It would be really easy for me to go into a tirade about the secrecy bill / info bill / save our backsides bill – whatever you want to call it. . . But I’m not going to.

Except for the one thing, off course.

It is absurd for a bunch of MPs who couldn’t be bothered to attend half the parliamentary sessions per year (which they are paid for), and who are largely guilty of dodgy dealings with the state, Travel gate and Arms Deal included, to vote on something that will aid them in burying their wrongdoing.

The joys of being your own Judge and Jury, and then keeping the truth from the public, eh?

Other governments (past and present) who have enjoyed this privilege include the peace-loving saints from Zimbabwe, Syria, Iraq, North Korea, the old Soviet Union, China, Afghanistan, Apartheid-era South Africa and so on.

You get the idea I’m sure: Hooray for these upstanding governments, known for their humane treatment of citizens and transparent dealings.

It’s never going to get past the Constitutional Court anyway . . . However, the mere thought that 200+ souls (whom I wouldn’t trust to run a bath with any measure of success) have the arrogance to think they can decide the fate of 50 million gets under my skin in a way that no crap election slogan, no faded, empty-promise-promoting poster, no baby kissing, cracks painting, juvenile delinquent politicking has ever managed to do.

Politicians. . . HUMPH! Too kak to get real jobs and that’s a worldwide phenomenon ladies and gentlemen.

ANYWAY. Anyway.

The point of this final diatribe also serves to remind the fourth estate, owners and publishers specifically, that you cannot shout for freedom on one hand and then curtail those exact freedoms on the other because an impending piece of truth may offend a large advertiser.

The same is true for the large client/advertiser.

You cannot stand shaking your head in dismay at Governmental secrets when you, yourselves, are guilty of acting like the kid who owns the ball on the playground – willing to remove it should things not go your way.

Nah, citizens of South Africa, if we want to have freedom then we must be mature enough to accept that, sometimes, freedom bites you in the backside by revealing the ugly truth.

We respond to those truths by rectifying the problem areas raised and (if need be) punishing those responsible for it.

We do not shoot the messenger.

Not in politics. Not in business. Not in media.

We need to grow up now. We need to take hits on the chin when deserved. We need to apply ourselves to fixing problems with governance, products, whatever – at root cause.

We need to all accept consequence of foolish actions and, even more so, we need to EXPECT consequence.

So here’s to freedom in 2012.

May you be free to point out my mistakes and may I be afforded the opportunity to rectify and apologise should I stray. May Sunday papers hunt down and expose the corrupt who steal from the public, who underperform and renege on promises made.

May ads not be pulled when products or campaigns are slated as sub-standard.

May we take things in our stride over the coming year.

May the dream of an open, fair and just society remain within our reach.

May we never fear the truth, may we never grow silent.

Behavioural scientists and psychological warfare experts alike are in absolute agreement that the “girl who gets more for less” ad will have a significant impact on the future successes of the so-called “war on terror”.
Anti-terrorism and advanced information extraction expert, Dr. Whattakak Addthisis says, “Preliminarily tests have shown that repeated playing of the sound clip to chimpanzees and orang-utans resulted in severe nausea, erratic behaviour, loud and continuous yelling and, in extreme cases, repetitive running into holding cell walls as the creatures attempted to knock themselves out cold – a desperate last ditch attempt to escape the horrendous effects of this South African commercial.”

“We’ve never seen anything like it” the good doctor concluded in amazement.
Historians and “ancient alien” theorists have also been intrigued by this super-kak-ad-phenomena, saying that the biblical story about the “Horns of Jericho” could actually have been inspired by some sort of sound wave weapon that could, very likely, have used clips from equally disturbing advertisements (at that time) to bring down those fabled city walls. “It’s quite likely that we’ve stumbled across a pre-historic super-weapon,” says Ancient Alien proponent, Dr. OMG Canitgetanyworse. “Historical text from the Sumerians, through to the Greeks, Indians, Aztecs and Maya all refer to a weapon generating such a hideous noise, such a unbearable tremble that people would scatter in any and all directions, even off cliffs and into water wells in order to get out of earshot.”

Amazing this is then, ladies and gentlemen, that in a small country at the very tip of the Dark continent we have reinvented a technology lost to humanity for millennia.
I’d like to take this opportunity to congratulate the client and its agency for conspiring to deliver unto the world the greatest crowd clearing force since Vlad the Impaler roamed the valleys of Romania, since The Third Reich marched through the cities of Europe, since Bob Mugabe’s tribe-cleansing activities in the 80s.

I will not be surprised if the use of “the kid who learns more about margarine at school with the half-stunned, clearly confused mom” ad is rushed into immediate use in places like Guantanamo Bay, the Iraqi Green Zone and various “black ops prisons” located in countries with relaxed stances on human rights abuses, torture and the Geneva Convention. I half expect a massive breakthrough early in the New Year with scores of foiled plots making it to the front pages of our newspapers. I also half expect that overuse of this new frightening technology could very well usher in the beginning of the end and that come December 2012 the world will stand unified in absolute horror as one margarine ad ushers in the coming of age of that ancient Mayan prophecy.
We could, of course, avoid the tragedy altogether and just destroy any and all copies of it.

“The diminutive mine-grab kid” says he is not anti-white. Tutu wants to pray for the demise of the current regime and oral sex is not as safe as it’s made out to be.

Bligme!

And all that from a three second glance at this morning’s news. . . There’s also a poll asking who website visitors think will win Idols SA. I thought the final was last night?

IT WAS last night because a few centimetres above the poll I can see an article declaring someone named “Dave” the last man standing.

I see he is of the pale male variety. I bet that Mara lady is having a triple scotch as we speak.

I also bet some people (knowing the answer to the poll) are still taking part and checking the Dave box – driven by some sad insatiable need to be right. Guaranteed the fact that, should we do a bit of research into the kinds of people who click on polls that ask questions they already know the answers to, we would find large sectors of the middle-management community.

People with the authority to make you stand and wait outside their meaningless store until exactly 08:00 (even though they can see you are in a rush) but do not have the authority to change the braai-briquette display or send a snot-faced Mary home early because she’s as sick as a dog.

This moment, right here, is what they live for. Strangely aroused by being right . . . and nobody can take it away from them.

Err…

Anyway, so, Government: upholders of our constitution and defender of our freedoms (as advertised during election time) decided not to grant the Dalai Lama a visa.

On the flipside Jean-Bertrand Aristide is welcome to stay anytime, as is Uncle Bob, his gold-digging wife, the “king” of Swaziland, Madonna, Gordon Brown and Australian rugby players.

We can/could tolerate widespread trampling of human rights by comrades in Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Pretoria and Tripoli (to name but a few), we can/could turn a blind eye to the dog-eating, perlemoen stealing, slave-driving Chinese in favour of selling them large swaths of our country (from under our very own feet) but – hell no brothers and sisters, I tell you this(a!) – we cannot(a!) and should not(a!) entertain the thought of allowing a murderous maniac in the shape of the Dalai Lama to our land. . .

DO I HAVE AN AMEN(A!)?

Clearly “the reverend” considers his-robe-wearing-holiness a threat to national security, much like press freedom, the truth and anti-Chinese sentiment.

Clearly we have lost the plot.

I vote for an “ugly truth” month where we all stop dancing around the issues like whiteys at a wedding and just call a spade a spade.

We did not grant the DL a visa because our “friends” from dragon land want to soil themselves every time any country it has economic ties with (and that’s everyone) entertains the thought of welcoming the holy man to its shores.

If we can start by having the balls to admit to that, at least, then we can maybe also start looking at the rest of the whoppers we are fed with every day.

I’m afraid if there’s any credence to that oral sex story this may be my last column.

Do you think Jack Bauer ever wakes up on a Sunday morning, rolls over and decides to stay in bed for a bit longer? Eventually he drags himself out of bed and heads downstairs for a cup of coffee, a cigarette and a lazy morning of sitting on his patio, listening to golden oldies whilst paging through the newspaper.

“Hmm,” he says, taking another sip from his special (Colombian Mountain) brew. “I see Bay view Furniture is having a sale . . . $400 for a four poster bed . . . not bad.”

Eh?

Does Dr. Addison Montgomery ever have a slowish day at work? Californians are having a healthy week by all standards, pregnancies are going by the book and she has not slept with anyone’s ex-husband. . . She’s not being stalked, her brother has not been shot, she has no daddy issues to deal with. What’s a girl to do you ask? And I will tell you. . .

Drink.

Drink so there can be some drama. With any luck she runs over a blind beggar’s left toe which leads to fifteen episodes of inner strife, ending with her nearly getting her medical license revoked and realising that there’s more to life than one more glass of Chardonnay. She then celebrates her awakening by sleeping with someone’s ex-husband.

You think Dr. House ever gets to the hospital expecting to find nothing but measles, common colds, the occasional venereal disease and a broken wrist or two to deal with?

I bet the poor bastard awakes every morning at 3am in a dark horror at what his day could hold. Surely some dude will present a challenge never hear of before.

His ears have gone purple and his bones are crumbling at an alarming rate. Yes, he has just returned from the Amazon where he visited a tribe (as yet untouched by National Geographic’s cameras) and, yes, he does have a long history of being allergic to everything – including skimmed milk, baked potatoes and fluoride.

“Good idea going to the Amazon then, weirdo!” you’d expect someone saying but, no. Instead of brain scans to check if he has one the good Doctor with the familiar cane spends the whole episode cleverly conjuring up a possible cure while the rest of the doctors want to give the man 2 x Panados and a firm handshake.

Lo and behold House makes the right call and, in the end, we all live to wake up the next day to cure a disease known only to exist in one out of every billion souls…once every 1000 years.

You think Jack Bauer wakes up on a Sunday morning with plans to have a lazy Barbeque and, perhaps, some equally lazy sex?

Poor bugger is chased out of his bed at dawn’s crack by the alarmed ringing of his mobile phone with the president telling him that certain death stares humanity in the face if he does not immediately board a plane to Pakistan to help the CIA uncover a sleeper cell with destruction and mayhem in mind.

On the way to the airport someone takes aim at his car with an RPG, his sister goes into labour and his dog kills the neighbour’s cat.

And you think YOU are having a kak day?

Without so much as an “Arrr” or a parroted shoulder in sight this new breed of sea robber is cavorting up and down the East coast of Africa, doing a horrible injustice to the romance and mystique of Cap’ns Blackbeard, Hook and Sparrow.

With Hollywood pumping millions into the world’s most successful Pirate franchise ever, and with Johnny Depp slurring his way into the hearts of millions more, those torn-jean and t-shirt clad imposters around the Horn of Africa would do well to remember the power of branding and make every effort to piggy back on the fame of legends (in life and fiction) who used to sail the seven seas.

Be honest now.

Wouldn’t you feel much better being captured by an eye-patch-wearing, wooden-leg-trotting, swashbuckling-sword-wielding, rum-drinking, wench-wooing, gold-tooth-sporting, land-lubber-hating, shiver-me-timbers-shouting, avast!-yeling, Davy-Jones’-Locker-fearing work of authenticity – as opposed to some failed fisherman carrying an RPG, AK47 and the grin of a madman?

At most you are fortunate to get a few with gold teeth and a love for rum and women but, overall, you’d have to admit that when it comes to pirating with panache and plundering with pizzazz, our friends from the sunrise coast have a lot to learn.

If we believe the definition of a brand to be “an identifiable entity that makes specific promises of value” then it is safe to say that “Sea Robbers Somalia (SRS)” is a brand in crisis. Think of it in the same breath as SAB’s “Lion Lager”.

Once they veered from the proven recipe and presented the market with a wholly unsatisfying blue and silver “modern spin” on the original, market goodwill and (critically) sales sank to the bottom of the brand loyalty ocean faster than you can say, “Yo-ho-Yo-ho a pirate’s life for me!”

No doubt 1 x brand manger was left to walk ye plank, thereby destroying his / her confidence forever, directly leading to other winning ideas like “Dakota Ice” and, more recently, that horrendous-tasting J&B and lime spirit cooler mix that is selling at the profit shattering pace of one case per millennia. (allegedly).

Alas me hearties, I digress.

Apparently the modern pirate M.O. is to attack with speedboats in groups of eight or ten (or so), with cargo ships and the occasional oil tanker their target, a far cry from Spanish and British vessels carrying royal reward.

According to the BBC, the “Homeboys from the Horn” took a total of 1,181 hostages in 2010 and were paid several million dollars in ransom. Business is good, then – but it can be so much better if just a little thought and effort went into the overall standard of a ship-jacking-production.

Give us some spine-tingling “Yarrs!” Swing onto boat decks with ropes, brandishing swords that have been to distant lands and scars from adventures untold. Let Hans Zimmer and Klaus Badelt compose a thrilling music score, let Penny Rose design your hats and pants, your boots and flags.

Demand ransoms paid in gold and silver, and return your hostages with stories to tell, suffering from rum withdrawal, and constantly yelling obscenities at cursed landlubbers who have lost the will to be free.

Give us that, members of the SRS . . . and we’ll sail to your waters in droves.

I stared at the text message for a few moments, silenced by disbelief, lost in the moment. . . A euphoric sense of destiny, of the planets aligning just for me, of my ship coming in and me alert enough to seize the day – everything combined into a crescendo of optimism and rampant joyfulness – a state of pulsating ecstasy.

In a moment of sheer uninhibited madness I stripped down to my underpants and set off running in a North-Westerly direction. Just running, like Forest Gump, carried forward on a cloud of elation, celebrating life and my good fortunes with every glee-powered-jump, every sun-splashed-leap.

With each semi-naked-step I gave, every unlucky moment in my life flashed past my mind’s eye before being banished from memory forever.  Lost opportunities, silly decisions, stupid mistakes – nothing mattered anymore.

I ran past office buildings packed with cubicle dwellers, “slaves to the man”. I skipped past shopping centres, throwing my head back and laughing like a maniac at the hordes of parking-seekers, average mortals for whom the day was nothing but another ordinary slog. I hopped past an all girl’s school . . . Their delighted screams will remain a fond memory for a long time still.

Soon after my school-passing-sprint I heard the wailing siren of an emergency services vehicle in the distance. “Someone must have injured themselves whilst sharing in my delight,” I grinned and galloped quickly off the main road.

Yes, with the warm glow of the sun illuminating my wobbly white backside I finally reached the banks of a little stream that smelt of hope and opportunity, of possibilities as endless as the mind could dream.

I opened my clenched fist to reveal a sweaty BlackBerry, still reflecting the root cause of my delirious state.

“Congrats!” said the message from my bank of choice. “You earned R13 Fuel Rewards on your Credit/Petro card. Your account has been credited…”

I must have read the message another twenty times. . . I dreamt of stardom and yachting around the French Riviera. I dreamt of azure oceans and golden champagne bubbles, I dreamt of movie premiers, red carpet treatment and front row seats to a life less ordinary.

I dreamt of addressing a nation of people devoid of hope. Of leading the way, of showing what can be done with a little bit of luck. . . I was going to be magnificent – I was going to be a role model, I was going to be a hero to common folk everywhere. . .

Unfortunately a police man with an 80s moustache and Niknaks breath yanked me from my rock-of-contemplation and chucked me in the back of a blue-lit wagon, mumbling something about “perverts out in broad daylight” and “I should have been Captain by now”.

Alas, here I now find myself, ladies and gentlemen, waiting to be bailed out wearing nothing but a pair of Edgars briefs and sheepish grin. They tell me I may have to spend the night and that wobbly white guys with skinny legs and big mouths are very popular in prison.

I’m not afraid, however. Once I share the news of my R13 fuel refund with fellow prisoners they will surely keep me safe in return for slice of the pie.

Surely?

Entertain my thoughts as I lay bare to you, ladies and gentlemen, the indisputable fact that we are to blame. That you and I, ek & djy – if you will, are the ones who’s reckless actions should not only be described as archaic, barbaric and irresponsible at best – but that history will judge us as down-right reckless if our pillage and plunder of the oceans continue without debate, thought and immediate action.

I was watching an episode of Masterchef Australia where some chef (famous only in Melbourne) was giving contestants a “master class” in seafood. More specifically, in crustacean cooking.

Before him the man had about eight buckets filled with all manner of cretins, great and small. From a giant crab who only hours before had lived a life of peace – for years no doubt, to little cousins, crayfish and a variety of prawns. . .

Together they lay bound and gagged, waiting for their moment of reckoning.

You may say that I sound a little melodramatic and you may want to point out that, for years, man has robbed the ocean of her spoils without having to put anything back – but times have rather changed, have they not?

Gone are the days when people would fish what they needed – our insatiable drive for the exotic, the fashionable, the fresh and “the healthy” giving way to any form of respect anyone has for the delicate balance required by our deep blue seas to keep on providing humanity with, what basically qualifies as, a free lunch for anyone willing to try out their sea legs.

We watch shows about Alaskan crab fisherman and we marvel at their madness, without sparing a thought for the masses of giant crab, per cage, they haul out of the icy waters which surround their profit-powered-efforts.

With scant regard for the future and what we do to the present we fish the living daylights out of everywhere, killing off schools of tuna, capturing dolphins, offing sharks, whaling, trawling, plundering and destroying the wellbeing of our seven seas, one square mile at a time.

If we went about beef, pork and poultry in a similar fashion there’d be nothing left for us to eat.

Vitamin pills and tofu would be our Saturday “braai”. There’d be no boerewors rolls, potjie, Sunday roast or satirical Nandos ads – unless they find an interesting way to market spicy rice, of course.

Gone the lamb stew, history the spare rib pizza, sayonara to salami, bacon and two for the price of one burger specials.

Yet, for some miraculous reason unbeknown to anyone, we firmly believe the ocean is immune to humanity’s quest for Cajun calamari, for creamy king prawns, for crab curry?

Now before an army of crayfish braaiers and restaurateurs chase me down the street brandishing fish knives and bowls of lemon butter sauce, let me say this.

I have nothing against the eating of seafood (you bunch of cave-dwelling hooligans) but, like all other meat, we are going to have to farm it, and farm it in a hurry at that.

Governments will have to insist on sea farms and issue licenses for it. Fisheries will have to prove that the farms are large enough to facilitate a somewhat natural life for whatever it is farming and the public will have to insist that the seafood it buys from restaurants and fishmongers come with stamps of approval as to where, when and by who the item was fished.

The days of our inconsiderate annihilation of our ocean resources must come to end friends – and it starts with a demand for change from seafood lovers the world over.

It starts with êk & djy.

They are out there. A band of brothers, united in their quest for your silver dollars.

With blazing saddle and brazen intent they ride into your living room at high noon, during prime time, from dusk till dawn. They are always there – waiting to catch you off guard, hoping to find your weakness, an angle of attack. Their element of surprise a special offer never to be repeated. Their secret weapon an added extra, a free set of batteries, a mini duster, a “mother of all magnets”.

They are the marketing mavericks, a posse of desperados who reign on the advertising plains.

One of the new hootin-tootin-goods-slingers is a wild-eyed youngster from the Tevo gang. Able to draw a promotional item from his pocket faster than you can say “but wait, there’s more” our fresh-faced-presenter is best known for his skills with sharp objects – “Clean Cut Scissors” being his speciality.

“This is no ordinary pair of scissors,” says goods-slinger-Gareth. “This is a tool”. (funny, I was thinking the same thing). “Trim those flower stalks, open that bottle, fine snip herbs and spices,” he continuous blazing through a script written by the town undertaker, located on the corner of “Copywriting” and “Where hope goes to die”.  “Clean Cut’s even crack your nuts!”

Gareth (who really needs to have a more intimidating name if he wants to run with the big dogs) proceeds by cutting through a can, because that’s what you do when you want to sell something with sharp edges. I know I do not buy any knife or scissor if I haven’t seen it cut through a flattened can of Appletizer, made from super-thin recycled metal. Hell if that’s not proof of sharpness and durability then I don’t know what is.

“Quarter that chicken, slice up those ribs, separate the two blades and then you have a knife with which to open boxes,” says Gareth as he gallops towards his coup de grâce. “Buy now and we will throw in this sheath with the mother of all magnets!”

“So, what are you waiting for?”

Well Gareth, allow me to suck in more air than a Bugatti Veyron at 380km per hour and prepare myself for an outburst that would be the envy of youth league leaders everywhere.

What I am waiting for is for is for you, the freaky eyebrows guy, that bald American chef, the chief electronics goods dude, the CEO’s daughter and other similar desperados throughout the industry to sheath your efforts in favour of advertising that doesn’t make me want to pull every hair from my nose with a pair of tweezers (that also doubles as an MP3 player) that I bought in a moment of abject failure and demoralising weakness.

What I want is for you to hand over the musical genius that creates and/or decides to use the wonderful melodic equivalent of feral cats mating (that usually accompanies your marketing efforts). Frankly a sadistic maniac like that who seems hell bent on killing us all off, one foul loony tune at a time, deserves to be strung up by his (or her) bootlaces and hung out to dry.

What I so desperately desire is for you lot to ride off into the advertising sunset, never to return unless you have something worthwhile to say – unless you have something better than a magnet and a cut can to entice a sale.

What you usually get is a world of contrast where the dude gives that thousand yard stare into the distance, while his deeply unsatisfied partner sits on the side of the bed holding her head like she’s got a grade AAA, level 7, hangover.

See attached pic (courtesy of News24) as a point in case.

Does that guy look to you like he’s pondering his errant ways in the bedroom or do you think he’s trying to figure out what he should have for lunch? Frankly he looks lost in a mental tussle between steak and some Camps Bay created crayfish salad.

Clearly he is from Cape Town.

The pose is his usual Clifton 4 position of cool. The stare is part of his customary “I’m a deep and sensitive guy” routine, the same he used to get “hangover girl” into bed in the first place.

What’s this “man of the earth” cool-dude doing with a chick like that anyway?

The shortish upright haircut thing is straight from Hatfield Hairdos and that reddish tint smells like Menlyn Shopping Centre on a Saturday morning. I bet she was down in Slaapstad on a girls’ trip to watch the Bulls play WP, then found herself lost in the intoxicating pleasures of St Yves beach club where she met Windsurfer guy and his equally bronzed mates…

No doubt they were contemplating the unique oneness and spiritual harmony man should strive to achieve with the planet and all its creatures when Katrien and her flock of marauding man-eaters interrupted their moment of introspection with loud shrieks and a slurred version of “Die Blou Bul” song.

In an instant  Katrien climbed all over our photo guy who’s name (no doubt) is something like David or Adam, or something else with biblical simplicity that is hopelessly irresistible to someone who’s used to bonking okes called Koos, Jan and Frikkie.

Throwing caution to the Cape’s persistent South-Easterly wind and fuelled by a constant supply of Vodka and Cranberry she throws herself into an evening of possibility – a moment of madness – a night of sleeping with the enemy that is anyone or anything Western Province.

Katrien imagines herself the Juliet in a tale of two worlds colliding, of forbidden love and passion overcoming the divide between two stone-walled houses of old.

Bible-name-guy is equally fascinated by her stories of traffic and trauma, of potholes and panic, of spitbraais and Steve Hofmeyr. In a pensive state he contemplates the glamour of his existence and the grime of hers – instantly taking pity on her poor Highveld soul by taking her hand in his and leading her towards the bar where he introduces Katrien to a range of cocktails foreign to a lady from Loftus.

There, between the cliques and bitchy stares they share a connection that transcends time and shatters tradition. With the boerewors curtain shredded and lying in a pool of champagne they head back to his place for night’s divine – a rare moment of unity between north and south.

7AM…

“Steak or salad?” wonders bible-name-guy. “And who the hell is the plaas-japie next to me?”

“WTF!?” wonders Katrien, the noise of the pot-beating monkey thundering through her skull. “And is that a WP jersey on the floor?”

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what that photo says to me. . . Maybe there was premature ejaculation, maybe there was nothing but a half-limp affair – fact of the matter is that nobody remembers anyway, so I guess there’s just one question that needs answering at this point.

Have the steak, dude.

Between income tax, fuel levies, VAT and other state-enforced payment schemes / shackles, meant to pay for the privilege of living in South Africa, we are STILL expected to pay toll for daily-use-roads, pay medical aid because state hospitals are so kak, pay for private security and live in estates because the police are busy busting dagga smokers and looking after public officialdom, like the Deputy DG of Water and Forestry, for example.

Just on that point.

Who wants to harm the South African deputy Director General of anything? And what the hell does a deputy DG do to earn that salary and entourage of men with earpieces? I’m convinced that neither the South African wing of Al Qaida, nor brandy-fuelled right-wing activists mouthing off around a braai fire give a flying flock of sheep about them.

Want to make someone look important? Surround them with security detail. 99% of us do not even know who all the ministers are and could care less – cost centres in fancy cars are all we see.

Why should the private sector get involved with fixing potholes and directing traffic? Why are legitimate charities not getting the support they are supposed to and why do we have to pay lawyers to explain to the intellectual elite at Citypower that the average household cannot possibly run up a utilities bill of R650,000 for the month?

And don’t get me started on water, waste and municipal services . . .

Frankly I think starting a cult is for amateurs and people who are sexually frustrated. The real scam is starting a government – the ultimate Ponzi scheme where money is gathered and returns are as few and far between as a Hillbilly’s teeth.

Taking the above into consideration and the deluge of draconian imperialism enforced on the average rates and taxes payer it does not surprise me in the slightest that everyone wants us to be regular.

Can you blame the nation for being consistently constipated?

Can you blame makers of bran products and other paraphernalia for airing kak (pardon the pun) ads where a lady explains the joys of being regular in a voice that should be selling mascara or toothpaste, or some detergent that keeps her family soft and safe during the winter months?

I don’t.

While the nation probably considers its constipated state a necessary group effort to assist the powers that be with the little sewerage problem we are facing the side-effects of such a magnanimous gesture are rather horrid and best avoided at all costs.

It is with your health and overall sanity in mind then that I officially endorse the rather grim messaging featured on boxes of All-Bran Flakes:

“Only 7 Days to a new you. Every Day Digestive Relief”.

Go ahead and pour yourself a bowl then I say ladies and gentlemen. If this is what it takes to “get it all” then that’s what we’ve got to do.