http://oibarman.wordpress.com/

Moving to new offices!

As you know "Oi Barman" has been seriously neglected... if it was a Tamagotchi pet it would have died long ago. It is owing to this that I have started a new space for "Oi Barman" to flourish... I'll be re-posting content off here (after editing it, because it needs editing) and there will be new stuff... exciting stuff... stuff that will make you laugh and cry... there'll be pictures of kittens... wedding planning... cupcakes... Oh no wait that's Pinterest...

I am excited about the move because mostly I love the banner photo on the top...

Also I'll be under a pseudonym because my mum panics about my safety... especially when I mock the Christians.

x

The Reborn Identity

I suppose it was just a matter of time before I became compelled to write about religion. I’m usually not one to air my religious perspective however I’ve reached the point where I feel the need to rant a tad.

There are few things I enjoy more than a good old rant littered with some choice controversial elements chucked in for good measure. Being subversive is second nature to me which is a genetic disposition I've been lucky enough to inherit from the fine folks that made me. That's why I love being back in South Africa because it isn't short of character and colour. Folk in the UK think that they have the same level of character but if we could just talk about the Royal Wedding for a moment...on second thoughts, let’s not.

My favourite psychologist who I’ve named “Barry Tim” says that there are two kinds of people in the world, Ferrari's and Volkswagen's. I think that there are Rice Crispies and Fruitloops. Either you’re in the box or you’re in the bowl but if you’re a Fruitloop no matter where you are you’re still a Fruitloop and if you get into the Rice Crispie bowl you’ll taint the flavour and piss off the Crispies.

So writing to my fellow Fruitloops and the odd Rice Crispies that may read this I thought it time I get belligerent about religion because it’s been a long time coming.

Here’s the deal, I don’t really factor religion into my life because I just don’t think I have the space. It’s like those gifts you get from relatives that you think you need to give houseroom to be polite. I’m talking about the doily you put on top of your television, that statue of a girl kneeling by the fountain, that nice dolphin ceramic soap dish, the scatter cushion with wild flowers, the soap and handcream; flavour- lavender. That stuff is crap and I won’t give it house room. I am 27 and if I don’t want a dolphin soap dish I don’t want it. Exit Charity Store or exit gift to person I don’t like much. I view religion as the doily on the television. It’s out-dated, it detracts from what’s important, it gathers dust and it just gives you that nasty feeling every time you look at it.

I’ve lost some fans I can feel it, but before you retreat shouting heathen and burning incest just hear me out.

I truly love the idea of God and goodness and light and love but that’s not really what religion is all about. ‘But it is…’ I hear you protest. Nope it’s not, let’s face it religion is being used as a tool to show up how bad everyone else is and how good “you” are as a person. The thing is that most of the really annoying religious folk are new recruits for the God Squad so they’re making up for lost time by being particularly verbose about right and wrong. They’re there wielding the New Testament like a weapon of mass destruction.

 I seldom meet churchgoers who love everyone. I have some examples and they’re so good that you’ll know I haven’t made them up.

Hilton is a small town with Colonial sentiments. People here live in the dark ages. I had a beautician who was a born again Christian and she just loved to make people beautiful. That meant she wanted their souls too. I had to stop going there because she kept trying to force me into going along to Youth Group which I view as a free-for-all orgy for teenagers. Anyway as much as I would decline she would insist even offering me lifts to get there and back. She must be very high on Gods payroll. Anyway she was complaining about her maid and the theft problem she was experiencing. In the next breath she said ‘and it’s not like she needs to steal, I pay her R25 a day’. Her cup runneth over with generosity. Sure there are people who pay their maids dogshit rates but at least they’re not in church every Sunday telling everyone what good Christians they are. 

This same lady wrote 'no teenage mutant ninja turtle gifts' (sans please) on the bottom of her son’s party invitations. It took all of my mother’s strength to obey the rules. Satan lurks in ninja turtles, and Nirvana cds. In fact Satan lurks in all music bar that played by "hip" Christian rock groups. Needless to say this particular citizen was so favoured by the Lord that she was blessed with her daughter’s wedding and a grandchild within weeks of each other. God works in mysterious ways.  

The gym is another breeding ground for religious fundamentalists. This is because gym goers generally adopt the “my body is a temple” adage and therefore find God at the water fountain in between their benchpress. I was on the elliptical trainer and had my eye on BBC News which doesn’t really generate a lot of energy but apparently it was what adults like to work out to. Evidence? Zero. Anyway I was minding my own business like a hamster on a wheel and the next thing Spandex enters. Spandex was a new recruit to the gym at this time and was very much into "body and temple" and "lunging for the Lord". God was obviously having a positive influence on her because she was rapidly turning into a muscle building machine. Anyway I greeted Spandex and went back to watching the Iraqis bomb the crap out of their landscape. It was at this point that she said ‘I hate Muslims. I reckon we should just bomb them all when they’re kneeling down to pray.’ When it comes to Christianity and the spirit of tolerance I reckon she’s the poster child.

So where do folk like this hang out? (So we can avoid them.) Well there’s this place that attracts like-minded Christian folk. It’s like Makro. Don’t be disappointed when you get there and expect to find awesome cheap stuff to buy. You won’t find it. Instead you’ll find thousands of people praying and complaining about all of the other religions in the world. Tell them Jesus was a Jew and they’ll come after you with pitchforks and flaming torches.

I know of people who go to this wholesale religious factory. I reckon they think that they’re cutting out the middleman between themselves and God which is why they’ve made it look like Makro. Also it’s an excellent way to get new recruits who mistake it for an awesome shopping experience. 

As they march to the sound of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ with stones in their hands you can literally hear the glass crunch under their creep to Jesus sandals.

Jaqui's Guide to being a Quitter

Seven Highly Effective Steps:

Apparently being a “quitter” is a bad thing. The word itself annoys me as does the act of quitting. As I result I’ve never previously aimed to quit anything. However in the past two months I’ve quit three very important aspects of my life, my job, London and smoking.

I started smoking because I broke up with my personal trainer boyfriend and I wanted to torture my body which I had been steadily improving for the two years I dated him for. I remember looking at my stepdad’s cigarettes thinking, ‘I could smoke one of those’. I didn’t though. I got into my Golf, rattled down the road, and bought my own box of Marlboro Lights from the Shell Garage. The thing with smoking is, I believe that you have to own it. There is nothing more annoying than people who say, ‘I don’t smoke’, and then bum a smoke off you in the next breath. Actually there is something more annoying, random strangers asking for a cigarette. Personally I’m not in the habit of going into  bars and asking folk for a sip of their tasty beverage so I don’t see why people should ask me for a cigarette and then get pissed off when I lie, ‘sorry it’s my last one’. I don’t mind friends and family bumming but that’s not bumming, that’s sharing, which is very different. Obviously there are some things that should never be shared, like STD’s, toothbrushes, email passwords, underwear and sex stories with your folks. Gross.

Anyway once I’d returned home with my box of 20 I poured myself a glass of wine and lit my first cigarette in a very long time. Up until that moment I’d smoked sporadically as most teenagers do, but I’d decided I was going to be a smoker and my asthmatic lungs weren’t going to tell me any different. I still remember the guilt I felt. Not guilty because I was tarring my fragile lungs with thick tar but guilty because my stepdad had been relegated to an outside area for months because I was asthmatic and it wasn’t good for me to be in a house filled with smoke. I still feel guilty, actually that’s a lie I don’t.

I come from a family of smokers. My family have historical links to Rothmans, so for me it wasn’t a very rebellious act however my extended family loved to lecture me about how filthy it is. What they didn’t realise was that they were just encouraging me to smoke more. I would light up just to annoy them because reformed smokers are easy targets. The Reformed Smoker is a character I am not terribly fond of. For years and years they were at the centre of the bar surrounding everyone in their wake with a film of tobacco smell and thick smog, and then all of a sudden you light up 50 metres away from them and ‘they can smell it’ and then they look accusingly at you and say ‘when are you going to quit that disgusting habit?’ The answer to this question is invariably, ‘never’, because you’re pissed off with them and want to annoy them for all eternity. Reformed Smokers can pat themselves on the back for keeping my lungs tarred for six good years.

My doctor in South Africa is a reformed smoker but I don’t mind because she has medicine backing her up. She also said ‘have you thought about giving up?’ which is an improvement on ‘you must stop that shit’. She then said that I should only give up when I was ready to do so. At that point I really did not care about the black lung or my yellowing teeth and index finger so I just kept on puffing.

Reformed smokers told me I’d give up when I got to the UK because it’s “expensive”. This is true, it is expensive. However London is expensive. For example, I can buy a daily travel card into the city and let me tell you it costs more than a box of 20 and gives me none of the pleasure. When it comes to bandying about the term “expensive” I like to use the “wine economy” to define the price of goods. When I was last home cigarettes cost R28 a box. A bottle of house wine cost about R45 depending on where I went. In this country a bottle of house wine is usually about £15 and a box of cigarettes is just shy of £7. Therefore you can pretty much see where I’m going with this… Obviously it’s cheaper not to smoke but according to the “wine economy” everything is relative when it comes to vices.

So my budget managed to stretch to nicotine, alcohol and taxis (because when I’m drunk wild horses can’t drag my arse onto public transport) and I was happier for it. I was happier until after 6 years my little lungs had had enough. I’m not going to go into medical details because I don’t want to be the one to put you off smoking but I went to the doctor and I left with a sinking feeling. At first I thought I was telling another lie to the NHS but it turns out when I told my doctor ‘I’ve quit smoking’ I was telling the truth.

The thing with the NHS is they are a bunch of flaming ritards. Before you poo-poo me and delete me from “favourites” I’m just going to mention “Swine Flu Hotline”… … …. And you’re back and nodding in agreement. Say it with me, ‘the NHS are a bunch of FLAMING ritards’.

For those of you who don't know, the Swine Flu Hotline was a number you phoned and laymen would read out the symptoms to swine flu and if you had any you were at risk and should stay away from your place of work for as long as possible. Actually, correction, 16 year old's were reading out the symptoms. Now I’m not sure about you but putting a room of pubescent teens in control of swine flu is a fucking scary thought.

I liken the NHS to public transport, it’s great when you’re drunk. Now I know my mum reads my blog occasionally so I just want to clear up what I have lied to the NHS about in case the government get involved and stalk my Facebook account, and then start stalking me, and then realise I wore a burqa to a fancy dress party and my life unravels like a Sandra Bullock film called ‘The Net’. So… I may or may not have told the NHS that I previously smoked 1 cigarette a day and my maximum weekly units of alcohol is exactly 14 and that I NEVER NEVER EVER go over my 14 recommended units of booze.

To all intents and purposes you can imagine my surprise when I realised I’d actually told the truth to my NHS doctor.

I returned home with my antibiotics (it's true they gave them to me), nebuliser, asthma pump, asthma spray, asthma pills, cortisone, inhaling cartridges and the keys to the Death Star which kick start the nebuliser and climbed into bed. Obviously with the black lung a cigarette was the last thing on my mind so I was safe from the dreaded Silk Cuts lying on my side table. When my lungs recovered I thought about my life. It was like one of those cheesy made-for-tv-films where a bunch of kids make friends with a lion cub, they feed it and nurture it and cuddle it but then one day it gets too big and they realise it could kill them. They then release it into the wild to the sound of Bette Midler and a lump wells in their throats as they say goodbye… the sun sets over the African Savannah and they realise they will never experience happiness like that ever again. Their lion cub is gone forever… Saying goodbye to cigarettes was like that except I chose a Phil Collins song instead.  

Now I’m a non smoker and I feel weird. Firstly I have this incredible urge to tell people I’ve stopped smoking. Anyone who will listen. Literally anyone. I can imagine this is quite annoying behaviour which is only exacerbated by my other annoying qualities. So what’s the secret? How do you quit smoking?

7 Highly (Effective/Ineffective) steps:

Step One: lie to the NHS and tell them you’ve stopped.

Step Two: puff on a plastic cigarette which gives you a head rush quite unlike anything else you’ve ever had. I used one for about 3 weeks and it did the job. You generally look ridiculous so it’s easy to ween yourself off. Kind of like a toddler with a dummy who continues to use it when he/she is 17.

Step Three: tell everyone you’ve stopped even the lady at Tescos. Personally I like the line 'you used to sell me cigarettes but now I’ve quit so I can afford another bottle of wine instead… because now I’m an alcoholic…'

Step Four: Hopefully someone will say to you 'I’ll believe it when I see it…' This person should be someone you’re attached to. Someone that you need to prove wrong at any cost. Ex partners are ideal, as are incredibly anal and annoying relatives who scoff, 'oh you’re giving up are you?' and then laugh hysterically. Having someone not to believe in you is all it really takes. The minor successes I’ve had in my life have all hinged on people who don’t believe in me.

Step Five: Announce every monthly victory like it’s breaking news. 'I haven’t smoked for One whole month'. Get people to applaud and congratulate you, preferably buy you alcohol. Act smug, being smug makes you realise the pain and suffering and lack of perpetual happiness is worth it.

Step Six: Avoid other smokers unless you can trust them implicitly. I used to be that asshole who offered recent “quitters” a cigarette and then would give them a 'come on…' when they refused. I now realise that I should have been punched in the face for this… I got away lucky…

Step  Seven: All good plans come in seven steps so I should think of one last step… okay… here’s the deal… it’s not that difficult… I bought an epilator the other day and pulled my underarm hairs out… that was the epitome of difficult.  Buy an epilator and use it every time you feel like a cigarette… you’ll be bald and will develop nervous twitches…but you'll have been successful.

(For more EXPERT advice on how to quit smoking phone the NHS hotline. Or visit their website www.saynotoantibiotics.co.uk)

Musings

Tata Cashflow is Bangala

I remember watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time and wondering if I’d ever feel the same way about a shop. Don’t get me wrong I love Tiffany’s, but I don’t go in there very often for my budget does not stretch to the “Tiffany’s lifestyle” and I don’t believe in credit cards because that's how I was raised. I come from a “cash is king” background and the term “cashflow” is part of the fabric that stitches my childhood quilt together. Every family disaster hinged around the indomitable “cashflow” situation and it became a Hiltermann stock phrase. Some children are raised on God, my father raised me on Cashflow.

I have been into Tiffany’s once… I was wearing an old pair of Converse and a summer dress. I was about as obvious as a teenager in a nightclub; trying to blend in but failing miserably. When I entered I might have actually said something Christian’s would disapprove of. Loudly. The Doorman subtly approached me, said ‘silver’s upstairs love’ and winked. I should have been mortified, but I was grateful. I left with a little turquoise bag and a smile. It was a gift, possibly the best gift I’ve ever given anyone. (At this point alarm bells… yes, ALARM bells, should be going off. ‘best gift to give’, ‘Jaqs doesn’t have anything from Tiffany’s’, Christmas, Jaqs’s Birthday fast approaching… I’m just saying… I don’t ask for a lot… cough cough…) Anyway I’m moving off the subject…

Tiffany’s was a sparkly treasure chest filled with happiness and joy. So lovely, so sparkly, so clean… but would I want to eat breakfast there? Not likely. Would I want to go there every day? Not likely to that too.

There’s a place that resides in cyberland… it has everything and more, and dreams are made there. It’s a veritable jungle of joy. In the highest treetops you can find exotic dvds, rare albums, mystical kitchen utensils. Further down in the lower canopy hide box-sets, cheap printer cartridges, books. In the undergrowth there’s stationary, bedding, toiletries, shoes, tents, Russian Mail Order Brides. Banners advertising the new “Kindle” fly past, soar up into the air… flutter casually… The more you search the more you find, but don’t be careless it’s dangerous out there. ‘One Click’ shopping lurks ready to trap you, ‘Next Day Delivery’ ensnares you, the deadly bite of Internet shopping will course through your veins until you’re infected by the fever. Amazon.com, a whole world of discovery. You’re wondering about my cashflow situation aren’t you?

I remember when I first purchased something on the Internet. It was in the days of dial up connection, so it was a lifetime ago. My mother and I decided that we needed the collector’s edition Scarlet O’Hara Barbie Dolls. Initially we believed we would be satisfied with one of them but secretly we knew that we needed the whole set and wouldn’t sleep until we had them all. We had seen the dolls in America but owing to the “cashflow” situation we could not buy them. They haunted us, like all dolls tend to do. Years later we decided to search for them on the interweb machine and hours later the page had loaded and we were informed that we could enter a bidding war for them. This was risky business in the 90’s but being intrepid children of the postmodern age my mother and I entered credit card details, ID numbers, residential addresses, security passwords and the name of our first pet… and then we sat back and waited. 

In the year 2010 I can sleep easily knowing that I own 4 Scarlett O’Hara Barbie dolls and I have their original boxes. In fact when I received them I watched the movie and surrounded myself with my new treasures. Now there’s a state secret I was not intending to part with!

Personally I cannot believe my faith in online shopping. This was before it became the safe haven that it is today. Don’t get me wrong I’ve had my fair share of buyer’s remorse. The fake Tiffany’s bracelet aka “the bracelet of shame”, the fake Eddie Izzard tickets, the fake Fleetwood Mac ticket… but astoundingly I’ve wasted more of my hard earned cash by shopping in the real world than on the Internet. As a general experience I find that I take more pleasure in Amazon than I do in a shopping mall. I have no crowds, no prams, no screaming kids, no temptation to stop for a cup of expensive cold coffee, no queues, no parking issues, no wondering ‘is this toilet clean’?

The best bit? I get it delivered to my desk and the excitement of tearing through the package and wondering which item has arrived? Well it’s like Christmas. In fact it’s better than Christmas, which is why I also do my Christmas shopping on Amazon.

Being a single woman with very little financial obligations I’ve decided that I would rather not have a credit card. Also I am very obedient and I still have the faith in Cashflow that was drummed into me. As Cashflow dictates I don’t buy anything that I can’t afford, if I don’t have money I don’t have money. It’s a simple financial belief system but it works for me. And I can sleep easy knowing I’m not responsible for that darned “credit card crunch” when all those credit cards went around stealing people’s money. ‘What? That’s not really what happened?’ ‘But some guy in a bar… oh… he was taking the…’

Cashflow equates credit cards to a gambling addiction, and I have had this instilled in me by my father who basically said, ‘by all means get shitfaced on whisky but don’t you dare get yourself into a situation where you have no cashflow’. This has meant that I don’t have a credit rating. What this means is that when Amazon offered me a special credit card I wasn’t allowed it, because of my credit rating, which is probably that of a toddler. Luckily enough I was sweating beads whilst filling out the online application so it’s just as well they didn’t accept it because I would have had a guilt induced pulmonary embolism on the spot. Father’s voice would have boomed, ‘for Cashflow’s sake daughter have I taught you nothing?’

So now I have an Amazon basket FULL of stuff I want but can’t buy and every day it grows like a lion cub that you thought was cute, but is now looking increasingly scary. What have I done? And can someone please just tell me how to get rid of banner ads because if I see that fucking Kindle fly past my screen one more time… I will buy it… Cashflow help me I will buy it…

Amazon… it really is a fucking jungle out there.

Dear Readers

So I am not sure what I'm writing about next because I avoided the Metro this morning for fear that I may find out how many folk are now blind owing to apple bobbing.
It's a Moanday and the only thing I can be happy about is I'm wearing my new boots which are less painful then they were on Thursday and a hottie smiled at me on the train.

Also I believe Posh and Becks are on speaking terms so we can all rest easy. Phew.

Jaqs

PS: Since my existential crisis resulting in my name change I have found more and more people caling me Jax... people who previously called me Jaqui... this curiouses me... I am sure it's not to deliberately wind me up, because I would never intentionally wind up individuals...

Musings

The Apple of his Eye

I was beyond amused reading the Metro this morning. I reckon Boris secretly writes most of the editorial because the quality is that of an oik. And in my opinion Boris is an “oik”. I usually boycott the Metro however this morning I took my seat on the train and it was spread out, tantalisingly, on the seat next to me revealing its double page spread. I perused Stalkerbook for a while avoiding the temptation of the grey pages but unfortunately there were no sex scandals or dirty laundry for me to enjoy. Instead I got the generic, ‘So glad it’s Friday’, ‘Go the Sharks’, ‘I’m tired and working so hard’,  ‘My life is crap’… boring stuff… After a couple of minutes I was left dejected and finally picked up the paper and began flipping the pages for a worthy story to grab my attention. I glanced over The 'UK are the fattest nation in Europe' story, the latest X-Factor saga, Maria Carey up the duff, the lame excuse for a pun in the form of “Doggie Pawtraits”, and an article dedicated to apple bobbing.

Last Halloween 3 people were injured owing to the ruthless sport, “apple bobbing”.  You’re not actually going to believe this but the opening of the story is,

‘A ‘high velocity impact with an apple’ has the potential to cause serious eye injury while unclean water could lead to infection, officials say.’ (http://www.metro.co.uk/news/845561-halloween-warning-apple-bobbing-can-damage-your-health#ixzz13kMlFfmp)

You cannot actually make this shit up can you? The article suggests disinfecting the water in which the sinister fruits bob, waiting to gouge out your eyes with their stalks. To prevent the forbidden fruits from impaling you with their “high velocity impact” it is also suggested, by South Hampton Hospitals and the trusty NHS, that you wear goggles. Better still, remove the fuckers from water with your hands to add a new “twist” to the game, wow the children must be bobbing with excitement. Apple Bobbing is such a violent sport that we are also told that at the “extreme” end of the scale one could even lose an eye! I actually had a bloody good chuckle especially because the piece de resistance came from yea old man on the street. They asked a shop assistant what he thought and he said, ‘I’ve done apple bobbing for years and never had any problems.’ Well that’s good to know isn’t it?

(Read more: http://www.metro.co.uk/news/845561-halloween-warning-apple-bobbing-can-damage-your-health#ixzz13kN7E7Gi)

So that was my second favourite story of this morning. I know, you’re thinking, ‘it’s going to take a hell of a lot to top that’, and you’d be correct. The next story actually had me crying. I skimmed the pages and Posh and Becks have had a fight, The Saturday’s are singing for our troops… yawn… And then, ‘Wedding bells for pair who met via ‘ugly’ dating website’. As I scanned the page the story unfolded into an absolute cruncher, it just kept getting better and better. To begin with I was just Godsmacked that this is considered newsworthy and then as the narrative developed I was left feeling utterly amazed at the lunacy; surely so-called ugly people wouldn’t subscribe to this? The website is called www.theuglybugball.com and it is for “aesthetically challenged” folk. The website actually adopts this euphemism despite having “ugly” in the main title. Curious. Aside from being for “aesthetically challenged” folk the website has the following to say:

·         Half of UK daters aren’t pretty so instead of fishing in a small pool of prettiness and getting nowhere dive into an ocean of uglies and have more choice.

·         Ugly people are a better calibre of human- pretty people generally aren’t very nice and tend to be a bit shallow.

·         Ugly people have had a tougher life and therefore tend to be more considerate and more loyal. A recent Uglydate survey also proved that they try harder in bed.

·         Once with an ugly partner it is unlikely that anyone will try and take them from you meaning you can let yourself go completely once you’re together.

·         In these straightened times Uglydate is cheaper as a) We don’t charge much as the pretty sites and b) Ugly people have lower expectations- for a first date A Family Bucket will usually do the trick.

(Taken word for word (bad grammar included) from www.theuglybugball.com)

I am trying to find words at this moment. I can only come up with the simple phrase, ‘What the Fuck’? Seriously I don’t know if these people are having a laugh but ‘ugly people try harder in bed’? They’re having a laugh surely? And the audacity of the verbose and general claims? I have met some very pissed off and miserable mingers which makes them all the more “aesthetically challenged”.

Anyway this story heralds the fact that the site is celebrating its first engagement, “Hooray”! Two mingers met via the website and are making their love official. Obviously the couple have great personalities which is what attracted them to each other. Their story is undoubtedly very charming in the usual contrived romantic cybertale manner. He sent the first witty email, she replied, eventually they decided to meet face-to-face and weeks later in a whirlwind they were head-over-heels and engaged. Yawn. The only thing that makes the story unique is the fact that they are not your average “Mr and Mrs Beautiful”. I was about to upchuck, especially after the vomtastic, ‘To me, Tom’s the perfect handsome prince- I’m just so pleased to have been able to meet him- and I’m head-over-heels in love’. But then came the bride and groom on the tip of the wedding cake, the miraculous honeymoon that has been given to them, FREE, by the website. Brace yourselves:

‘The couple, from Stow-on-the-Wold, Gloucestershire, have been given a free caravan honeymoon in Borth, west Wales…’

Now that just says it all doesn’t it?

(Read more: http://www.metro.co.uk/home/845540-wedding-bells-for-pair-who-met-via-ugly-dating-website)