I'm Not A Bitch, I Just Don't Like You

A while back, a friend’s birthday party turned into an impromptu reunion as many old friends from varsity found ourselves congregated. As these things go, we got to reminiscing about the good old days, before that quasi-adulthood, being a student, came to an end.

As we spoke, I’d be playing it down to say, I was taken aback when I realised the image that some - meaning all - of my friends had of me was vastly different to how I perceived myself.

Personally, I’ve seen myself as a mildly funny but generally nice guy, however to my friends that’s not who I am. As one magnanimously put it, I’m “mean,” or as another stated bluntly, “a bitch.” I would’ve pouted and flounced about as only a real man can had they not started reminding me of moments where perhaps some credence was lent to their point.

Of the many so-called facts my so-called friends listed about me to support their lie, the most damnable was that I hate fat people.

Whilst it’s true, many people do hate fat people and I have at times had my less than diplomatic moments on the topic, I don’t get why anybody would hate somebody for being fat. That’s ridiculous, stupid and frankly; prejudicial. Furthermore, if I’m to be accused of this, let’s be specific. It’s the morbidly obese rather than the fat I take umbrage to. And more so, what really irks me how (some) try to fob off their personal responsibility in the matter, arguing that obesity is a disease or some such claptrap.

For despite what Empress Oprah the Magnificent may say; that’s rubbish. A disease, obesity is not. People who suffer from real diseases have for the most part not done anything to deserve them. Obesity, however, is a problem that can be easily handled; eat less or exercise more, or even better yet, do both, and before you say, “but I have a thyroid problem,” know that I hear, “unluckily you have to eat even less or exercise even more.”

I once saw a woman who despite the pleas of the flight attendant refused to sit in her seat because as she shouted, “you make them too small!” In my opinion, that flight attendant should’ve taken JetBlue flight attendant, Steven Slater’s, master-class on how to deal with passengers, thus I have no pity when the grossly obese are forced to pay for an extra seat. Despite what the NAAFA (the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance, yes it’s real and obviously it’s American) says, it’s not discrimination when airlines do this, it’s to ensure the comfort and yes, the safety even, of all passengers.

I will admit, in my fervour for this topic, I may have sometimes crossed the line with some slightly off colour jokes and comments, But for what reason do we have and cherish the freedom of speech if not to insult and make cheap jokes at the expense of others?

But before we get on our respective high horses, let’s for a moment consider what it is that’s so horrible here? Is it perhaps that some people are offended?

Fact is, just about anything and particularly any joke is certain to offend somebody, however, I’d rather live in a society where I have that freedom rather than the politically correct, but lobotomised horror the PC Brigade is leading us to. The comedian Steve Hughes sums it up best when he says; “When did sticks and stones stop being relevant? Isn’t that what you teach children for God’s sakes? You’re offended? You’re an adult! Grow up! Deal with it!”

On yet another moment, where I essentially was being taken to task, I came to realise that perhaps the issue is the irreverence shown?

As I was told, “within every joke is a bit of truth.” This isn’t a charge I deny. Regardless how flippant whatever I say is, there is an element of what I believe to it. In the case of fat jokes; I’m not comfortable with obesity, I don’t like it, but ultimately I’m joking and nothing more. To that, he replied, “words have power.” Seeing that we were playing a game of parrying clichés, I replied in kind, “life’s too short to always be serious.”

But back to my friend – and I do regard him as one - When he called me a bitch, though he didn’t say it maliciously, it remained stuck in my mind, keeping me tossing and turning through the night as I wondered about his comment. After much thought though, I know I’m not.

Yes, some things are too serious to be funny… But only until that line is said that makes them funny. I may not like something or even you… But I most certainly am not a bitch.

Boys Will Be Boys

No serious person would ever deny this, being gay can be difficult. Be it dealing with homophobia or trying to live at 100% fabulous, it is a complicated life.

Despite what the name belies, ‘gaydar,’ that innate ability of gays to ferret each other out from the crowd is no science. It essentially is what all people do, look for those signals that maybe, just maybe, that other person could be interested; and as with any signals, they can be crossed. For the single gay guy out on the town, searching for a beau, or beaux, those signals have just become intricately more convoluted.

Last month, a UK study found, amongst high school and university students, the prevalence of heterosexual males kissing each other had skyrocketed with 95% of respondents saying they had done so. A mixed signal to be sure. At first thought, that lone gay may want to believe those kinds of European shenanigans are not on in Africa, not even in that African slice of Europa, Cape Town.

However, as has been proved by the number of women who are famous for no other reason other than being able to don bikinis, or ‘glamour models,’ as they’re known in the land of our former colonial master, what begins there, sooner, rather than later makes its way down here.

To the disquiet of the gay on the prowl, this trend continues. The study also found that it is not only the chaste fraternal kiss being exchanged between straight males. The full on snog, probably best demonstrated by a furtive Jacob Zuma meeting up with Sonono Khoza in a dark corner of the Nkandla homestead, or “sustained” kiss as the study termed it, is also on the rise, with 37% of respondents indicating they had engaged in this activity.

This may seem to be something of a surprise, with our homosexual friend jumping to the default position of, “Well that is a load of rubbish! They must be gay as the day is long!” Yet, he should consider the following. Whilst for the gay man, this is a new and worrying development, for lesbians this is old news. Ever since Britney ever so (in)famously locked lips with Madonna, the straight girl kiss has been a thing of norm. As the great vocal digital manipulation artist, Katy Perry, in her magnum opus, I Kissed A Girl, croons, “I got so brave, drink in hand, lost my discretion,” and, “I kissed a girl just to try it, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.”

Unlike the cougar, this is not one of those fads, which seems to inhabit Hollywood alone. On any night of the week, in the favoured haunts of our future-leaders, the student nightclubs of Claremont in Cape Town or Melville in Johannesburg, to give just two examples, this can be witnessed. As such, that girl and her girl-friend standing on a table, locking lips will soon have to vie for attention with that boy and his boet, doing the very same thing.

Though those concerned about the moral compass of our society may worry that this is a sure sign that the gay agenda to indoctrinate the gay lifestyle within our children is succeeding, take heed of this fact. Those in their never-ending quest to be cool, are just partaking in what is nothing more than a fad. Safely ensconced in the South African strongholds of moral rectitude, where men are men and women know their place, where good traditional family values still reign, you will never have to witness this. Just as in the UK, such examples of moral depravity will be found in those dens on liberal iniquity, universities, or anywhere the wayward youth are to found injecting their new-fangled drugs into their eyeballs and partaking in sins of the flesh.

However, for those, with a slightly more sensible mindset, would be interested to note that, though a fad, study researcher, Eric Anderson, stated that this development, be it the chaste kiss or the sustained kiss, indicates that, “these men have lost their homophobia (and that) they're no longer afraid to be thought gay by their behaviours.”

In as much that no serious person would deny that being gay is difficult, no serious person would complain about the changes in attitudes this study indicates. Even then, one cannot help but think about that lone gay. Faced with those team-mates from the rugby team in a ‘sustained kiss,’ his mind fills with that warm rush of excitement, only to be tempered with the cold reality of confusion as he thinks, ‘maybe they are just two friends, just having fun and nothing more.’

With boys being boys, his life just became a whole lot more difficult.

Put Your Back Into It...

I do not know why or when this happened, but to me, it seems that in the last decade or so, the etiquette of hugging has changed a lot. Perhaps it is my discomfort with hugging that has changed my memories but I near on certain things were not this way. Far as I remember, coming to a point where you hugged someone was a marker that your friendship had graduated to a new level and at such a point, where you have developed something of a relationship with someone, I have absolutely no issue with hugs. However, to me, it seems that nowadays, hugging is part of the normal social discourse and is expected from the outset. At times, it almost seems if you do not hug, you are to be looked at with an element of distrust, for you must be some sort of misanthrope destined to be the next Oklahoma bomber.

Being someone who hangs out with a fair number of ‘liberal types,’ an old friend of mine used to sneer, I run into more than my fair share of huggers. When engulfed in a warm embrace from someone whom you would have been more than happy to have given a mere handshake a lot of thoughts can run through your mind, sometimes, particularly when hugged by the creative, artistic type, the thought comes straight from my nose to my brain. But more often than not, the thought is one of, how did I end up in this situation, how is it that this person I don’t know, is holding me, clutching me, overpowering me with themselves?

As such, whilst there is not much I’m certain on when it comes to that great question, ‘who am I,’ this much I am certain of; despite all indications to the otherwise, I am a reserved person. BFF1 and BFF2 would attest to this, having had to poke, prod and prick until I revealed the most basic of details about myself. Thanks to them, and a few years of life experience, despite it being who I am, I have somewhat learnt how to navigate life without entirely coming off as an utter social dilettante. Living in an Oprah-fied world, where talking about feelings, expressing yourself, and finding “Eat, Pray, Love,” to be the greatest film of all time, and a book you swear to one day read, it is not easy being someone such as myself, someone who enjoys other people, but not too much of them.

Fighting off the last remnants of a hangover, lying on a bed, BFF3 next to me, when this guy walked in, I was certain I was to be spared a hug. Yes, I may have been fully dressed, yes, he may have known BFF3, but the facts remained; He was a stranger, I was in a bed, and failing that, BFF3 next to me would certainly act as a buffer in ensuring no hug was deployed my way. As he said his goodbyes, all of 20mins after I had met him, he threw hugs his hugs around the room, then came to BFF3 and hugged her, I breathed a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that there was no way that he would even try with me.

As he practically climbed over BFF3, lay atop of me and enveloped me with his arms saying, ‘put your back into it,’ much of what’s written here ran through my mind, was this what life was to be like forever? Even with the barrier of another human being, the awkward position of being on a bed, was a handshake, a goodbye wave not okay, was the hug still to be forced upon me, was it too much ask just to be left alone?

Football, It’s Been Fun, But We Need To Talk…

To say I’ve never been a football fan, wouldn’t be sufficient. In fact, it would require a whole new word as ‘understatement’ just wouldn’t suffice. However, like every other South African, since June 11th I have fallen for football big time, and boy have I had it bad. Flush with the excitement of the World Cup, a part of me began to think, ‘You know what Mvelase, maybe you’ve been wrong about football all these years. This just may be the start of a beautiful sporting relationship,” and like the start of any relationship, it was beautiful.

Football flirted with me in that opening match, with the brilliance of Siphiwe Tshabalala’s opening goal, the brilliance of Itumeleng Khune and finally the heartbreaking Mexican equaliser all presaged by the pride-inducing beauty of the opening ceremony. As an act of seduction, football couldn’t have done better than that… I was a bit liquored up, it showed me the best of what it could be; how could I not fall for it?

I was so enamoured by my new discovery that I allowed friends to attempt to convince why I should support their teams in the European leagues. As my family is split down the middle on this one, I allowed both parents equal opportunity to convince me of why I should support Pirates or Chiefs. I’ll admit it, I even thought perhaps I’d give Wimbledon a miss this year and stick with the football. Those days were the best, I basked in love’s first blush, but, oh how quickly things have soured…

As is oft done in relationships, I chose to ignore those initial signs. Those markers that maybe all is not as wonderful as you want to believe it to be. I chose to ignore the numerous inexplicable decisions which were made by the refs, decisions that even a novice me could see were wrong. I thought, perhaps this was what football was meant to be like, I may not have liked it, but I could live with it. But it was too late, that small seed of doubt had been planted in my mind, and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t.

Then England v. Germany & Mexico v. Argentina happened… Video replay. Need I say more?

Those matches only reinforced what I already knew. Wimbledon had started a week before and the speed with which I ran back to tennis could rival the speed at which a football player previously writhing in life threatening pain gets up when seeing the referee isn’t buying his ‘injury.’ As I tweeted after Ghana was cheated out of a semi-final spot by Luis Suarez, “The more I watch football, the more I realise this sport’s just not for me… I can’t handle this kinda stress.” Angrily-tweeting and ranting to anyone close enough to hear my threats of blue murder against Suarez, I suddenly realised what my issue with football is.


It’s not an issue of being on the losing side. Loss I can handle, I’m a Roger Federer and a Ferrari fan. In both sports, I have had to take a humbling master-class in how to handle loss after having always been on the winning side. The issue I have with football, is that quite often, too often, one feels a justified sense of rage and anger at a loss, because, to quote myself again, ‘we was robbed.’ Football’s very own Dark Overlord, Imperator Sepp Blatter, finds these egregious errors add a ‘charming human element to the game.’ I know the Imperator is somewhat preoccupied counting the billions the Empire of FIFA’s gotten from their South African adventure and refining his confidence tricks to get even more out of Brazil in 2014, but I and millions others, find these moments less ‘charming’ & more ‘infuriating.’ With an attitude like that from the administrators of football, I suddenly began to get something of a modicum of understanding for football hooligans, for what is a ‘football hooligan,’ if nothing more than an enraged fan, and was I not that?

And that’s where I realised I had to stop.

When one is suddenly seeing the world from the paradigm of boorish thugs, one must stop and evaluate how it is they ended up in that position. I had tried my utmost to ignore the less attractive parts of this beautiful game, and the beautiful game, I will now admit, it is, but there is only so much one can take. This was not to be a lifelong love. This was a month long mistake, Football was that boyfriend you look back on and think, “But what was I thinking?”

However, I am someone who likes to finish what they have started, and I will watch the World Cup to its conclusion. Till the 11th of July I will watch the games and cheer for some or other team to take the cup (let it be Argentina). But even before the euphoria has died down, before Imperator Blatter flies off while we’re still too happy to notice we’ve been fleeced, I will kick football and everything it brought into my life out on the kerb. As beautiful as this game is, my nerves cannot handle the stress of this game.

Even with the most disastrous of flings, one wants a memento. So, though ‘I will kick football and everything it brought into my life out on the kerb’ the vuvuzela, I’ll keep…

Colour Me Unpatriotic

We as a people generally agree, Friday’s rock. Complain about Friday, never! Well that is until you read this. Friday in South Africa has now come to be known as “Football Friday.” Anyone who knows me will tell you that it’s quite obvious why this wouldn’t work for me, my aversion to football is well known. The world’s obsession with that sport, I will never get; I mean really, why should football… Wait, I’m getting sidetracked, back to “Football Friday.” On “Football Friday” (yes I will be placing it in inverted commas for this entire blog, that’s how much I dislike it) South Africans are extolled by politicians, celebrities and your average man on the street, to show their patriotism and wear the Bafana Bafana football jersey. Prior to Bafana Bafana’s win against Jamaica I would’ve put in a lovely little joke on supporting a losing team, but can’t do that anymore. Spoilsports.

The first issue I had when this whole “Football Friday” craziness started was how ugly football jerseys are. When I say ‘ugly,’ I’m not necessarily referring to their actual design, I mean, yes they do tend to fall to the, how can one put this kindly, garish side but if pushed I could forgive that. However, to quote the legendary Tim Gunn, “silhouette, proportion & fit are our friends and they will serve us well.” Citizens of South Africa, lovers of football, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but the football jersey does not fulfil any of these criteria. Don’t believe me, let’s take Tim’s sage words and break it down.

Silhouette: Now, I can’t presume to speak for anyone besides myself but I generally have an aversion to having the top half of my body look like a brick and that, my wayward countrymen is what you look like in your oh so yellow garb (yes yellow, don’t tell me it’s gold, because it’s not and that’s a fact). I may not have the world’s greatest physique but I’ve found that with the right clothes, I can look like I do, for just long enough to get them into bed, and after all that is what we all want at the end of the day isn’t it? And ladies, you all have such lovely lady lumps, in the right clothes, your shape, even I, gay as I am, am distracted by them. So on behalf of my breeder brothers; stop hiding them!

Proportion: With proportion, this again ties in with the silhouette element. With your top half looking like an ugly squat brick because you’ve decided to dress in what generally amounts to a square of fabric, what have you got left, the rest of your appendages awkwardly sticking out your now square torso. You end up looking like, and here I’ve laboured for a while trying to find the perfect simile but I can’t. You see the resulting image of your legs, head and arms sticking out of your square is so objectionable that not even I, with my near infinite well of sarcastic put-downs can come up with an appropriate one.

Fit: Now unless you have the physique of either of these two gentleman, I would imagine that your football shirt doesn’t look like that when you’re wearing it (yes technically only one has a jersey which is barely shown, but let's forget that for a while, just look and enjoy, then read on). This I’d have to say though is mainly not your fault. I’ve never looked at the sizing of these shirts (no way my hands are going to touch that) but it seems to me that these shirts start at a large (or a medium if you’re lucky enough to find the few that exist) and go upwards. The rest of the week you’re more than capable of wearing clothing that fits correctly, why, please explain to me why, in the name of this ridiculous craze, do you throw away all common-sense?

“Could it get any worse,” those are words I wish I had never uttered. When “Football Friday” came out, it was just the jerseys but like a fool I uttered those words and Murphy’s Law was fulfilled, because what happened? It got worse.

Enter stage left, The Diski Dance.

Now I like to think that I am pretty efficient with words, but trying to describe the loathsomeness that is the Diski Dance in words is the literary equivalent of a Herculean effort. In what can only be seen as a moment of prolonged insanity, Travel24 writer, Simon Williamson, a generally pretty cool guy extolled us to do the Diski in the name of patriotic pride.

There is one primary reason why you will never see me do the Diski and stems from a long held belief. In my youth, I lived through a particular period of time when the world was gripped by a lovely little ditty known as “The Macarena.” Now, not only was it a lovely song for 9yr old me to mumble along to (it was Spanish, a language I’m not too proficient in); no, as many of us will remember but pretend to forget, there was that a dance that went along, and boy could I Macarena. I Macarena-ed everywhere, school, at home, in shops, in the shower, wherever that song was played (even the Xhosa version, yes you read right, a Xhosa version) I Macarena-ed my little ass off. In fact my grandfather used to expect me to Macarena for him before any visit to him was done, and I Macarena-ed with pride to my Granddad’s mirth.

What has that got to do with the Diski Dance? Well the Diski & the Macarena are one in the same. They are offshoots of the family of dances that at the time seem like a great idea and fun to do, but you will rue the day someone pulls out those videos. A recent example that I wisely steered clear of was “Asereje” more commonly referred to as the Ketchup song. Whilst, these examples were songs, and the Diski is a dance, with no particular song to my knowledge, the underlying idea, self-embarrassment, accompanying the dances is one in the same.

Whilst tweeting about my aversion to the Diski Dance, a fellow tweeter, who’s in high school, Bernd Fischer, told me a story that has to rate right up there in high school nightmares. Apparently at his school, where I’m certain a cabal of sadists make up the administration, at the 100 days till the World Cup point, his entire school was called into the hall and instructed in the intricacies of the Diski Dance and then ordered to Diski. Now as per my recollection, high school was a time of tortured awkwardness and nervousness at embarrassing oneself as is. Add to that the thought of doing the Diski Dance, in broad-daylight, amongst your fellow students, I immediately started hyperventilating and required the restorative powers of a stiff gin & tonic.

So people in your oh so yellow squares of fabric you think of as shirts jigging away like you’re all experiencing a mass seizure I implore you, if not for me and those of us you visually molest every Friday, then for yourselves, remember, this is the World Cup. The world’s media will have its eyes trained on South Africa, those visuals of you in that ‘shirt,’ jerking away, will last forever. Some time in the future, those pictures and video of you in that wannabe-gold monstrosity will surface and you will rue the day you disregarded this warning. If that still then doesn’t dissuade you from this madness, then think of Bernd & his helpless schoolmates, forced to partake, against their will in this insanity.

Stop I plead!
Stop, if not for me, if not for you!
Stop for the children!

For One Thing, This Fortunate Gay Man Has Had Enough

“You seem much cooler than those whores inside!” that’s what this nice looking gal slurred to my friends and me as we sat outside one of those dodgy little bars that you (well, I) find yourself at after everything else has closed but the night won’t end. I slurred right back, “Grab a seat,” how could I not after an opening line like that? As her and her boyfriend sat, more traditional greetings were given, names were exchanged and in that way the slightly inebriated will, she jumped right to the question that the sober normally dance around and asked, “you gay?” “Yes,” I replied and I thought that would be the end of it. But sadly it wasn’t because right next, she asked something that caused me to severely regret having invited her to join us. Reason being this girl, in one statement, proved to be a particular type of person fast rising up my (long) list of types I don’t like, the fagless, ‘fag-hag.’

So how do I know that this girl was a ‘fagless fag-fag?’ Simple, if the glow that lit up her face when I told I was gay wasn’t enough of a give-away, her insistence that we go to dancing at Bronx followed by her little-girl-who’d-just-lost-her-kitten look as she complained she had no gay friends were more than enough for me to mentally file her in that group.

In my opinion, the blame for the rise of these single girls out there searching for their ‘gay’ can be placed firmly at the door of that cultural watershed, Will & Grace. Since that show, this coupling between men and women has somehow become the biggest thing, making Romeo & Juliet a very distant. In fact, straight women no longer pine away for Romeo to recite sonnets to them from under their balcony’s, they now sit around and pine for a man to watch Project Runway with, take them to gay bars, and most importantly it would seem, give invaluable style advice. Something as a fortunate gay man, I am finally going to put my foot down about and say, ‘enough is enough.’

Now I know, it’s all great and good, Will & Grace broke barriers, opened up the representation of gay men in popular culture. With no Will & Grace there’d be no Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood (though technically he’s ‘omnisexual’), no Scotty & Kevin of Brothers & Sisters or many of the other diverse representations of gay men that we can see across popular culture now. All of which is important for the advancement of gay rights and all that other good ‘human & civil rights stuff.’ But, even despite this, I just can’t keep it to myself any longer, at times I can’t help but wish a pox upon the day Will & Grace was put on air!

I long for a time when a single straight woman didn’t see me as a prospective shopping partner, as someone who’ll spoon ice-cream or pour wine down your throat as we bitch to each other about why he was such a fucking asshole for leaving you for that fat cow whom we will now refer to as ‘the big blonde one.’ And yes, I can look at your boobs and judge them with none of that pesky ‘male gaze’ stuff, and unlike your girlfriends, you won’t have to worry that I’m lying to you, because I’m jealous that yours are bigger than mine or smaller. But most importantly, I’ll know if he’s gay or not (most of the time).

I suppose it would only be correct at this point to admit that I am a sort of Will to not one, or two but rather three sort of Graces, Lee, Jane & Aithne or BFF’s 1, 2 & 3 as my Twitter people may know them as. What can I say, as a modern African man, I see no reason why I can’t have three even though this is a slight stretching of the tradition of polygamy. But lets not be a stickler for details. Despite my friendship with these three totally amazing ladies, I see no reason as to why this fact has to make so many straight woman think that I, am a prospective best friend. Some might say that I’m exaggerating a bit, but I kid you not, not once but twice have I been invited to go lingerie shopping with them by women I barely know, and that’s just the most extreme of examples.

Now you fag-less hag, I know, gay men are meant to be all sorts of fierce and fabulous. I could lie and say we’re not, but not even you would fall for that, many can be and are. But like all people we each have our own foibles, I for instance, as Aithne & Jane would attest to am a very crap best friend at times. I have and will continue to (sorry buds I can’t help it) forget the various details of this or that ex-boyfriend, or that guy from the one time who said or did this or that. You see the problem is, when I received my “Being Gay For Dummies” package, I skipped over the friendship part and went straight to the sex bit because in all honesty that seemed far more interesting.

So word of advice ladies. Just because that guy you’ve just met is gay, don’t take for granted that you and he will be bestest best friends forever. For all you know, he may just be as loutish as that boyfriend of yours, choosing to spend Sundays shouting at the TV screen as cars go round and round a track for hours on end or watch men chasing after balls (not like that) and not in the slightest bit interested in hearing about your issues or ‘going dancing’ with you. So please give him a break, don’t latch onto him like that. We are men after all, and desperation is as much of a turn-off to us, as our breeder brethren.