Your city sucks and rocks

2010-12-09 15:01
I’ve just come back from a week in Joburg, so I guess I’m compelled by law to compare it to my home city. In my limited experience, Joburg seems to be the exact opposite of Cape Town. How so, you ask? Well, Joburg is a nasty city, full of fantastic people. You see where I’m going with this...

I’ve always thought Cape Town to be kind of like a mega-hot, super-sexy piece of eye candy you might see through the airborne carcinogens of a festive bar where the hormones are pumping in time to the music. You instantly mix metaphors, buttering your loins and steeling your girth as you make the approach, which – spoiler alert – is doomed from the start, because in an M. Night Shyamalanesque twist, you’re actually ME in this scenario. And your eye candy is a hermaphrodite. From Mars. And you’re both dead.

Back to reality: you strike out like a little bitch, partly because you’re not a goddamn movie star, but also because pulchritudinous people are not in the habit of accepting unsolicited propositions from complete strangers. In fact, sometimes they can be downright rude and extremely arrogant. And why shouldn’t they be? They’re a mega-hot, super-sexy piece of eye candy, and you’re just a person. You should be down on your knees and thanking your walking god that they’ve been magnanimous enough to allow the pallid luminescence of the lights above to reflect off their awesome epidermis and into your previously disadvantaged eyes.

Culture shock

That, I think, sums up the Capetonian attitude in a nutshell. Our city is our skin. We’re a CILF. Enjoy the view, because that’s all you’re getting.

Maybe I was lucky, but my week in ugly-ass Joburg was a culture shock of polite service and friendly people. To be honest, all that smiling started freaking me out after a while. This disorientation was exacerbated by the fact that there wasn’t a single moment during my stay that I actually knew where I was. Everything looked like a run-down Belville, so I just went wherever the voice in the car told me.

"In 200 metres. Turn left."

"OK, lady."

And suddenly I find myself at a place that looks exactly the same as the previous place except everyone is doing something different, which fortunately happens to be the same thing I wanted to be doing when I climbed into the car in the first place.

I think this is a Capetonian thing. Everything looks the same to us the moment we hit the N1.

Now the more observant reader may have noticed that I wasn’t murdered. I wasn’t robbed either, unless you count those officious pricks at SAA – a long story involving wrong queues, traffic jams and swearing loudly in front of a whole bunch of kiddies.

The closest I personally came to everyone’s favourite subject, the crime, or crahm, as they say in the yucky city, was a print media dominated by developing stories on video clips of child abuse (whatever sells newspapers, I guess), the Dewani "hijacking" (go, Cape Town!) and the South African who emigrated to Australia to escape the crime and ended up being gunned down by a random sniper. *Snigger*.

Holiday message

As I leave you now to spend a month in my underpants, hiding under the bed with a shotgun aimed at the front door, I feel I should impart some sort of holiday message. So here’s three, one for each crime story we appear to be obsessing over right now.

One: Stop buying newspapers that try to attract you with stories about kiddie porn. It says as much about you as it says about the perpetrators.

Two: Even if you read everything, which you don’t, you’ll never know the whole truth about anything.

And three: Crahm is everywhere.

Have a safe and happy holiday.

Read more on:    chris mcevoy  |  columnist publishes all comments posted on articles provided that they adhere to our Comments Policy. Should you wish to report a comment for editorial review, please do so by clicking the 'Report Comment' button to the right of each comment.

Comment on this story
Comments have been closed for this article.
There are new stories on the homepage. Click here to see them.