Bracelet of Shame

The Bracelet of Shame

It's taken me ages to be able to face writing about the “Bracelet of Shame”. This piece has been sitting in the depths of my brain wailing to get out and ironically it's the shame that's made me procrastinate for so long.

Not so long ago it was my mother's 50th Birthday. In my world this is a big deal because I love my mum and I love buying gifts; I especially love buying gifts for my mum. I've got this thing for Audrey Hepburn, I think it's the fact that she can't sing for shit but looks killer in a little black number. Breakfast at Tiffany's made me drool over Tiffany's jewellery without having even gone into the store. I made up my mind that only one gift would suffice for this occasion and that was something from Tiffany's. I'm actually blushing as I write this because it gets so bad.

I'm into online shopping. When I say I'm "into" online shopping that's actually one mammoth understatement. If my life was made into a movie it would be called "Breakfast at Amazon.com". Seriously, I cannot go one day without adding stuff to my shopping trolley; books I've always wanted to own but haven't bothered to buy, dvd box sets, kitchen gadgets, shoes etc. The best thing is you simply pick what you want, click the mouse a couple of times and hey presto you've just maxed out your credit card. It's genius. The other benefit of Amazon is that you wait for your shit to arrive and when it does it's all boxed up nicely and it's a massive surprise. I like surprises they float my boat. I especially love surprises when they arrive first thing on a Monday morning.

It is this faith in online shopping that is my nemesis. I automatically assume that everything that you purchase in cyberspace must be fabulous. So it was that I went to tiffanystore.com and did the unthinkable. I purchased this beautiful bracelet (so the picture led me to believe) that was marked down from £159 to £49. 'Too good to be true' I hear you muse. Well you'd be right. In my defence there was some lame story about no one buying jewellery in the recession hence major price cuts aka "sales". Cringe. So £59 spent, including postage and packaging, and as I click the mouse for the final time my heart drops and I feel like I've just contributed to the illegal arms race.

Unlike my little Amazon gems this parcel arrived with a clap of doom. I guess the feeling I got was similar to the one I get when I receive that letter from the NHS telling me that I'm due for a pap smear. Joy! When the parcel was handed over I immediately put it in my bottom drawer. I caught a couple of Chinese characters as it was being handed over by the post room guy, special Chinese characters typed by little Chinese slave labourers. Fuck.

Initially the contents of the package didn't look too bad . Good turquoise box, nice turquoise carrier bag, fantastic turquoise mock-velvet jewellery pouch, lovely nice shiny-as-shit bracelet proudly shouting 'hey cheap skate I'm fake!' Double Fuck.

It took me a day or so to open the bottom drawer of my desk. I even converted the bastard shiny bracelet from pounds back into Commercial ZARs to add value to my status as the world's biggest muppet. There was only one thing for it. Tequila and shit piles of it.

Tequila led to drunken debauchery, which led to having sexy times with a bloke with a girlfriend. Monday morning I wanted to bowl for Columbine in my office. Not only did I have to face the piece of shit bracelet in my desk drawer. Not only had I shagged a guy with a betty. BUT I also had nothing to give my mum for her birthday.

I opened my desk, undid the cheap clasp on the bracelet and emancipated my bad tiffanystore.com purchase. Throughout the day as the cheap silver clanked on my desk, as I typed out boring client emails, I actually smiled. Each clank of silver was greeted with a liberated buzz as I realised just how shameful I should feel. The shame of buying cheap shit on the Internet, the shame of being a home wrecker and the shame thinking I was back to square one on the gift front.
Since then the Bracelet of Shame has practically been soldered to my wrist. This bodes well for the longevity of my fake tiffanystore.com purchase, especially because if I’m not wearing it one of my mates is. The thing is wearing the bracelet is like “sitting in the corner and thinking about what you’ve done”. Once you’re removed from the corner you go back to being a pain in the ass and smacking your sister around.

In anticipation of the shame bracelet...

Jaqui's Guide to Dating: Chapter 7

Chapter 7:
Having Eaten The Apple

I don't know if you've ever woken up and wanted to chew your arm off. But you can't because you're so hungover that if you even gnash your teeth together you get that tense feeling in your jaw and you feel vomitorious may erupt at any second. It takes you a brief moment to realise that you are in fact naked and then the flashbacks come and smack you over the head; a montage of flashbacks without the inspirational theme tune.

There are options at this point and they vary depending on whether or not you've had an away game or a friendly home game. Before we get to options I suppose I better clarify how you got yourself into this naked, shameful, chew-your-appendages-off position.

I suppose, like every good scenario, it started in the bar. You were merrily quaffing a decent bottle of fine white with some mates and he came over and joined you. You know he's a good bloke because you've had elevator chats, smoke chats, train chats, "etc." chats with him and every time he's given you a diatribe involving "love" and "girlfriend". He refers to her as "my girlfriend" which reminds you of that scene in the English Patient where Ralph Fiennes abhors ownership; well at least I am reminded of that. You know him reasonably well and therefore if he suddenly said 'Wendy and I are going to share a Chinese and watch Marley and Me' you would know he was referring to his girlfriend. On the contrary it's always 'my girlfriend and I are going to cuddle on the couch and share a slab of chocolate'. Of course she's the type of girl who eats chocolate and doesn't care because she's naturally skinny and beautiful. You hate her already. Anyway said bloke, joins you and you're not remotely phased because he's name-dropped "my girlfriend" at least three times in two minutes and you're quite sure he's about as interested in you as a personal trainer is in a fat betty.

You're quaffing your wine and he's guzzling his beer. Your mates have dropped off throughout the course of the evening and the next thing you know you're alone and completely ass-about-face shooting tequila and solving the mysteries of the universe with this bloke. Any mention of "my girlfriend" ceased about two hours ago. You forget quite how it happened, one minute you were downing tequila, the next you were slumped in a toilet cubicle, the next you were on a bus and then somehow he gained access to your house. No matter, you open a bottle of wine and continue solving universal conundrums.

That's where it starts to get hazy in the inebriated montage of shame. At some point there was snogging and then the next thing you know you're awake naked in bed. (For the record if you ended up at his place it's little matter at this point, the only thing that changes is the exit strategy.)

You're desperately trying to piece together where it all went wrong and simultaneously trying to stay as still and silent as possible. It's better that he's sleeping although the sight of him makes you want to rip out your eyes with a blunt piece of plastic. Surely you didn't really? I'm afraid to tell you that you did. After agonising minutes, hours, seconds you cannot bare it anymore and you begin strategising operation bugger off/fuck off out my house.

Whether you're leaving or he's leaving it's key for you not to have to display your naked suit. It is thus essential to robe-up before his lids open, this way you have the upper hand. No one wants to be the only naked body in the bed. Secondly you want to make sure that if you're leaving you have everything with you. My mate once left her "lucky bra" at a random's house and let's just say her napovers became very scarce thereafter; also you don't want an excuse to have to see this bloke ever again.

Once you've robed up and have all your shit together the ideal option is to flee. However if he's awake you may just want to do the awkward "visit sick granny in hospital" speech. Once you're out of his house you can sit back and enjoy your journey on the bus of shame. On the flip side if he's in your bed then the power you hold is immense. If you're in full attire and he's still napping you can either bring him the subtle "fuck off out my house coffee" or you can merely shout 'oi it's time to go!' No matter he'll have to chug down hot coffee or simply put his clothes on whilst you glare at him. It's good to put the shame on the other foot if and when you can. To avoid maximum self shame make him feel like utter crap, after all he's the one with the girlfriend.

Things become more complicated if he's robed up before you. You do not want to be on the receiving end of "fuck-off coffee" or have him watch you whilst you play "hunt the knickers" (it's always the bloody knickers that escape you). If you do find yourself in this position it's near impossible to retain any sense of dignity and the bus of shame home will be almost unbearable.

You think to youself, 'so, I've eaten the apple and it wasn't as tasty as I'd hoped' and what's more it's come with an extra serving of guilt. You know it's guilt sex because you wake up and you couldn't be further away from him if you tried. The normal post napover cuddle is about as likely as breakfast in bed with a single red rose. You''ll be lucky if you get an awkward conversation out of the guy let alone any kind of bodily contact. Pillow talk involves the simple phrase "I'm dying..." or "Jesus I'm never drinking again".

When you get home you take a long look in the mirror and vow never to drink again and you wonder how he's feeling. What you don't realise is that it's so simple to be male, he's simply gone out and bought a nice big bunch of sorry flowers for his girlfriend and he's cunningly disguised them as a nice gesture.

I don't care emoticons are still gay!

AmaPod

31st July 2009

In the Zulu language (for those of you who aren't familiar with the 11 official languages of South Africa, Zulu is one of them) "i" (pronounced "e") is singular and "ama" is plural.

Thus in 2004 there was great excitement at cinemas throughout the land when Will Smith's iRobot came to town (the first Will Smith film to be translated into Zulu, or so we thought). The entire South African population embraced the "i"Robot phenomenon and are still eagerly anticipating the sequel "amaRobot".

When I returned back from the States in December 2005 I returned with a shiny new bit of kit that had only just become semi-popular in Johannesburg. You need to understand that Johannesburg is at least a decade ahead of the rest of the country when it comes to trends, food, fashion, life, crime etc. When we were still marvelling over pizza back in my hometown Pietermaritzburg the folk from Joburg were munching on sushi with this amazing hot green stuff called "wasabi". When sushi came to Pietermaritzburg friends from Joburg were amazed that they could still get someone around the table to eat the blob of wasabi; Country Bumkins sure are good for a laugh.

So when I landed on home soil and entered the world of Pietermaritzburg with my shiny new iPod (in those days it was the mummy of all iPods with 30GB in what is termed "cocaine white") there was a buzz of interest. Most people from my little Burrough were only vaguely familiar with the Nano or Shuffle so imagine their shock when I showed them that photos, films, tv shows, games, etc. could be stored in a 30GB fat credit card sized bit of gear? It was like I'd just shown them the key to the land of free beer.

As time rolled on and docking stations, remotes, covers, av devices, etc. etc. were unleashed on the population of Joburg, back in Pietermaritzburg it was nothing short of a miracle. "AmaPod" had been unleashed and there was a general frenzy over white earphones and making sure you could distinguish between iPod and iMatation. Now it was not just the cellphone that was being knicked left right and centre but now Pod's were the next victim of crime. I remember crying real girl tears when cocaine white was knicked and my entire 11.5GB collection of music went with it. It had to be replaced.

Pod fever is something quite impossible to explain. 30GB was too much space even for a music junky such as myself. When the Daddy Pod I considered buying in 2005 was 60GB I thought, 'bloody ridiculous nobody has that much music it's sheer madness'. Just two years on and I found myself leering over an 80GB and a 120GB beauty thinking '80GB just isn't enough'. What was also sheer brilliance was that the thickness of the iPod Classic was exactly the same. Those Apple inventors sure know how to be geniuses.

I settled for the Mummy iPod in black. I needed a change and the difference between the white and black is well... black and white. Currently I have 54.1GB free and this little revelation has lead me to set up an iTunes account so I can spend less money on Amazon and more chewing up the remaining gigs on my iPod.

With the iPod comes all sorts of new and interesting phenomena. I was thinking of photographing people and making a coffee table book, however my photography is pretty crap so I can't imagine it being an award winner. More fun lies in writing about it and continuing to observe strange behaviour as our iWorld expands and spans generations.

On a visit to the cheese and wine festival in Stellenbosch I found my favourite example of "two-peas-in-an-iPod". Stalls at the festival were pretty much booze or food related so it's no surprise that the water stall was not a crowd pleaser. The two teenage boys (obviously forced to man the store whilst their parents got pissed on Sauvignon Blanc) were looking like someone had just taped over their favourite video of WWF Smackdown. Strangely enough I was encouraged to take a second glance at the water stall as these two young teens were attached to a central pod by one set of earphones. Their heads bobbed ever so slightly to the apparently angry music that was filtering out. This custom of sharing earphones is not new, I remember detaching my headphones from the central alice band of my Sony Walkman to do the same back in '92.

iPods inspired much of my Masters and ideas such as iSolation were ones that kept my brain ticking over trying to find witty "i"-isms and more material for my coffee table book with crap photography.

It wasn't until recently where a dinner inspired by great company and lashings of alcohol gave birth to the idea of a business called "iDeas". So good is this idea that we even considered a visit to the Dragons asking them to invest in our fantastic venture which would give birth to the iParty, the iGig and even the iQueen.

It's 2013 and I'm going to a club to throw some toe and as I'm probably still single I'm going to make myself available to other single blokes (if there are any left). I enter the club and it's silent. I go over to the bar and can eavesdrop on this really ugly bloke telling a Russian supermodel that he likes her shoes as I order my Jamesons on the rocks. The barman gets it right first time, probably because he can hear me perfectly. I decide to go outside to inhale on a cigarette (yes you can still smoke in London in 2013 if you can believe that) and meet up with my only other single friend as the rest are all married or in the hospital giving birth.

After a couple of whiskys it's time to head to the dancefloor. We put our wireless earphones into our ears and stream the bouquet of music options that are available. I feel like getting the party started with some music that was popular in my youth rather than the hardcore rave that seems to be the popular choice as illustrated by the violent dance moves getting busted out by the much younger generation. It's an ideal party and when you feel like a chat you just unplug another bonus is that no one can complain about how loud or how shit the music is.

The iParty will not only bridge generation gaps but cultural gaps too. It'll be like one world party where the only obvious thing will be that whites can't dance and white dads certainly can't dance. Which leads me to the iQueen.

The Queen has her own version of English which I'm pretty au fait with however judging by the general level of English I hear throughout my daily tasks it's a bloody wonder how so many people tune in. I reckon for some members of the general public listening to the Queen speak must not be disimilar to listening to Chewbacca. Hence, the iQueen. The iQueen will translate the Queen's speech into your language/dialect of choice enabling you to not only get the gist of the speech but digest every aspect of it.

My ideal world is not one that says "bad evil techonolgy" my ideal world is one were I can choose to be bloody antisocial if I want to and able to mock idiots who behave badly or strangely. We're the iGeneration and we're living in a world defined by AmaPod. Apple is the new Microsoft and they're heading for virus city, I'm just here to sit back, relax and enjoy my iParty.