Carnivorous Cow

The Cow collapsed on her hotel bed and sighed loudly. “The Santiago skyline is so striking,” she began hesitantly, “framed as it is by the snow-dusted Andes… But somehow that’s not what you notice first about Santiago.”

“Oh?” countered Gramsci. “What was it then, that struck you?”

Dogs,” admitted the Cow. “And men.”

Gramsci nodded. He’d also noticed the somnolent strays sleeping silently in intersections, on pavements, in doorways, scattered randomly throughout the city centre. Always alone, and never aggressive, it was hard to tell if they were even alive – unless one held a steaming empanada within range! For the price of a crust, their allegiance and devotion was yours for life! “Amazing, isn’t it,” he offered, “how healthy and fit they all look – no signs of disease or malnutrition, and many of them are clearly pedigreed, rather than the pavement specials back home!”

The Cow agreed. “Apparently most of the strays are first generation,” she added. “Bought as puppies, raised lovingly until their owners tired of the responsibility, and then turned loose to their own devices. No wonder they’re so tame, and so placid!”

“Unlike the men!” Gramsci sighed. “The constant whistling at women, the open ogling – it’s a far cry from the polite political correctness one gets used to elsewhere!”

The Cow shrugged. “I’d hesitate to call it a macho culture, though,” she began. “The whistling and ogling are just that – there’s never a hint of threat or entitlement behind it, unlike back home. Which is rather strange, in what is clearly a culture of conquest. The buildings – both the colonial edifices and the modern skyscrapers – are nothing but imposing; the monuments and statues all celebrate conquistadores and libertadores; the streets everywhere are named after a small pool of national heroes, and even the metro stations celebrate the history of conquest and independence! It’s all about subduing, resistance and victory.”

“And it’s all male,” insisted Gramsci.

“Indeed,” shrugged the Cow. “Which is why the number of women in positions of power – from the President down – seems somehow anomalous.”

“Not really,” Gramsci chuckled. “Perhaps the men have just learned a thing or two from their best friends, the dogs. Just chillax and let the world take care of itself, and sooner or later some kind turista will come along with a pat and an empanada for you!”

The Cow shuddered to Bronstein. "It was truly terrifying to behold," her voice quivered.

Bronstein tut-tutted sympathetically. "It's OK," he said tentatively, proffering a cup of tea. "Rooibos," he added, "with a hint of buchu and honeybush."

The Cow sighed. "Some problems are not soluble by tea," she explained patiently. She knew this was heresy to a Brit, but persevered nonetheless. "I'll just have to learn to avoid That Time of Day..."

...When the local schools let the local mini-mes out of their cages. And the local mothers armed themselves with their prams and went down to fetch them, before meandering around the local shop aimlessly while their mini-mes wreaked as much havoc as they could, in someone else's space, before they took the calmer versions home. 

"Not only," the Cow began, "do they insist on parking their prams where they can cause major obstruction from all angles, but they seem completely uninterested in providing any kind of supervision for the mini-mes! In fact, they don't even seem to notice they exist!"

"Which, no doubt, adds to the hyperactivity and attention-seeking," agreed Bronstein.

"Indeed." The Cow sighed. "But worst of all was the way the mini-mes were coughing and sneezing all over everything and every one, with no attempt whatsoever to keep their mucus or its inhabitants to themselves!"

Bronstein shuddered. "The media has been warning about a second wave of swine flu," he cautioned. "It's easy to understand why!"

The Cow nodded. "The population back home is about the same size, more or less," she gestured vaguely, "but the incidence and prevalence are far lower. Unsurprisingly. Kids back home are taught manners, and how to behave in public places! Yech!" She shuddered again. "It's apparently the same in the States, where the President was required to go on national TV to explain basic public hygiene behaviour!"

"Indeed," chuckled Bronstein. "It's quite amusing to see notices up in the cloakrooms of public places 'reminding' people to wash their hands!"

"Well," the Cow laughed, "soap and water can do wonders against viruses. It wasn't too long ago that another President was confessing that to be his preferred HIV prevention strategy..."

The Cow was a little perplexed. Facebook kept suggesting that she friend a former DVC from UCT, who was - to the best of her knowledge - now firmly ensconced at a university not too far from where she was currently pastured.

"How odd,"  she mumbled to Bronstein. "I'd have sworn that was a dead profile. Entirely friendless, with no discernible activity since the profile was created - it even still locates him at the Knowledge Factory on the Hill - it really resembles a cobweb page in every manner imaginalbe. Why would Facebook think I'd be interested in a spot of necrophilia?"

Bronstein blanched. "Perhaps," he clutched at straws, "it's the living dead? Perhaps a zombie profile?"

"Perhaps," laughed the Cow. "I always wondered about Bremnercrats. That they feast in the twilight hours on the blood of young innocents wouldn't surprise many people." 

"Students may be young, but few are innocent!" snorted Bronstein.  "And anyway, it seems to be their money rather than their blood that Bremner is interested in."

"True," admitted the Cow. "Besides, he doesn't really fit the profile of a zombie. More like..." She paused.

"Well," chuckled Bronstein, "I have his new web page open here, and it says he was born in Guildford!"

"Guildford!" gasped the Cow. "You mean...?"

"Indeed!" laughed Bronstein.  "A reincarnation of Ford Prefect! A real live alien, all the way from Betelgeuse!"

 "Well, that certainly explains a great many things..." sighed the Cow. "I guess we've just got time for drinks at Milliway's, then?"

The Cow shook her head slowly and sighed. "It's true," she muttered sadly to Bronstein. "Gardening really is sex for the middle-aged."

Bronstein shrugged. "Perhaps it's just that, even for the middle-aged, gardening is preferable to sex with middle-aged people?" he suggested.

The Cow sighed deeply. "I think it's a cultural thing, or a national identity thing. Or something peculiarly British." She paused, wondering if "peculiarly British" constituted redundancy. "Anyway," she continued, "it's a bit like sport."

Bronstein scratched his head. He wasn't sure if the Cow meant that sex was like sport, in which case he agreed, or if she meant that gardening was like sport, in which case he didn't, really, beyond that he didn't engage in either. 

"No, silly - I meant that the phenomenon, and its relationship to Britishness, was like sport and its relationship to Britishness!" humphed the Cow, as if all that was obvious.

"Take cricket, for example. The British loved it when they invented it, until all the colonies became better at it than they were, and then it vanished from their vocabulary - with the occasional slip when they managed to beat some second-rate colonial team, like the Ozzies."

Bronstein agreed. He'd noticed how rugby had been absent from the media, until the last match against the amabokkebokke, when it had bumped even tennis from the front page. Presumably because, on that occasion, the last great British hope had been defeated. By a damnyankee. 

"Gmf!" the Cow retorted. "I get your point, but tennis isn't a sport, it's a game. Like rounders, or skipping, or that game girls play with elastic stretched around their legs. The only reason it's shown on TV is because it attracts sponsorship, and the only reason it attracts sponsorship is because it's something that Brits can occasionally do OK at, and so they inflate its status so that they can feel OK about themselves - a bit like Ozzies and netball, or cane toad racing!"

"Well," mused Bronstein, what else have they got, really? Knitting? Gardening? They'd be as boring to watch on the TV as snooker or golf!"

"Perhaps they should stick to games they haven't exported to the colonies," suggested the Cow. "They'd still be the champions at those! Like, caber tossing, or curling, or thistle plucking, or haggis hunting?"

"Aren't those all Scottish?" asked Bronstein, shocked. "That's hardly representative!"

"Well," chuckled the Cow, "so are all the 'British' successes at 'sport' of late, or hadn't you noticed?"

Bronstein blushed and looked uncomfortable. "It's been really nice chatting," he shuffled awkwardly, "but I really do need to run. The garden centre shuts in an hour..."

The Cow was intrigued by the appointment of Sir Alan Sugar as "enterprise tsar" in the House of Lords.

"Enterprise tsar?" she mused. "Isn't that taking this inbred royalty thing a bit far?"

"Perhaps they thought that calling him 'minister' might demonstrate religious insensitivity?" suggested Bronstein. "Gordon Brown is already under fire for crimes against gender, and perhaps he didn't want to add crimes against religion to that?"

"Do you think," she asked Bronstein, that Gordon Brown appointed him because even Peter Mandelson proved unable to shift Alistair Darling from the Treasury, while Sir Alan is very well practised at harrumphing, 'you're fired'?"

"Well, he could have gotten in Anne Robinson if he wanted a ruthless assassin!" chuckled Bronstein. 

"On the contrary!" laughed the Cow. "He'd have been out of a job himself if she'd had to bid The Weakest Link goodbye!"

The Cow shook her head in disbelief.

"The UK media really has nothing much to report, does it?" she asked Bronstein. "You'd be forgiven for thinking we'd all been raptured, leaving only Westminster, Oxford and Buckingham Palace behind!"

"Well, those are teh most enduring - if not endearing - symbols of Empire," Bronstein countered. "So of course that's what the masses are interested in. Bread and circuses, and all that, you know."

The Cow sighed. "The press leads with an article about the UK parliamentary expenses scandal - a string of old Tories claiming for moat cleaning, floating duckhouses and gardening costs to maintain their 700 trees - and follows with another about the 'scandal' around Oxford's poetry professor. Who's now resigned - can you believe it?"

"It's the decent thing to have done! I wish some of those MPs would take note!" Bronstein huffed.

"Ha! All she did 'wrong' was to send the email herself, instead of having an underkick send it from an 'anonymous' GMail account! Tipping off a selection committee about your opponent's dubious past is a fine academic tradition, after all - it shows the kind of political suss and initiative that any Senate would benefit from!"

Bronstein shrugged, his eight legs sending a Mexican wave through his body. "Perhaps. But then fleecing the public is a fine Westminster tradition, too. That doesn't mean we shouldn't get all uppity and self-righteous about it and bay for blood when the opportunity arises!"

"And the Queen's invitation to the Leader of the BNP to join her for tea at Buckingham Palace? Surely the Royals are supposed to be a little mre discreet about any fascist proclivities - after all the fuss about the princeling in the Nazi uniform, you'd think they'd learn?"

"Well, I suppose bad publicity is better than none, and perhaps they're worried that the public outrage at paying for fatcats during a recession might extend towards them, if they're seen to be doing nothing?"

The Cow pondered. "With elections looming, why is no one campaigning on a republican ticket? It's all slightly different versions of the same essential policy, with no creativity at all!"

"So," chuckled Bronstein, "why don't you do something creative, and launch a Trotskyist-Anarchist Party?"

"Indeed!" cooed the Cow. "I'm always in the mood for party!"

The Cow sighed contentedly as she read the news. It always reassured her when science and "common sense" concurred - as if she were just a little more likely to do well on the pub quiz as a result.

"So,"she chuckled to Bronstein, "I wasn't just imagining it then."

Bronstein looked up, bemused. "So a Scottish accent is the most reassuring in a crisis? You were imagning that?"

 "No" sighed the Cow. "It's just that every time Gordon Brown goes on tv to discuss the financial crisis, his accent comes over all haggisy. The rest of the time it's as hot potato as Tony Blair or George Osborne."

"Ah," agreed Bronstein. "I've noticed that myself. I'd always put it down to his wanting to capitalise on the Scots reputation for fiscal prudence, but perhaps it is that crisis calming thing rather."

"Odd that the British equivalent of the NSRI conducted that survey, though.  Does this mean that all their phones will now be routed through to a ccall centre in Glasgow?" the Cow pondered.

"Well, that would put a few million Indians out of work, if everyone did that! And they'd have to invest in special headsets in the call centres, so that the mouthpieces didn't get choked up with deep-fried Mars bars!" mused Bronstein.

 "And a number of South Africans!" chuckled the Cow. She recalled the struggle to get insured to drive in the UK, finally abandoned after the umpteenth call - to a UK insurer's call centre in South Africa - drew a blank.

"Hmm..." Bronstein paused. "I wonder if faking a Scottish accent would have the same calming impact in SA? Imagine a Minister of Health announcing HIV stats, or the Minister of Education announcing matric pass rates, in a calming Scottish accent!"

"Well," the Cow muttered drily, "They could take acccent coaching from comedians - they seem pretty adept at faking accents - but I suspect there are already far too many jokers in politics." 

"He said, 'In three weeks, this is the only part of the lecture you will remember,'" reported the Cow. Gramsci shook his head bemusedly. "So Burke fancied the law as a cross-dresser, or at least Terry Eagleton fancied Burke fancied the law as cross-dresser?" The Cow nodded. "Though whether legal transvestitism was more terror or tragedy, he didn't mention."

The Cow had been checking out Lancaster University's latest high profile appointment. Nor was she alone - their Vice-Chancellor was there, a gaggle of staff and hordes of students. The post-lecture wine reception may have had something to do with the presence of the latter, or possibly even the former, but the lecture itself proved heavy going for some in the audience who took to doodling rather than shuffling awkwardly or guffawing delightedly as he nailed his colours to the mast.

"His location of the birth of politico-philosophical terorism in the French Revolution, and thus the categorisation of it as a twin of modernity, seemed to distress some of the historical types, while his relation of it to the tragic form seemed to distress some of the religious types - especially his use of the crucifixion as an example rather than an exception," she explained to Gramsci. 

"So he alienated the Americans, the captialists, the post-modernists *and* the historics and the sky pixie brigade?" Gramsci was delighted.  That was quite a hit rate for a single appearance.

 The Cow nodded. "All within the first few minutes. It was masterly - done with such wit and pleasantry, taking offence would seem quite churlish!"

 She paused. "He was rather more tentative when fielding the questions, though. And he seemed very eager to defend essentialism - which was odd given that he'd previously described himself as a 'soft' essentialist."

Gramsci chuckled. "Perhaps his soft side only emerges in the safety of relative anonymity? After all, while at UCT he'd felt safe enough to be spotted reading the Torygraph!"

The Cow reflected. "Perhaps with the move he'll have to change his reading habits," she mused. "I wonder how he'd find the Lancaster Guardian after the Manchester version?"

The Cow was in a thoughtful mode when Bronstein wandered in. "I might get to Italy after all," she informed him.

"Oh?" Bronstein looked up, perplexed. "But I thought that the Italian Consulate had not even accepted the courier's packing, delivering your passport and kilograms of other requested, supporting documents?"

"Correct,"  nodded the Cow. "Why they ask you to go through all that performance, merely to ignore the submission when you finally get it all together, is beyond me! Obviously they don't want visitors from SA, but they might get them whether they want them or not!"

"How so?" asked Bronstein. "As I understand, they've tightened up access to non-EU citizens throught the Schengen states."

"Ah," the Cow mused, "that's the political world. But nature doesn't respect political boundaries!"

Bronstein scratched his head. "You'll have to explain that," he sighed. 

"Well, tomorrow CERN is set to fire up the Large Hadron Collider, right? And, soon enough, they'll be colliding the particles!"

"And then we'll all be dead!" squeaked Bronstein. "Even the Italians!"

"Tsk, tsk!" clucked the Cow, irritated. "It's neither a nuclear holocaust nor the end of the world. The end of the ignorant, confused world as we know it, perhaps, but not the end of the world completely!"

"But what if they do recreate the Big Bang?" Bronstein asked nervously. "Then we'll have a new Universe, and what will happen to this old one?"

The Cow rolled her eyes. "They're not recreating the Big Bang!"  she sighed impatiently. "They're simulating conditions instants after the Big Bang! They're trying to create, or find evidence of, dark matter!"

"Is this the WIMPs vs MACHOs thing? That the WIMPs might actually win?" Bronstein asked, confused.

"Perhaps," chuckled the Cow. "The results are sure to be interesting. But I'm wondering, if they do manage to create a teeny, tiny, weeny little cutey-pooty small black hole... what will happen?"

"The earth will implode?" suggested Bronstein.

"Unlikely, if it was that small," shrugged the Cow. "More likely it will suck more than Electrolux, and we'll all find ourselves being slowly, inexplicably, drawn towards Switzerland."

"Until everyone has their very own cuckoo clock!" chuckled Bronstein.

"And their ears ring with yodels,"  agreed the Cow. "But how far we get will depend on many factors, including where we start from."

"So?" Bronstein looked confused.

"We just need to do the calculations and make sure that we're in a direct line to land up in Italy, en route to Switzerland, and positioned far enough away that we stop there and don't land up in the fondue pot!"

The Cow phlummmphed down onto the couch and grimaced. "All that time, effort and expense," she muttered ruefully, "just to return to status quo ante!"

Bronstein looked up mournfully. "But Gramsci was so looking forward to the trip," he protested. 

"Me too," admitted the Cow. "The home of some fine Renaissance art, some interesting architecture, some important music and, of course, fast cars. Plus an opportunity to visit the source of the home language of Gaudeamus!"

"The song that caused all the trouble!" sighed Bronstein.  "Haven't you had enough of trouble?"

The Cow paused. It had been a rather trying time. The consulate in Manchester refusing to assist a poxy foreigner whose temporary residence on the soggy island was sanctioned by a stamp in the passport rather than An Offical Visa; the consulate in Cape Town being helpful up to the point of the arrival of the precious application parcel, and then refusing to accept it despite it conforming to spec in every possible way; the complete lack of communication from either the courier company or the consulate as to what the reason behind the "exception" might be; the run-around trying to secure the return of the parcel, given that the time window for the visa application to allow the trip had now elapsed; the high levels of stress and suffering generated on all those around, with the cloud ofuncertainty hovering for so long before finally breaking out into a dark, angry downpour.

 "At least it was only a downpour, and not the storms that pounded Cape Town," shurugged the Cow. 

"Or the tremors still to be felt," added Bronstein.

The Cow looked up, perplexed. "What tremors?"

"The rumblings stirred up by the coronation," Bronstein clarified.

"Hmm," mused the Cow.  "You mean the bit where the New-Ruler-Appointed-On-A-Transformation-Ticket cast despair among the Designated Groups by publicly rebuking a black NRF Chair for daring to Speak The Truth To Power? Or the bit where he angered the anal by using the term 'intellectually irresponsible' instead of the more contextually appropriate 'politically irresponsible'? Or the bit where those located outside of Toad Hall were essentially put in their place and told that 'privileged information' was the remit only of Isengard?"

Bronstein chuckled. "Quite possibly all of the above," he twinkled. "I guess the fall-out remains to be seen!"

The Cow sighed. "Wouldn't it be nice," she suggested, "if instead of renaming a Senate Room from which he was barred, they'd chosen to honour Prof Mafeje by commemorating that very act of dissent that blocked his gaining access forever to the Senate Room?"

"Yes!" agreed Bronstein. "Just think how inspired generations of students to come - from marginalised groups past, present and future - would be to plunge into the shiny, new, Archie Mafeje swimming pool!"

Carnivorous Cow thrust the latest Varsity under Gramsci's absent nose. "Look!" she pointed. "The Tadpole made the front page!"

Gramsci squintedat the picture. "That's no Tadpole," he muttered. "Baby Toad perhaps, but that's at least a Bull Frog!"

"Bullshit Frog, perhaps," chuckled the Cow. "Take a look at this! He's making pronouncements that are contradicted by a real expert in the field - albeit from another university - when he's not even quailfied to practice in this country!"

"I wonder what the basis of his 'knowledge' is, then?" Gramsci mused. "Disbarred from practising in the country in which he's qualified; unqualified locally; criminal charges pending... Sure sounds like the kind of basis on which to get taken seriously!"

"Or appointed to a job," the Cow pointed out. "But I guess those who did so aren't going to get taken to task for their negligence, nor for bringing the University into disrepute, either. We can only hope Mr Price introduces a culture of accountability as one of the things on his 'to do' list..."

"Hmmm..." mused Gramsci, "that would be quite a culture shock! Although, as I recall, wasn't that one of the things AIMS set out to introduce?"

The Cow twitched and shuddered at the mention. "I think someone misheard in that meeting," she said sadly. "How else do you explain that they introduced a culture of accounting, instead?"

The Cow rolled her eyes as Twitter spat out the latest headlines. "The youth of today," she muttered. "Remember when we thought Fikile was an embarrassment? He's almost sane, compared to this Julius chap!"

Gramsci nodded sagely. "Those 'kill for Zuma' comments were just a little inflammatory," he agreed. "Especially in the current climate where there's all too much of that going on anyway!"

"Yes," the Cow sighed. "And Jon Qwelane's febrile ravings don't help much! If Julius is looking for someone to kill, uMalume has made his views on 'agtermekaar manne' all to clear on previous occasions."

"Do you think the bestiality insinuation was to get the cat-huggers on board to vote for uMalume?" Gramsci mused.

The Cow shook her head. "Julius has already blown off those types as irrelevant," she reminded him. "Though some liberal aunties bringing stew may be welcome when he's governing from jail, perhaps?" 

Gramsci chuckled. "Especially if it's goat stew," he added.  

"So why then," pondered the Cow, "did uMalume appoint one of the sisters doing it for themselves as premier in the Western Cape?"

"Well," Gramsci reminded her, "her former girlfriend was one of those Travelgate agents. He's probably hoping for parole terms like Yengeni's, and Soraya can can toss in a weekend or two away?" 

The Cow paused. "As long as she brings her kanga, it's all good for him, I guess."

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