Hi kids.

I've made a new podcast and it's called Harry Payoff.

It's quite good and I think you should download it and listen to it.

You can get it here:

http://www.mediafire.com/?..mkz4mudzijw

I'm not the kind of person who believes in screaming and swearing at people, I prefer to appeal to their sense of rationality and human empathy. Perhaps because I've been abused on the other end of phone lines before, and it's just a little silly. Also, deliberately sending out bad vibes is just not something that makes my aura tingle, you know what I mean?

I've been a Vodacom customer for perhaps eight to ten years. I still remember when my first phone was stolen off Clifton beach at some ill-fated teen party that ended with way too much vomit and punched faces. I also lost a pair of slip-slops and a really cool old school looking Reebok backpack that night. Then there was the time someone threw me in my pool and fried my phone, and the other time my phone was stolen, but that's fine. I can deal.

I was watching those wonderfully original Vodacom adverts the other day, the ones where the amusing everyman character from the Fanta adverts dances around to Beyonce's “Single Ladies”, because like, dancing in a silly way, is just like so cutting edge, and I was thinking about how much someone should just blow up the entire world. See, now that Vodacom has placed an average looking man in denim hotpants, long socks, an eighties inspired track top and an ironic/amusing headband – I don't think we can ever reach those pinnacles of human endeavour and creativity ever again. When I saw that advert for the first time, I actually made a little downstairs-sneeze in my pants, it was just so new and original. And now that they've invented crowdsourcing, I'm surprised that I haven't actually slit my own wrists. As you might know, Vodacom now has a competition where you can also dance in an ironic way – with a chance to be in their new advert!

(Please excuse me while I just go and touch myself in the bathroom for a while.)

Right, I'm back. I've always been a fan of great creativity. And sometimes I just need to spend some slappy-alone-times with myself when faced with it. Hundertwasser, Hieronymus Bosch, Gaudi, Klimt, Egon Schiele, Vida e Caffe – I touched myself. Sometimes, instead of wanking outside the Kloof St Vida, like everyone else does, I actually go into the bathroom. I find it much more satisfying. And then I don't get any bejazzle on the screen of my Macbook. Or on my sunglasses.

I nearly fired myself into orbit when Vodacom came out with Mo the Meerkat. He was just so adorable. The way he jerked around beach-fronts in his CGI fashion actually made me hump a hole in one of my cushions. I didn't think Vodacom could do any better. And then – when they introduced a female love interest for him, well, my heart just about melted and glooped through my ribcage in fleshy lumps. Then there was the way they co-opted that one-hit-wonder dance song for the advert – brilliant. I like the way they move! And then they outdid themselves with the amusing dancing – I can't believe it.

So, Vodacom, the point is – I just love you guys so much. In fact, I'd give every single one of your employees a foot massage if I could. That's why it hurts me so much that I've taken my phone in to be repaired by you paragons of technology and creativity five times and it still isn't working.

It is with tears in my eyes and my dick in my hand that I appeal to you, please, to give me a new phone. I just love you guys so much.

Paul White

Ooooohhh… is he back? Has he ever left?
Nope, he hasn’t even moved. Well, moved house yes, but not much else.
For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Rudi.

Quick run-down: Sign a record deal, record an album, make a little DVD with it, go on tour, do a loads of interviews, get drunk. Hence me not being all that blog-active. Virgin active yes, but not blog.

So this blog will be entirely dedicated to that. Deal with it.

Touring with guys is like having a Zuma-amount of girlfriends. You bitch and moan, you laugh, you dance, you talk an immense amount of utter bullshit, you don’t sing about machineguns though and you meet some crazy people along the way.
I mean lets face it, people can be irritating when you’re hungover. Now imagine none of them having breasts and you have to spend 6 hours in a van together.
Sounds horrible doesn’t it?
Well it’s not.

It’s like having your tonsils removed as a child – it sucks, but everyone fucking loves the be-jesus out of you.

Imagine being in JHB, and a girl offers to pay you R1000 for a hat. Or you accidentally landing in a bed next to some woman, only for her to get your number from a bandmate cause she is too shy to ask you, then phones you the next week telling you she bought a plane ticket to CT to come visit you for the weekend. What? Are you fucking tripping tits on ‘shrooms made of LSD? “Ah shit, sorry, I’ve already made plans with my grandparents.” “Ah that’s so cute! I knew you weren’t just another guy in a band!” Smiley face smiley face.

We almost got into a fight in Bloemfontein because this one bloke decided to tune some of us that he thinks we suck cause his ex girl member-floated as I like to call it. What a knob. Then again, if any of you ever go to Mystic Boer in Bloem, please get some pizza. They do them in a hearty-Afrikaans-you-won’t-ever-be-able-finish-this-one way.

One of our favourite characters we’ve met along the way is a man that only goes by the name ‘Doc’. He is a gynaecologist – for reals. He also owns 2 touring buses of which one we generally try and get hold of when touring up-country.
Doc is good for all kinds of things. If you’re feeling down, he’ll give you a bear-hug of note. If you need cortisone pills, he’ll get them for you, sans prescription.
He also has the coolest ‘call-sign’ known to man. When you want to get his attention in a venue, or a drink at the bar, you stick one hand in the air, keep your hand flat, and drop your ring and pinky-fingers. Try it now. Remember he is a gynae.

Who said blogging can’t be interactive?

Till I remember some more stories – one tends to lose a hell of a lot of them late at night after the 7th shot of Jager.

Yours in touring
Ruud-box

For many reasons, I ended up going to see the Fokofpolisiekar documentary at its final screening on a Sunday night at 22:30. The entire cinema complex was deserted, save for us tardy stragglers, some still stumbling from the night before. Others stumbling from the preceding hours.

For a band that ended up sparking debate (whether by choice or not – remember the title of the documentary) the film did exactly the same. When I went to drain the left-over beer from my system after the film (truly, is there any other way to watch a Fokofpolisiekar documentary?) I was impressed to hear other bathroom users actually discussing the issues that the film raised, rather than the merits of the film itself. We're all quite used to hearing people walk out of films and giving their opinion on the film itself, but it's quite rare to hear them engaging with the subject matter.

If you can forgive me, I'm not reviewing the film – that's for journalists and reviewers. I'm responding with my own opinions.

As a generation of people that were born after 1980, we were never totally aware of Apartheid. I remember my mother telling me that black people and white people weren't allowed to sit on the same benches or swim at the same beaches; I just thought it was silly and laughed at it. The stupidity of the past. I was born in 1986. I would be lying if I said I remembered the day that Nelson Mandela was released from jail. I vaguely remember our first democratic elections. I definitely remember us winning the rugby World Cup in 1995. We are a generation of people still dealing with the fallout of Apartheid, without ever being directly involved. The dissatisfaction of South African youth (particularly us white kids) was never crystallised fully, until Fokofpolisiekar came barrelling through the door – drunk, sweaty and pissed off. As they crystallised this feeling, Bryan Little's film gives us the lens to view it all in focus.

I'm a white, English speaking South African. For a few years now, I've been almost jealous of people with a defined cultural identity. People with first generation expat parents. Afrikaners. I don't even belong to a particular religious grouping (because my opinions of organised religion are not particularly high – but more on that later). I've been with my father to visit the small, dirty and sad mining town where my great-grandfather grew up in Northern England. And I felt nothing. I've even been across the majestic, rolling hills of Ireland and been to Tara, where the ancient Irish king (not that I presume to be directly related) would stand – red of beard, jutting of jaw, hairy of leg. And felt nothing. But when I travel across the Karoo, I know where I belong. I'm proud to be hanging on to the tip of Africa.

The ideas probed in this film are not just religious and cultural. Living in post-Apartheid, pre-let's-all-hold-hands-under-the-flag-of-humanism South Africa (if we will ever get there) we have to ask ourselves where, as the white youth, we fit into South African society. Our president (and I say this loosely because he did not receive my vote) was quoted before our national elections this year, placating Afrikaners. He told them that white, Afrikaans speakers were true Africans. That certainly alienated me. While I had one or two Afrikaans great-grandparents, I by no means consider myself Afrikaans. Roeland Street in Cape Town rhymes with Poland and Kloof Street sounds like the name something makes when it disappears suddenly – poof. So, according to our president, I'm not a true African. If I told him of my father's 'struggle' credentials (having his phone tapped because he was involved with a Students' Representative Council), perhaps I'd be more worthy. On the other hand, as English speaking, more liberal white people – we aren't “responsible”. We don't have that legacy of guilt, of having to say sorry for something that had nothing to do with us. Sounds a bit like the idea of Original Sin, doesn't it?

By putting into perspective the Afrikaans background in which the band formed, I learnt something about myself. Something that has been in my sub-conscious for a while. I don't want to belong to a group. As much as it appears to be a human need. We can call this emotional or we can take an evolutionary viewpoint. It makes sense for humans to group. To turn it into us versus them. It protects us and ensures that our genes will be carried on to the next generation. Perhaps I've bucked the evolutionary imperative here, but I'm going to stick with it. By not belonging to a group, I don't have any of the religious or social responsibilities that come along with belonging. The religious and social responsibilities that Fokofpolisiekar had to overcome. When Hunter Kennedy wrote, and Francois Van Coke sang: Can someone please phone God and tell him we don't need him any more, I didn't realise how iconoclastic that really was. To me, I agree with the sentiment exactly. To a conservative Afrikaans person, Calvinistic and smudged with guilt (religious and otherwise) – this is like saying that only moffies drink brandy and coke. Or Bles Bridges deserved it. It's fucking blasphemy.

Similarly, with the “Fuck God” incident, I was actually quite shocked to see such conservatism. For those of you who are unaware – Wynand, the bassist, wrote 'Vok God' on someone's wallet after a gig. I'm of the opinion that sometimes people need to be shocked into thought. And actually, I still think what he did was brave. Even if the idea was just to provoke, if it made a few people actually question their preconceived religious ideas, then it was worth it. Being English, I didn't see all the media space given to the incident – to the point where a concerned Christian group (they really do enjoy hand-wringing and condemnation, don't they?) took out a full page newspaper ad, at a cost of R40 000, to wag their finger at these verlore seuns and offer to pray for them. How incredibly condescending. Still, having a hotline straight to the big, angry, beardy guy in the sky is not to be scoffed at. Elisma Roets, when speaking about the incident, raised the issue that perhaps these Christian types could have spent the money better. People are starving in our streets and children are forced to turn to prostitution in order to live, but a group of people who've, of their own volition, become offended can waste money to let everyone know that they're offended. How terribly, terribly Christian of them.

This is one of my many issues with organised religion. They're more interested in defending their views (and pushing them on to others) than anything else. Richard Dawkins, in the God Delusion, makes the point that attacking religious views is always taboo, they're always above reproach. Why? For us who don't believe, they mean nothing. We only need to think back to the issues with the Muslim world a few years back when a Danish newspaper printed pictures of Muhammad and people went crazy. In true fashion, they burnt flags and threatened death. I mention this not to score points against Islam, but to show that this is a worldwide problem. I'm not aiming at Christianity, I'm aiming at religion. And if you, as a Christian, can become indignant at, “Fuck God”, then you have no right to find Muslim outrage at a picture of Muhammad silly. They're all as silly as each other.

The cultural indoctrination that had to be broken through was hugely significant for Fokofpolisiekar. And, inadvertently, they became the voices of a disaffected generation of Afrikaans youth – because they were willing to stand up and admit that they had problems with the status quo.
For a generation of people, my generation, growing up in white South Africa, English or Afrikaans, Fokofpolisiekar admitted that there was a problem. And sometimes, that's actually enough.

From the film, you can see that Fokofpolisiekar are five people of entirely different personalities, but they banded together to 'vok voort' into the unknown. Indeed, not even the entire band agrees with Wynand's drunken scrawlings. They became an Afrikaans punk band (which still almost sounds like an oxymoron) and paved the way for many other bands. Afrikaans bands with substance who are singing about more than just “rooi rok bokkies”. I've noticed some backlash online to this documentary, because that's what the Internet is all about – people being able to piss their opinions all over others, without any real-world repercussions. People have questioned whether this band is, “the voice of a generation”. I think the point being missed is that Fokofpolisiekar never aimed to be the voice of anything. They only ever wanted to speak for themselves, which is more than most people can say.

Yours still waiting for the lightning bolt,
Paul White

Jambo! Let me just put down this ancient Chinese burial mask I collected at masturbation camp in Tibet next to my mp5 player (yeah, it's not available to the General Public yet). And while I'm here I may as well take off this wig made from the dreams of Barack Obama and sit down on this chair that was hewn from a single rock of Lance Armstrong's self-belief.

You see... Actually wait, sorry, let me just put down this ivory pipe I found while trekking through the jungles of Tanganyika in search of Patung, the golden eagle. Oh, of course I smoke hemlock, don't you? Got a bit of a bite, but its really quite scrumptious once you get into it.

There are only so many ways that you can be featured on Internet-Webby-Sites that take pictures of cool kids hanging around and then post them online like they mean something. And one of those ways is to be interesting. Of course, we here at HEADLINE payoff aren't totally shallow and solely concerned with looks, we care about your insides too.
(On that note, please, eat fibre – for your health).
So not only will I be sharing with you how to be more interesting on the outside, I'll share with you how to be interesting on the inside. It was a skill I picked up when I hitch-hiked all the way to the foot of Uluru with just a watch-strap, two pieces of cheese, 48000 Dollars and an expert guide. It was just something I had to do, you understand? To find myself.

I'll just put these Wayfarers worn by James Dean himself when he wrapped himself around a tree, down and get to point number one, that would be prudent.

Uno
Is not only something you have to shout while playing a certain branded card game. It is also our first point. Find an object, or a story, that you could use to let other people know how mind-bendingly interesting you are. Do you think I got that Obama wig for fun? No Sir (or Ma'am), I got it because I knew that it would be a Talking Point. That chair made from Lance Armstrong's self-belief? I hate the thing. It's ugly and about as comfortable as sitting on a leathery (unbalanced) ball-bag.

See, kids, it pays to have a little anecdote to drop out of your pocket like a silk handkerchief woven from the strands of Madonna's kindness. You wonder why the handkerchief is so light – have you seen how kind Madonna actually is?

Zimbini
Have a great personality. It doesn't have to be real, don't worry. Personalities can be faked easily enough with bright colours, acting as if you are interested in what the person you are speaking to is interested in and dancing around like a frozen jellyfish. To dance around like a frozen jellyfish, imagine what it is like to be totally boneless and then, act as if all your limbs have then become frozen. This dichotomy between flaccidity and rigidity should make you more interesting than an episode of Top Gear with hardcore sex in it. (Another way to feign personality is to just discuss the latest episode of Top Gear, or who The Stig REALLY is – some say he made cheese from mixing the milk from both Russell Brand's and Russell Crowe's nipples and others say that he made out with Jeremy Clarkson and actually managed to get his tongue past those yellowing, snaggled gravestones that pass for teeth, but all I know is that I don't give a flying Belinda who some guy who can drive fast is – but really, Top Gear. What a conversation starter.)

San
You may have espied some particularly frilly and ostentatious words littered throughout my prose like little lustrous jewels nonpareil. Yes, by Yahweh's fine whiskers! Give your tongue a top-hat and a cane and teach it to twiddle around like a prawn on a fish-hook. If you can't impress people with your lexical prowess then you may as well exsanguinate yourself until you expire.

Vier
Dress funny. It'll make you look like an individual. Trust yourself on this one. I won't give you tips, other than the tip of my boot that my great-great-great-grandfather wore in the Austro-Hungarian Sex-With-Icecream-Wars.

Cinq
Use foreign words. You might notice, if you are one of those people who has eyes, mental imaging faculties, the ability to read and cognate visual signifiers with their signified forms and the understanding of foreign languages that I have not used English numbering for any of these points. That was just something I did to make this more interesting. You can borrow that, if you like. Feel free to write long sentences that might or might not make sense too.

Prämie
That's German for Premium, just in case you didn't know. As this is a little bonus or “тантьема” in Russian, I thought I'd share just one more way to make yourself seem more interesting. And that, friends, is to tell jokes. You may remember some knock-knock jokes I shared with you a few months ago and I thought I'd pull some more out of my knock-knock bag. The one I won in a bet with Sweden about who could pickle the best chocolate.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
The financial crisis.
The financial crisis who?
Give me all your stuff, I'm repossessing your ass.

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Peter Smith.
Peter Smith who?
Your neighbour.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Euripides.
Euripides who?
Euripides jeans, Eumendides jeans.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
A termite.
A termite who?
A termite who just ate your damn door up.

Yours waving theatrically from atop a pink pachyderm,
Paeioul Whaeioute

As you may be aware, the soccer world cup is fast approaching here in South Africa and as far as the majority of South Africans are concerned it really does seem to be equal in importance with the second coming of Christ (as if that's going to happen). Yes, soccer balls may float on water. And the old J-man could do that too, so maybe there's something there. Whatever puts the ice-cream in your soda float.

To warm ourselves up for 'ama-sho sho-ya chesa!-hola 7-yoh!-hayibo-seriaaaaaas-shibobo-diski-grand grand-sharpsharp-2010' we are having the Confederations Cup here in South Africa at present. Now, other than certain girly-boy soccer players that make me a little confused in my pants (like Torres) there is someone who just inspires me to break out my pun gun and shoot myself in the head. And that, friends, is Kaka. I know that Kaka is a great soccer player, in fact – one of the best (and definitely not as violently irritating as Cristiano Ronaldo) but... his name is Kaka. Given that 2010 is coming, I thought I'd just get all of my childish Kaka jokes out of my system now so I don't carry on. Because I might just spend months amusing myself at the expense of almost every person I know.

It all started with this:
Poor Kaka, he knows he's the shit, but everyone thinks he's number two.

And that got me into the Kaka. Please look at my list of Kaka jokes (toilet paper will be provided at the end).

No one in the Brazilian team wants to shower when there's Kaka on the floor.

Soccer is the only sport on the planet where you are meant to run away from your team when you score. If you're Kaka, your team runs away from you.

Was that Kaka that just skidded across the grass?

Don't poo-poo Kaka when he's trying to talk to you.

Kaka doesn't give a crap whether you're the best goalkeeper in the world. He'll bring the big stink.

Kaka buys all kinds of shit with his soccer-money.

When Kaka tried to blow a vuvuzela, he just made a terrible farting noise.

No one likes it when there's a Kaka on the back seat of the bus.

Kaka made so much money he bought a river. He forgot an oar though, and was up Kaka Creek without a paddle.

When the room got too hot, Kaka hit the fan. Then it started working.

There are no flies on Ronaldinho, but there's a swarm all over Kaka.

When Kaka was just a wee boy, people looked at him with such confusion, but he couldn't understand why.

Kaka's brother is called Peepee. He's into watersports.

When Kaka was a child, he became lost at a shopping centre, and hid in the bathroom. On finding him, his mother said: Who left Kaka in the toilet?

When Kaka gets sick, he often looks quite flushed.

A rival defender complained to the referee because he had Kaka smeared on him when he ran past to score a goal.

Please feel free to add any of your own Kaka jokes. It'll be all web 2.0 and shit.

Get it?

Hola Seven etc.
Goal White

Being a human person is not always easy. Sometimes, we are confronted with things that make us uncomfortable (like badly-designed chairs or watching your parents have sex) and perhaps something that dogs us from an early age is the need or want to fit in. To be accepted into a specific social grouping. Recently, Cape Town's Indie scene had its skinny jeans pulled down and its underpants quite firmly hoiked upwards by cevron, an anonymous critic. Cevron has since given up their one-person-crusade because of too much drama.

For an interesting read and an example of Internet fighting – the comments section of cevron's final blog - click here. Again, we are shown not only how lame Internet fighting really is, but how someone attacking your scene, your social-grouping, the very tags that you assign to your life can be so upsetting. I still subscribe to what my mom told me all those years ago: If you don't have something nice to say, then rather don't say anything at all. That's why I try to aim my word-gun at sweeping generalisations, rather than individual people. It's not fun if someone's upset. So, please, let's hold hands and have a little look at how we can all fit in more in the modern era.

Some people might say things like: be yourself. This is a lie perpetuated by capitalism. No one really wants you to be yourself for any other reason than the more individual you are, the more crap you need to buy in order to prove your individuality, isn't that so, comrade? Now please, pass the vodka – these Russian winters cut through to my bones and the Okhrana constantly breathing down my neck makes me nervous.

Fitting in is dependent on where exactly you plan to insert yourself. If you are the pencil-thin, black-painted penis of gothdom, inserting yourself into the hairy, rubbed-raw vagina of the outdoor enthusiast you are going to have a few problems. See, as humans, in order to be 'interesting' we have to try and assign ourselves a defining characteristic or characteristics. I play the role of the slightly touched writer quite well and have amassed quite a collection of elbow-padded tweed-jackets, antique pipes and aloof attitudes. My collection of disdain is something I plan on expanding in the very near future, if only people weren't so damn stupid and getting in my way.

Obviously, the more niched your social grouping or personality the more interesting you'll be. On the other hand, you could aim to join and become accepted into a larger group (see: jocks / B.Com students / art-fags / those quirky class-clown people who come from broken homes). That's a little boring for me to explain though and on a scale of one to exciting, is sitting somewhere around the porridge mark (sans syrup, cinnamon or peanut butter). Rather, I'll give you some tips on how to fit in with smaller, more ridiculous social groups.

People with chronic illnesses, who struggle on valiantly
Here's a great differentiating factor for yourself – a chronic illness. Think something sexy and edgy, but not too disgusting. Having leprosy is perhaps going a little too far, not to mention messy. Think epilepsy, or an interesting allergy (like latex). You can announce to the world that you have this problem, and then milk sympathy from the teat of human kindness with your hungry teeth. (Where do you think the milk of human kindness comes from in the first place?) Just imagine the joy of joining a support group, so you can bitch yourself into ecstasy four times a month. It's almost orgasmic.

People who write letters to newspapers
Bored? Retired? Wanting to fight the power, but feeling a little toothless? There's nothing like a snooty little letter fired off from belligerent fingers. Neighbours taking a little longer than expected to clear their building rubble or dogs barking too much? You know what to do, Sir or Ma'am - write to the paper. Writing to the paper is not only exciting because you get to see your name in print (without being paid a cent), but also because you can force your viewpoints onto the rest of the world. No longer will you be sitting at home, brewing in indignation because you saw an advert for condoms in (Shock! Shock! Horror! Horror!) a family newspaper, now you can spread your feelings all over anyone who can read, like warm, salty piss.

People with 'religious views'
Oh, it doesn't matter what religion you choose. Any old one will do. It is suggested that your choice  is informed by whichever religion makes you feel the most self-important, or allows you to look down on anyone who doesn't belong to yours. Many people who seem to have 'religious views' appear to have gone through some sort of trauma – resulting in their needing an external crutch to cope with their lives, rather than relying on their inner rationality or personal fortitude, so that is one way to enter into this group. On the other hand, religion can be seen as an accident of birth, so if you lack reasoning faculties or original thought and were born into a family that raised you in a particular religion, why not just carry on the tradition? Don't forget that almost any religion you choose will place impossible moral obligations upon you, in order that you get to some sort of Nirvana. That's correct, live as miserable a life as possible here, so you can achieve paradise and scoff at all the people burning in hell. Not that there's any proof of that happening.

Yes, it's a gamble, and you could be entirely wrong about which religion out of the thousands and thousands upon on this earth was the right one to choose (most of them are quite exclusive of any outside groups and presume that them, and only them, are on the path to salvation). You might be really upset if those eighty people in Papua New Guinea who were worshipping a rancid coconut were the true chosen ones, but that's part of the deal.

Happy religioning!

Unfortunately, the sun is setting on this piece, and I don't want it to go on any longer than it should, lest I fall into the group of aloof-writers who hold your attention for just too long. That would be terrible.

Ta-ta, and all,
Paul White

Modern science is great. It has allowed us to live longer, become stronger, abort foetuses that don't suit us too much, stave off cancer and whiten our teeth. Unfortunately, modern science and medical advancements have resulted in a rather frightening phenomenon: a plethora of old people. Everywhere I look, they are shuffling around; smelling of mothballs and wee, complaining under their breath about the good old days. I'm sure some of the more PC among you are wringing your rose-scented hands and I'm waiting until someone says, “Wait until you get old, Paul. You just wait. There'll be some snotty fuckbitch like you complaining about yourself while you piss yourself quietly in the corner, gibbering about the war.”

(Actually, you probably wouldn't have said that last sentence because it's not very PC.)

I think it boils down to the following: attitude. I remember a rather frustrating Afrikaans teacher from my high school who had an amazingly huge ass for her size and seemed to wear a rather bad wig, who had written on her whiteboard, in I assume permanent marker, the following: It is your attitude and not your aptitude that determines your altitude. Yes, it is rather twee and saccharine, but it makes sense if you rip off all the motivational piss. You may ask how you can rip piss off of something if its liquid – have you ever heard of freezers? Exactly.

The vast majority of old people I've met have been entirely uninteresting. Old men are the worst. Shorn of dignity and respect, they dodder through life assuming that they are owed some sort of kowtowing. I say – watch me run around you while I pull rude signs at you with my fingers old man, try and catch me on that walker while I hurl insults at you from my nimble lips. At least older women can act sweet. Older men just hang around with red cheeks, yellow teeth and rheumy eyes. I can understand their anger, their frustration at their de-tusking, but perhaps if they were less pissy about it, they would be easier to deal with.

Old people might very well be our connection to the past, but I've yet to meet any of them that dress like native Americans and smoke peace pipes. Most of them just drink tea, garden and read newspapers. Towards the end of last year, I went on a trip with my father to Northern England, very close to the Scottish border – to see where his grandfather came from. I can honestly say I felt nothing, as did my father. My great grandfather was a mine-foreman type person I never met who very kindly passed on his genetic material to me. Indeed, I said in my twenty first speech that I was grateful to my parents for fucking, and that gratitude extends all the way back to that girl monkey who thought that boy monkey's big pink ass was impressive all those millions of years ago, but in reality – I feel more of a pull to Africa or African landscapes than I do to rolling British hills, no matter how verdant.

Anyway, I'm babbling. Next thing I'm going to start repeating myself, forget who you are and demand that you change my adult nappy, floundering against my shrunken flanks. The point I'm trying to make is that if old people would just shut the fuck up for a while, smile and stop complaining I'm sure I'd like them a lot more. I can also assure you, hand-wringer (if you haven't navigated away to a page of bunnies and kitties 69-ing each other) that when I get old I'll do my best to stay interesting. I intend to grow old disgracefully. To shout and swear and dress funny as much as I possibly can. I understand totally that there physical changes one undergoes as one ages (such as your balls ending up around your knees) but I intend to do my best to cope with these changes (like invent a ball-bra). If I can carry on being irreverent and can hit people in the shins with my walking stick with the skull for a handle, then I should be fine. As long as I'm laughing at the time and not being a misery, fuck their shins.

Because, for god's sake, if I'm not having fun then what am I doing even bothering to be alive?

For those of you who don't believe me about old people, let's take a look at this list of pros and cons I've compiled. Get your reading glasses, dear.

Cons
The smells. (Wee, mothballs, cabbage.)
The slow-walking.
The complaining.
The slow (and dangerous) driving.
The hearkening back to old times.

Pros
If you're nice to one, they might give you a boiled sweet.

So, perhaps if we can all commit to not being boring old farts, we can at least commit to being interesting old maladies of digestive origin.

I'm going for burps and general throat gurgles.

Paul S. White Esquire.

In the interests of being akin to a locally applied cream, rather than orally administered medication, I have delved into my spy network (not unlike a farmer artificially inseminating a horse) to find the answer to a question that has been burning through people's fingertips here in Internetland.

That question is not: How does Noel Fielding get his hair like that?

That question is: Who is cevron?

For anyone who hasn't been touched by the flames pulsing through local IP addresses, cevron is the founder and writer of a blog called 8-bit city. 8-bit city has recently caused a slight furore amongst the hipster set in Cape Town, with its snarky comments and social commentaries. Towards the end of last week, it disappeared – causing much wailing and gnashing of teeth over lattes at the Vida in Kloof Street. I have heard unconfirmed reports that some people even lowered their Rayban Wayfarers to show their darkened, hungover eyes while discussing it.

Rather than disappearing forever, cevron has reinvented him (or her) self and started a new blog. Think of their absence as a pause to straighten their hair, or browse for clothes in second hand shops in Cape Town. Just so you know, the new blog can be found at:

http://cevroncity.blogspot.com/

Without saying anything that might incite a flame war, let me now share the knowledge that popped out of that metaphorical horse's ass after my sperm-questions had formed foetuses. While (hopefully) we will never know who cevron is, we can always speculate. Indeed, it would be a little boring if we found out who they were. It's like finding out that the tooth fairy is just some drag-queen who studied dentistry.

So, without further ado, here are some possibilities for cevron's identity:

Joost van der Westhuizen: Joost has been very quiet lately, what with doing-coke-and-going-down-on-some-girl-gate. As far as I know, it hasn't been proved one way or the other, but it has been suggested that he has moved to Cape Town and reinvented himself as a hipster (otherwise, how could he infiltrate all the parties?)

Dame Judi Dench: When last did you see her in a movie? All you need to see is how she can make her mouth look so mean to know that there is a huge possibility that she could be cevron.

Tony Leon: Poor Tony Leon, he gave up being the leader of the official opposition in South African politics and now he has nothing to do. Helen Zille has taken his job and is now premier of the Western Cape. I'm sure I've seen a middle-aged, democratic looking man in a suit sitting in the booths at The Assembly before.

Heath Ledger: (Is it too soon? Ah fuck it.) Elvis? John Lennon? They're not really dead. Ditto Heath Ledger. He finally shaved his head to hide his baldness, put on an 80s inspired teased wig and some spray on jeans and has been moonlighting as cevron ever since.

That little tokoloshe girl/boy thing that hangs around Leon Schuster: There isn't a Zulu on my stoep, it's a cevron. You may have thought that strange looking person with the soul-chilling laugh and the seventy centimetre platform boots was a fashion icon, but they could also be the elusive cevron.

Kim Jong-Il: Not only the dictator of North Korea, greatest player of the piano ever, wearer of the silliest spectacles ever, donner of the most inappropriate military garb ever, best tiddly-winker ever born (ever), grand prince of rice paddies, eternal protector of communism and all-round nice guy, but perhaps also a certain blogger from Cape Town?

Tom Selleck's moustache: When last did you see it? It could be living on anyone right now, sneaking off at night and writing blogs. Don't scoff. Stranger things have happened. Like Lady Gaga.

And finally... you: It could be you. Or even you. Maybe not you. Probably not you. But very possibly you, with the dirty smile and knowing looks. Or someone else.

Yours yoursly,
Hp

P.S. If you would like to follow us on twitter, point your Internet-ship in this direction: http://www.twitter.com/headlinepayoff and if you would like to follow cevron, point it in this direction: http://twitter.com/cevroncity

Dear non-denominational deity, if you exist (and even are formed enough as a concept to be considered a “you”), I hope you might look kindly on this collection of words. I hope that you exist, not really because of any jumped-up pride I may have about being descended from monkeys, lizards and fish, but rather because I would be infinitely disappointed if I found out that I was nothing but a collection of chemical processes, colluding to produce this walking, talking machine who thinks that it thinks its own thoughts. In fact, you don't even have to be a formed deity. Deity is the wrong word. I'd be very happy with a self-sufficient energy net that is imbued with even the tiniest iota of benevolence. Indeed, maybe the title (borrowed from one of my favourite poems, thank you Mr Thomas) leads us in the wrong direction already, but for now we will keep it as it stands because it alludes to a mutually understandable place, where things are better than they are here.

If there is no heaven then, that's fine, but please can there be some sort of soul waiting-room where I can not only catch my breath but also catch up on all my reading?

Before I get there though (and hopefully that won't be any time soon, because I still have a fairly long to-do list), I was hoping I could receive some help.

Please help me to retain that popping, sizzling fire that gnaws into my stomach at night, when I can't sleep and my brain zings with excitement at ideas still to take form out of the nothingness.
Please let that fire fill me up, and keep me grasping for brilliance. And when I grab a-fleeting-hold of it, please let me suck the juice from the pulp until it is absolutely dry. And when that is done, please remind me that there is still more to be had and that I can make a perfectly serviceable man-kini out of the peel of the fruit. And when that man-kini is no longer serviceable, let me remember that the next jolt of brilliance is on its way. I just need to receive it.
On top of that, I remind myself that the person I am now, in my 23rd year to heaven, is who I was always meant to become. I do not regret the things that have happened before, because if they did not happen I would be somebody else. If I met myself sans life-experiences I would probably find myself rather boring.
Please help me to like myself. Just a little.
Please help me to come to terms with my own body. I've been living inside it for 23 years now, and I'm still trying.
Beauty, in all its transcendent forms exists. It still exists. Let my eyes be open to it; from a fatherly pat on the head to a holy mountain that chokes me with majesty.
Teach me and remind me that emotion is necessary. That I need it to be a human, and being a human is the best thing to be.
Give me the courage to wear my heart on my sleeve sometimes. To admit weakness. I'm not a robot and I'm not an automaton. On that note, let me place this collection into the public sphere without fear of being mocked, or derided. May anyone who reads this approach it with the innocence I have tried to tap into.
On the subject of my lost innocence, I knew it had to go and I wish it could have stayed with me longer. One can't hold onto it forever, but please let me be able to tap into it when I need it.
I know that I'm allergic to negative energy. Please allow me to become a little more immune.
I've been imbued, somehow, with the optimistic sense that, “it doesn't have to be like this.” Please let me never lose that. As much as it twists my insides and comes crushing down on me when I turn off the lights and the walls around me shoot off into the distance.
Remind me, always, that I have the ability to stand next to myself and assess my own actions. In this way, I can act in the best possible way for not only myself, but other people too.
On the sense of doom that gnaws at my ankles, please help me to kick back at it and leave it behind on the ground, because it can't survive without a host. If I'm inclined to look back it, to watch it writhe in the dust, please let me think of Lot and Orpheus, not for the fact that I will lose it forever, but because that pillar of salt, that denizen of the underworld, needs the tiniest amount of attention in order for it to reattach itself.
I know, to quote again, that the world doesn't end with bang. It ends with wide-eyed, whimpering, gibbering fear. But please, let me experience as much of the bang as I can before I need to whimper.


If I seem verbose, pompous, self-serving, I apologise non-denominational-deity/energy net/construction of my hope – I realise that this list is not really meant for you. It is meant for me.

Yours in ibuprofen and diazepam,
Paul White