Carnivorous Cow

Blog Day dawned icily here on the edge of Africa, in true Cape Town fashion - a powercut just after 06h00, thankfully brief. The Cow sat back in the Film and Media tea room, absorbing the caffeine into her bloodstream gratefully, pondering on which of the longlist of contenders she'd include as her five links for Blog Day.

In the spirit of Blog Day, she finally settled of five blogs she'd not normally link - blogs that were different culturally, geographically, politically or in some other important dimension - but, having standards, she still wanted blogs that were decently written. Her list, below.

She was pleased to note that others were also celebrating - the recycling bin in the Arts Block women's toilet was full of sticky, Coke-ridden disposable cups - and, more interestingly, a pair of woollen tights. Luckily the weather had warmed by that stage, and Blog Day had settled into an early spring mood.

Happy Blog Day, everyone!

 (More)

Carnivorous Cow has always been suspicious of leopards changing their spots - well, ever since FW de Klerk decided that a Nobel prize was more attractive than an AK47 bullet, anyway - and recent events have made her extremely wary.

Specifically, the belated epiphany that Apartheid Was Wrong. While the Cow was still reeling from the shock of Adrian Vlok's apology, Bronstein informed her that David Cameron regretted his party's support for Apartheid. It was all a bit much.

Apartheid, in the sense of the legal system of structural discrimination on the basis of race, ceased to exist twelve years previously. That discrimination, and disadvantage, persisted, was beyond question - but it was not for this that Vlok or Cameron were apologising. What they regretted was safely in the past, safely beyond the reach of what they could effect.

"Perhaps," suggested Gramsci cynically, "that was exactly the point! If they apologised for enduring structural disadvantage, wouldn't the expectation be for them to do something? Something more material, perhaps, than washing someone's feet, or joining the photo-opportunity queues surrounding Madiba?"

The Cow pondered this possibility. The thought of "Dashing Dave" alienating his traditional powerbase to join the ranks of the Bonos and Bobs seemed remote, though perhaps the Tories were more concerned with Muslim-bashing than what happened down in colony they'd long forgotten, right now, and the risk was smaller than feared. And Adie? Perhaps, she thought, the price of petrol being what it is, his pension wasn't quite covering his lifestyle, and he needed a twilight job to make ends meet... and picked pedicure?

 (More)

Carnivorous Cow was unsurprised to read yet another survey had found that the majority of SA women preferred shopping to sex. Yawn.

Aside from the fact that the survey was conducted on behalf of Brutal Fruit, and thus likely to engage only the kind of women who preferred shopping to sex, and alcopops to real drinking, the Cow couldn't help wondering what all the fuss was about.

The classic stereotyping of women as acolytes who worshipped at the altar of material consumption always omitted one crucial dimension - causality.

Gramsci looked up, puzzled. "What are you proposing is the cause of this behaviour?" he asked nervously.

The Cow snorted. "Haven't you noticed?" she asked. "Man settles on couch, looking relaxed and comfortable. Woman sits down, ready to cuddle, with a view to a spot of couch rugby. Man whips out platinum card and sends woman off to Canal Walk, hoping to watch the cricket undisturbed."

Gramsci looked up, concerned. This was a dimension he hadn't considered. "Still," he said, "at some deep level it must indicate a bond of trust, of generosity. Or something!"

The Cow shrugged. "More like fatalism," she ventured. "Cricket can last for five days. I've yet to hear of a man with that kind of endurance. Not even Sting!"

 (More)

The Cow has been quite depressed of late. While senior politicos weighed in with their affidavits in support of the State's case against uMalume, there was resounding silence across the sea concerning his cosmic twin. Had the connection been broken?

And then, earlier, she was pleased to hear from Gramsci's UK cousin Bronstein that Two Shags had gotten some press coverage at long last! Not for his amorous pursuits this time, or for his alleged corrupt activities... his current scandal was reportedly to have referred to the Bush administration's Middle East policy as "crap".

Carnivorous Cow was gobsmacked! While not exactly the observation of a genius, it nonetheless intimated that there was at large a politician with some residual inclination towards honesty.

It was Gramsci who pointed out that there was other reported evidence of Prezza possessing enough blood to operate both anatomical appendages cited by Robin Williams, albeit not simultaneously.

The Cow was overwhelmed. She was forced to consider that, just possibly, it might be Prezza's hint of integrity, and the whisper of an operational braincell, rather than his charm and good looks that drew women like a magnet to his (tax-funded) bedroom.

The possibility was terrifying. Did this mean uMalume was about to grow a braincell, too?

Mr Timberland was feeling "a little tetchy". Carnivorous Cow, thinking this to be a significant improvement on his standard mood, decided it was safe to visit. But instead of Mr Timberland, she found Mr Stormcloud, dark and scowling, like Heathcliff's brooding twin. "A little tetchy" was clearly a relative assessment.

Not that relatives were the best to be making assessments. Mr Timberland had recently declared his daughter to be mad, and with her all the other daughters of academics, reeling off an entire list in support of his claim. It was hard to argue against, but then none of the academic fathers involved were pinnacles of sanity either. The Cow wisely chose not to comment.

Mr Timberland was particularly grumpy because the previous day had been ruined by a Precious Princess. Who, aside from other cardinal sins, had presumed to address him by his first name - a mistake soon pointed out to her. Mr Timberland was in no mood to be equated with a Precious Princess. He yearned to be elsewhere, where age was shown due deference, and where nubile young students offered sexual favours.

The Cow couldn't quite see it. She wasn't sure Mr Timberland would know what to do with a sexual favour if offered one - aside from, if he recognised it as such, blushing and rushing off to have himself tested against possible airborne disease. But she wasn't about to ruin his fantasy.

In the absence of deferent nubiles, it was all he had to cling to.

"Do you want safety or adventure?" asked the cover of the bodice-ripper the Cow was holding. She was wondering which course had prescribed it, as it looked far more interesting than the Crime And Deviance readers lying in the boxes at her feet.

Which got everyone on to discussing the Faculty Bored meeting of the day before. The DVC present had, in the absence of Questions To The Executive, chosen to address the question of security on Campus in the wake of the recent attack on Prof Caira.

It appeared, from the DVC's address, that Bremner believed Upper Campus was all a-quiver with fear and trepidation, with large-eyed staff sitting behind bolted office doors demanding a phalanx of muscular Campus Control staff to be present before they unlocked the door to admit a student for consultation. Which, quite possibly, demonstrated when last a DVC had ventured onto Real Campus, or perhaps, where they might have ventured.

However, what was being discussed was not so much the DVC's remarks themselves, as the answer he gave to the question he was asked about the Stop-and-Search policy. And whether the security staff should adopt a statistical or a sociological approach were they to resuscitate such a programme.

A statistical approach, argued Dr Green, would rely on randomisation - every, say, fifteenth person would be stopped and searched irrespective of who or what they were. And everyone would know they had a one in fifteen chance of being stopped and searched, and would live with it.

A sociological approach would, Prof Ritalin argued, rely on the fact that poorer people were more likely to commit crimes of theft or robbery, and black people would be more likely to be poor, and thus black people - particularly those who looked scruffier or less affluent - should thus be targeted for stopping and searching. The Upper Middle Class wouldn't get stopped, as the chances of their involvement in theft or robbery - as opposed to fraud, say - would be less.

In the outraged pandemonium that ensued, Prof Ritalin dug himself ever deeper into it, by declaring Upper Middle Class appearance to be based on confidence rather than conspicuous evidence of wealth, and equating it with "a good aura". For a while, it seemed that another assault on Campus was inevitable, but slowly the temperature dropped and people trickled back to their offices, closing the doors firmly behind them.

Fear and trepidation lurking behind the closed office doors? Not a bit of it - just the usual cordiality and collegiality which characterises Upper Campus life.

Poor uMalume! It seems he's so desperate for conspiracy and mistrust, he's had to fall back on his own resources to create some, if the City Press is to be believed.

Given his recent confessions of unemployability - which appear not to have dampened his ambitions for the presidency (anyone else spot a contradiction here?) - it appears that he's cast himself as a victim of some Vendetta or other... though the Cow is struggling to understand how failure to live within ones means translates as a conspiracy.

Gramsci wasn't much help in explaining, either. In fact, he was fuming against something altogether else. "Why are taxpayers putting up with it?" he demanded. "Not only are they paying for the State's less-than-optimally-competent legal team to prosecute, they're now footing the bill for the accused's defence, too! All of which comes at a considerable price tag - it's even bankrupted Shabir Shaik!"

"Which means," sighed the Cow, "we're paying for it three times. Remember where Shaik's money came from originally..."

Gramsci paled. "You're right," he muttered. "I'm beginning to think it is all a conspiracy. Only, the ANC succession war is only a side-show. The _real_ conspiracy is against the South African taxpayer, and the real beneficiaries are the lawyers!"

And, perhaps, a couple of second-hand corvette salesmen...

The Cow was still trying to make sense of it all. According to press reports, uMalume's legal team were "shocked" and "traumatised" to discover pornographic images (15 of them) among four million documents submitted by the State to the defence teams.

As the Cow understood it, this was the same legal team who represented uMalume during his recent rape trial. As the Cow remembers, the evidence led during that trial was fairly graphic at times. She could thus not understand why 15 images, alleged by one of the lawyers for Thint to have been of "the anatomy of women and men copulating", could have led to these hardened interrogators becoming "shocked" or "traumatised". Still, she hoped it instilled in them some belated sense of the shock and trauma they inflicted on the rape complainant.

"Perhaps," mused Gramsci,"it was educational material, given the clear gaps in uMalume's lovers lexicon?"

"And the viruses?" asked the Cow, referring to the riddled state of the hard drive in question. Gramsci was unfazed. "A shower will soon sort those out!" he shrugged.

 (More)

It was a good turnout. Most of the Department was there, crammed into the office, sitting on chairs, stools, even cardboard boxes. It looked a bit like an illegal gathering, and - under the current dispensation - it probably was. After all, drinking coffee and talking was hardly something a managerialist regime considered "productive".

The subversiveness of which made it all the more pleasant. The outside world shut out tightly, people discussed What Really Mattered.

Space.

The space wars had gone quiet, and it looked as if Prof Ritalin might have won that round. The Cow joked that the tent the Department was to have been moved into on the rugby field had blown away during the previous week's storms.

"A jumping castle!" demanded Prof Castle. "We want a jumping castle!" "That would be fun," admitted Dr Green, "but we'd have to make a rule about no high heels!"

The Cow, between musing about why the plural of stiletto was not stiletti, was being distracted by the image of bearded academics bouncing around on a jumping castle in stilettos. It was the kind of picture that could be used to scare small children, she was sure.

"Prof Wind-up has a big bouncy ball in his office!" remarked Dr Green. "He uses it to sit on. Except it doesn't stay still!"

"Does it have those handles to hold onto?" asked Prof Castle, curiously.

The Cow could picture the queue forming outside Prof Wind-up's office of colleagues wanting to test drive his bouncy ball down the passages.

Rather like the Andy Scooters at InterMedia, she mused. Perhaps if they spent the departmental grant on some of those, she thought, they could hold races, and performance appraisal, rfj and ad hom would be so much simpler!

The Cow was shattered to see that uMalume was passing the hat around - or at least as far as the Office of the State Attorney - because he was "unemployed and broke", according to iAfrica.com.

She also found it rather perplexing. Given the millions he was claiming as compensation for defamation, she thought, he shouldn't have to worry where his next legal paycheque was coming from.

But then again... Perhaps he, like the rest of the country, knew that the claim was a huge joke which would achieve little beyond jamming the internet with another round of uMalume jokes. Perhaps his joking was merely to show us, after the trauma of the rape trial, that he was a good guy at heart, with an intact sense of humour?

But then again... These lawyers were the same lawyers he was begging money to retain. If he had such little faith in their ability to deliver on the defamation claims, how could he believe they'd spring him on the corruption charges?

It was making less and less sense. Perhaps, she thought, if she took a shower....?