if so, would I eat it raw or have it made into pills. As my jaw proceeded to drop and dribble extricated itself from my mouth, I managed to splutter an adamant “No!” So, here’s the deal: placentophagy is on the rise and is not only limited to weirdo actors and their scientologist friends.

Naturally, I was curious as to why a person would consider eating the bloody membranous afterbirth that is expelled from a woman’s body after her baby has been born. Recent research (based on experiments conducted on rats … nice) shows that the placenta and amniotic fluid of a woman contains a molecule (POEF, Placental Opioid-Enhancing Factor) that modifies the activity of endogenous opioids in a way that produces an enhancement of the natural reduction in pain that occurs shortly after and during delivery. Some doctors, therefore, prescribe placenta consumption as medicine to help stem bleeding after birth and to help the uterus clean itself out. The placenta is rich in nutrients (iron and protein) that will help the mother heal after childbirth, and is also known to be a great source of vitamins and minerals, which are thought to help fight postpartum depression – vitamin B6 is great for this. Other benefits of placentophagy include an increase in energy levels, increased production of breast milk and a decrease in the likelihood of iron deficiency and thus insomnia or sleep disorders. One has to wonder why boiled, canned or pilled placenta is not readily available in local pharmacies? (more…)

I love films – to escape with, to debate over, to analyse and to berate. But there is nothing that kills a great discussion like the pompous ass who self-righteously imposes his highfalutin intellectualisms onto the discussion. Differing opinions keep life interesting and when art is concerned, there will always be dissention. I agree that there is some kind of ethereal standard that separates the great movies from the good movies and the good movies from the poor ones. And subjectivity cannot be absolved from the standard – it’s the human condition. I guess my point is this: in the great conundrum of human existence, who actually cares about the so-called standard of greatness or which movies win awards or which films are intellectually and stylistically superior? Joe Queenan (guardian.co.uk journalist) says it best: (more…)

So who thinks that making Alien, Skeletor or Chewbacca into a My Little Pony is a good idea? I know that all your hands are raised and your shouts of enthusiasm can be heard for miles around…but sorry to disappoint. Mari Kasurinen has already snapped up this gem of an idea. The artist has launched a new collection of My Little Pony figurines that retail at £330 each. Yes, I did say £330 per pony. The range consists of fourteen ‘characters’, which look like things out of a horror movie entitled Rosemary’s Pony or Corpse Ponies, or Don’t Tell Mom My Pony Killed The Baby-sitter or Buffy The Killer-pony Slayer or Pony Chainsaw Massacre. They will either make you run in terror or laugh hysterically. Please observe: (more…)

Today a travesty occurred. A friend stole my pink nail polish, smeared it all over her nails, and then proclaimed with glee, “Now I look like a prostitute”. Pink is for prostitutes? Well fuck me! I must be a world class prostitute. Who knew? Not that I have anything against prostitution. Everyone’s got to make a living – we are living in a recession after all.

I have a passion for pink. Hold on. Let me qualify this statement: I have a passion for Hot Pink – also known as Shocking Pink or Fuchsia. Pink looks particularly awesome with black & lime green. My wedding colours were pink red and orange…my wedding dress was pink red and orange (and a bunch of other colours). I have a pink and black tattoo. I am a big fan of decoration, especially when it involves pink. I often liken myself to a Christmas tree. (more…)