Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Crap inside and out

South African women are being ripped off! Their high street shops are full of synthetic crap fabrics, crap plastic shoes, crap design all from China. What the hell is wrong here?! A lot. South Africa had a great textile industry, it's got creative talent in abundance and its got a natural style. So why are all the women settling for this second rate crap from China?

And while I'm on the rant, this is not the only reason why the women (sorry the white women) are so badly dressed? Yes I am making a colour statement here. Our black sisters appear to shop and wear their clothes better than the white women. Why? Because black women are not afraid to be women. The average white women wants to prove she's one of the boys by wearing the same shorts, combat pants and, oh mother of god, the very worst of the worst a rugby jersey.

Take a hard look at the last thing you bought in the shop SA girls. Demand better fabrics, tell the retailer 'NO MORE PLASTIC CRAP FROM CHINA' and seriously put down the extra borewors roll and leave the Teesav shorts to the farmers.

Monday, November 23, 2009

When the streets were paved with gold

Back in the heady days of hitting sales targets and spending the client’s money on glorious long lunches or wildly extravagant dinners, I had a run in with a maitre d of the Bluebird, on the Kings Road London.

We were a bunch of advertising kids that had vastly beaten our year’s income targets and were the praise of the agency. The way we had done this was by marking up our work by 200% and the client obliviously paying. Well it was British Gas and British Gas was doing the same to the British home owner. So whilst we were spending their money we were paying high prices for our gas and electricity. That was over our heads though, as all we wanted to do in those days were drink, party and discuss who was the best looking in the agency.

So here we found ourselves doing precisely that in the private dining room at the Bluebird. The evening was long, four coursed, fine wined and lots of high jinks with the work crew. The bill was £3000 of which £1000 was spent on cigars – no one was a smoker at the table. We smoked the stoggies because we could afford them on our expenses. It was applauded, it was our reward for the long days and nights building a career and making money for the Americans. We loved it.

I was on high form when at 1.30am we left the glass box of the private dining room and made our way through the restaurant attempting to find the exit. The restaurant was thinning out with only stranglers left sipping cognacs.

As I swayed through the restaurant I spied the grand piano standing for my attention by the bar. I shimmed over, sat down lifting the hood with glee as my mellowed colleagues gathered round for the impromptu recital.

As I struck the first cord, in what was to be a bashed version of something I had long forgotten, the Maitre‘d was by my elbow sternly.

“Please madam, do not play the piano.” he asked

“Oh but I must”, I replied, cheered on by the swaying work crew. They wanted the show. A few had now broken away and we at the bar kissing. We will all remember that in the morning.

I slammed the keys again.

“No madam, please I must insist that you not play” the poor chap requested.

“Oh but I insist that I do play, we have spent a vast fortune in your private dining room tonight and I want to play the piano” my little foot tapping on the floor and all puffed up by my own importance helped very nicely with Ch√Ęteau neuf du Papa, ‘64.

I leered forward and as I was once again about to thrash the ivory this time accompanied loudly by my tone deaf singing, the dear Maitre d’ pleaded;

“Madam please I beg you not to play the piano, I don’t think Sir Elton John; sitting in the corner over there will appreciate it”.

There was Elton John in the corner of the Bluebird enjoying a simple evening with a friend.

We left quietly without bestowing him the privilege of to my version of Good Bye Norma Jean.