Cooking up an Advertising storm – Brandon Faber
Posted on 27. Aug, 2010 by Graham in Brandon Faber
I’d like to create a television show called “Does it AD up?”
What we would do is take features, benefits etc. advertised and put it to the test. Sort of like MythBusters, only with more boozing involved.
I do of course realise that it would be nearly impossible to get any broadcaster to boldly go where no show has gone before, purely because it has the potential to name and shame advertisers who are talking absolute nonsense. Hence I will have to take this idea to the internet, with funding coming from the IDC or, more likely, my mother’s cookie jar.
Don’t you think it would be fun to see if you really could wash a zillion white plates with a bottle of Sunlight liquid, or if eating Bar One does turn you into a burning-house storming super-hero? Wouldn’t it be cool to prove that you can really sculpt perfect abs from the safety of your couch or that THAT herbal cream with extracts from a plant that can only be found in the shadows of Tibetan temples can increase the size of your breasts with daily application?
Personally I think that show (featuring the cream) would beat the opening game of the Soccer World Cup in terms of viewer ratings . . . or, at the very least, make a meal of South African Idols. By the way and pardon my digressing, but is it just me or does it seem that this Season has borrowed just about everything it can from the American version?
“I’m the next South African Idol!” yells one group of largely talentless cretins. “No! I’m the next South African Idol” yells another. That is straight from the pens of enlightened script writers at Fox studios and that is also not the only example.
Last year’s host is also back, although in a lesser role it seems.
Who else thinks that this Liezel lady must be the daughter of someone really important? Who else thinks that the only reason she is there again is because getting rid of her would be an admission of guilt from our friends at Multichoice? Who else thinks that we should have used one host only and, then, a comedian like John Vlismas, or that other Trevor dude – although I see he already has his own talk show and is the CEO (Customer Experience Officer) at Cell C?
I’m just saying that combining someone with a brain with a relatively brainless show should do wonders for a franchise that is in need of something, or someone, with a lot more flair.
Perhaps I could perform an experiment on a special edition of my proposed new show where we measure the average time it takes for a human being of decent intelligence, falling into the almighty LSM categories of 7 and above, to pick up their DSTV remote and change over from Idols Extra to watch Jamie Oliver boil an egg and cook a duck?
I bet it does not take long at all.
Anyway back to my show and the wonders it could prove, or disprove. Ten bucks say if I make a roast chicken for lunch (somehow managing to smear the walls and ceiling in the process) Mr. Muscle will not appear out of nowhere to clean my kitchen for me.
Hundred bucks say that Caltex’s “Techron” has no significant impact on my car’s engine.
Thousand bucks say I’d have to dip my hand in that cookie jar if this show’s ever to see the light of day.
Make Dot Believe – Brandon Faber
Posted on 28. Jul, 2010 by Graham in Brandon Faber
I wasn’t there, that day Dot lost her faith. None of us were, I suspect.
Once an energetic, rose-cheeked woman, Dot was the town sunflower. Her presence lit up the coldest corners of the crummiest bars, her smile could spin the universe in an entirely different direction. Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous grin every time someone tried to figure her out, and blazed with fierce resistance when any man tried to bottle her for himself.
Yup, Dot used to be a pistol too hot to handle, too puzzling to resist.
Then one day everything changed. The light faded from her eyes and Dot started to wander aimlessly through life. Her drive no longer evident, her passion a dulled reflection of its radiant past. Dot had lost her faith, her spirit was broken, her heart no longer galloped through the lush fields of life with gay abandon – instead retreating to a feint beat that could only be heard on the quietest of nights, in the darkest parts of the city.
Today shadows follow her when she walks, whispers are not far behind. Dot never looks up anymore. Dot has lost her faith.
Thankfully this imbalance in the forces of nature has not gone unnoticed, its impact making it all the way to Tokyo, Japan – where news of Dot’s demise was greeted with such outrage and outpouring of humanity that SONY embarked on a worldwide campaign to help one woman find herself, once more.
Never before has a corporation taken such interest in the wellbeing of another human being and do I, today, applaud the men and women behind the electronics giant for this unselfish act. Sure, cunning attempts have been made to hide the true purpose of the campaign by writing the slogan as “Make. Believe” – but it’s when voiceovers are added to advertisements that you hear the “Dot” clearly pronounced.
You may argue that it has to because “make believe” is not really the kind of thing you want associated with your brand. Sony “smoke and mirrors” just doesn’t have the right ring to it, sure – but as we’ve now learnt, all this commercial motivation behind the payoff line really is “make believe” – a great act of abracadabra as SONY masks its concern for “the return of faith in the goodness of life” for one woman, lost in a world gone iMad.
I’d like to throw my considerable weight behind this global push for the emancipation of Dot and I encourage you to do the same. Together we should hold vigil, light our candles and sing songs to bring Dot back from the brink of depression.
A “Make Dot Believe Day” is also not a bad idea.
Like believing in Father Christmas or the welfare of fairies – the spiritual upliftment of this (once magnetic woman) is not the sole domain of our specie’s young or chemically imbalanced.
Today it is our duty to raise the torch of faith on behalf of Dot.
Let us print T-shirts, and badges, and mugs with messages of encouragement. Let our offices be adorned with slogans of support and letter boxes overflowing with “Get Well Soon” cards.
At noon on 1 September 2010, let us switch off all electronics, stop all cars and shout our unified support for the return of the Sunflower to this cold and lonely place.
Setting Dot free from the ropes of self-ridicule and the cuffs of conformity is the right thing to do and, am I willing to bet, will our assistance not only make her believe again, but return onto us the greatest gift we have…
Faith in each other.
Airborne bacon anyone? – Brandon Faber
Posted on 24. Jun, 2010 by admin in Brandon Faber
“Wakka Wakka”
is just about all I know from that song. . .
“This is Africa”
probably makes up the rest of my knowledge reserves but it doesn’t matter as long as you mumble it with real conviction, then nobody cares.
It’s a bit like my knowledge of all matters football / soccer. I’ll be the first to admit that I generally do not have much time for the round ball game. Between World Cups you will hardly find me watching major clubs competing – but there’s something about internationals and, especially, World Cups, that gets my skin tingling and sends strange sensations to all parts of my soul.
The vibe, the party, the possibilities of unexpected outcomes and the drama of it all is what gets me.
You can’t market that, you can’t advertise it or bottle it for sale – it just is and our realm of design, copy and creative brilliance has nothing on the raw passion of human emotion, specially reserved for occasions like this.
If anything the majority of our attempts are flimsy at best, with the odd soccer ball thrown in here and there – and suddenly we have now “themed” our ad.
Nandos are probably the ones that have done it best (as usual) by taking a different angle to proceedings. . . The rest are frankly doing the expected, like working the word “egg” into Easter copy, “Eggcellent offer”, or announcing the end of winter by saying “put a spring in your step and get 10% off. . . blah blah blah”.
But I don’t want to dwell on advertising in the general sense.
What we have here is an opportunity for every citizen to be an ambassador for “Brand South Africa”. We don’t know who we may meet, what influence that person has, what stories they may tell to whoever when they leave our shores.
All of us have a duty to show the world that beneath the thick crust of political mamparradom and general pettiness of our so-called leaders, lies a nation as friendly, as colourful, as vibrant and helpful as any in the world.
It is time for our beautiful people to compliment our beautiful country and sell this place as “a must return” destination. Why should the party end on 11 July?
With everything we have to offer the planet, this World Cup should be a campaign with legs like Bruce Fordyce, staying power like Dirk Diggler and radiate positive influence like Desmond Tutu.
In the end it will not matter where you watched the opening game or where you will watch the final. It is not going to matter if you managed to get to go to a game or if you had to make do with nothing but a radio.
What will matter is what we take from this massive occasion, this once in a lifetime experience.
Will we pack away our flags? Will we turn cold shoulders on each other once more? Will we allow those with hidden agendas and lust for power to overshadow the positive connections we have made over the last few months? From the Bulls in Orlando to Bafana at Soccer City – the power to change this country is evident in the smiles of ordinary people like you and me.
If we can hold on to 20% of that then we have won the greatest victory of them all. No cup, no sporting glory, no front page headlines will be able to match the restoration of faith in each other.
I’ll be watching the skies for flying pigs – for once I believe it could happen.
Technotribe?
Posted on 28. May, 2010 by admin in Brandon Faber
Today I hang my head in shame.
I’ve been lying awake at night, struggling, grappling, fighting with my inner self – how could I have let this happen? How could I have been so careless, callous, unwittingly witless, insensitive towards progress, immune towards technology?
How could I have betrayed my generation in this way?
It’s not easy admitting guilt. You second guess yourself, time and again. You want to reach out to someone, anyone, a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, a bastion of sanity to confide in – yet, alas, fear guards the truth like an official government-sponsored inquiry into the so-called arms deal.
I’ve hardly slept for months.
I’ve become immune to the laughter of others, instead choosing to hide my shame in dark corners of obscure coffee shops – away, out of sight, out of reach from the long arm of modern justice which surely searches for me – constantly.
A life on the run is like an election poster without a smile, like an SABC report without prejudice, like the Sunday Times without its politically inspired mamaparras . . . it’s no way to live.
Darkness engulfs your days, nightmares ruin your slumber, claustrophobia finds you wherever you go – but the thought of revealing the truth, telling all, tearing away the mask of self-inflicted shame is just too heavy a burden to bear.
I’ve tried finding solace in reading ANCYL press releases and watching Parliament TV but, even that, failed to make me laugh. I yearn for a smile, for freedom, for the sustainable upliftment of my social wellbeing.
I’ve sat, quietly, weighing up the pros and cons of confessing my terrible transgression to my family, my friends and my fellow citizens. The conclusion being that it is better to live a life free from internal damnation, a life free from the stresses of keeping secret that which torments my soul, than continuing down this path of isolated shame.
Oscar Wilde said, “It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.” I draw courage from the words of such a literary genius. I draw inspiration from the knowledge that “confession is the first step to repentance” and, with that – I am ready to beg for your forgiveness:
“Forgive me Generations X, Y and Z, for I have sinned . . . I do not own anything starting with an ‘i’”
Like a blind man at a Swingers Party you will find me on Saturday morning, browsing through music stores for CDs of days gone by and times present. My phone is not smart enough to tell me where the nearest pub is. My laptop the closest thing to that pad from the guys in the Apple orchard.
I think Twitter (for anything other than news) is for people with nothing to add to society. I think Justin Timberlake can have his lunch without me having to know what it is, how it tasted, and where he’s going for next for cocktails.
So, people, here I stand before you, armed with nothing but a phone to say “hello” and a few CDs to bring to your next braai.
With any luck you still use wood to make that fire.
Maybe we could even forget about the Wii and have a chat?
How long do I have to keep walking?
Posted on 29. Apr, 2010 by admin in Brandon Faber
Apparently I didn’t get the memo.
While I was drinking and cavorting with femmes from the class of 96’ the world went and got ahead of itself. IT laaities, scattered in bedrooms across the planet, starting writing programmes that would change the way we communicate, the way we live, the way we are. Kids my age started taking over family businesses. Teens started to take over the internet.
While I was drinking and cavorting with the femmes of Rand Afrikaans University, sports teams started to pick younger and younger players to fill their senior ranks and the first Idols episode premiered in the UK, promoting a world-wide explosion of fresh new stars, with people like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera leading the way in the “I have too much money to care (pre 18)” brigade.
As I spent my early working years drinking and cavorting with the femmes from Account Management, those same IT laaities from my school days ran successful ICT companies around the globe, kids of Disney Club fame started cashing in, young entrepreneurs sprouted forth like dagga plants in the Natal Midlands and the age of the wildly successful at everything they do graced our newspapers, television screens and magazine covers.
All this has left me a bit bemused here where I sit, wearing a pair of jeans bought three years ago, worrying about my future wellbeing. What the hell is going on and who can I blame for my late awakening to the reality that I may have missed a few boats cruising by in silence while I was busy getting a bar tan?
That Eureka! moment has eluded me somehow. For some reason I am not driving around in a Ferrari F430 and I’d like to know what I’ve done to the universe to deserve this injustice? Frankly I blame television adverts promising wild success if I drank X type whiskey, Y type brandy and Z type beer.
I never saw those Armani suit wearing guys worrying about the mortgage as they clinked their glasses after another tough day moving and shaking the world. I never saw a stress induced grey hair on a soul, pouring himself a stiff double in celebration of a job well done. I’ve kept on walking too, haven’t I? I also consider myself a person of distinction that likes the finer things in life yet, alas, it seems the finer things in life don’t like me.
Perhaps I can blame it on the so-called profession I chose for myself and the notoriously kak remuneration The Suits pay us creative folk for the privilege of working in media and advertising – for the first ten years, at least.
I’ve been thinking about this for some time now. What would a failed man roundabout 30 years of age do to rapidly make up lost ground in a world where an inspired youth rule the landscape? Politics seems an obvious choice, but where would I find a league, catering for young people, that would allow someone heading for middle age to lead it?
I am willing to bet that no such Youth League exists and that, even if I did manage to squeeze my way into a leadership position of such an organisation, my influence over matters (and tenders) of national interest would be little, if nothing at all. Anyway, it would be wrong to use political influence to gain financially from government contracts – a practice frowned upon and not tolerated in South Africa, and rightly so. . .
So now, this leaves not very many options left. Unless Hugo Boss starts a range catering for rapidly greying writers that weigh over a 100kgs in the shade, I think we can rule modelling out of the equation too.
This basically leaves me here. Sitting behind my desk, doing the word-smith monkey dance for your amusement.
Feel free to send your words of encouragement or pearls of wisdom to brandon.96end@gmail.com
Donations are also welcome.
Not the usual – by Brandon Faber
Posted on 25. Mar, 2010 by admin in Brandon Faber
Under normal circumstances I’d have a lot to say about a certain grocery store chain advertisement featuring the little girl from the prairie with the blonde ponytails, the bugs bunny “toof” and the swaying skirt of school girl innocence, telling us she wants to be like her dad because everyone loves him. . .
As do we all.
Personally I want to kiss my nearest grocer every time I see him shouting at his demoralised staff whilst prancing around in his short-sleeve collared shirt, flatly ignoring my well-directed remarks about the quality of the offerings in his meat section . . . just because it says “butchery” it doesn’t mean your in-house cuts have to look like something that’s just been introduced to the dark side of Freddy Kruger’s sense of humour, you know?
Alas, I don’t have time to further dissect old one “toof” and her fascination with the fact that dad’s job is to make sure bread rolls are served fresh and warm, and not a great service to humanity . . . but I don’t have time, or space.
Today I chuck 1 X lazy eye in the direction of Vodacom and I stand perplexed wondering where the hell things went wrong? How can the same guys that brought us the Yebo Gogo boys, Player 23 and a host of other killer summer ads featuring ladies with bouncing boobs bring us such monumental crap as their latest RICA offering? I ask you with tears in my bloodshot eyes. . . “bring back the boobs”. . . and if we can’t have that, “bring back the old guy and the idiot with the ponytail”.
What we are presented with is the perfect picture of the old South Africa in the shape of a white factory middle manager looking guy, shouting his face off at a bunch of black dudes, threatening to “make things as difficult as registering for RICA should. . . blah blah blah” You get the picture.
Just before Cosatu representatives storm through the doors, the Metal Workers Union goes on strike out of sympathy and a certain Youth League laaitie signs a deal to take over the factory’s contracts, a curly-haired dude with a drum bounces out from behind the crates, yelling like an Al-Qaeda operative waking up on April 1st with an American flag tattooed on his forehead.
I forget half of what he says but the point he’s trying to make is that it really easy for the government to find out exactly where we stay . . . or register for RICA, as it turns out.
Yeah. The ad’s saving grace is the part where our clown does this dance / rhyme thing: “do the jive”. Next to him is another guy / factory worker who dances with. I have never seen anyone with eyes like that. It’s funny yet creepy in the same way, like dealing with Citypower or phoning 10111.
Anyway, the bottom of the story is that we should go and register for RICA. . . Personally, as a contracted subscriber, I don’t see the point. Short of a blood sample and a lifestyle audit my service (sic) provider got everything it needed to allow them to overcharge me on a monthly basis and then take ages to refund said overcharged amount.
Either way we are getting nailed. What I don’t need is a kak ad to remind me of the fact, and ditto the “toof” girl. . . Next time I go to that shop I am going to dive tackle her dad into the Easter Egg display in a show of solidarity with normal South Africans who are just too gatvol to care anymore.
Perhaps I should run for government.
District 92 – Brandon Faber
Posted on 25. Feb, 2010 by admin in Brandon Faber
“Sssshhk. . . Ssshhk k k !”
My left eye pops open like a tube of Pringles. “Sssshk!. . . Ssshhk k k !” My right eye joins the party in a miserable state. “Ssssshk. . . Ssssshhhhhk k k !”
“What the hell is that?” I think to myself and, even more alarmingly, “why does it sound so close nearby?”
I lean over, looking down from the lofty heights of my bed and see an object moving behind the curtain, roughly half a metre to my right. “Sssshhk. . . Sshhk k k !”
“Holy hell!” I scream in silent horror, “there’s a Tokolosh in my room!” What ungodly creature could make such a strange noise? I pull the curtain aside to find my cat, Max, prodding at the source of evil with a paw.
“Meaaaauw” he says with the kind of intensity that means “bring the garlic, wooden stake and silver-bulleted shotgun, something from the ninth gate of hell has arrived and has earmarked this house for a quick lesson in demonic possession.”
“Shit babe!” I alert sleeping beauty of the imminent danger. “Switch on the light quickly, there’s something dark and dangerous lurking in the corner here!”
Before you can say “Jacob, you are my father,” the lights flash on and 1 X female form takes a giant leap for mankind – downstairs, returning half-a-second later with a bottle of poison that promises to “leave nothing alive – guaranteed!”
I grab the can of salvation and lift Max to see who our mystery guest is . . . and there it sits. Horror of horrors, more terrifying than photos of celebrities without makeup, more sinister than Schabir Shaik’s pending pardon, Beelzebub’s Foot soldier – a big black Parktown Prawn and, by the looks of things, he is the “Mike Tyson” of prawns.
I take a step back, contemplating my mortality before calling on the power of the legendary prawn hunter, Wikus van der Merwe. With the fury of a thousand farts and a “Fokkit Wikus, here we go!” I let rip with my can of “never fail demon insect slayer”. The “odourless” gas sends everything flying: the cat, a mosquito from the Third Reconnaissance Brigade, three beetles and a retired moth.
The haze from my Shock and Awe campaign starts to clear. . . I can just about see my victim… “ARRRGH!” With murderous intent the Prawn of Darkness jumps into the air ala that chick from The Matrix and climbs around the front of the curtain to face his attacker, “me”, head on.
I let out a manly shriek and grab the cat from the path of destruction as Hellboy leaps from the curtain, onto the bed – with nothing but death and vengeance in his eyes.
In a flash the lady of the house swoops around the other side of the bed, flicks open the sliding door and does a praying mantis Avatar warrior back flip over to my side. With grim determination she executes a super-swift wrist swipe with (rather fittingly) a book about South Africa’s secret nuclear programme.
The Son of Satan is sent flying out of the house, off the balcony and out of our lives.
Here I am, still standing with the cat in one hand and the can of empty promises in the other.
The lady of the house and I exchange a meaningful nod: “And the Oscar for best Actress in a supporting role goes to, Brandon Faber.”
Yeah.
Not to be outdone, however, the Oscar for best written screenplay, AKA, fictitious piece of writing that could not, should not, ever be remotely considered near the truth – “goes to the makers of all cans of insect spray.”
Frankly none of us would cut it on the streets of District 9.
Missfits and morons – by Brandon Faber
Posted on 28. Jan, 2010 by admin in Brandon Faber
Apparently the Miss South Africa pageant was held in December last year.
Apparently a certain “Nicole Flint” is now the ambassador of the nation, or whatever title we give winners of this sort and, apparently, there are some concerns in lofty circles that she is, in fact, white.
Well klap me with a golf club and call me Tiger, you mean there are white South Africans?
I must say that I have always considered myself a brother of this land and I, too, find it absolutely unacceptable that a pale skinned brunette with great boobs and wonderful legs should win such a prestigious and meaningful title.
We all know where this leads.
Miss South Africa’s of pageants past have been known to influence local and foreign policy, establish peace in the most notorious of conflict zones, save millions from starvation and have always been the moral compass for the nation to follow when times were dark. . . OUTRAGEOUS that we should entrust such immeasurable responsibility and, frankly, the fate of the world as we know it, to a white chick – from Pretoria, or Tshwane (who cares as long as it works?) – nogals.
I find this injustice ranks right up there with Willie “die Breker” du Plessis winning the Summer 2009 Margate Mince pie Eating Championship and a foreign actress being chosen to play Winnie Mandela in a feature film that is bound to have as profound an effect on the box office as quiet diplomacy had on Uncle Bob.
Take heart though all ye upset souls, at least you are not a certain Mr. Daniel Roux, the boyfriend of the new queen of the country. Reportedly Nicole had stated that her title now comes first in her life . . . which is pretty kak news for Daniel who was probably looking forward to coming first for some time.
Be strong lad, we all have to make sacrifices.
Yours is to say goodbye to love, forever cursed to walk the planet alone, a broken soul with nothing but your memories and the promise that the pain will eventually subside (a few decades from now). For the rest of us it is having to contend with the dramatic impact a white Miss South Africa will have on the country in 2010.
Shares are bound to plummet, two suns will appear in the skies, crops will fail and tsunamis will wreak havoc along our coastline. The end of days is not 2012, 3013 or 4014, no. The age of anarchy has now surely arrived with this aberration – this, scandalous ascent to the national throne of beauty.
I don’t know about you but I am heading for the nearest cave to wait out the worst. Nicole is bound to appear in a string of powder puff advertisements flogging hair products and nail polish and I, for one, will not stick around to witness the horror of it all.
May you and your family survive this calamity called 2010 . . . May this not be the end.
“It’s a mystery.” – Brandon Faber
Posted on 09. Dec, 2009 by admin in Brandon Faber
So the Mayans reckon we’ve got about three years left before we never have to see another dishwashing liquid ad. . . or read copy marketing luxury guesthouses – with riveting selling points such as, “our hand-picked staff will make sure you blah blah blah”.
Hand-picked staff hey?
What a novel idea. Here I was under the impression that a big bus rides around town, randomly dropping off hospitality industry employees that venues are obliged to use. Sounds like something the intellectuals at Cosatu would come up with. . . For most part however, hotels, guest houses and the like have to go the old-fashioned way and interview people for vacant positions.
Yup. All hail the random adjective – after 21 December 2012 we shall sadly hear of it no more.
Returning to those Inca Impies and their pot-fuelled predictions. I bet they never knew that getting bored with chiseling millennia worth of detail would culminate in block buster movies and over 34 million Google search results.
I bet if they saw the cult offshoots and nervous clambering by the feet of men who claim divine inspiration from Alien communication and / or messages from their future selves, living free from fear in some parallel universe where humanity is at one with each other, they’d have done the right thing and at least put a “To be continued…” at the end of it all.
“We are running out of leaves to smoke, finish this later, promise” would also have done the job.
Instead the hysteria is gathering momentum as we prepare for the Apocalypse, the end of days, the (apparent) re-entering of “Planet X” into our solar system that will see Jupiter “ignite” and become a second baby sun. According to 2012warning.com we should all be able to see two suns’ in the sky by no later than May 2011.
Well I, for one, say “bring it on”. An extra sun would certainly add a bit of excitement to getting stuck in mid-May morning traffic. Products like “Hotballs Sunscreen” will keep us from frying like Like It Lean bacon rinds on a Sunday morning and Barack Obama will tell everyone to remain calm, while the US prepares to move its most important souls to The Hilton “Underground”.
Here in Africa the ANCYL will blame apartheid for the two suns while the unions will threaten to mobolise and take to the streets if Planet X doesn’t immediate heed their calls to retreat to the cold darkness of outer space.
I can only imagine the madness as the time draws closer.
Unfortunately the world is full of souls with a home-shopper-mentality . . . hell, we do not need a mysterious planet to take us down, the pure idiocy of those who surround us is enough to destroy any civilization, given the opportunity.
Err. . .
I don’t know what’s going to happen and, frankly, I don’t care.
The true mysteries of this world comes not from the skies above, but from within. We find it in hand-picked hotel staff and “surprised” moms, truly impressed by the amount of foam some new dishwashing liquid makes. We find it in the choice of music used in Makro radio spots, in specials that are not really so “special” and in movies about our supposed demise.
We find it in our fascination with destruction and holiday death-tolls, in superficial presents and super-sensational scandals.
The year is gone. . . perhaps we only have three or so left. . . more likely, however, there’s a lot yet still to achieve and many more dreams to be realised.
Of course this also means that we’ve got many more years of award losing advertising ahead of us.
I can’t wait.
Super heroes and silent shopping? – by Brandon Faber
Posted on 26. Nov, 2009 by admin in Brandon Faber
Apparently making a roast chicken for dinner involves food fighting with Jamie Oliver’s under 13 cooking graduates and a team of hungry Romanian rugby players.
Lord knows only a bunch of pre-teen hooligans and sportsmen with little ball sense (but lots of brawn) can cause the chaos, damage and disaster as presented in the latest Pre-Mr. Muscle kitchen. Sure they pretend that it’s just a mom and some attention deficit disorderly offspring that prepared the meal (with their feet and Caterpillar industrial earth moving equipment) but we all know the truth.
A mere minute before the man in orange arrived, package protruding as he sorted out the mayhem with one foul swoop, Anatoli Dimitru showed the kind of individual brilliance that’s made him the Romanian player of the year . . .thrice.
Sidestepping a stray leaf of iceberg lettuce and a tin of canned tomatoes, our hero ripped the roast chicken from the oven before sprinting down the right-hand “touchline” for a last gasp try in the corner, next to the basin under which all inferior cleaning products are kept.
Anatoli was then carried outside on the shoulders of his comrades while the under 13’s immediately retreated to the safety of the living room to twitter about their humiliation – and the futile nature of cooking anything at home anymore. . .
And, by the looks of the queues at Woolworths Food stores, they may have a point.
Every night the same crowd. Some doing actual grocery shopping but, most, just looking for something half-decent to eat. Hell, anything will do and, we’ll convince ourselves, we are actually really getting good value for money. Of course R28 for 10 grapes is a bit steep, but, “they are from Spain, you know”.
Alas I digress – but humour me for just another minute if you will.
Could someone from Woolworths head office please explain to this pale male why I never hear any music in any of your stores? Are we supposed to shop in silence for eternity? Will some normal background entertainment upset the fragile state of the orchids? Will a bit of radio adversely affect the freshness of the veggies, or sour mentioned grapes a day early?
For Pete’s sake man. I am going to spend R500 on two small bags of goodies and a plant I don’t have space for, the least you can do is make it a semi-pleasant experience.
Nah, this library-esque atmosphere does nothing to unleash the compulsive shopper in me.
If I wanted to be silenced to death I’d attend poetry readings and “performance art” exhibitions in liberal parts of Cape Town – or – become a political activist in my choice of oppressive regime.
This here is just shopping, let’s not pretend it’s a serene and beautiful thing.
And let’s not pretend that we need to have grime-smeared walls and donkey hoof-prints on the kitchen ceiling in order to get the Mr. Muscle message across, please. A simple “clean your kitchen you dirty fools” will suffice. Most of us “get it”.
But then again what do I know? I buy my chicken at Woolworths . . .
“What’s that you say lady?”, “Next customer please?”
Sing Hallelujah!