Saturday, September 26, 2015
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. The door to the office building I was in has a habit of swinging back at a terrific speed. The polite thing to do as I walked out was to hold the door open for the person behind me – regardless of their status or gender.
Lady behind me smirks and says: “Are you looking for brownie points for holding the door open?” I think I had just cause to let the door slam into her eyelashes, but bit my tongue and let it slide.
I have no beef with women or Feminist Woman, but I do with hardcore Feminazi Woman for putting us men on bunkenke and branding us sexists if we don’t dance to her tune. On one hand she wants us to ‘man up’ and shower her with compliments, pick her up, pour her drinks but when we do, we still get castigated.
Alex Carter-Silk is a 57-year-old solicitor in London. While surfing the professional networking site, Linkedln, he came across the profile of 27-year-old female barrister, Charlotte Proudman. Carter-Silk sent her a message that I consider innocent enough. It read: “Charlotte delighted to connect. I appreciate that this is probably politically incorrect but that’s a stunning picture! You definitely win the prize for the best Linkedln picture I have seen.”
I googled Ms. Proudman’s pictures and I concur with Carter-Silk. She is indeed a very attractive woman and worthy of compliments.
However, Ms. Proudman didn’t see it that way. She frothed a tsunami of anger, went mental, threw her toys out of the pram and retorted: “I find your message offensive. I am on Linkedln for business purposes and not to be approached about my physical appearance or to be objectified by sexist men. The eroticisation of women’s physical appearance is a way of exercising power over women.”
The exchange went viral on Twitter and in the papers. If you read Carter-Silk’s entire message, he was not being a leering old pervert out to seduce Ms. Proudman. He simply paid her a genuine compliment. Period!
Ms. Proudman continued to froth saying: “While men get offered jobs on Linkedln, I get sexist comments from creeps.” She demanded a public apology which she got.
While there is no doubt that Ms. Proudman is a highly accomplished barrister who is currently studying for a PhD at Cambridge University – was it wrong for Carter-Silk to have paid her an innocent compliment? I think not and I often do pay compliments to women – when it’s warranted.
But hang on a minute. While Ms. Proudman was frothing for being ‘objectified’, she and on a Facebook profile of a fellow male student at Cambridge, posted: “Hot stuff!”, while under the image of another long-haired male friend, she said: “Ooo la la!”
Does this mean it’s unacceptable for men to pay Ms. Proudman and women compliments but okay for her and Feminazi Woman to post sexually laden comments about men on their Facebook profiles?
Recently, Keturah Kamugasa, Editor of Flair Magazine, posted a stunning picture of herself on Facebook – enough for me to offer a compliment of: “Approved!” She didn’t froth at the mouth like Ms. Proudman did or slate me on Twitter. Rather, she appreciated. It was a compliment and nothing else.
With that, I’m reviewing my relationship with some women – especially Feminazi Woman and intend to draw up a contract with a disclaimer for them to sign before I talk or deal with them - just to be on the safe side.
No more giving compliments and picking up the lunch tab. I won’t hold doors open for them, help carry heavy stuff, share my umbrella with them in a downpour or offer them lifts when they are in a fix. It’s come to that.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Does anybody know what’s become of the real celebrity, and I don’t mean the ‘sub-lebrities’ that we have running about today?
The sub-lebrities who fill up today’s tabloid pages, use the little talent that they have to flash their knickers at the drop of a flashbulb. They have become famous (or trying to) by being regulars at any social event from a White Party, Blankets and Wine and fashion nights. If not, they hangout popular bars hoping to be noticed, hoping that her skirt is short enough, hoping that her bust is about to spill out and readying herself for the Kodak moment.
What they don’t know is that this type of paper fame soon evaporates and within a relatively short space of time, many of them go from the glitter and back to the gutter because in this world of the sub-lebrity, real celebrities do not exist.
Celebrity culture came into play towards the end of the 90s when it was still considered a feat to get into Silk Royal. The Goat Races was an event that only the expatriates understood, Sylvia Owori was on the rise and Capital Gang and Desert Island Discs on Capital Radio were required listening. Cineplex had also opened up on Wilson Road, while Sudhir Ruparelia was beginning to define what real wealth was all about and getting an invite to one of his parties on the top floor of Crane Chambers was a to-die-for invite.
The jobs that were deemed ‘they are in things’ jobs were with the newly arrived MTN, WBS Television and Supreme Furnishers for example while jobs in Uganda and Nile breweries came with company cars and promotional merchandising that everybody wanted. Working for British Airways, Sheraton Kampala Hotel, BAT, British High Commission, American Embassy or American Recreational Centre were also considered plum jobs.
The media of course played a huge part in shaping this new celebrity culture. Being seen on Showtime Magazine on WBS Television or gracing the pages of Have You Heard in The New Vision was testimony to the nation that not only had you arrived, you were also celebrity.
We had real celebrities then – from Sudhir Ruparelia, Bob Kabonero, to the telecom people - Philip Besiimire, Erik van Veen, Peter Kasedde, John Dumba, Michael Manzi and Dennis Paul Kavuma. In advertising we had Miriam Odaka, David Galukande, Patrick ‘OPP’ Oyulu, Patrick Quarcoo and Nicola Brown. There were the brewery celebs – Chris and Gordon Ireland, Baker Magunda, Apollo Mayanja, William Blick, Sandor Walusimbi, Marion Adengo.
Others in the lime light were – Patrick Bitature, Patrick Otembo, Charlie Case, Peter Bowser, Decland Peppard, Okello Aliker, Henry Rugambwa, Charlie Lubega, Andy the Greek, Marion Etyang, Andrew Rugasira and many more who defined the celebrity status quo because of what they did for a living and more importantly, the role they had in shaping society.
They basked in their newly found celebrity status and when they appeared in the papers, they didn’t have anything to worry about. Gossip in that era was clean - devoid of smut, scandal, embarrassing photographs and innuendos.
While those platforms fed the appetites of a public that was eager to know everything about the people who seemingly had got it made, resentment at ‘not having and merely watching’ also started to creep in.
The public changed the media agenda - telling them they want something different. They wanted to read about heartbreak, misery, drunken behaviour, adultery, torture and people falling on hard times. They wanted pictures of celebrities caught in uncompromising positions – drunk and asleep in a bar with vomit all over themselves, torn shirts and blouses after a scuffle as well as infidelity pictures. The media didn’t have to think twice and duly obliged because negative exclusive scoops sold papers.
But who would fill the demands of the public? With that, the media went looking for cannon fodder - utter nobodies they could mould into becoming instant celebrities and who could grace the front pages in the tabloids - except, they were not celebrities but sub-lebrities. The sub-lebrities who were mostly women, delivered what the public wanted with little or no effort.
Take for example Bad Black. Bad Black was a hooker who worked out of Rock Bar. But she didn’t follow the hooker script of fighting for a client, or getting beat up, or not getting paid. But she managed to slither out of nowhere – just like you wake up in the morning to find a snail has overnight slithered onto your ceiling and you wonder how it got there.
There she was in our faces almost like an irritant that even Jik couldn’t wash away. She was what the public wanted – a sub-lebrity who could be laughed at and used and as long as the money kept on going to her head.
The real celebrity adored Black for it gave them respite from the media and took the pressure off them. The media and the real celebrity whose partnership was once so solid had began to crack. The once reliable good stories that used to be written about them were no longer guaranteed. It was either go into hiding or hope for a miracle to happen. Bad Black was that miracle who answered their prayers for attention was diverted from them to her.
While Bad Black would like to think she was a celebrity, she wasn’t because she never got there in the first place. The only sub-elebrity status that she achieved – (forget the dollars she splashed, the cars, the breast implants) on her own and in her own right, and at which she probably didn’t show any exceptional talent, was spread her legs to the right expatriate and at the right time when the public and media were looking for an injection of a fresh face they could feast on for a year or two before they tired of her.
The price which ushered her into the world of mega bucks was a high one to pay and also marked the beginning of her undoing. You could almost feel for her when the papers laid bare every detail about her private and especially sex life with her expatriate lover who was so hung up on having anal sex with her, she found it uncomfortable going for a number two after he finished with her.
In the end and when the doors to Luzira prison closed her in, it was then that she probably realised that her instant fame had absolutely nothing to do with dedication to a craft, talent or even hard work. Instead, it was: ‘Look at me, I am a malaya and I am famous’— and that’s she wanted.
Devoid of talent, beauty or charm, in order to stay in the public eye, the sub-lebrity has to rely on self-serving antics. And, of course, with every headline grabbing time, the antics have to be more and more bizarre and outrageous – otherwise, they won’t get noticed.
Susan Nava, who used to host Login, on NTV, is one such sub-lebrity. How she managed to force herself onto the show every week was beyond rationalisation. Like one critic put it when asked what she thought of her presentation skills, she said: “She (Nava) must be the only person in Uganda who does not know that she lacks any form of talent.”
Of course nobody told her because at the time, she served the public purpose of being a sub-lebrity devoid of talent, beauty or charm and she gave the tabloid editors enough gossip to fill their pages.
She went on and continued to appear in the gossip pages with the most plastic of a facial smile that could have easily been moulded in the factory at Nice House of Plastics and with a pose that an amputee could have done better at while all the time deluding herself into thinking that she is a celeb.
Then there is television presenter Straka Mwezi. You have to hand it to her for the diva has really tried and tried but, she has never been able to make that transformation from sub-lebrity to celebrity. She has however accepted it that today, she is the undisputed sub-lebrity diva of television – forget today’s upstarts like Agataliko Nfufu presenter Robinah or Mary Luswatta on Urban Television.
Other sub-lebrities desperate to prolong their celeb-by-date have taken to re-marketing themselves by spreading their legs just wide enough for the cameras to get a glimpse of their underwear and spilling their breasts out of their dresses. But there was a problem in that everybody started doing it. Competition was so rife that Anita Fabiola, a presenter on NTV and the artiste Desire Luzinda took it a notch further by ‘having’ their nude selfies leaked to the tabloids. Not to be outdone, Bukedde TV Agataliko Nfufu presenter, Robinah Sanyu crowned it all with a video of herself having sex.
The ilk of Susan Ochola, Zuena Cool, Judith Heard and Zari had begun to wane – except, Zari was not yet done and looked for a lifeline to keep her in the public eye. A few public spats with lover, Ivan Semwanga, and the controversy over who is the real father of her baby did the trick while Zuena whose time in the spotlight expired years ago, is just about able to hang on thanks to being married to Bebe Cool.
Not to be out done by the women, Bebe Cool ‘conveniently’ got himself shot by a night watchman and Chameleone couldn’t have timed it better to walk out of a hotel bedroom window in Tanzania whilst still asleep.
But whatever antics the sub-lebrity has gotten up to, we have taken them to heart and we can’t get enough of them. They’ve done nothing, said nothing and, in fact, are utterly lost without any appealing characteristics. Today, the papers and entertainment shows are populated with people who don’t have talent, but loads of chutzpah and who are managing to crawl up the ladder of populist celebdom by fair means or foul.
Newspaper and TV bosses also know it’s cheaper to get unknowns who might become famous (or wannabes desperate for those 15 minutes of fame) than to get a team of people researching for weeks on end the life of a real celeb which nobody will want to read.
So today’s minor celebrities — lacking any true discernable talent to maintain their fame and desperate for as much attention as possible — need to behave ever more outrageously to garner headlines. Every day the news is full of some starlet or wannabe with her boobs hanging out or dressing like a tramp in cheapest of Owino’s mivumba rags.
But the saddest part about our obsession with sub-lebrities is that so many young girls strive to emulate them. If Ochola wears a blouse that barely conceals her bosom, then a good crop of young girls will say: “If it’s ok for her, then it’s ok for me too.”
A true celebrity is not just a passing fad. A true celebrity’s image won’t fade — unlike those of the sorry crop of sub-lebrities who are now passing as the ‘stars’ of today. What we need is a return to the old days when the real celebrity was out there and doing things that were real celebrity things instead of having to read about sub-lebrity musician wrangles, looking at underwear pictures of some unknown damsel or watching a sex video of a television presenter whose sexual moans were hardly titillating and lustful but, disturbing.
We need the return of that vintage and real celebrity who has the education and brains to talk-the-talk and leave an impressionable mark on society.
However, that’s unlikely to happen anytime soon because the once cordial relationship that used to exist between real celebrity and the media is no longer there because they (media) no longer do favours or turn a blind eye to certain things. Everything that they see, every little bit of gossip that they learn of will be laid bare in the papers the following day.
In any case, who would the real celebrity invite? A sub-lebrity? Hardly – what would they know about the crisis in Syria, Hillary Clinton’s campaign trail or what Odrek Rwabogo’s next move might be?
Saturday, September 19, 2015
The rapper Puff Daddy recently made news for the wrong reasons. While Son was playing American football, there was a decision made by Coach that Puffy didn’t agree with. For that, Puffy took to the field after the game and gave him (Coach) a beating.
It’s usually Dad who is quick to chop a wire when they feel that Toy-ee has been wronged. Not so anymore. Mum too is chopping wires with violence being her first and last line of defence.
I am in KFC on a three piece chicken and fires meal and lost in thought wondering why they don’t sell the triangle that forms the chicken’s butt like Chap of TV chicken in Wandegeya near College Inn does. Anyway, through my peripheral vision I see Mum on the next table walk away to take a phone call leaving Young Daughter messing about with a tube of tomato sauce.
In the messing about, she squeezed out a blob that hit Lady on the next table. Young Daughter froze – her mind racing and trying to work out the ‘what next’.
Lady took it in her stride. She picked up a wad of tissues and tried to dab the sauce off her jacket – which just made it worse. Then she lost the stride as she walked off to the washroom by pinching Young Daughter on the arm and saying: “If you can’t behave, your mum should leave you at home.”
Young Girl let rip with a scream that had Mum rushing back to sooth her after which she steamed off to the washrooms and I guess you’ve already figured out what happened next? There was a blood curdling cry. Mum had attacked Lady and had dragged her out onto the restaurant floor.
Hair was yanked out, teeth ripped at body flesh, nails scratched and drew blood and goblets of malusu were spat at each other. When the fries and chicken that had been knocked over in the process settled, it was Lady who had emerged victor while on the floor, Mum bled and withered in agony.
If Parent feels the need to resort to violence in front of Toy-ee, is it not imperative that they emerge victor? If I got goofed in front of my toy-ee’s, what would they say? I have always told them that dad is Superman who can do anything and is very strong. Therefore, getting goofed at the checkout till in Uchumi and left crying is not an option. How would they cope with the school taunts of: “Your dad is a skirt who got beat up in Uchumi?” Any respect that they had for me would have gone out of the window and no doubt the folks at Kampala Sun would splash it as an exclusive.
Years back at his resort on the shores of Lake Victoria, Mullah was attacked by South African who had a body built like The Incredible Hulk’s. But Mullah didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, finished his burger then hissed out at him. The beating I thought South African was going to melt out didn’t happen. Rather, he deflated faster than a popped balloon at a kid’s birthday party, started talking gibberish and was slavering apologies down his shirt. WTF!
While Mullah hissed at Dad, Young Boy who was watching had a shell shocked look on his face and it was obvious that he wanted the resort to open up and swallow him.
The dad he had once held in high esteem, the dad who he thought had The Incredible Hulk muscles to pulverise anything that came into his path, was merely a gibberish slavering wreck who couldn’t flex. Had I been South African, I would have exiled myself to the North Pole because facing Young Son would have been tight.
Very tight because when Dad or Mom throws the first punch or slap, they are supposed to put their money where their mouth is and be the goofer and not the goofed!
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Whilst at school – The Grange School, though we didn’t know it, we in the junior ranks were dogsbodies to the seniors in the fifth and sixth forms.
I was a dogsbody to Kalundi, - one time director of The National Theatre and my duties were clear cut. School was in the highlands of Kenya – Limuru where the nights were cold. As a dogsbody, I would lie on top of his bed as a bed warmer while he, (Kalundi), was in prep so that when he was done, he would come to a ‘heated’ bed.
Other jobs we did included polishing shoes, putting toothpaste on tooth brushes, standing outside the showers holding towels while the bosses showered, making their beds and laying out their school uniforms.
It was the way of life. Nobody complained because as juniors, we knew that when we got to the fifth and sixth forms, it would be our turn to have Dogsbody at our beck and call. And it wasn’t all work for there were certain perks to be reaped. In my case, I became an untouchable – from bullies to prefects.
On the verge of joining the fifth form, Dad however messed things up by taking me to a different school. My would-be-dogsbody – Martin K, who is now an architect, had gotten away with it.
The closest I have gotten to acquiring a Dogsbody, is with House-ee. When I got him, he made me tea in the mornings, lay my bed, switched on the television, handed me the remote control and so forth. He’s never complained – probably because he was getting paid and perhaps the tasks – though sometimes ridiculous, were not too demanding?
However, in today’s world order, nobody wants to be a dogsbody especially for Celebrity because it’s seen as ‘the job from hell’.
Recently Premier League Sunderland footballer, Jermain Defoe, found himself at the centre of controversy after placing a job advert for an Executive Personal Assistant.
The job entailed stocking his fridge, organising his wardrobe and taking care of four family members and their pets. For that, Dogsbody would be on call 24/7 and get paid £5,000 (sh28m) a month. By the way, a top end Dogsbody can earn as much as £12,000 (sh70m) a month.
But the advert was taken down almost as soon as it went up because of the ridicule and uproar it generated with many criticising the footballer for trying to outsource every part of his life to Dogsbody.
Mbu the job can be ‘incredibly demanding, at times demeaning - from going to the supermarket to getting a call at 3:00am asking where the pencils are kept’ so cries Ben Arnold, co-founder of Sorted Personal Management. Really!
Another found her boss demanding because she had to book his holidays, do his shopping, house-sit while he was abroad and look for a particular brand of champagne that she had to source from Harrods or bring his Lamborghini at short notice. If that was bad enough for Dogsbody she further moaned about how she had to arrange for a nightclub to open at 3:30am so the star could go in when everyone else had gone home. One task she found utterly unglamorous was, having to buy her boss’s white cotton underwear briefs.
I really don’t need a PhD in economics to know that sh28m-a-month is some serious dime. Heck, if I had seen Defoe’s job advert, I would have wasted no time in sending off my CV and if people went around belittling me and calling me House-ee, Biatch, Pleb, Dogsbody or my boss called me at 3:00am to go buy him white cotton underwear from Nakumatt, the sh28m-a-month pay cheque is a justifiable and moan free incentive for me just get on with the job.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
I would like to think that I am pretty liberal when it comes to matters of the bedroom. But in saying that, my liberal sexual attitude does not wander off into loony tune land.
I am also pretty sure that even after an night out drinking crates of Tusker Malt and Uganda Wa and I ended up getting near blind drunk and wound up in bed with a woman I barely knew, alarm bells would go off the moment there was the slightest deviation from the ‘normal sexual pattern.’
I mean, I would be perturbed if Woman always insisted on getting undressed in the dark and blindfolding me that, sirens loud enough to attract a rapid security response from PGB or Saracens security would start ringing.
But this week in England, when Female Victim started a relationship with 25-year-old Gayle Newland, incredibly, alarm bells didn’t ring.
Gayle had a thing for Female Victim and rather than simply asking her out, she set up a Facebook profile under the alias Kye Fortune then sent Female Victim a friend request telling her that he knew of her through a mutual friend.
As their relationship developed, Gayle/Kye and Female Victim exchanged 1,859 messages and called each other hundreds of times over a 20-day period. During telephone conversations, Gayle/Kye explained away his high-pitched voice as a result of his Filipino heritage.
Feeling comfortable at the direction the relationship was headed, Female Victim made a number of requests to meet in person, but each time Gayle or rather Kye came up with repeated excuses.
When they finally met in a hotel room, to avoid being outed, Gayle/Kye bound her chest to hide her breasts and wore a woolly hat and swimsuit to disguise her appearance. She told Female Victim that: “I am self-conscious about my appearance after hospital treatment.”
After some small talk the couple moved on to sex with Female Victim agreeing to follow 'rules' that Gayle/Kye had laid which included not touching the ‘penis' and wearing a blindfold. With Female Victim blind folded, Gayle strapped on a prosthetic penis and had sex with Female Victim.
Female Victim met Gayle/Kye on a second occasion for sex but this time, she became suspicious and removed the blindfold. To her horror, the person she thought was her boyfriend and whose erection was always solid and never went limp, was in fact a female she knew from university and who was wearing a strap on penis! Ouch, ouch, ouch!
I have to pause for a while and crack open a bottle of Uganda Wa as I take stock of the situation.
Let’s back track because something does not really add up. Gayle/Kye and Female Victim were friends at university. After eying up Female Victim, Gayle/Kye gets ‘all wet’ and falls for her. But there is a problem. How does she lure Female Victim into bed? Ah, let me invent myself into a man called Kye, bind my boobs till they are flat, go to the nearest sex shop and get a prosthetic penis so Gayle won’t suspect a thing.
Can we pause again so I can swig more Uganda Wa? Cool? Thanks.
I really have to wonder where Female Victim got the brains that enabled her to get into university because she is so daft. She is so daft that she would win Miss Daft hands down.
Surely she must have felt that there was something wrong with the penis as it went to work on her. I also presume it must be quite difficult to have sex with a person and not touch them in one way or another.
And worse, Gayle or whatever she called herself was somebody she knew from university!
On the two occasions that they had sex, they weren’t even blazed but stone cold sober. How could she not have noticed that something was amiss? And when Female Victim went to the toilet after her lover, did she not wonder why the toilet seat was in the down position and not in the upright position as men tend to leave it?
It’s a hard paper, but this affair is one to laugh at.
By the way, Female Victim has taken has taken Gayle/Kay to court for rape and interestingly enough, she does acknowledge that while she did consent to having sex, she was expecting a real penis and not a prosthetic one that was probably manufactured by slave labour in China!
Saturday, September 5, 2015
“Women do really belong in the kitchen”. In the 80s I probably wouldn’t have been berated for making such a statement, but this Sunday and in households all over Uganda, women especially Corporate Woman, Feminist, Man-Hater Woman, are most likely huddled round kitchen tables spewing tsunami fire balls that I dared to say it.
Husband is also vexing because at some point he expects to be summoned into the kitchen to be asked if he believes the statement. He does, but to preserve the peace and harmony in the house, he’ll lie blind and say: “Honey, what do you expect from TB? He has no idea what he’s talking about and must be smoking those funny Rasta cigarettes.”
That aside, women are putting on weight. Some of them are doing so because it has something to do with their genetics. Others, it’s a lack of exercise or that they just love to eat. And eat. When they put on weight, they don’t like being called ‘fat’ even when it’s plainly obvious that they are fat.
Some fat women make half hearted attempts to shed weight by walking around Kololo Ceremonial Grounds after work or in their neighbourhoods. But when they get home, a feast that’s worthy of being served at a kwanjula awaits them.
However, it’s all up to women. If some women feel that having a ‘wide load’ of a bottom or being unable to walk up to the top floor of Garden City is what they want, then so be it.
There is another factor worth considering. In the UK, researchers from Manchester University and Royal Holloway, University of London, in a recent study, concluded that not doing enough housework is 'making women fat'.
Back in the day, women were very active in every aspect of the home - from the kitchen, dressing up the children to go to school to tidying up the living room and bedrooms. Mums and grandmothers also didn’t engage in sports or go off to walk in Kololo after work or spend the day sitting about like it’s done today, because there was always something for them to do.
Today’s woman – Corporate Woman, Feminist, Man Hater and all, have been spoilt by labour saving devices such as microwaves, dish washers, cookers and most importantly House-ee whose chief function, is to run around the house all day from kitchen to bedroom to living room. She can be at the back of the house and shackled to a pile of washing but every two minutes, she’ll get called to run a mundane errand like turning on the TV or fan, going upstairs to bring her (madams) phone because she, (madam), can’t be bothered to get out of the settee where she’s been sprawled for the best part of the day to do it herself.
While having those perks brings many benefits, substituting strenuous housework for sedentary office work or lazing about on Facebook, is taking its toll on the waistline.
Researchers reckon that the average woman now spends almost 20 per cent less time on ‘house work’ than her counterpart did in the 80s and that the drop has contributed to the obesity epidemic.
Thus, women being in the kitchen is no longer a sexist attribute but, a welfare one and while I’m so not into women with wide loads, if her being in the kitchen is what it takes her to have a body that I am comfortable with, then who am I to argue?
But I don’t expect Corporate Woman, Feminist or Man-Hater Woman to see it that way. What they will see is us men exploiting the ‘loophole’ in the statement to drag them kicking and screaming back into the kitchen, yet it’s not the case.
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