A self indulgent moment, if you don’t mind

Oh bother. Fuck. I hate this particular time of year, it’s inevitable that while everyone gets cheerier and cheerier at the prospect of finding a new Spring lay (or making use of their current one(s) a lot more) I get broody – no, not for kids, but broody like a storm grumbling on the horizon starting its inexorable parade across the sky to piss on your party.

See, it’s that time of year when you get to tell people your year count on planet Earth has gone up another digit. And you look back on what was meant to be accomplished in those 365 (or even worse: 366) days, and on what has been accomplished, and you realize you’ve disappointed yourself again. Now, the Gilb partially ruined my self-absorbed depression by sending me an SMS on Monday saying “Baby! Keep Friday evening and Saturday morning open for me as I’ll be treating you for many things! Mwa!” – after all, it’s not possible to be in a bad mood when you get that, right? And I always distract myself from this annual reflection (deflection from reflection, if you will) by throwing a moerse party to absorb myself in the details of planning said event, but come two days before the time, it’s no longer postponeable (mmm… Word doesn’t like that one). So here goes, the “to-do” and “got done” lists.

To do

1. Move in with the Gilb, so we could finally “test” whether this long-term relationship is actually going to go anywhere
2. Get a promotion
3. Do a wine course
4. Go on a really fabulous holiday (this is an annual goal)
5. Learn German
6. Get cracking on that damn book I’m meant to write

Got done

1. Almost succeeded in ending my relationship with the Gilb, thanks to my utter stupidity. And the universe paid me back by moving him 170km away. Fair’s fair, I guess. But I did move out of home (finally!) and in with crazy Peas. Which makes this failed goal a lot easier to bear. (thanks Peas!)
2. Got a promotion (tick)
3. Did two wine courses (tick, bonus tick)
4. Go on a really fabulous holiday – hasn’t happened; have had a few memorable brief breaks, going to have to hope that the October/November Mozambique trip makes up for that
5. Bought the tapes, listened to them a few times en route to Pretoria on my last client contract (was meant to be a twice-daily thing, to while away the two hours’ drive between Jozi, there and back), then got bored. Then bought a German/English book, read two pages, then got bored again. Think I need lessons to see me through to vaguely conversant.
6. Got many Page 1’s lying about, but let’s face it, they’re not going anywhere. Will have to think a lot harder about what needs doing to make my efforts extend themselves on to pages 2 to n.

Okay, so 3 out of 6 (half a point for moving in with Peas, half a point for the bonus wine course – cutting myself some slack here) isn’t a total failure, I guess. But I am concerned that the achievements (and even the goals) get smaller and smaller every year – doesn’t that worry you, too? I’m going to hedge my bets and not say another about my goals for next year (though I’ll no doubt wax lyrical on this here blog if any are attained).

Right, going to suck this misery up, and put on a brave face for tomorrow. To cheer myself up, and give you some more blah to read, I’m going to compile a post of memorable past birthdays (like I said, they always have to be an ‘event’).

So good-bye to life as a 25-year old, hello 26…

The repercussions of getting very drunk on a Sunday night

1. You’ll abandon the people you were actually meant to be there with in favour of strangers (sorry Peas for not aiding you in ending the date a lot earlier than it did, sorry Nan and Eily, who after not seeing you for a few months, I should’ve spoken to a hell of a lot more). Yes, when drunk, you love strangers, and you’re amazed you never realised how much they love you back. So, you’ll exploit the fact you’re wearing a t-shirt that says “I was discovered in the dusty streets of Soweto” to start a conversation. Everyone wants to talk to someone who proclaims that, don’t they?

2. You’ll convince yourself that every table of strangers at the Jolly contains a potentially great new friend. So you’ll engage as many tables as possible in conversation. You’ll ask questions about people’s deepest darkest secrets, and in return learn that someone cheats on his girlfriend twice a week because she only sleeps with him once every two weeks.

3. You’ll be told by the barman to stop doing a one-legged dance on a stool holding a Guiness in your hand… who will then return and tell all the other people trying to better your effort to get off the damn barstools please, and throw you another really hairy eyeball.

4. You’ll bump into long-lost mates from varsity, then try and show off one of them’s strength (he does “no-holds barred” fighting, I think it’s called – no rules, attack your opponent on any body part you like) by insisting he pick you up on the palm of one hand like he used to at varsity (when you were probably 5kg lighter), much to the not-so-amazement of your onlookers. (still fucking cool, if you ask me).

4. On account of the fact that everyone’s so generous, you’ll take them up on every drink offer. Which means you get so rat-arsed, you embarrassingly have to accept your really strong friends’ offer to follow you home. You spend a while trying to find your car, don’t recognise them waiting for you in their really swanky car (in their case, an instance of brains meeting brawn. Not fair!), but eventually make it to your place in one piece.

5. You’ll double-check your appointments for the next morning, and thank God you had the good sense to make your first meeting for 9:30, not 9am. Because that extra half-hour of sleep will go down really well.

6. You’ll get up at 7:30 as planned, feeling dreadful, but determined to get through all the client’s client interviews you have lined up for the day (yes, the same task that saw me wearing a Sasko skirt to a competitor’s company) and learn valuable insights for your client. You’ll double-check the details of the first meeting to remind yourself what’s in store (that means a quick re-look at the appointment time. Still says 9:30. Relief – you didn’t fuck up).

7. En route to your first meeting, which should be made in comfortable time because you’re so well organised, you get a call. “Is there a lot of traffic on the road?” the secretary enquires. “Um, no – thanks for asking. I’ll be there in perfect time” you reply. “The meeting was meant to start 20 minutes ago.” D’oh! “In my diary it says 9:30” you insist. But you curse silently to yourself that you’re now making the Financial Director of one of SA’s four big banks wait for you. Gulp.

8. You arrive at the place, check your bloody diary, which now says the meeting started at 9am. Shit. The dude’s going to be furious, he probably has back-to-back meetings lined up for the whole day, and you’ve kept him waiting for 25 precious minutes that could be spent negotiating a company takeover or something equally important.

9. You apologise profusely – the secretary looks at you suspiciously – you sit down at the table, and the man starts firing questions at you. “How long have you worked at this company?” “What job did you have before that?” “Where did you study?” “What did you study?” And you’re thinking, shit, this man doesn’t think I’m capable of doing my job (in the condition I was in, probably true) – he was expecting someone a lot older, someone whose background was in Actuarial Science, someone without a major hangover. You get quite nervous, to the extent that when you pick up your glass to pour water in it, in order that you may soak your parched, parched tongue, your hand shakes ridiculously (although you’re not sure whether it’s from the booze or the nerves). So you ask him “Why the interrogation? I’m here to ask you the questions.” Turns out he loves the fact you studied Chemistry, he thinks those are the perfect skills for the job – after all, his ex-wife is a Chemistry lecturer who gets head-hunted all over the world – even the fact that you’ve got Italian heritage is great. So after the interview, which rapidly becomes much more pleasant, he drags you to the Head of Strategy, where he waxes lyrical about you and your employer, and gets the Head of Strategy excited about your company. So now you’re a saleswoman, too!

Moral of the story: get as much Sunday-night Rogering in as you can, it’s good for business!

Murphy’s law is the real unidentified unified string theory

Let me not get too much out of my depth here - physics not having formed an extensive part of my tertiary education, after all – but I have come across enough evidence in my meagre existence to suggest that if there is one universal truth, one inescapable inevitability, one phenomenon that can be relied upon to always hold true, it is Murphy’s Law. I should’ve done some research here to beef up my argument, but I’ll blame the lack thereof on time constraints (read: work obligations), and will rely on you to trust me blindly, good acolytes. Especially blindly since I’m only going to present one example: yesterday’s run-in with good old Mr Murphy…

Yesterday Third Roommate and I took up our morning runs again after a brief political sojourn. After our (separate) showers, I asked him whether my outfit was appropriate for meetings with senior people from our client’s clients (I’m currently conducting a face-to-face survey on our client’s behalf). This outfit consisted of 1x fabulous black pinstripe three-quarter sleeve shirt, 2x pointy black high-heel shoes, and 1x trendy pencil skirt, made from fabric emblazoned with the old Sasko logo on it (red anchor) and “Sasko” in big red letters (I picked this showstopper up for R100 at The Space sale a few years back – each skirt was made from fabric printed with a different company’s corporate identity on it). Third Roommate thought the skirt was fine, so I made the joke that it would be rather funny if one of the companies I had to interview that day was Sasko (I didn’t have the interview list on me at the time to confirm or deny such occurrence). He retorted with the more funny scenario of me having to interview one of Sasko’s major competitors. Snortles and chuckles all round. I get into the office, check my interview setups for the day, do some admin, blah blah blah, then dash off to conduct the said interviews. First client’s client, fine. Second client’s client – starts off with the male interviewee double-checking with the receptionist that I was indeed Third World Ant when I was clearly the only female waiting in the reception area (obviously he expected someone older – the large bhindi-like zit on my forehead wasn’t helping my cause, either); once that minor issue had been um, skirted, he led me through the maze of the corporation’s meeting rooms, each one named after one of the companies in their portfolio, and lo and behold, (yes, you can all see where this is going, can’t you?) one of these rooms is named after my skirt’s fabric’s boldly advertised company’s rival – the very rival Third Roommate jokingly bandied about. Blush! So that was the real reason all the male employees/visitors I had passed had been staring, it had sweet nothing to do with my breath-taking hotness! So I chuckled and said to the guy “I guess it was a little short-sighted of me to wear this skirt on today of all days” (of course I had no damn idea the rival would be one of their companies). “You’re lucky the MD of that business is not in today – you’d be out on the pavement in no time” he said, and for a moment I believed he was being serious.

The beauty of Murphy’s law is that even Murphy knows when to hold back on being gob-smackingly obvious – he could’ve arranged it so that our meeting was in the “other” Sasko meeting room, but instead, he plonked us in the room just next to it. Subtle physics, elegantly obvious, with foresight safely predictable. I like it.

And that, kids, is all for today’s lecture. Next week: time travel in a convexly curved four-dimensional universe: a DIY approach (ok, that didn’t fool anyone, did it?)

You are what you drive

Given my eternal and inevitable rage at the flagrant breach of road rules by my lesser companions on Jozi’s roads, I have decided to turn the event into something ever so slightly less unpleasant with the creation of this game. Partial credit deservedly goes to Always the Wit for his recent list of Clint Eastwood’s handy tips on manhood.

So, dear readers, try to match the description of a driver in the first list, to that driver’s car, in the second list. So you can’t cheat (and I look marginally more popular, mwahahaha), the answers are in the comments section….

Driver description

A – Flicks headlights at cars from 50 m away, to alert drivers in front that it (usually he) is more special than they are, and that it should be allowed past by mere virtue of the fact that it drives this car, which is naturally better than what you’re driving.

B – Digestion-upsetting, epileptic fit-inducing trance music played at noise polluting level (windows open, naturally) to which potentially Ecstasy-riddled driver unfolds a dangerous ballet of zooming, weaving and brake-squealing.

C – Driver’s arm hangs impossibly far out the window, perhaps functioning as a counter balance for the 2 wheels that have mounted the pavement to drive past the queue to the get to the front at the robot, at which point the driver will ignore the red light (and the right-only turn sign) and take his rightful place as the slow motherfucker at the front of the fuming queue of drivers in the not-so-fast-anymore right hand lane.

D – Polite, considerate, perhaps a wee bit over the speed limit female who alerts all drivers to her intentions by indicating a suitable amount of time before turning (especially when she’s in a fair amount of traffic and needs to turn right where there is no turning lane, and thoughtfully wishes her fellow drivers to avoid having to queue behind her because they didn’t realize she wanted to turn), who stops at red robots and stop streets, who lets people into the lane when they’re politely indicating their intentions and screams like crazy when they’re not – often the perpetrators in description C above – and has an unhealthy habit of speaking of her car as though it were the living, breathing, love of her life.

E – Always drives at the recommended speed limit, never has any outstanding fines (in all likelihood because she’s never received one), and crumbles at the aggression of anyone else on the road – even cyclists. Often oblivious to the fact that she might be irking her fellow drivers who expect to be able to break the speed limit in the left-hand lane, too. Widely acknowledged as soccer moms.

F – The kind of driver who would readily take on the driver described in C, and in which fantasy battle you would find it exceptionally difficult to choose a side to support. Aggressive and vulture-like, the drivers hang around in packs, yet feed off each other when push comes to shove. An Afrikaner fortress.

G – The buppies’ choice (is it a choice, or a cultural obligation, one wonders?)

H – De rigeur personalized porno number plates (eg Flashy 1, 2Cool4U, HotStuff, Da Bomb, Eat Dirt etc) and platinum blonde Flavour of the Week in the passenger’s seat.

I – trendy driver of Mediterranean descent standing on the side of the highway waiting for driver of vehicle described in F, fuming at how such visionary aesthetic design can be matched with such poor mechanical understanding of Tiptronic gearboxes.

Car type

1 - Tow truck, AA-accredited or otherwise
2 - Any BMW 3-series of 5-series, sometimes 1-series, always in metallic black
3 - Lamborghini – all models (of cars, humans too)
4 - BMW 530d
4 – Toyota Hi-Ace
5 - Volvo S70
6 – Alfa 147 Selespeed
7 - Subaru – any model
8 - Green Corsa Lite

More things that are irritating me immensely

I did think the list in my recent “list of irritating things” post was oddly short. Forgive me while I expand:

1. The fact that no restaurant in Joburg – no matter how pricey – knows the meaning of ‘seared tuna’. Sitting in an upmarket restaurant for lunch the other day, I saw that the fish of the day was tuna. Now I’ve had experiences in Jozi restaurants in the past that warned me not to tempt fate, but hell, I’m stubborn and hopeful, so went ahead. “Do you do the tuna seared?” The waitress had to go ask the chef (huge warning sign, duh!) then came back, adamant that it could indeed be done. “As in, the equivalent of a blue fillet? Just sealed for a few seconds on either side?” She nodded – a bit too violently, in retrospect – so I ordered it. To my detriment, of course. In the rather unlikely event that any Joburg chef (or chef’s friend, spouse, relative, neighbour) happens to read this, please be informed that tuna is more like meat than fish! Yes, we enjoy rare meat, and may want our tuna in that state too (sushi, after all, is popular cuisine, is it not?)

2. When men shake your hand like it’s made of candyfloss. I’m a female, not a delicate piece of china. My bones won’t break, promise. A firm handshake for all work or social introductions, please!

3. The fact that, despite rising petrol prices and its ever-diminishing supply, manufacturers are making bigger cars that glug more petrol than older ones did. Why? Traffic is becoming heavier and smaller cars are more convenient for city driving and parking, anyway, so what gives?

Okay, that’s enough ranting, just had to get it off my chest. Thank you, I feel ever so slightly better.

Ps: while watching Fifth Gear last night, that lesser cousin of Top Gear, I heard a line that would be a great excuse to use for a car accident insurance claim: the steering wheel stopped communicating with the wheels! (more likely, your mouth stopped communicating with your brain, but hey, it’s worth a shot!)

Email to the world

I hereby take it upon myself to:

1. Not give a flying fuck what your religious predispositions (if any) are. I won’t challenge you on your beliefs in any form more vicious than the occasional debate, but I’ll not hold it against you, we’ll still be mates after that.

2. Not judge you based on your skin colour, your gender, your age, your sexual preferences, your accent, your salary. After all, everyone’s fool is someone else’s idol, so who knows who’s laughing at me? I’ll judge you rather on the strength of your virtues, and if we’re close enough, will help you sort out the vices, and hope you help me sort out mine. Let’s sit down together over a pleasant cup of Earl Grey, and find out more about each other, with no agenda greater than to learn more about this fascinating species we’re part of.

3. Allow you to have your opinions on the way your country should be run, without bull-dozing my country’s governance style onto yours. What works for me won’t necessarily work for you. I also promise to have faith that if your country’s people are not happy with the way it is being run, they will take the appropriate steps to change it, and that I only need consider stepping in if you ask for my assistance.

4. Show a little more respect for the planet – this awesome, bounteous and variegated home may just be the only habitat for such rare complex combinations of molecules that breathe. As far as I’m aware, none of these molecular compositions have given permission to the human species to deplete it of natural resources in as crass, determined, long-standing, methodical and destructive a way as we have. Earth, forgive me for my wasteful use of your body, I hope to remember how easily my forefathers survived without the many modern ‘conveniences’ I seem to rely so heavily on today.

xxxxxxxxx

If you sign this oath and send it on to 6 billion people in the next few days, world peace could be accomplished!

If you send to it to any number less than that, human behaviour will continue to wreak havoc across the planet...

Go Team PE Poen Tech!

Okay, so I’m writing about pretty much the same thing Peas will be here, so apologies if this feels like dejavu…

Friday night: a dinner party to celebrate C’s 30th (my C, not Peas’ C), during which too much Stella might have been drunk and may or may not have been responsible for me reversing out of the tight parking spot and getting Max mighty acquainted with the streetlight pole. For 2.5 metres of driving at around 10 km/h, a frightful amount of damage was inflicted on poor Max, and it aint gonna be fixed soon, given that September’s going to be one hell of a cash-strapped month (no doubt, the subject of a future post).

Saturday: some Matie chap throws a really great birthday party, revolving around a race to solve clues and careen through the streets of Jozi taking photos as evidence. Makes for an extremely good afternoon out, I say. Coupled with the fact that our team pulled in at a very respectable fourth place, aiding the repute of that illustrious tertiary institution, PE Tech. In fact, I think we may have been the most patriotic team there, periodically screaming out “Go PE Poen Tech!” to the bewilderment of all those who couldn’t understand why our shirts said things like “FUCT”, “Once an Ikey always a tiger!” and our arms said things like “Niknak poen”, “Siff chick” and “Poen Pimp”. The dear Gilb, usually preferring to sit on the sidelines while I do my crazy stuff, fully partook of the silliness, even if he did insist those in the back seat wear their seatbelts at all times and the empty alcohol bottles be thrown out in case we got stopped by police for looking suspicious (given that Peas’ Beetle was covered in delightful phrases written in shaving foam, and that our second car – after the swap due to the window incident Peas has no doubt told you about – was hurtling down the N1 and Bryanston suburbian roads alike, in the former’s case with hazard lights flashing in the fast lane). If I do say so myself, our team was an impressive example of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts, with general knowledge, driving ability, humour and intricate knowledge of Jozi hangouts combining in a bloody successful way. The Gilb solved a bloody difficult anagram and was confined to the corner seat until he got enough of the Sudoko complete to find the next destination (“what are you doing looking out of the window? We need to know the address in Parktown North!!!” “Stop spitting on me!” “Just finish the bloody Sudoko! Wait, C, aren’t you much better at Sudoko than the Gilb is?”) and M seems to know where every dodgy pool venue in the northern suburbs is and how to put a Ferrari to shame on an open road.

Our prize for such efforts? A lovely steak knife set (not that we’ve ever made steak in the flat before) that us undiscerning types will use to cut all manner of other foodstuffs, and two trays of Castle beer. I kid you not.

Sunday: the biggest thing I accomplished was drawing money (you know, the green stuff that vanishes from your wallet the moment you bury it there) and, in the heat of a mild argument with my sister, getting my toes driven over. I can forgive the fact she was rude enough not to open her car window and speak to me when I was asking her where she was going, I can even forgive the fact that she rode over my toes (I might have done the same thing, assuming someone blocking a car’s path would jump out of the way when said vehicle advanced towards one). But I’m flabbergasted that after driving over all ten of my toes (and yes, she most definitely noticed), she did not stop to check she had not broken any of her sister’s appendages (I have a strong suspicion that she has, actually – the middle one of my right foot is extremely sore at the tip). She just drove on out the driveway, and I’ve yet to receive an apology or enquiry as to the state of my health. Ah well, one less beneficiary on the will.

Google knows everything… even what you should eat for dinner

Let me jump on the bandwagon of praise for Google – I love them, their free great products, their spirit of innovation and general spunk at taking on the big guys of the IT world (of course, in doing so, becoming big guys too).

A while back I came across a site that does a Google battle between two subjects to see which is the winner (based purely on the number of hits Google generates for each). Check it out at www.googlefight.com. Some of the classic battles include:

God vs Satan
George Bush vs Bin Laden
Pen vs Sword
Luke Skywalker vs Darth Vader
America vs Iraq
Microsoft vs The Law

I thought I’d do my own little Google battle on a short number of critical issues – here are the results:

Colours:

White = 1,860,000,000
Black = 1,470,000,000
Red = 1,260,000,000
Green = 1,030,000,000
Blue = 922,000,000
Pink = 211,000,000

(Surprising how high green fared in relation to blue. It appears white’s the new black and pink never was. Hmmm.)


Cheeses:

Cheddar = 9,840,000
Brie = 8,210,000
Parmesan = 7,910,000
Mozzarella = 7,050,000
Gorgonzola = 3,150,000
Roquefort = 2,930,000
Camembert = 2,390,000
Edam = 2,160,000
Emmenthaler = 76,700

(So for all the French/Swiss bragging about cheese as their national pride, seems the world is most hooked on an English variety, with a fair amount of infatuation with Italian varieties.)

Ant vs Peas celebrity crushes:

Peas: Jake Gyllenhaal = 4,320,000
Ant: Joaquin Phoenix = 4,420,000

(male actor crush – Score 1-0 to the Ant, thank you very much).


Ant: Scarlett Johansonn = 10,200,000 (excluding the 250,000 for the incorrectly spelt Scarlett Johannson)
Peas: Alicia Keys = 9,640,000

(female celebrity crush – Score 2-0 to the Ant).

Ant: Pharrell Williams = 2,490,000
Peas: Eminem = 37,400,000

(male rapper crush – Score 2-1 to the Ant).

For shits and giggles, I googled the Gilb’s crush – nay, obsession – Jessica Alba: 20,100,000 hits. That shleb who can’t get out of the limelight, Paris Hilton, scores a whopping 86,800,000 (which, fyi, is more than double the number of hits for George W Bush).

Fictional characters:

Garfield = 58,000,000
James Bond = 33,300,000
Sherlock Holmes = 12,700,000
Tinkerbell = 5,940,000
Powerpuff Girls = 3,530,000
Calvin (Calvin and Hobbes) = 3,340,000
Jack Bauer (24) = 2,970,000
Dee dee (Dexter’s sister) = 1,110,000
Seven of Nine (Star Trek Voyager) = 600,000
Marvin the Martian = 427,000
Leela (Futurama) = 320,000
Ugly Naked Guy = 27,700

(I’m surprised how high Sherlock Holmes is in relation to the others; also, that Seven of Nine outdoes Captain Janeway so substantially, with her measly 152,000 hits.)

Blog sites:

Boing Boing = 24,500,000
Post Secret = 1,580,000
Tomato Nation = 180,000
Peas on Toast = 12,300
Third World Ant = 305

(Looks like I really am an ant in the blogworld, even more so than in South Africa!)

So all-knowing Google, what should I eat for dinner tonight?

Chicken = 164,000,000
Artichokes = 3,300,000
Crunchy Nut Cornflakes = 16,900

Okay. And to drink afterwards?

Earl Grey = 2,180,000
Rooibos = 1,680,000
Filter coffee = 292,000

That’s my Google!

Olives and ham

Things that have been irritating me immensely recently:

1. That esteemed publication – you know the one I’m talking about – that spouts headlines like (and these are direct quotations): “Mute girl raped!” and “Harry shags Chelsy!” The editors have yet to learn that not every sentence need end in an exclamation mark to arouse a sense of scandal in the readers, though I doubt its readers would know the grammatical intention of an exclamation mark, anyway.

2. The fact that my beloved chives have mysteriously disappeared – simultaneously – from the shelves of Pick ‘n’ Pays and Spars Joburg-wide. Why, God, why? Take the rosemary, dammit, even take the thyme, but please bring back my chives! Lunchtime sandwiches never tasted so bland, omelettes never so… two-dimensional.

3. The fact that the Gilb’s housemate’s pug puppy chewed my electric toothbrush head – and I don’t have an immediate replacement. Argh! Though, on that note, she’s pretty cute for a spastic ugly deformed two-week old puppy (ironically named Bella) – Gilb’s friends went through to visit last weekend and nicknamed her “Buckles” on account of the fact that she’s got back legs like a rickets-stricken (bandy-legged) Somalian child. She brings out the father in the Gilb, too, which is achingly cute to watch (he’s going to try very hard to appear to be a firm daddy, strict, yet gentle, and vulnerable to serious arm-twisting by wiley offspring)

4. Owen Wilson’s character in Wedding Crashers. As brilliantly hysterical a movie as it is, the writers glorified his character completely – to the point where it was acceptable for him to upstage his best friend’s wedding during the ceremony and confess his undying love for some chick. Have no idea why this grates my cheese so, but my cheddar’s all seriously flaked over it.


Two groovy things that happened recently:

1. Ever so slightly, I ice-skated backwards one evening at the Virgin Mobile ice rink. Amidst fellow skaters that were whizzing and whirling by, but nonetheless, a few backwards steps. I figured it out: wiggle the hips and away you go!

2. I remembered a dance move I invented at last weekend’s tennis pro’s and golf ho’s party – the Egyptian Moonwalk, I call it. It came back to me on a company team-building event on Friday, and I’ve been perfecting it ever since.

Sour grapes

Given my recent bad experience with a bag of acid-riddled sour sweets, I thought I’d do the good citizen thing and teach y’all a thing or two about acids. They’re sometimes benign, sometimes dangerous, you can never remember whether to add acid to water or vice versa – this post will teach you a little about the former, regrettably lost its interest along the way (as may you) and so doesn’t touch on the latter. For that kind of information, I recommend a high school text book, Chem 101 at a reputable university nearby, or alternatively a life where the excitement never allows you to descend to such depths of weekend geekiness.

So without further ado, a small introduction to four types of acid:

Amino acids

The basic building blocks of proteins. In short chains they form structures known as polypeptides, which combine in many weird and wonderful 3-d ways to form proteins, based on templates of RNA, which in turn are based on your unique DNA template. Twenty standard amino acids exist, which in combination make every protein required to maintain your body’s health. Other non-human amino acids exist, some have even been found in meteorites. Non-protein compounds containing amino acids include the sweetener aspartame, the food flavour enhancer MSG, and drugs to treat the diseases phenylketonuria and Parkinsons. 11 of the 20 human ones are manufactured by the body, 9 are considered “essential”, as they have to be consumed in food. Interesting fact: asparagine, found in asparagus, is metabolized (ie. broken down in the body) by an enzyme, asparagase, which not everyone has. Those of us blessed with the enzyme will know all about it when taking a pee after consuming asparagus – the metabolized product gives off a truly foul smell, which unmetabolized asparagine does not. I once dragged Peas into the bathroom at a dinner party after peeing to let her understand what I was talking about – remember that olfactory offence, Peas?

Consumption verdict: You’re not going to eat simple amino acids in pure form – they generally smell so vile you wouldn’t dream of it. But all food, being derived from living things, comprise proteins, which are made from amino acids. So, yawn, these get a measly taste bud cringe factor of about 0/10.

Hydrochloric acid

Formed by the aqueous solution of hydrogen chloride, this is a highly corrosive acid discovered in 800AD. In combination with nitric acid, the mixture is capable of dissolving gold, and was used by alchemists in the Middle Ages in their pursuit of the philosopher’s stone. Its importance was raised during the industrial revolution, where many uses were found for it. Global consumption of HCl is approximately 20 million tonnes annually – a substantial portion is probably used in the manufacture of illicit drugs such as heroin, cocaine and methamphetamine (if you’re not using it for this purpose but find yourself ordering hydrochloric acid in large quantities, be super aware of cops and Nigerian druglords inexplicably hiding behind your bushes).

HCl is also the major constituent of stomach (gastric) acid, produced by the parietal cells of the stomach. The body has mechanisms in place to ensure the HCl doesn’t digest your stomach epithelium away, but when these fail, heartburn and peptic ulcers arise (which is why you take so-called antacids to deal with these conditions). The condition where the stomach does not produce enough HCl is called hypochlorhydria or achorhydria. I found a handy website that helps you to measure your stomach’s HCl concentration, should you be concerned about it, or bored enough to experiment: go to a health shop, buy betaine hydrochloric tablets plus enzymes, take half a tablet before the last mouthful of a main meal. If you experience burning or indigestion, you have plenty of HCl. Perhaps needless to say, do not proceed to consume any more tablets. If no burning or indigestion is experienced, repeat the procedure the following day with a full tablet. Again, if no discomforting sensation is experienced, repeat the following day with 2 tablets. At this point, you should be concerned that your stomach has too little acid, so you should boost the acid during meals by taking tablets for the rest of your life, or drinking wine copiously.

Consumption verdict: while it may reside in your stomach, it is not advisable to consume the stuff in any quantity, so ease up on the pool acid, will ya? Taste bud cringe factor: a definite 9/10.


LSD (“Acid”)

Lysergic Acid Diethalymide was discovered in Switzerland in 1938. It is such a potent mind-altering chemical that its dosage is typically measure in micrograms rather than milligrams, as is typical for other drugs. LSD is usually obtained on small pieces of blotter decorated with cartoon-type images, commonly called “trips” or “caps” (or so I’m told). Other packaging includes microdots and Liquid A. Trips last between 8 and 24 hours, during which mind-fucking sensory alteration/heightening is experienced (or so I’m told).

Consumption verdict: Anything measured in micrograms can be consumed a few times in your life for novelty, and while it won’t do anything to your taste buds, it’ll fry your other senses. Anything higher than these dosages could see you pawing at the walls of Tara for the rest of your life.


Fumaric acid

Used as a food flavouring because it is the sourest tasting of the organic acids (doesn’t that scream “don’t use me?”), three parts of fumaric acid are as sour as five parts of citric acid. It is documented to kill bacteria, break the elastic protein gluten in bread dough and maim taste buds. Fumaric acid is a colourless, crystalline flammable carboxylic acid (again, not something I’d ever put in food), releasing irritating maleic anhydride fumes on combustion (can you imagine what would happen if say, a fumaric acid sour sweet caught alight in your mouth? Mayhem! Taste bud-ocide!) Apparently, it is often used in place of tartaric acid, occasionally citric acid, but due to its sourness, IT MUST BE USED IN PROPORTIONALLY LOWER CONCENTRATIONS. This ingredient can be found in baking powders and beverages and those taste bud-fatal sour sweets (in the incorrect concentrations) in the queue trap snake shelves at Woolworths tills.

Consumption verdict: at your peril. You’ve been duly warned. Taste bud cringe factor: 12/10.