Why alcoholics should stop drinking

Alcohol doesn’t solve problems, but then again, neither does milk. The fact that millions in Zimbabwe spend so much time and money drinking should be a significant issue for debate. The big question is why people drink, while the alcoholic will wonder why people don’t. There are many ‘social drinkers’ out there. The excuse, “I drink to socialise,’ is as common as a hangover for the alcoholic in denial.

The most incredible answer I have heard was the friend who said that by drinking beer he was being humanitarian. If he were to stop drinking, he surmised, a lot of people in the brewing industry and other downstream industries would lose their jobs. The worst was a friend who said, “"Terrorists, Lenox. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."

You can easily classify Zimbabweans into two groups; those who go to church and those who go to the bottle store. Trying to get the two to meet has been on of life’s greatest challenges. The debate has divided Christians, with the Catholics and Anglicans allowing their flock (and their priests) to take alcohol ‘with moderation,’ the major problem being the extent of ‘moderation.’ To the imbiber, that term can range from 2 pints to 20 as long as he is still standing. To the full blown Christian fundamentalist, a sip is one too many.

The topic that dominates the bars and pulpits is about the rising in the costs of alcohol. The Christians, admittedly, aren’t claiming victory just yet. They know that the drought is only as long as beer drinkers can’t afford a tipple. When the economy does turn around, the reality is that the new converts would desert faster than you can spell the word ‘beer,’ ‘reality’ being the illusion that occurs due to lack of alcohol. The challenge that the churches face is how to keep these chaps inside and away from the booze.

Christian institutions should sponsor an interactive campaign using available new media to discourage drinking. This is to counter those cynical adverts by the alcoholic beverages manufacturing fraternity that speak with a forked tounge and proclaim that consumption of alcohol may be harmful to one’s health. Then going on to extol the refreshing qualities of the slow poison! What cheek!

As a community service may I offer the Christian fraternity examples of the realistic messages they can push in their campaign:

• WARNING: Consumption of alcohol may cause you to thay shings like thish.
• Consumption of alcohol may make you think you are whispering when you are not.
• Consumption of alcohol may cause you to tell the same boring story over and over and over and over and over and over….
• Consumption of alcohol may leave you wondering what the hell happened to your trousers.
• Consumption of alcohol may cause you to wake up with breath that could curdle a pint of milk at 100 metres.
• Consumption of alcohol may cause you to roll over in the morning and see something really scary (whose species and/or name you can't remember).
• Consumption of alcohol may lead you to think people are laughing with you.
• Consumption of alcohol may actually cause pregnancy.
  

What’s my position in all this? I will leave you with a quote from Stephen Wright who once said, “24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a crate. Coincidence?”

Tips on how to gatecrash a function

Recent developments have resulted in beer drinkers being down-listed to Appendix 3, endangered species. The rise in prices – yet again – of beer has had wives celebrating and placed die-hards munguva yakaoma chaizvo, chaizvo. Yes, some are calling it quits after failing to cope with the hikes without having to starve their families to death. The honeymoon had to end at some point. The brewers for their part are finding it hard to justify the punitive increases and their very existence.

So much for moaning, as they say, desperate times demand desperate measures. In spite of the price-induced beer drought that is scotching the nation, there remain institutions that are so well-heeled that they perceive hikes to be a minor nuisance. The country will never run short of individual and companies that will throw the occasional function to celebrate one thing or the other. Now, do you get what I am driving at?

It was Karl Max who wrote about societal inequalities and the redistribution of wealth. So in a sense, those companies that have money to throw around should consider a bit of social responsibility and share the loot with the unfortunate members of society. Those who, for reasons entirely beyond their control, can’t even afford a single drop of their favourite brew. However, for some selfish reason, these same said companies forget to extend a simple invitation to these poor souls. This leaves no choice but for them to invite themselves to the party! Yeah!

Do not misconstrue my intentions here. I am not about to advocate for anarchy. No ways. I am just saying that people need to be innovative, to think outside the box, as it were, if they are to survive the beer drought. Bluntly put, to gatecrash a function seems just about the only solution. Unless, of course you won the Lotto or suddenly found yourself in the last will and testament of some stinking rich but very dead relative.

So in the interest of sanity and the good of the inebriated side of humanity, I will share a few tips on the dos and don’ts of gate-crashing a function. First, you got to have a plan in place, ne? Target your functions carefully and do some background research. Is it a celebration or a serious gig? Banks are bound to throw both of a kind. Are there any bouncers or security at the door with long invitation lists, or do they employ the pesky PR types who seem to know everyone by face?

Dress for the occasion. Avoid looking as if you are a crime waiting to happen or as if you just fell off a very tall tree. Invest in a dark suit, it speaks volumes. Look the part and be prepared to drop a few important names in your conversations. It means that, God forbid, you have to watch ZTV so that you can recognise the faces that matter. Getting past the entrance requires great skills of deception. You have to look as if you are supposed to be there. Do not wait to be interrogated or fidget around. Chances are that whoever is manning the gate is in no mood to be chasing uninvited guests round the venue. Unless you are dealing with a bouncer or worse still a security guard.

Once you are inside, you have to maintain your composure. The PR types are sure to smell trouble a mile away. Their job, by the way is to keep the function off the front page of Umthunywa. Tempted as you may be, imbibe within reasonable limits. I know that the word ‘reasonable’ does not exist in an alcoholic’s dictionary. But at least you can try.

Get to know who the host is to avoid what happened to my young brother some years ago. After successfully making past the bouncer, he ended up being the barman. He made the mistake of denying what he thought was a super-arrogant guest his share of whisky. He was to discover, after being tossed over the durawall by a very big monya for hire, that the chap he had called a village idiot was the owner of the party!

Glossary

Appendix 3: Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Flora and Fauna (CITES) classifies elephants in this category.
Nguva yakaoma: hard times
ZTV: Zimbabwe Television
Unthunywa: A gunk unearthing Ndebele language tabloid
Durawall: Pre-cast wall.
Monya: Slang for bouncer

How we would win the World Cup of Complaining

If complaining were a competitive sport, then Zimbabweans would surely win the World Cup hands down. We complain about everything and anything. Are we just outright rabble-rousing pests or it’s simply because we always get the short end of the stick when it comes to the products and services that we shell our hard earned cash for. That, of course, depends on which side of the counter you are standing. However, one cannot deny the fact that it is our constitutional right to complain. Even if there is nothing specifically wrong. For them to know who exactly is king, we have to keep these guys on their toes.

One has to admit that at times clarity becomes an issue when we attempt to put our case across. I should know because I was, in one of my nine occupational lives, the Senior Public Relations Officer of the City of Bulawayo. Entertaining complains and trying to solve them took a significant chunk of my time and I must admit that some of the gripe turned out to be quite hilarious. I will attempt to share some of the complaints with you having carefully edited out the authors. Many were anonymous, of course. But if you are one of those who make it a habit of writing letters of complaint to the City Council, then you should be very embarrassed to read these, here we go:

• I wish to complain that my father hurt his ankle very badly when he put his foot in the hole in his back passage.
  The lavatory is blocked; this is caused by the boys next door throwing their balls on the roof.
• This is to let you know that there is a smell coming from the man next door.
• The toilet seat is cracked, where do I stand?
• I am writing on behalf of my sink, which is running away from the wall.
• I am still having trouble with smoke in my built in drawers.
• I request your permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen.
• Our lavatory seat is broken in half and is now in three pieces.
• Can you please tell me when our repairs are going to be done as my wife is about to become an expectant mother.
• The toilet is blocked and we cannot bath the children until it is cleared.
• Will you please send someone to mend our broken path? Yesterday my wife tripped on it and is now pregnant.
• Our kitchen floor is very damp, we have two children and would like a third, and so will you please send someone to do something about it.
• Would you please repair our toilet, my son pulled the chain and the box fell on his head.
• Will you please send a man to look at my water; it is a funny colour and not fit to drink.
• This is to let you know that our lavatory seat is broken and we cannot get the ZBC.
• When I applied for a rebate you said that you would have to take something off. Now that you have taken it off, I have been told that you should have put some on. So will you please take off what you took off and put on what you should have put on when you took it off?
  

And now a special request to you. If you are planning to send a complaint to the City fathers, why don’t you wing it by us first so that we can have a very good laugh and then file it for future columns? That’s being a sport. If all of you did that, then we will have enough material to take our mind of these depressing times. And I am dead serious on this one futhi!

Enter the landlady from Hell

There are landlords (ladies) and lodgers. Some would prefer to be called tenants because it sounds sophisticated. But it’s the same thing, that is, someone who pays rent to live on someone else’s property. Not everyone chooses to be a tenant and no one wishes to be one forever. But due to circumstances beyond their control, some people find themselves in this untenable position, to excuse the pun.

What is wrong in being a lodger…eh…tenant? On the surface, nothing, but to the landlord there seems to be something definitely wrong. It has something to do with one being in the over-class or the underclass where the latter is made to feel really downtrodden, to borrow revolutionary phraseology.

Take the term ‘Lord’ which means “a man who rules over people.” From the experience of some poor souls who have had to endure the excesses of being at the mercy of property owners who think they are gods, one wonders whether its really worth going through the ordeal.

A friend decided to move out of the ghetto to conform to his newfound status that afforded him a more spacious abode in one of the leafy eastern suburbs. The family’s landlady, if we may call her that, owned two houses next to each other, one of which she decided to rent out, a classic Diaspora success story.

The first problem, which initially did not seem obvious, was the fact hat my friend had a car which the landlady, for some inexplicable reason, did not possess. One morning he was told that he revved up his car too loudly in the mornings. This he took to be a reasonable complaint. Then he was told his car, Willowville Mazda 323, was “too heavy” for the driveway. Next thing he was asked if he could possibly leave it at work!

That was just the beginning. He was to endure surprise inspections for which his brave wife bore the brunt. The landlady would animatedly harangue the wife or maid, (depending on who was home at the time) about the way the family ‘depreciated’ the value of her property. The besieged family’s sins included hanging too much laundry outside, “crowding” the house with furniture and entertaining too many visitors.

The crunch came when my unsuspecting friend acquired a satellite dish. He received a strongly-worded letter asking who he thought he was causing such a major defect on her outside wall without consulting the landlady? Initially, he thought this to be a joke. Not until he came home one evening to find the offending gadget removed and grounded in the garage.

Why? You guessed right. How dare a tenant enjoy the sophistication of watching several television channels when the lord of the manor had none? My friend’s tenancy lasted two action- packed months. Apart from giving him enough tales to entertain his workmates for years, he says it tested the limits of his tolerance. He says all being things being equal, he could have strangled the lady the very week he moved in.

Have you had a ‘Landlord Experience’ you would love to share? Like the one where a house owner attempted to impose some rudimentary from of population control by telling his tenants that he would be “very happy if they kept the size of their family within reasonable limits.” Tenants (read lodgers) in the Western Suburbs have to endure the misdemeanours of their landlords, like having their property attached. Or which tenant will turn down the amorous advances of the landlord or lady if there was the threat that you could find your expensive property exposed to the elements at the drop of a…eh…hat? Let us share those juicy tales.

If you swear and drive, you must be sick!

I am not alone in thinking that there is something intrinsically wrong with most commuter bus drivers and their foul-mouthed touts. It was not until I read an article in the Journal of Psychiatry that there are people who suffer from a disease that manifests itself when one is on the road. To you, that angry, swearing, horn-blasting, moron has road rage. But doctors have another name for it - intermittent explosive disorder or IED for short. A new study suggests it is far more common than we realised, affecting up to 47% of all drivers.

People think its bad behaviour and that one just needs an attitude adjustment, but what they don't know, writes Dr Emil Coccaro, chairperson of psychiatry at the University of Chicago's medical school, is that there's a biology and cognitive science to this. Road rage, temper outbursts that involve throwing or breaking objects and even spousal abuse can sometimes be attributed to the disorder, though not everyone who does those things is afflicted, thank God. The disorder typically first appears in adolescence; in the study, the average age of onset was 14. Remember throwing those tantrums at the toy shop when uBaba refused to buy you that 4x4 jeep toy car? Ehe!

By definition, intermittent explosive disorder involves multiple outbursts that are way out of proportion to the situation. These angry outbursts often include threats or aggressive actions and damage to property…and individuals. Sounds familiar? Now that places our dear commuter drivers and touts firmly in this sphere of illness, mental illness my dear friends and this is dead serious!

For instance I was shocked beyond words the other day when I eavesdropped – if one can call it that – on a casual conversation between a driver and his trusted companion (read uWindi) on how they would be able to afford a straight of brandy if they unilaterally raised the commuter fare to $150,000. Now, are these chaps sick or what? Which goes to show how unjustified some of the increases are, motivated by greed more than anything else.

Coccaro said the disorder involves inadequate production or functioning of serotonin, a mood-regulating and behaviour-inhibiting brain chemical. Treatment with anti-depressants, including those that target serotonin receptors in the brain, is often helpful, along with behaviour therapy akin to anger management.

Now these psychiatrists seem to have found that IED is more common than previously thought. Yeah, right! Thina, we knew it all along that these guys, and quite a sizeable number of drivers need help and fast before they kill someone.

Which reminds me of the following incident where a father, who worked away from home all week, always made a special effort with his family at the weekends. Every Sunday morning he would take his daughter out for a drive in the car. One particular Sunday however, he was so full of cold that he really didn't feel like driving at all. Luckily, his wife came to the rescue and decided that for this week she would take their daughter out. They returned just before lunch and the little girl ran upstairs to see her father.

"Well" the father asked, "Did you enjoy your ride with mummy?"
"Oh yes Daddy" the girl replied, "And you know what... we didn't see a single bastard!"

There is no stranger language than English

When I read in one edition of the Sunday magazine some time ago I was shocked to read that a local model was on the verge of great things but had hit a pothole. She could not speak a stitch of English and yet she had an O level certificate! I was tempted to hitch a lift to rural Plumtree to investigate before I had a serious rethink. What’s so particular about the English language after all?

In fact the people at Heads Modelling Agency had their priorities right. Why deny Julie an opportunity of a lifetime just because she can’t tala Engelsk? Beauty first, then communicate later, which is exactly what happened and to cap it all, the tall rural beauty is making very good progress.

With apologies to all English Language teachers, I will be the first to admit that English is indeed a foreign language to all of us. As they say in Shona, “Chakauya nengarava!” We try too hard sometimes. I mean thina amaZimbos. Have you heard what they say about our spoken skills? They say we speak English better than the English themselves!

Why are we so fussy about pronunciation, spelling grammar, pronouns, nouns, conjugating the verb and all that jazz? Life would still go on if we broke the Queen’s language here and there. Go to any other European country and you will discover that you are unlikely to be shot by firing squad if you did; decapitate the English language I mean. As long as you can get the message across it’s fine.

Just to show you that there is no stranger language that English, swallow these for size. These are signs that have been found throughout Africa;

In a restaurant in Zambia: "Open seven days a week and weekends."

On the grounds of a private school in South Africa: “No trespassing without permission."

On a window of a Nigerian shop: “Why go elsewhere to be cheated when you can come here?

On a poster in Ghana: "Are you an adult who cannot read? If so, we can help."

In a hotel in Mozambique: "Visitors are expected to complain at the office between the hours of 9.00 am and 11.00am daily."

On a river in the Democratic Republic of Congo: "Take note: When this sign is submerged, the river is impassable."

In a Zimbabwean restaurant: "Customers who find our waitresses rude ought to see the manager."

A sign seen on a hand dryer in a Lesotho public toilet: "Risk of electric shock. Do not activate with wet hands."

In a maternity ward of a clinic in Tanzania: "No children allowed!"

In a cemetery in Uganda: "Persons are prohibited from picking flowers from any but their graves."

In a Malawi hotel: "It is forbidden to steal towels please. If you are not a person to do such a thing, please don't read this notice."

A sign posted in an Algerian tourist camping park: "It is strictly forbidden on our camping site that people of different sex, for instance a man and woman, live together in one tent unless they are married to each other for that purpose."

In a Namibian nightclub: "Ladies are not allowed to have children in the bar."

And you thought Julie had a big problem with English, did you?

No instruction manual for parenting

Last Sunday was Father’s Day and I thought about reflecting on the occupation called parenthood. A word of warning to those reckless characters that are intent on sowing their wild oats and becoming a parent; there is no instruction manual. You have to learn on the job. The worse thing is the fact that your own childhood is of little preparation to bringing up today’s generation. This makes things a bit trickier.

Wanting to be the good and caring father the other day, I decided to phone home and chat to the boys who were home back from school. As usual, our effervescent last born son Anele (8 years) picked up the phone. Stumped for what to say next I proceeded to ask him what I later discovered to be the most stupid question in living memory. The conversation went something like this:

“Yes Anele!”
“Hie, Dad!”
“How’s my son today?”
“I’m fine!”
“What did you do at school today?”
“Learn. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do at school, Dad?”
“Well, duh!”

I am convinced that after that conversation, my son has begun doubting my sanity.

For one, today’s children seem to mature faster, know more and are wont to claiming whatever rights are due to them. Even the stuff they play with as toys are high tech gizmos that will take a degree in electronics to master. Ever tried tackling Play station? If you suffer from technophobia, just forget it and stick to draughts. During our time the ultimate toy was the half brick which accompanied by the necessary grunts, squeals and shrieks was our sports car. We would drag it for hours on end, never mind the disastrous landscaping that we perpetrated. The full brick, by the way, represented a typical bus.

Whatever happened to the plastic World Cup? Today’ children either play with the real thing or are staging the World Wrestling Federation in their bedroom. No matter how many times they are warned, “Never to try this at home,’ be sure that they are body slamming, clothes lining and one-two-threeing on your very expensive furniture while you are at work.

If you thought that your maid can control them then you are in for a shock. They are capable of blackmailing and even terrorising the domestic. Ever wondered why they don’t last. It might not be because of the motor-mouth wife but try interrogating the little imps. You will be very surprised. During our time our parents hired maids straight from the Gestapo. They were very effective in mental and physical torture and better still, they knew how to put us in our proper place.

Today we know for a fact that the only reason why parents employ minders is to prevent their children from razing the house to the ground. It goes to show that parenting is something which parents would rather have someone else do the dirty work for them. Meaning that when next you are tempted to manufacture babies, just re read this article.

That crazy event they call the World Cup

Women the world over will agree that they were created to bear the brunt of the fanatical excesses of men. When one is referring to the passion that accompanies the world’s most beautiful game, any full-bloodied male would find this accusation very incredulous indeed, especially when it’s another man who is laying it on the line. Let us wait until the World Cup in Germany is over, and then you will understand what I am trying to say.

Its because that’s only when a negligible minority would have realised that women would have had to go through many long and lonely nights as their mates sit transfixed in front of the television set. And that includes absentee husbands glued to the big screen at the pub. Count the “Christian” better half among this breed. After all what’s wrong with being in a pub when does not take a single drop of alcohol? In fact what better excuse is there besides the World Cup?

“Honey, I was at the pub.”
“Evangelising the sinners, my dear husband?”
“Well sort of. I dropped a few verses and advised them not to swear too much when Ronaldinho misses.”
“What about the beer?”
“At least they poured their pints over me instead of drinking them. Alleluiah!”

It takes a degree in psychology to understand man’s fixation with football. There is no greater crime than not showing interest in the sport. It’s as if it were eminently normal to like it. Is it truly sensible to spend huge amounts of one’s essential rather short life watching 22 grown ups kicking a spherical object around a piece of turf? What other human activity allows people to lose their heads without the fear of them being carted off to a mental institution? And we are just talking about celebrating a goal here, kuphela! Even football mad bosses are expected to turn a blind eye to bleary eyed workers stumbling in several hours late at work.

Let’s call it World Cup Fever. A disease that leaves a trail of destruction in homes as football widows multiply. Are there any solutions for the millions of long suffering women who will be tearing their hair out in frustration? All because of that ludicrous month-long sporting event taking place in Germany?

Most attempts at recreating the pub/club environment at home have failed to keep men within those four walls. Women are known then to have invested in digital satellite systems or even gone on to declare an amnesty by allowing their husbands to bring their noisy and annoying friends along the games. Others have employed to good effect the adage that face powder might catch a man but it’s the baking powder that keeps him.

For those who go the extra mile, it’s hard enough for them to understand the rules of the game. It’s even worse to pretend you like it. Like the poor woman who decided to accompany her hubby to the first soccer match in her whole life. After what was a thrilling match (for the husband of course) he asked his wife how it felt like.

“Well, alright I guess. But I really felt pity for the guy in black. He ran so hard through out the game and yet they never passed the ball to him even once!”

She was referring to the referee! Enjoy the World Cup guys, while you can.